THE 49TH HUNGER GAMES

by artsyclarinetist

Have you ever realized that no one ever talks about the 49th Hunger Games? Well, there's a reason. Do you remember how all the tributes disappeared the third day into the Games from a "disease?" That's a lie. No one knows where they went… except for the Gamemakers, of course.(ps the photo is of, yes, a vs model,only bc thats how i picture Luna i thought you guys might wanna know)

The 38th Hunger Games

Chapter 1

I wake up to the froglike tongue darts at my face from my dog, Wimp. That name's pretty ironic, actually, considering he's a big Weimaraner who chases the occasional deer and moose around our house and poops shamelessly in front of everyone. I push him off the bed lazily, and he hops back up in protest. Something along the lines of "Butter is not for breakfast" is murmured from the lump under the sheets on the other mattress that is Ivy. Ivy's my fourteen-year-old sister who already has a boyfriend but has about the same amount of dignity as Wimp. She talks in her sleep. Every morning I wake up to "Jump over the bridge" or "Hi there little squirrel" or "where's the jam?" I groan as I swing my body over in an upright position. The cold, barren floor just grazes my toes. I waddle over to Ivy's bed in my stained nightgown that was once white but is now an ivory color. "Poison Ivy, get your butt out of bed. It's-" The words burn in my mouth like those sour candies Dad picks up once in a while. "Reaping Day."

I hum a merry tune as I get dressed, as if that'll cheer me up. I examine myself in the one mirror we own in Mom's room. I look revolting in this skirt. The shirt doesn't help. The skirt is too wide around the hips but then too tight at the thighs. It's this mucus green with yellow and blue flowers on it. The shirt is this white satiny button down that covers my whole hands. I roll up the shirt to my elbows. That's better. As for the skirt, there's not much I can do. I wear my favorite boots, the lace-up faded brown ones that go to the bottom of my knee. I look like...good. At least, I think so. Much better than those stupid frilly ensembles I was squeezed and zipped into for the modeling jobs I did in the Capitol. I'm glad I was born pretty enough to be a model. The money covers some of the bills. I never really thought I was pretty, but I guess I didn't think the opposite, either. My skin is this cocoa brown, and my eyes are almost-black-brown. Lots of people ask if I wear fake eyelashes, so I guess they're pretty long. As for my hair, it's slightly wavy, smooth, black-brown parted right down the middle. I'm tall, and I've got a lean body. I'm not that muscular, though. Sucks. My feet, my butt, my boobs are all average size.

My mother blows her whistle, her strategy for rounding up all eight kids. Tons of people ask my parents if they had eight kids on purpose (eight for District eight), but they didn't. They just…you know. But no one is loved any less than the next. Oldest is Lace, who's twenty-two, and still hasn't found a house of her own, next, Damian, who's nineteen, Blaze, eighteen, me, Ivy, Marcus, thirteen, Jack, who's twelve, and Sean, nine. We sluggishly trail after one another, not at all eager to get to the Reaping. Mom sees what I'm wearing, starts to complain, then gives up and scoots me along. My dad does a head count. "We're missing one!" he bellows gruffly. I glance at the others. Jack's gone. "It's Jack," Marcus announces. "Does anyone know where Jack is?" Lace asks. Wordlessly, I take off.

Jack is exactly where I thought he would be. As I climb the tree, cautious to avoid splinter opportunities and an angry looking bee or two, Jack attempts to hide behind a branch. "Go away," he whispers. Jack never actually talks, just whispers. "I can't, bud," I murmur. "You gotta go. Look, Jack. Lemme tell you something. If you get picked, which I guarantee you won't, someone will volunteer. You've got four other eligible siblings who adore you, plus our seventeen eligible cousins. If one of us doesn't volunteer, some brave eighteen year old who thinks you're cute'll gobble you up and volunteer. Jackie. Nothing's going to happen." Jack gazes up at me, his big round eyes filled with dread, hope, adoration. "I – I – okay, let's go," He stammers. I lend him a hand and we jump down from the tree.

I walk with Jack to the Reaping. He was reluctant at the blood-pricking part, but after my nods of encouragement, he hesitantly handed his finger over to the old lady. "Go on now, boy," She said with the flap of her wrist. "Good luck." I couldn't stay by Jack's side any longer. He was on his own.

