Hey y'all, Design is back after a very, very long "break."

Time for a new SYOT! This one shall not be on a first-come-first-serve basis (too many boring tributes last time), but I'll be picking the best tributes. That being said, feel free to submit as many tributes as you like via PM. Mentally insane tributes are not only welcomed, but encouraged. Just remember: normal is boring…

Name:

Gender:

Age:

District:

History:

Relationships:

What makes them different from the other tributes? (something special about them):

Strengths:

Weaknesses:

Fears:

Personality:

Reaped or volunteered?

Any extra information:

All this being said, this would be against Fanfiction rules if I didn't include some sort of writing, so here is the first POV of one of the tributes that was already submitted.

Chiff Reeves, 18, District One

My father stumbles in, the smell of booze and cigarette smoke heavy in the air. "Come here, you little shit. You were an accident; you don't belong here."

My bedroom suddenly seemed dangerous; its dark corners screaming of what could be my death. "Should've used a condom," I mutter under my breath, insides alive with rage. Taking cover under a wooden desk, I let anger consume my tattered heart.

He pulls a lighter from his pocket, "I'm done with you. It's time you get what you deserve." He ignites the corner of the desk, howling with laughter as the flames lick at my face. I scramble away, but he's twice my size, knocking me to the ground and driving the toe of his boot into my ribs. The flames inch closer, bathing me in scorching warmth as his laughter echoes off the walls. Tears wet my face, falling softly to the ground beneath my head. I wish I was stronger… For a moment, but only a moment, I consider fighting back. A sharp kick to my ribs reminds me that I'll never win. As the first of the flames scar my arms, I lay silent, hoping my death will come quickly.

I wake to the sound of a scream erupting from my own throat, tearing through the silence that fills my home in district one. My blonde hair is soaked in a layer of sweat, and I hear footsteps pounding up the stairs. I swear to God, if he's drunk, I'll kill him right here and now. He trips and I hear his body pound into the top stair. He comes stumbling into the room, his words almost indecipherable. "What the hell? I'm fucking sick of your screaming. I swear I'll kill you this time."

I attempt to stand, but he yanks me off the ground, slamming me into the wall. "Not going to put up a fight, are you?" He pulls a small knife from his pocket. "That's fine," he says, his voice reducing to a whisper. With a dirt-stained hand, he grabs ahold of my wrists, dragging the sharp blade of the knife across. "I'll tell everyone you did this; let them think you're fucked up. I'll let them take you away. I'm sick of dealing with your sorry ass," he whispers, digging the blade deeper. I fight the urge to cry out; I refuse to allow him that satisfaction. Instead, I set my dark eyes on his as blood drips from my arms and pools on the floor below me. He releases his grip on my neck and I fall to the ground, staining my clothes crimson.

I'm not strong enough to kill myself. Instead, there are two simple words that I'll use to end everything: I volunteer.