This is my first fictional work of any kind. Suggestions and comments appreciated.
This story takes place in District 10 just before the reaping for the 67th Hunger Games.
The luscious landscape rippled with the breeze as it flowed quietly over the rolling hills. The sun had just begun to peak out over the thick forest sitting outside the buzzing fence. Everything was still; everything was calm.
"And in three…two…one…"
Somewhere far behind him, a horn blares, disturbing what little peace the citizens of District 10 are allotted. There's no time for peace when the entire country needs livestock product.
He quickly finishes off his meager breakfast and begins the march to his assigned field, smiling and greeting everyone he passes. A familiar voice crops up behind him.
"Might as well enjoy the day, Will. Could be your last."
Mark Northam looked at him with his usual ridiculous smile plastered on his face. He was a few years older and didn't have to worry about being The Reaping. After seven years, the odds were finally in his favor.
"So, Will, how many slips of paper will be honored with your name this year?" he says in his best imitation of a Capitol accent.
"I stopped keeping up with that a long time ago. Needless to say, the odds are not in my favor," Will said, trying not to think about The Reaping. He signed up for tesserae when he was 12. At seventeen and in a family of six, he knew his name was on 42 slips. Definitely not in his favor.
He made his way to the large gate to his field. Just as he passed through he heard the gruff roar of his supervisor.
"Black! You're late!"
He was a hulking man with broad shoulders gripping a long whip in his rough hands. No one has ever seen him use it, but there's something in his gaunt face that says he would.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Pierce. I just got caught up with…"
The shooting pain in his cheek stops him mid-sentence. The rough leather butt of the whip had been nothing but a blur.
"Daddy, leave him alone."
The pride and joy of District 10. Isabella Pierce. She strode towards the men slowly, somewhat sexily. Her long blonde hair, characteristic of the district's upper class, perfectly framed her face, highlighting her tan skin perfectly. Her eyes bore into her father's skull and her plump lips formed a terrifying scowl.
"Give the poor boy a break. He's all right," she flashes a smile at Will. She lightly touches his cheek, inspecting it for any damage. "That'll bruise up pretty bad. There's no way you're working today. Come with me."
Ignoring her father's protests, she leads him towards one of the large farmhouses—the one assigned to her and her parents. The building smells of rich pine and is filled with so much color. Color was a luxury that only the most well off could afford.
She stops and pulls Will close. She runs her finger down his face, taking care not to inflame his injury.
"Why don't you go wash up, then I'll take care of your cheek," she says, guiding him to one of the house's bathrooms.
He walks into the magnificent bathroom, astounded by how well the supervisors live. Hot water. Tile floors. Soaps of all shapes and smells.
The mirror first catches his eye. His tan skin is only blemished by the dark purple bruise across his left cheek. He peels off his shirt and starts running the hot water from the sink. He slowly wipes the grime from his broad shoulders and sculpted chest and squeezes the rag on his body, leaving his muscular body gleaming in the light.
He steps back into the house's main area and is immediately swarmed by Isabella's warm lips. She kisses him passionately, working her way down his neck and body. Will scoops her chin and pulls her face back towards his. He kisses her lightly on the forehead.
She pushes his dark hair (characteristic of the poor) back and bites her bottom lip struggling to fight back tears. She wraps her arms around him tighter and sobs into his shoulder.
"What if you get picked?"
They lock eyes intently, neither one wanting to think of what could happen in the arena. He kisses her lightly on the lips and a smile creeps across his face.
"Then I'll win."
I don't care what they do to me, I'm never wearing this suit again, Will thinks as he makes his way into the pen of 17 year old boys. The suit is one of his father's old ones. Nothing fit. He was uncharacteristically tall compared to the others in District 10.
He's been here before, many times actually, but this was the first time he really noticed his surroundings. He saw Adonis Quintlock, District 10's escort from the Capitol looks around overenthusiastically. Scanning the crowd trying to figure out which kids he'll see die this year.
Another familiar face emerges on the stage. Frederick Townsend. District 10's only living victor. An outcast. He doesn't talk to anyone, not even the tributes he's supposed to be mentoring. He's young, only about twenty or thirty, but his eyes are of man long gone from this world.
The mayor begins his spiel about the honor and glory that comes with being a tribute. With these words, Will catches Isabella's eye and winks. She blushes and turns away as her friends begin to giggle.
Before too long, Adonis makes his way to the podium. He pushes his long orange hair back (probably to show off his new eyes, decorated with tiger stripes) and speaks in high-pitched Capitol voice.
"Ladies first!" He strides excitedly over to the glass bowl containing all the girls' names. He reaches his hand deep into the bowl and, after what feels like hours, grasps a slip.
"Greta Burton!"
Out of the 16-year-old girls' pit emerges a beast. As one of the few girls allowed to work in the field, she dwarfs most of the boys in the district. She makes her way up to the stage, a few silent tears leak out of her green eyes and catch on her course brown hair.
"Now for the gentlemen!"
The process is repeated. The silly stride. The fishing for the stupid slip. The squeaky voice reading the slip.
"William Black!"
Silence. Everything was silent. Will slowly made his way up to the stage, trying not to look anyone in the face. Isabella's scream is the only thing that snaps him back to reality.
I am going to die.
To be continued…