Hello! Sorry for the longish wait. Reapings can be a pain to write sometimes, and I want to move onto more exciting parts of the Games. This chapter will be the actual Reapings themselves, next chapter will be goodbyes. Hope you enjoy!
District 5
Tyssa Woods, 15
The Sprite Girl
I playfully prance onstage, wearing a frightening mask to fit my role as the Evil Sprite. In our school play, Panemian Palace, I'm the villain. I pretty much represent the anarchy that used to be, before the Founding Fathers formed Panem. I destroy buildings, catch them on fire, scary stuff like that.
"Fear me, adventurers! You will not pass the impenetrable forces of my army!" I say pridefully to the kids playing the good guys, the Adventurers. A bunch of kids storm the stage as my evil servants. Rehearsals are always fun, but this one is early in the morning since the Reaping is today.
After hours of rehearsal, I see that my watch reads 8:00. The Reaping is at noon, so I'll have time to take a nap and get ready. I discard my costume before grabbing my backpack and waving my fellow actors and actresses goodbye.
I finally arrive home, and I almost involuntarily flop onto my bed, exhausted. I can't stop myself from succumbing to sleep.
A few hours later, I hear annoying banging at my door.
"Tyssie! Tyssie, wake up! We're going to be late!" yells my little brother, Jay. I start to panic, the Reaping is the absolute last thing I want to be late to. I try to calm myself down, but I can only feel the panic rising when I realize the event I'm going to be late to, the day where kids are condemned to the death sentence.
"Coming!" I say through the door while pulling on my white tights. I push open my blue curtains, allowing harsh morning light to flood my small room. I can see the ferrets trying to scratch on my window like they always do, but I can't let them now.
I burst from my room, with my bookbag in hand. It contains my stress ball, headache medicine, and some journals. Our house is one story, because I repeatedly face planted every time I glided down the stairs, so we moved. Everything seems to be done for my protection, which is why I feel like such a burden sometimes.
"TYSSIE!" Mother screams. "The Reaping is in ten minutes! Pick up the pace!" I rush downstairs, panting.
"I'm coming!"
We almost have to sprint to the square, where the last few people are having their blood drawn. After the lady rudely pricks my finger, I suck on it to reduce bleeding. As I scamper to the 15 year old girl pen, our video is just beginning to play. I forget what it's about, honestly. It doesn't matter much to me. And the loud volume of it is freaking me out a little. But the next words from our escort's mouth terrified me.
"Tyssa Woods!"
My legs freeze up, and I'm unable to walk. As the Peacekeepers carry me to the stage, I can only think one thing.
This is not how I wanted to be onstage.
Turmeric "Meric" Saucer, 17
The Chef Boy
I toss the fluffy dough in the air, letting it splat back into my fingers until it has formed a circular shape, perfect for some sauces and cheese to be laid on. I love making pizza, it's one of my favorite things to do, and I was taught how to make it by my best friend, Colleen. She's 15, and although people always say we'd be such a "cute couple" I really don't see anything happening. My boss, Mr. Ratatouille, walks over and smiles at our progress.
"Good, Turmeric. Be sure to spread the sauce evenly, boy." he says gently. He has always been a good boss to me, offering help, hacks in cooking. He's older now, and considering retirement, but I have tried to talk him out of it.
Meanwhile, my other close co worker, Vindaloo Jayajova, screeches as he looks at the clock.
"Ah! Kids, the Reaping is in twenty minutes!" he says frantically. Colleen looks up at me.
"Hey, Meric, we got to finish up and stick these puppies in the fridge." says Colleen, wrapping her half-finished pizza in plastic.
"Oh. To be honest, I completely forgot about the Reaping," I tell her, sticking my pizza in the expansive fridge on the other side of the kitchen. I look down to see that my clothes have sauce all over them.
"That, uh, kind of looks like blood, Meric," snickers Colleen, barely holding back amused laughter. "Shouldn't you go home and change?" she asks.
