A/N: Hey, Guests! Just so you know, you can change your name… I'd prefer if you did that, since quite a few guests have submitted tributes and I'm not sure who is who. So could you possibly change your names and tell me who you are? Epic, thanks XD.
UPDATE- people available for being tributes ARE- girls from 9 and 10… and boys from 4, 5, 6, 8, 10, 11, and 12!
District 9, Roland Sanders, 17
Work in the wheat fields is back-breaking work for some. For others, it's a chore to get off their back so they can quench their thirst with cold, frosty water. And for yet others, it's something to be angered about by the Capitol. But for me, it's dedicated work. I love working in the wheat fields for an unexplained reason. Perhaps it's the sense of satisfaction I get when I see a golden field- that I worked hard to make grow- bloom. Or perhaps the look that my parents give me when I harvest more than any other teenager. A look of pure admiration.
Maybe I just like the ability to feed people. When I was fifteen I took a field trip at school to Eleven, where we worked in orchards instead of fields of crops. I remember that all the people there had brown skin, while us from Nine had farmer's tans. They had no hats to wear when the hot sun streamed down on their heads. They got no breaks, and if they slacked or tried to take a small sip of water, they were whipped. We watched one woman die of heat stroke. They simply tossed her body into a smelly grave. My stomach was sick. I didn't want to be in Eleven anymore.
Our teachers saw the woman's death, too, and they quickly escorted us back to the bus. But that did not erase my memory of it. I think about that poor female every day. The life she could have lived. If she had a family. What her mother did when she found out. Or were her parents still in the dark? Did they even know about their poor daughter's fate?
Today was a Sunday- supposedly a day of rest. In reality it just meant there was an hour shaved off our working time, which I silently despised. Today at breakfast my uncle came over. My mother, who worked in the soybean crops, continually cheered at breakfast. I sat silently, eating my oats and honey.
"Roland," asked my mother. "Why are you not happy?"
"Today is the Reaping," I croaked. "This may be my last time to work the fields. I don't want to leave. This is my home."
"But if you get Reaped, surely somebody will volunteer. After all, you are the best field worker here," assured my mother. But I shook my head.
"People will not be willing to die in exchange for a great worker to be spared," I said quietly. "I might as well volunteer if nobody will for me."
"Roland," boomed my uncle with his huge voice. "There are thousands of children in Nine. The chance that you would be Reaped is one in, say, four-thousand. There is no chance. You have never taken the tesserae. And if you do get Reaped, you will do very well."
"Paolo," shouted my mother at him. "Don't put such thoughts in his head! He's only young!"
"Young?" I yelled. "I am seventeen, Mum!"
"But to me, you're still my little boy," my mother mumbled, tears welling up in her eyes.
"Loretta," hushed my uncle, walking her out of the kitchen.
There I finished my oats and honey in utter silence.
An hour later, I was ready to go to the fields. I saw a familiar face and caught up with my friend, Gavin.
"Hello, Roland," Gavin greeted me happily.
"Why are you so perky?" I asked.
"This my last year of the Reaping," he explained, like it was obvious. "If I do not get picked, my parents be very glad, since then all they kids have not picked. You see?"
"I see," I told him.
People from Nine are not known for their vocabulary, SOR-RY.
"I am nervous," Gavin confided. "What if I do get picked?"
I remembered my parents' conversation from earlier. "Little chance," I said. "Like one in four thousand."
Gavin sniffled. "That is the chance you have also."
"Yep." I started on the field's watering.
"And so we not be picked."
"That's right, Gavin."
"Who gets picked then?"
Did I ever mention that Gavin is not the smartest?
"Other people. Not us."
"I see," he said.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
"Roland Sanders!" came my name from the voice of the escort.
Gavin, tearful, came up to me at the Justice Building. "You said you wouldn't get picked," he accused.
"I know." I hugged my best friend good-bye. "I know."
