District 1 Reaping

Crimson Ashbrie, 18

Ugh, I've been waiting for reaping day forever.

Life is just so boring. It's just like, eating, sleeping, cut some gems, clean the shop, buy food, train...oh, and go to school (which is the worst out of the few).

I've trained three to four hours a day since I was little for the Games... and I'm not going to sit around waiting to be reaped for them, like every other wuss in our district, and the others.

This is the last possible year, and I have trained to the fullest of my potential. I am no little kid any more. I am gonna win these Games, and I'll be so rich they won't know what to do with me.

Dunno about my talent... maybe writing morbid death poetry.

"Crimson! Reaping! In the square, now!" Father calls from the back room.

I finish sweeping the spotless floors of the jewelry shop. "Fine! Coming!"

I rush up the stairs to our nice living quarters above the shop, and put on my black reaping dress. I love black. The dress glitters a bit, because of the expensive bits of crystal sewn into the fabric. We're rich enough to afford such luxuries.

I head back down, and try not to run excitedly to the square.

I need adrenaline... and I think the Games offer more than enough of that. We all gather, dressed in our finery, some wimps sweating furiously among us.

It's a pain to stand in the long lines to sign into the reaping, but eventually I stand dutifully in the eighteen year olds section, trying hard to keep the evil grin off my face. The odds are so not in anyone else's favor. I will make my family and the rest of District One rich.

The mayor launches into his ever-boring speech about the Dark Days, and why we owe the Capitol, etc. He pauses briefly, and then the escort, Feia Cord, calls some random kid's name.

Before they can even cry, I volunteered.

"Now that's the spirit of the Games!" Feia says gleefully.

But she's evidently afraid of me, because when I come up to stand behind her, she scoots away a bit.

Now I let the grin bleed through, letting the rest of the country know that they are in some serious trouble now.

Kingsley "King" Johannsen, 18

I yawn luxuriously, stretching my muscular arms above my head. The small digital clock by my nightstand reads noon. Without warning, I find myself on the floor. I assume I fell off, but the only thing I can feel is all of the air rush out of my lungs.

My body apparently knows something that my mind does not.

But when I figure it out, I find my body relaxing. I really want to slap myself. Oh, duh! The voice in my head says, it's reaping day!

I laugh it off and get dressed. It's the day I've been training for forever, I don't need to get nervous like that!

But something does prick inside of me. Sure, my dad's a huge and famous victor, and I've been throwing spears since I could stand on my two legs, but maybe I don't want to be in the Games!

But my mom's voice echoes through all of my thoughts in a piercing manner. You don't know what you want, Kingsley!

Even with my thoughts, my nose wrinkles in disdain at my old-fashioned name. It sounds like a street name.

As I brush my teeth and think self-absorbed thoughts concerning the Games, my little sister Bridget walks into the room, as silently as always. Even I have to admit, she's cute. Blond hair in two pigtails, bright blue eyes, a chubby, round face, and a cheerful disposition.

"Hey Bridget!" I say to her.

She gives me a toothy grin, but it falters for a moment. "Today's reaping day, isn't it, King?"

I try not to look nervous. My parents and I, however disconnected we are, have a silent pledge to try to have me win the Games, and have Bridget stay completely and totally out of them.

"Yeah," I say quietly.

"Will you play the Games?" she asks innocently.

I sigh. But in order to keep Bridget out of it, I have to win our family's pride by volunteering myself for the Hunger Games. The annual fight to the death on live TV for the Capitol's enjoyment.

"Yeah, Bridget. I'm gonna play the Games."

"Are they gonna be fun?"

"Yeah. Fun."

I take her hand and we head downstairs. We have a great but brief lunch, a thick carrot soup with bread and crackers, warm brown coffee, a rich sandwich. But no matter how much food I eat, it doesn't help the unsettling and hollow feeling in my stomach.

Bridget goes to the bathroom, and my parents come down on me.

"You know the deal, right?" says Mom, voice tight with excitement.

"Mom, you've been training me for years," I say, trying to add excitement to my voice too, with failed attempts. "Of course I know."

Dad looks at me, with hardly any sympathy. "You'll be in your mentors hands soon enough, but remember. When you get there, be the smart Career, son. Make yourself look a step ahead of the Games than the others. Be out there. And join the Careers later, once they've gotten all their supplies. No bloodbath." He says sternly. "If they don't trust you, find a way to outsmart them. Even so, try to stay on good terms with them. Make alliances during training."

I nod.

Bridget comes back out, and without another word of the Games I was going to play, we head out to the square and sign in.

Bridget gives me a lingering look as I turn away from her and head to my section. As innocent as she is, she's smart. She knows more than we give her credit for.

"Let's begin with the ladies!" says Feia Cord, our escort, gleefully. "Ceila Virwood!"

"I volunteer!" a monstrous and muscular girl in a black dress lunges forward. She has a long, dark brown braid and fierce amber eyes. I try hard not to get scared of her.

The sniffling twelve year old gets down from the stage, and the girl, Crimson Ashbrie, as she says in a deep voice, takes her place.

"Now for the boys!"

As Crimson did, without any consideration of the name called, I lunge forward, trying to summon her fire.

I go up and stand beside her, hoping my strong limbs don't shake. Instead, I incline my head regally as District One cheers for their tributes. And their new victor.