"Yeah," I mutter, slipping on my black trench coat to hide most of the stains. "I'll meet you there, at the usual place?" Colleen nods. I rush out of the back door of the restaurant and lightly jog through the streets of District 5. It's warm, as usual. A hot July day is almost always spent by me in the cool kitchen, cooking up a storm. But the Reaping always annoyed me. It got in the way of my schedule.
Before I know it, I'm at the front door of my house, which isn't too far from the restaurant. I push the door open, and I'm immediately met with the smell of food. Sure enough, my parents are in their large kitchen, and I peek over their shoulders to see that they are making a breakfast omelette.
"Hi, Meric!" shouts my mom over the steam, and my father gives me a wave. An ingredient on the table catches my eye.
"Is that… ginger?" I ask, my finger weakly pointing at the deformed plant.
"It is, son! We managed to get some for you, on this special day. It's all yours when you get back." says my father, grinning from ear to ear.
"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!" I tell them both, bear hugging them until they escape my grasp.
My parents turn off the stove and oven to take me to the Reaping. I forgot to change, but it doesn't matter. That sweet, well, not so sweet, ginger will soon be in my hands. It's really all I can think about right now.
"Next."
I barely notice the sharp prick in my finger. I'm in a daze as I step into the seventeen year old section. The escort finally comes onstage, singing.
"Happy Hunger Games, District 5, and may the odds be ever in your favor!" I don't notice the girl onstage, who is keeping a stone-cold expression.
"Turmeric Saucer!"
My precious ginger escapes my mind, and it should, because now I'll never cook with it.
District 6
Kyva Ruun, 13
The Protected Girl
"And the moment the Reaping is over, come home at once, do you understand?"
"Yes," I mumble as Mother ties a bow around my neck, which patches my pink plaid skirt. I've never watched a Hunger Games in my life, so it's not like I know the fate the kids who trudge onstage. Maybe they go to the Capitol and live there forever. At any rate, they don't come back. Except a couple years ago when my neighbor Miss Myers returned, but the boy who went with her didn't. Maybe he wanted to stay behind.
"Make sure to keep her away from the TV for the next few weeks," my mom instructs my dad. She hands me a few coins, cupping them in my hand.
"Go get some milk from the market and come straight home, young lady." she says sternly. I nod and skip out of my house, trying to remember which way the market was. Finally, I see a red arrow with the words "market" below, so I decide to trust the sign, and sure enough, it takes me into the bustling area filled with all sorts of goods. I immediately head over to the milk kiosk, handing the lady my coins and receiving a bottle of milk in return.
"I wish you luck," the woman says sadly. I'm always confused when people say this. Why do I need luck? What happens after the kids leave can't be that bad.
"So…" I say, trailing off. "What happens to the kids after they are Reaped?" The lady begins to tear up, letting out a distressed sigh.
"You will find out for yourself." she says somberly. Still confused, I dash back to my house, because Mother always gets angry with me if I stay out too long.
After a short, three-minute run home, I push open the unlocked door to my house, to find Father pulling me inside.
"Thank goodness you're back." he says breathlessly, and brushes off non-existent dust off my shoulders. Mother plucks the bottle of milk from my hand. "We'll walk you to the Reaping, okay?" Mother says softly.
"Y-Yeah," I say quietly, and just as we exit the house, the Reaping bells ring. My parents tightly hold both of my hands, refusing to let me go until I finally reach the line that draws my blood.
"Okay, after the man pricks your finger, stay in the thirteen year-old section. After the Reaping, come and find us at this spot, got it?" I nod in response, but the urge to ask why they are so afraid is beginning to rise. Surely enough, I can't stop it.
"Where do the kids go after they are Reaped?" I blurt out. Mother and Father turn beet red, and I can almost see the steam coming out of their ears. I know realize that I have made a mistake.
"Don't ever ask where they go again, Kyva! After this day, don't ever ask again!" screams Mother. Several eyes turn on us but I try my best to ignore them.
"Why?" I say firmly. "Why are you trying to shield me from the Games? Are they really that bad?" Father hangs his head, while Mother looks at me disapprovingly.
"Yes, Kyva. They are that bad. Now, the moment we get home, we are having a talk."
"Okay, Father," I say glumly. Last time something like this happened, I was locked in my room with no dinner all night. That's probably the same fate I will be receiving later today.
