I sat leaning against a branch up in the treetops enjoying a peach that I had managed to nick from my fruit basket. We weren't supposed to eat the fruit. Ever. It was considered stealing from the Capital and there was at least one person that got beaten in front of the other workers daily for trying to spirit away something from the orchard. The peach that I was eating came from the oldest and tallest tree that we worked with, and we called it Granny Peaches.
My teeth cleaned off the last of the succulent fruit from the pit, and I put it into my pocket, so that I could dispose of it later. Upon finishing my peach, I reached into my bag and removed a wad of green herbs and started chewing on it. The herbs, when chewed up and wet, helped to draw out the toxins that were caused by stings from the Tracker Jackers. I placed the herb against the welt that I had received two days earlier on my right leg. I sighed in relief as the toxins were attracted into the herb wad. The work bell sounded and signaled the end of the work day.
Along with the other workers, I made my way out of the trees of the orchard, and I heard a sudden shout and then the stealing alarm blasted through the forest. The stealing alarm was a very loud, short, but repetitive blare from a trumpet. Somebody had tried to still a piece of fruit from the quota. I heard the groans from the other workers as we turned around from the gates to leave the orchard and made our way to the stealer's pavilion.
The stealer's pavilion, also known as the reaper's stage, was a large, elaborate platform with marble columns holding up a silver and golden roof. The number eleven was written in bronze roman numerals in the center of the pavilion's roof. Three people were in the center: a young man, probably the age of twenty five, was flanked on his left and right by one of the Capital's soldiers. When all of the workers had finally fallen in and gotten set down on the granite benches surrounding the pavilion, the three people on the stage moved.
The young man, who I now recognized as Oak Leewards, was forced to his knees by the soldiers on his sides. Oak was the son of the former mayor, and for him to have stolen something from the Capital was strange. His long auburn hair was held in a ponytail to keep it out of his face, and his brown eyes searched the crowd of workers. He often helped my family by providing us with food that his parents had not wanted to consume. Our eyes met and I looked away, afraid about what would happen.
"Oak Leewards, you have been brought here to be punished by the law for the crime that you committed against the Capital. You have stolen multiple pieces of fruit from the trees of the Capitals orchard, and for that you will be punished in front of your coworkers of the orchard. Your sentence shall be ten lashes as this is your first offense," Said the soldier on the left. His voice was harsh and he was short and rotund. He reached around to Oak's side and, with a knife, ripped his shirt off to reveal his back. They turned him around and produced a whip from the left soldier. The soldier, a small, thin man, looked as though he were about to be sick as he lifted the whip into the air.
I shall not describe the way that Oak was treated in his beatings. The only thing that I will say is that the man on the left, unable to continue with his assignment, had been taken away by the other soldiers that rung the outside of the granite benches to prevent the workers from escaping. The short round man became enraged at this, and so he made Oak's beatings worse than they should have been.
Shortly after, I was walking along the path from the orchard to my home. The lights in my home were on, just like normal, and when I opened the door, I found my family sitting around the dinner table. There was only one problem though – they were stiffer than logs. I wondered why that was. I walked to the sink and washed my hands to rid them of the dirt that caked them from my day's work in the orchard.
I took my spot next to my little brother, Thorn, who wad short black hair and forest green eyes. He was small for a five year old. He was my little one, and I took care of him more than my parents did, as they were always busy running the pastry shop and kitchen.
My mother, a small woman with graying black hair usually pulled into a bun, ran the front of the pastry, where she gave samples of pastries to little children and took orders and such. She sat on the right side of the table, and she looked distraught. My father, a tall, reddened man from the time that he spent in front of the fires of our kitchen. He now sat, staring at the grains in the dark wood of our table.
"Dad?" I asked, hearing my voice crack from lack of usage during the day. It was lower than most of the other girls my age, and for that I was glad; I didn't like the soprano sound, as it was always too high pitched.
He didn't answer me, and instead, looked up at me then jerked his thumb behind him. I looked and found the calendar that hung next to the sink, and I saw the big red circled date. Then I realized why they were distraught. Tomorrow was the reaping.
