Author's note: I own the characters, and I own my style of writing, but I don't own the Hunger Games. Suzanne Collins does.

Also: I have tried to make it so that people who haven't read THG can understand, so:

-If you haven't read it and something doesn't make sense, TELL ME.

-If you have read it and plan to leave a review(please do ;) ), don't give any spoilers.

;D

The day of the reaping. The day when one boy and one girl are chosen randomly from all twelve districts in Panem, to be sent into the arena. Where they will fight, to the death, and will all die. Except for one. For the winner, fame, fortune, and prizes, which largely consist of food. The losers aren't so lucky.

I dressed in a simple maroon shirt and jeans, put my long black hair in its usual ponytail that left my bangs in my eyes, and thumped down the stairs. We ate in silence, all thinking of the three thin slips of paper with my name written on it in Maloze Dunnet's sloppy handwriting, one for every year since I was eleven. My parents couldn't keep their eyes off me.

"Mom! Dad! Will you stop being soparanoid? I've made it through two reapings already, and both of you and Lerex have gotten through all of yours. I didn't even take any tessera! There is only threeslips in there with my name on it!" Taking tessera is putting your name in the reaping extra times for a year's worth of grain and oil. We need it, but my parents would not allow it.

"I know, but Leray, it's our job to worry. Don't you remember Taere?" My father asked.

"Of course I remember her." I whispered as the tears that hadn't existed seconds ago threatened to seep out of my eyes.

At that moment, Lerex burst in. He walked into the dining room, donning a confused face upon seeing our unhappy ones. "Oh." He whispered as he realized what day it was. "Aw, c'mon, you'll be fine, Leray. You've only got one slip. That poor girl Jezzi Murphys has twenty."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Poor Jezzi. I hope she won't get picked. Doesn't she care for her whole family?"

"Yeah, her mom has that disability thing."

"Well," my mother interrupted, "It's almost eleven. We should be getting down to the square." The words she hadn't said echoed in the air. To see off some poor child most likely going to their doom. On live television.

Welcome to the Hunger Games.