…
"Next," the woman says, and my finger is poked lightly with a needle, and my blood smeared across a blank sheet of paper.
Ruun, Kyva
Age 13
"Go on ahead," the Peacekeeper says roughly, and I do. Speed walking to the thirteen year old section, I just keep my head down, blending in, not making a sound. Just like my parents told me to.
"Kyva Ruun!"
My head jerks up, in horror, but then I start to smile. I will finally receive an answer.
Styx Gasket, 18
The Fiery Boy
I angrily start banging my hammer on a muffler, disfiguring it. I'm soon being berated by my manager, Colin.
"Gasket! What do you think you are doing?! Get back to work!" he shouts at me. I discard my destroyed car part and get up to join some of my friends in lifting the heavy, heavy boxes from the factory to the port. Our lifting machines are old and corroded, so transporting the load by hand has, unfortunately, become a faster alternative.
"You know, Gasket, if you didn't act like such a brat when you were little, you would have been living large." mocks Uganda, a girl who is my age and the only one working in her family.
"Shut it," I snap, hauling the boxes onto a truck, where they will be transported to another department that puts the parts together to form a hovercraft.
Suddenly, I hear the all-too familiar bells ringing. It's time to pick who's going to die. I literally have never been picked, and I'm 18. If there's any time to not be picked, it's now.
..
Hours later, I'm forcing on a green shirt on my body while I see kids lining up outside the square. I dash downstairs, grabbing my shoes and forcing them on. They feel tighter than usual.
"Bye, Mom! Bye, Dad. I'll be back after they choose the twerps going to their deaths." I yell to them as I dash out the door.
"Don't get chosen, son!" my father shouts as I click the door shut. I hitch a ride on a truck with a shipment of who-knows-what heading to the trains to be shipped off to whatever far-off land they are destined to. As soon as I reach my destination, they finally notice me.
"Kid! Get off now!" a supervisor yells at me, and I hop off the back and sprint off to the square. I peek behind me, and it looks like I lost them.
"You will pay for invading property of the Capitol, you delinquent!" he screams.
I run through the streets of Six, twisting and turning and avoiding passing people. I crash into a cart filled with purple berries and they spill all over my shirt. Cursing to myself, but not slowing down, I finally, finally reach the line of boys signing in to the Reaping. I look behind me. I must have lost them.
"Thank God," I say in relief, and blend in with the other boys.
After having my blood drawn, I'm herded into the eighteen year old pen, the largest one. I can see a face glaring at me in the adult section. I think it was the man who chased me here. He's glaring at me. I'll probably have to deal with him later. As I see a small, somewhat happy-looking girl glide onstage, the Escort the next piece of paper.
"Styx Gasket!" I gasp out loud, a little louder than I had intended. I hear roaring laughter from the back.
"Ha! Serves you right!" he screams. I just try to stay strong, especially when my insides feel like crumbling.
District 7
Oakley Gunderson, 16
The Willow Girl
I stir around my warming soup, in a ginormous pot big enough to serve my entire family. I know that they will be coming home from work soon. Mom, Dad, Woodsen, and Kit. I'm the only one in the family not working. And to be honest, that's how I like it. But that isn't how my father likes it.
I hear our front door creak open. It's my ex- boyfriend, Fir. We broke up awhile ago and we both know why.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, scared. "You know my dad doesn't like you at my house, and since when did you have permission to barge in like this?" Fir rubs the back of his neck, sheepish.
"I kind of wanted to see you before the Reaping. There's a tiny chance you might be picked, with Aspena out sick and all." he says quietly. I'm a little surprised at this. Like District 4, we don't always produce both Careers. But we have had some amazing tributes these past few years. But I guess all good things must come to an end.
"Oh," is all I say, and I direct him to the exit. "It was nice seeing you, but I really think you should get going… Fir." I shove him to the door, but before he has a chance to leave, the door already opened. It's my family, with my father in the front, his eyes as wide as bowls.
"What is this bum doing here, Oakley?!" He asks me, slamming the door behind him. My mother is looking at me disapprovingly. My younger siblings just look confused.
