Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games. However, I do own this. So no one can steal this, all right? We clear on that? Good. Honestly, does anyone even read these? If you did read this, post a review saying you did. And I won't believe you unless you use the key phrase "Aurora Borealis Whales". Then I can check to see if you actually read it or not.

AN: Ok, so I wrote this story in my head a couple weeks ago, and so I decided to post in. Because I have nothing better to do with my life. Seriously, I bet I could be finding the cure for cancer right now, but nope! I've got more important things to do. Like write fanfiction. That is what this world has come to. Anyway, if you catch any of my stupid spelling mistakes, please inform me through a review. Enjoy! But seriously please do review.

Terrance Kolek (16)- District 8

When I open my eyes, I immediately knew today was not going to be fun.

Well, that's not too surprising. Today's the day everyone fears. The day when two children will be ripped away from their loved ones and forced to battle to the death. It's the day that the Capital will begin to get all excited about teenagers murdering each other. Today's the Reaping. The 47th Reaping, to be exact.

Well, at least I get off of work today.

Believe me, working in a textile factory is not fun. At all. It's hot, stuffy, and most of all, dangerous. Dresses can't be worn, for fear of getting them caught in the machines, so all the girls have to wear trousers. Long hair is out of the question. We value our lives over style. Something similar happened at the clothing factory I work at, back when I was about eleven. I had to cut my neighbor's hair myself to keep the machine from further ripping off her scalp.

My father's already had breakfast by the time I arrive downstairs. He passes me a slice of bread with jam already pre-spread over the face. This is a new thing. He's always teaching me to be responsible, starting by getting me to make my own breakfast. I guess he's just worried. There are currently 10 slips in the Reaping bowl that bear my name. Ten times I've had to take tesserae behind my father's back. He caught on eventually, after the regular delivery of flour and oil finally explained itself. He allows it, because he wants me to make my own choices, but that doesn't mean he doesn't try to stop me every year.

We both sit in uncomfortable silence for a while, the both of us not knowing what to say. I'm all my father has left after Mom died. He wouldn't give up in despair if I followed her to heaven, but he would be even quieter, going through each day slower, each one more tired than the last. That's why I got a job at the age of nine. To keep the both of us from starving.

Eventually, my father breaks the silence.

"Terrance." I look up.

"Whatever happens, I believe in you. You are not the type that would quietly roll over and die."

Though morbid, this encouragement is slightly soothing. My father believes in me. That's all I need

We walk together to the square, where a large decorated stage brightly shines in the middle of the dreary background. All I've ever known is the sooty, dirty grays and browns of the city, the factory, and even the people themselves. So the strange, teal colored escort with sparkles and diamonds adorning her dress and matching hat, along with the stage itself, is slightly unnerving. I check myself in and make my way through the crowd. I turn to face my father, and bid him farewell before entering the sixteen's section.

A hush falls over the crowd as the mayor makes the same speech he does every year. After he is finished, the escort merrily prances up the microphone, somehow accomplishing this amazing feat while wearing four-inch high-heels.

"Good morning, everyone, and welcome." she says, beaming. "You've all been waiting so patiently, and so let's get started! One of these lucky young adults will have a chance to bring honor and glory to your district. Isn't that exciting?"
She doesn't get a response. She doesn't expect one. The escort makes her way over to the girl's glass ball, and get's it rolling. From the inside, she selects a single slip of paper. A slip of paper that is a death sentence to someone in this crowd.

"Antoinette Ruthers."

A girl from the thirteen's section screams. Antoinette is a tiny, petite, skinny little girl who looks like she's having a panic attack. But somehow, she makes her way up to the stage and stares, shaking, into the blank faces of the crowd. Perhaps she doesn't want to cry onstage. Or perhaps she is too scared to. But the escort is already getting the boy's ball rolling. She selects a slip of paper.

A slip of paper that is a death sentence.

My death sentence.

Antoinette Ruthers (13) – District 8

I stand in the crowd, shivering. I wish we could afford a coat.

This is my only my second reaping. I've never had to take tesserae, so my name's only in there twice. I have only a sliver of a chance of being reaped. A practically non-existent chance. So why am I so worried? If anything, I should be worried about Marcus.

Only two years older than me, Marcus was crippled at birth. He has a backwards leg, so if he get's reaped, what chance does he have of surviving? An even less can than I do. And that's saying something. Neither of us has had to work, so we aren't any good with tools or anything. And our family, while not incredibly rich, is far from going hungry, so we don't have any experience with coping without food. And the only thing remotely resembling a weapon is a makeshift slingshot, and even with that I'm no good.

I stand on my tiptoes, trying to peer over the heads blocking my view. Through a tiny crack in the sea of bodies, I can see the stage and the escort approaching the girls' ball. I can also hear the name being called.

It's mine.

A shriek erupts from my mouth before I can smother it. This can't be happening. How can this be happening? I am going to die in a bloody, painful, ugly way, all by myself. All alone.

I tell myself to calm down. I'm to scared and shocked to cry anyway. As I stand on the stage, the blank expressions of my district stare back at me. Soon the boy tribute is called up, Terrance Kolek. We shake hands, and when our faces meet, we both acknowledge the same thing. We are both going to die.

I am going to the Hunger Games.

AN: K that's it. I'll try to update later tonight if I can. Next up, District 11!