XXX
It was early. The sun hadn't come out yet. My mother prodded me gently awake and ushered me to our bathroom, where I showered quickly, and my mother dried my hair. After, her hands deftly braided my long black hair into a complicated braid, and weaved in a long strand of purple and gold, something to illustrate my name, my mother said. She then applied makeup to my face, to bring out my emerald eyes and the flecks of gold in them.
Next, she helped me dress in a long purple gown which faded from light at the top to dark at the bottom that belonged to my mother. To accentuate it, she gave me a pair of black heels, which I had trouble in because I was so used to working barefoot in the orchards.
Finally, I was ready for the reaping. My name was inside of the huge bowl only twenty four times. Not too many, but yet, enough that we could get by. I hoped that I wasn't going to be chosen. They set up two huge bowls each for all twelve districts. One for the girls, and one for the boys. When you are twelve, your name goes in once. At thirteen, twice. At fourteen, thrice, and so on. You could get your name added more if you took out the vouchers for grains.
When it was time, my mother hastily woke my father and younger brother, and after getting them ready, we began our walk to the orchard's reaper's stage. It was a short walk, because we lived close by the orchard. Thorn began to cry a little, but our mother held his hand and kept him back with her, although I knew that he would be longing to hold my hand. I kept my head straight as I walked through the gates into the forest of little granite benches. We were just on time. The other families were almost completely gathered, save for just a few that were straggling behind.
Up on the stage were three chairs. One for the mayor, another for the last champion of District Eleven, and the last for the escort. The mayor's chair and the champions chairs were occupied. The mayor, a tall, lanky woman named Peaches Poplar sat looking rather bored in her chair. She had long fly-away gray hair and she had dark eyes that one could never tell the color of. She was dressed in a beige dress with a red and blue sash bearing the insignia for District Eleven: A huge tree with an apple in the middle of its boughs.
The champion sat a bit more at attention. She was in her mid twenties, and her long red hair she kept pushed behind her ears, and her clear blue eyes searched the crowd, wondering who would be unfortunate enough to get picked out of that bowl. She wore a lengthy green dress that contrasted with her fiery hair and made it look really bright.
The escort's chair was empty, and that was because the man that was our district's escort was busy bouncing up and down on his feet looking out around the crowd. He had short baby blue hair and eyes that matched them. He wore a suit that was a dark, midnight blue. This man, from the Capital, was the strangest man I'd ever seen. He always seemed too happy when he came to the reaping. It was rather unnerving.
Finally, all of the people of District Eleven were gathered in the reapers' stage. The Capital's soldiers spread themselves equally around the pavilion so that none could escape the reaping. Whoever was picked would be forced into it, unless somebody offered themselves up as a tribute, but that rarely happened. Ever.
"Well, let's get down to it!" Called the escort. "My name is Ruben Goff, and this is the reaping for the Seventieth Hunger Games!" His voice, an annoying high-pitched tone, resounded around the pavilion. He turned and skipped/jumped to his chair as the mayor stood up.
"Welcome all," The woman said. "As you very well know, I am the mayor of District Eleven, Peaches Poplar. The Hunger Games have been a very prestigious event to remind us of the horrible things that our ancestors committed against the Capital..." She continued in this fashion for some time, still sounding bored. I wondered what could make this woman so... monotone. It was annoying. I would deal with Ruben Goff for a day before I would sit with Peaches Poplar for an hour. Finally she finished, and the champion stood.
"Good morning my good people," She said. Her voice was an alto, like mine, although slightly higher.
"I am the champion of the Sixty Third Hunger Games, Cheryl Holly. I wish those that will be chosen in today's reaping the best of luck," She said, and with an air of finality, turned and walked back to her chair.
Ruben Goff, clearly disappointed with Cheryl's speech (which was always very short, as Cheryl wasn't very friendly), stood up and resumed his cheer from before.
"So, ladies first then?" Ruben said. His voice was thick with anticipation. There was a groan from the crowd, and all of the families that held daughters of the correct ages grasped around the hand's of their daughters.
Ruben Goff's hand rolled around through the strips of paper that layered the bowl labeled "Girls" and pulled out a particularly curly piece of paper. He cleared his throat, and with a low, rather clear voice uttered one word that caused my mother to dig her nails into my wrist and my father to give a low moan of pain. Distantly, I heard my little one Thorn cry out gently. He had said my name.
"Orchid Stone,"