"He… he just came inside! I didn't even invite him, Dad! Just let him leave!" I cry. He contemplates for a second, and turns to Fir.
"I don't want you ever going near my Oakley again. She already has enough going on. She isn't even willing to work!" he shouts straight at Fir, who is very tense. I explode.
"Excuse me, Dad, but work has nothing to do with this! Who cares if I don't cut down trees? Someone has to do the dirty work!" Fir has already fled, and just as my dad opens his big mouth again, I hear loud bells somewhat muffled by the abundance of trees surrounding our house.
"Yay, we get to see the volunteer in person!" shouts Kit happily. Woodson and Kit begin to chatter mindlessly and I shoot a deadly glare at my dad.
"Oakley, Thickett, enough. Ever since she started seeing Fir you've been just terrible to her." says my Mom.
Thank you, Mom! I think. Dad just stares at my mom, red, when Kit opens the door.
"We should get going. I'll… deal with you later," Dad spits at me. We all take a stroll through the streets of District Seven, people gossiping of the latest male volunteer. Aspena Fairlen caught a fever, an almost deadly one, so the other volunteer, Grover Ridley, will be the only Career from 7 this year. I'm a little excited to get a glimpse of him as well.
…
Once my finger has been pricked and we're all finally in place, the escort, a pile of vegetation known as Cullinan, decides to "shake things up a bit" and draw the male first. News of our volunteer reached the Capitol as well, it seems.
"Tim-" he starts, but is cut off by Grover Ridley himself.
"I volunteer!" he shouts, and we're all in awe of him. He's tall, muscular, and athletic. Our chances of Victory seemed high this year.
"What's your name, dear?" asks Cullinan.
"None other than Grover Ridley!" he proclaims proudly. Applause erupts, and even I join in. But my joy is short lived.
"Oakley Gunderson!"
"Oakley!" my mother shouts, and by the time I'm onstage, I see my sister bawling and my father passed out. I almost feel like doing the same.
Grover Ridley, 17
The Axe Boy
Another axe goes whirling from my hand and into the target, perfectly hitting the bull's eye.
"Good. Now try on the mannequins," instructs my trainer, Birchlee. I throw it with all my might and it cleanly decapitates the plastic head off its body.
"Ha, imagine my doing that to some little outlier twerp," I joke, and Birchlee squints her almond-shaped eyes at me.
"Don't get too over-confident, Ridley. There are some formidable opponents out there sometimes." she warns. I just scoff.
"Nah," I say casually, heading over to the axe sharpener. "I'll be fine. I gotta leave to go say goodbye to my pals, mind closing up shop for me?" I ask. She nods. I head into the cafeteria, where everyone goes silent the moment I enter.
"It's him!"
"Is he that tall in person?"
"He's gonna win!"
Several hushed voices, all commenting on me in some positive way, are heard in the room before I plant myself at a table near the large window. Everyone crowds around me, asking my autograph, for a picture. I'm loving all this attention, but I can't begin to imagine how great it will be in the Capitol. Honestly, a lavish vacation in the city is seriously what I need right now. All this training has gotten me kind of tired.
Ding! Ding! Ding!
"It's time, Rigs!" shouts out my good friend, Tanner. He forms a large mob around me and we all march happily to the square.
"Victor! Victor! Victor!" shouts the many people surrounding me, and more and more of my admirers join me to the square.
"It's time to get my blood drawn; for the last time!" I declare. People begin to cheer, the trainees getting into their own lines. As soon as I make it to the seventeen year old section, everyone allows me to get in the front. I literally feel like I'm on top of the world.
Suddenly, our escort, a man with green vines wrapped around his head and light green skin hops onstage, beaming.
"District 7, I welcome you to the Reaping of the 110th Annual Hunger Games! Today, we will decide our lucky two representatives for this year! But before we get to the main event, a little history video to jog your memory!" Audible groans are heard as the video flickers to life.
"War, terrible war…" The rest is just boring. This is everyone's least favorite part and by far the most boring. But things will get interesting soon.
