Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games or any of the characters.

Author's note: Hey guys just wanting to tell you about the names I have used so far in this story. So there's Flax of course, which is because the flax plant has a fibre that is made into material, so it's like textiles in district eight, then there's Cali, which is short for Calico, which is another textile, then Serge, which is a type of twill fabric, and then there's Deni, which is short for Denim, which of course you know is a textile, then there's Hollie, which is like Hollie point, which is a type of needle lace, then Paisley, which is like a pattern that is used on many materials, and last of all Lea, which is short for leather or leatherette.

Anyway, enjoy!

I awaken to the sound of sobbing. I look across to the other side of the room to see mother, sitting on Cali's bed, holding her to her chest.

'I'm scared,' she sniffs.

'You're not in the reaping honey, even if this year wasn't the Quarter Quell. You have years until you have to go in the reaping. You're only five.'

'I know but you might have to go away. The lady might pick you and the people might take you away,' she cries. Mother remains silent, staring out the window at the heavy mist settling across the grey urban buildings.

'Flax! You're awake. Come on down and eat something honey.' Mother smiles an obvious fake smile. I get up.

After breakfast I go upstairs to get changed. I grab my dress out. The dress is pale yellow, with a scratchy, yellow lining on the seam. I wore it last year. I slip it on, but my heart feels like a drum, pulsing inside my chest. My mother. My mother, Cecelia Hemsworth, has a quarter chance of being reaped for the 75th Hunger Games, the third Quarter Quell. Only three other female victors from district eight still alive. Only three others that might get picked instead of my mother. But mother can't get picked. She just can't. I mean, the Capitol is horrible, but they simply wouldn't pick a woman with three children. No one would. No one should. No one could.

'Flax honey, come on it's time to go!' I go downstairs and find my family waiting at the door.

The fog lifts to reveal a warm day underneath. I am not nervous at all now. After thinking it through, I know that no matter how despicable the Capitol are, they will not pick my mother. We walk in silence to the square, my mind pre-occupied with the feast that we prepared for tonight. Fresh basil and tomato salad with spices. Every year we save up every little cent for the post-reaping feast. We're not poor and starving, but we're not rich. We're just an average, middle class family. Cali tugs on my arm.

'Flaxy,' she says, 'I'm scared that mum will be taken away.'

'Cali, they would never pick mum. Never, ever, ever!'

'How do you know?'

'I'm thirteen. I know a lot more than you do.'

'You promise that mum won't get picked?' She asks.

'Yes, I promise.' Cali smiles and then bounces off.

We enter the town square silently. For once, I don't have to sign in and be herded off like a lamb into the little roped off area. I stand with the crowd. Mother signs in and stands with the three other female victors: Deni Gunstingson, who is over sixty and very horrid, Hollie Throop, who is about forty and didn't kill anyone in her games, but managed to win anyway because she hid and no one could find her, and eventually they sent snakes with poison dipped fangs and fire breath after her, but the last remaining tribute got in the way and was killed, and the most recent victor, Paisley Downsland, who is about twenty-five and won only ten years ago, at the age of fifteen.

I see Paisley Downsland's sixteen-year-old sister standing in the crowd and looking fearful. I smile. It's a horrid thing to do, really, but just thinking about that feast is making me happy. Serge, my eight-year-old brother, looks at me fearfully. I lean in towards him.

'Don't worry, mother won't get picked.' He doesn't look at all reassured, as Cali had. Hestia Fulgham, district eight's escort, stands on stage.

'Hello, and welcome to the reaping for the 75th Hunger Games, also known as the third Quarter Quell. This year, the tributes will be reaped from the existing pool of victors. So, let's get started, shall we?' She beams.

'District eight is still the only district to pick the male tribute first, so we shall stick with that tradition.' She says. She trots over to the male ball. There are only two male tributes to choose from, Woof Kindler, a very old man who's very hard of hearing and sight, and Lea Towler, a man around forty or fifty who turned to drugs long ago. He drinks a lot of alcohol and is addicted to the painkiller, 'morphling'.

For an outline district, district eight has a lot of victors. Six is a great number of victors to have.

Hestia reaches in, and snags onto one of the two pieces of paper in the ball. She waddles back to the microphone, clears her throat and booms 'Woof Kindler'. The old man doesn't even register what is going on, until two peacekeepers grab him and drag him to the stage. He suddenly appears to realise what is going on, but still he remains emotionless. He may be old, but he certainly remembers how to keep a straight face for the camera. Hestia congratulates him and moves on to the female ball. As she is reaching in, I suddenly have a terrible thought. What if they pick mother? What if they don't care that she has three children? And then I remember something. I don't even know if they decide who they're going to pick. What if they just pick a random-

'Cecelia Hemsworth.' Hestia interrupts me. Serge is the first one to react.

'No!' He screams. He runs up to her and grabs her arm.

'No mum you can't go!'

Cali is the next one.

'Mummy! Mummy no! They can't take you away! No!' She shrieks and runs up to her, sobbing and screaming. Finally reality kicks into my brain.

'No. No. No!' I run up to her and shake her, staring into her brown eyes.

'No mum. Just no. Mum no don't go! Please!' Her face is expressionless. She shoves me off and then pushes Serge and Cali into me. All three of us try to cling back on but there is something harsh in her voice.

'Just go.' We back away, out of the roped off area. Cali leans in towards me and I think she wants a hug but she whispers something in my ear. The harshest words I'll ever know.

'You promised.'

Please review, any kind of criticism is fine. Thank you! Will update soon.