Chapter 2

I head over to the sixteen-year-old section. Loralie greets me with, "Are you nervous? Omigod, I'm gonna die. I mean, not really, but actually, what if I am picked and I DO die? Oh god, that would so suck. Not just for me, for my parents, and Skip, too. Are you nervous? Like, even the tiniest bit?" Will she ever shut up about Skip? I mean, awesome for her that she has a boyfriend. Am I the only person in Panem that doesn't have a boyfriend? I mean, seriously. Look at Ivy. She got her tongue stuck in the jam jar yesterday. Yet, she has a boyfriend and I don't.

"Oh, look, here's our mentor," I say, looking pointedly at the stage.

A fluorescent green lady with taut blue lips click-clacks up to the microphone. "Hello, District Eight!" a few guys who think they're so funny cheer back. "As you may know, I'm Velvet, Eight's escort. Let's begin with the short film." Moans and groans emanate from the crowd.

"War," the video begins. "Terrible War." I start braiding Loralie's hair. It's her only feature I envy. It reaches to her butt in pin-straight platinum-blond locks. She can sit on it. Gr. Okay, that's not the only thing I envy about her. I envy Loralie's cute spray of freckles on her cheeks, her pouty pink lips, her blue-green eyes, her cute little pug nose, her pale honey skin, her stick frame, how she always smells like peaches. Honestly, Loralie should be the model, not me.

Before Loralie's French braid and I know it, the video's over. "Now, as you guys now, time to select our tributes," My stomach twists into a French braid too and I suddenly have to pee. "As always, girls first." Oh god.

Velvet's hand swishes around the bowl of names until she sharply pulls out a slip of paper. She opens it up. All the girls in the audience look like they're either about to cry or crap their pants. "Moo-nae Deggaerteens," Velvet reads. Oh, thank the Lord. It's not me. A man walks up on the side of the stage and whispers into Velvet's ear. "Oops, my bad!" Velvet cries. "Typo. It's Luna Deggartenz." All eyes are on me. It feels like my brain is see-sawing back and fort in my head. My stomach twists into a million French braids. I turn around and vomit up a revolting puddle of yellowy grossness. "Ew," one girl with two red braids says. I would snap something back at her, but it hurts to talk. My brain shuts down. I collapse to the ground.

Chapter 3

"Luna, baby Loo-a, wake up. Baby Loo-a." I recognize that voice. It's my mom's. No, wait. It's Blaze's. That's what she called me when I was a baby because she couldn't pronounce her n's and the name stuck. "It's gonna be okay, Loo-a. I promise it'll be fine." It sounded more like Blaze was comforting herself than me. I open my eyes. Woah. Really bright. Three or four Peacekeepers are standing over me, plus Blaze. The second my feet are planted on the ground, the Peacekeepers grab me and guide me up to the stage, where a stricken twelve or thirteen-year-old boy is standing. His lips are trembling and his copper hair clings to his forehead with sweat. I guess I took so long being unconscious that they picked a boy already. "Ladies and gentlemen, the District 8 tributes for the 38th Hunger Games!" The audience offers weak hand signs. Velvet ushers the boy and me through the doors of the Justice Building.

I walk around the room I was placed in inside the Justice Building. The walls are coated in this floral dark green print almost a little like my skirt. I flop down on the provided red sofa. It's too fancy to be comfy. The couch in the living room at home is much cushier. When you plop down, it feels like a cloud. That couch is usually occupied by Wimp, taking a nap, or Ivy, also taking a nap. The doors bust open and in dash my family. First come Ivy and Jack. For the first time in years, Ivy's face is tear-stained. Jack is bawling. "Here, sit on my lap," I pat my thighs, gesturing for Jack to sit down. "You, you said nothing's gonna happen," Jack cries. "I-I…I promise, Jacky, everything will be fine." I stroke his hair, caressing his two cowlicks in the back of his head. "You're going to grow up, find a pretty girl, and marry her. You'll get a job, doing what you want to do, and you'll have a bunch of cute little kids." I'm rambling. And crying. "You-you'll raise your kids, and they'll grow up too, an-" I'm interrupted by a Peacekeeper. "Time's up, you all have to leave," he says. Most of the family files out of the heavy doors. My mom comes up and clings to me tight. She gives the Peacekeeper her scariest glare, the one she gives when she catches me coming home after curfew. "Damn you," she spits at the Peacekeeper. "You soulless murderer of children, you Satan-worshipper, you-" The Peacekeeper escorts Mom out of the room. "Let me stay with my child! I didn't say goodbye to my baby!" Mom throws something at me. "Your token!" She yells. The doors slam shut. I pick up the small quilt. Mom loves to sew. It's a little bigger than my hand. It's got a bunch of blues and greens and pinks and yellows. I tuck it into my skirt pocket and sob.

Chapter 4