"Now, for the moment we've all been waiting for! To shake things up a bit, we'll pick our lucky gentlemen first!" He digs his hand though the bowl, taking a little longer than I would like, but the name doesn't matter in the slightest. I'll be going up there soon.
"Tim-"
"I volunteer!" I shout out, and right away everyone starts clapping for me. The escort holds the microphone to me.
"What's your name, dear?" he asks. I snatch the microphone from his hand and unload my excitement.
"None other than Grover Ridley!" I exclaim, and the cheering grows to deafening volumes. The escort choose the girl, but everyone's still talking about me.
"Oakley Gunderson!" I hear a deep voice, probably her father or something, cry out her name in horror. This poor girl, unfortunately, is going into the Games with me, since Aspena is out. As soon as she wipes her tears, she glances up at me. I offer her a smile, which seems to calm her down.
"Congrats to the tributes of District 7, Grover Ridley and Oakley Gunderson!"
District 8
Incense "Incy" Vazquez, 16
The Candle Girl
"Monarch," I say slowly, reading the text from my enthralling book. "A butterfly bearing colorful wings used to entrance prey and predators alike."
I rarely see insects in Eight, since we're so industrialized. I barely see animals at all, save for their pelts sent from District 10. The only live animals here is the annoying mockingjays looming in the merchant part of Eight, where I live. They will come circling around our neighborhood, since we have food. It's uncommon for one to not have to chase off the pesky bird when it's digging through the garbage, scavenging for a meal.
I close my enormous book, sauntering to my parents and sister, who are clutching books of their own.
"Ready to check out, Incy?" Mother says, plucking the book out of my hand and giving it to the librarian, who jots down my mother and father's names on a piece of paper.
"Name, dear?" she asks me, snapping me out of a daze.
"Incense Balboa," I sputter out, and she scribbles down my name below my parents' in tight handwriting. My book, in it's shiny red jacket, is placed back in my hands, where it should be. I open the book to where I last left off, drinking in a few words, before Mother suddenly closes it and traps my finger.
"When we get home, Incy." she says softly, and I start mrubbing my finger even though it barely hurt. My sister slides her book, a fiction one, on the librarian's desk. I notice the silly-looking monkey on the cover.
"You might like this one," she teases, and I playfully slap her on the shoulder as the book is handed back to her.
My older sister, Candelabra, is 18. She is scared out of her wits for the Reaping next week, although her chances of being picked are slim to none. There are much poorer kids in Eight who have had to put their name in that glass bowl countless times just to feed their starving family. Candelabra and I have never taken out tesserae in our lives. We always have food on the table, thanks to our parents.
We all walk from the library back to the candle shop, our home, the trip taking less than 10 minutes. The rest of my family is waiting for us. I so badly want to continue reading but Mother watches me like a hawk. The last time I tried reading and walking at the same time, I ran into a pole and broke my nose. But I'll be more careful, it's not like it'll happen again.
Father opens the door for us, and I step inside the dimly lit candle store. Candles, just candles, as far as the eye can see. The entire store is even lit by candles, save for a tiny dying light bulb hanging over Father's workbench.
"Alright, let's get to work," Father announces, and we all take our places. Mother and Father at the mixer, melting the wax to make the candles. Candelabra and my aunt, Fragrance, shaping them. My uncle Tallow and Aunt Loafa adding the scents. And I get the most interesting job of all: adding the wicks to the damn things, along with my cousin Wick, fittingly enough. The process is slow and mind-numbingly mundane. I've tried asking for a more "fun" task but my parents always tell me I'm the best at adding the wicks.
As I attach wick after wick after wick, I see cousin Wick start to fall asleep. I shake his arm, causing him to jolt awake. Wick starts to rub his eyes as I see something outside. I feel like I've seen it before. It's a small, colorful butterfly, with bright orange and black wings. I think I saw something like this in my book! Without thinking, I rush over to the kitchen table, where my answer sat. But I am stopped midway by Mother.
"No, Inky. Finish with the wicks. Then, you can read."
But I'll never get finished with the wicks, I think, barely keeping myself from saying those defiant words out loud. I drag myself back to my station, flopping onto the hard wooden stool, where Wick has fallen back asleep.
Ding! Ding! Ding!
