Writers notes:
Just letting everyone know that my chapters are going to be based mostly on each indervidual featured in Peeta and Katniss' book.
Bartlets are a type of pear. I wanted to keep Katniss' dads name in the whole plant sort of family like Katniss and Prims names.

Please review!

-SparrowEverlark
I own nothing in this story other then the Original names "Ambersons, Thisledens and Kinnimonths" I make no money off this story and only write it for my own personal pleasure and to get the ideas out of my head and make room for new ones.

"Ready?"

He said it so calmly. Like nothing could bother him. I knew different though. He still has moments. Still has episodes. I think the time we have been spending together has been good for him too, not just me. He has been spending nights at my house as of lately. My nightmares haven't been near as bad as they were. He would paint and I would sit by the fire and watch him, the light glowing over him, giving him an otherworldly look.

I take a deep breath, reaching over to the paper pile and take a couple sheets "Ready?" Was I? No better time like the present I guess. I take another breath, taking the pen in my hand and pressing the tip to the paper. Where do I start? For so long I had my father to myself. Was I ready to share him now? Without thinking to much more on it, I let the pen take over my thoughts for me:

"Bartlet Everdeen:
Bartlet was a father anyone would want to have. He taught me to hunt, swim, forage. If it were not for him and the lessons he taught me while alive, I would not have been here today. He was a tall, broad shouldered man with the gentlest of souls. I can remember the first time he took me out to teach me to hunt. He shot a rabbit and I got upset. He taught me that life came with the rabbits death, it would ensure that my family would be able to survive for another day.

He would go to work in the mines, come home at the end of every day, covered in coal dust and always have time for my sister and me. Looking back when I was younger, I always thought my father could do anything! He could kill and skin a rabbit and he could tie the smallest of ribbons in his daughters hair. He had a booming voice but everyone would stop to listen -even the birds- when he sang. He was always the level headed one, able to talk down any negative situation.

It was with a heavy heart that we had to say good bye to him when we did. A few other families lost loved ones that day. The Hawthorns lost a father too. So did the Ambersons and the Thisledens. The Kinnimonths lost their eldest sons in the blast. We tried to remind ourselves that we weren't the only ones who lost.. But it was hard."

I have to stop there as I look at the words. My father had been many things to my family. "I don't think I did him justice. It doesn't feel right." I say to a silent Peeta as he listened to my reread.

"I think it sounds fine. He would be very proud of what you said about it." He offers me a smile before taking the page from me before I have a chance to scrunch it up "Before I paint him, I will draw him out so that we can get him spot on."

I nod my head silently as I think about my father, his black hair, grey eyes, the way his face would wrinkle around his mouth and eyes with age when he smiled. I relay it all to Peeta, every little detail I can remember of him right down the the smallest of freckles on his nose. Only once I give Peeta the okay -once I am looking at my fathers face once more- does he start to add the colours, giving life to the drawing. It always marvelled me how he could do that. Take something dull and breathe into it a life it could never possibly posses. I could watch Peeta paint for hours on end but after an hour and a half, he is done.

By the time we have finished, we don't bother lighting a fire in the fire place and laying in front of it for warmth like normal. We simply make our way upstairs to my room, get changed -me in my bedroom, Peeta in the bathroom- and curl up together in my bed. It doesn't take long for sleep to claim us both.

I wake to the sound of my own screams, crying out for my father when he doesn't come out of the mines battered but alive like so many others have already. Peeta is there already calming me before I notice with soft "its okays" and "its not reals" and a couple "Its just a dream" I hear him and I know he is right but I can't help the feeling. The fear that rockets through my body. It doesn't feel quite as bad as the dreams about father had before.

Maybe the good Doctor was on to something when he encouraged my idea of this book...