It looks like it's time for the Reapings.
Candelabra and Wick, as well as our parents, follow me outside, obviously wanting to get there and back as quickly as possible so we can finish our shifts. The town square is a short walk from our shop, and before I know it, my finger is being pricked and I'm standing with a bunch of sixteen year old girls.
"Welcome!" says the Eight escort, Irene, wearing a gigantic hat decorated with fruits and garnish. A number of slum kids seem to drool over her gaudy headpiece, but I just roll my eyes. After the incredibly boring video about the Dark Days, I begin to want to go back home to finish with the wicks.
"Incense Vasquez!"
Wick will have to do it without me.
Lyndon Orange, 16
The Blind Boy
"Lyndon, are you ready?" my father shouts. From what I can hear, she's already halfway out the door. We were going to visit the duck pond, the one soothing part of District 8, before the Reapings. He always has to help me everywhere, because I'm completely blind.
"Yeah, almost," I shout back in the direction I heard his voice. I start swiping near my bed for the plastic staff I use to see where I'm going. Before my mother died she used to scavenge for these at the dumpsters near the factories of Eight. I miss her. She promoted such a great cause, but I guess it wasn't meant to be. The Capitol didn't think so.
"Coming!" I yell downstairs, and I carefully make steps downstairs to avoid falling. One trip to the hospital was enough. Suddenly, I feel my father's rough hand against mine, and he guides me outside, where humid blasts of air hit my face. It gets hot in Eight during the summer, but not as hot as other Districts like 10 or 11. Our winters can be freezing, which is why a lot of people don't make it past the biting cold season.
"Quack! Quack!" says the ducks, and I begin to smile as I hear them dunk their heads underwater to look for food. Luckily, my father has rough tessera bread in his pocket. Not very appetizing but good enough for the hungry birds. I can tell that they are fighting for the morsels now. As we settle down on a flat rock, the sunlight gets warmer.
"Lyndon," says my dad tiredly. "I want you to know that no matter what happens, I love you more than anyone. And that your mother would be very proud of you." I'm a little confused. I don't know why he is acting like I'm leaving, the chances of me being picked are slim to none.
"I know, Dad," I say, and we embrace. He pulls me back. I can tell he's sniffling. "Everything your mother and I did was to protect you. I want you to know that. And there's something I wanted to admit to you that I've known for a really long time but didn't have to courage to tell you." I'm getting worried.
"What is it?" I ask, my voice shaky. He takes a deep breath.
"N-never mind, son. You will find out later." he gets up and leads me for a very, very long time down a dirt road. Once loud bells begin to ring, I remember that the Reaping is today.
"Go get your blood drawn and stand in the sixteen year old pen. It's a little farther from the stage than the fifteen year old pen. Wait there… and I'll see you soon." I feel his hand slip away from mine, and his tone is starting to get me very scared. Why is he talking like that? Before I can comprehend anything further I feel a sharp pain in my finger. The Peacekeeper forcefully grabs my hand and drags it across paper.
"Next," he says gruffly, and I wander until I reach the pen that I'm assuming is the sixteen year old pen. I plant my feet on the ground firmly but I can feel them shaking.
"Welcome, welcome, District 8! Welcome to the Reaping for the 110th Annual Hunger Games!" I almost don't hear the video played. Everything sounds muffled. After the video ends, the girl is drawn.
"Incense Vasquez!" she cries. Oppressive silence and shuffling feet overtake the arena, and the next to words justify my fear.
"Lyndon Orange!"
Something is wrong. Definitely wrong.
And there's the Reapings for 5-8! I'm sorry for the shortness of the chapters and that it took so long, but to be honest, I've been pretty busy and I just don't have time to write 10,000 word chapters right now. They might increase in length after the Reapings and once everything calms down a bit, but for now, this is the best I can do. I'm trying to keep updates weekly, maybe once every three days if I'm feeling inspired. And I have a VERY special announcement. The lovely tracelynn has created a BLOG for this story! It's at royalblood110thhg . blogspot . com (delete the spaces). I suggest you go and check it out! Next will be goodbyes for 9-12! :)
-Maia