DISTRICT 8
Nikki R.
Simone's pov
I'm screaming. Screaming for Abbey. My little sister was chosen for the Hunger Games. "I volunteer, I volunteer!" I scream. I finally wake up. That dream was the worst I could ever have. Especially for today. The Reaping. The day of many nightmares. Today is Abbey's first Reaping. She just turned 12 last week. I'm never nervous on the Reaping day, but this time I am. I doubt Abbey would be chosen anyway. And anyone would volunteer for her because she's one of the most loved in District 8. Nobody would want her in the Hunger Games. She's too weak.
I finally get out of bed after thinking about that dream. I put on my pink mini skirt and a white tank top. I put on my black heels. I walk over to look in the mirror. I look at my black curly hair and my hazel eyes. My dark skin. It's the color of the crust of bread. I put on my pin that is made of marble that has a pink S on it. I finally run downstairs to get breakfast. The first thing I see is my sister. Her first Reaping. She is wearing my first Reaping dress. It's red plaid and it comes down to her knees. She is wearing black mary-jane shoes. She looks like me. Hazel eyes, dark skin, and curly hair. She is also wearing my moms pearl necklace. "Good morning girls" says my mom. "Good morning mom" Abbey and I both say. "Here is breakfast for you girls." It's a pancake with blueberries. Scrapple on the side and orange juice. YUUUUUM. Abbey just eats away and I say "thanks mom." She acts like she didn't here anything. So I just eat. My dad walks down the stairs. "Good morning daddy", I say. "Good morning pumpkin and cupcake!" he says. That's what he calls us. I'm pumpkin and Abbey's cupcake.
After we're done eating me and Abbey kiss and hug my mom and dad and we walk to the Reaping. My mom and dad usually go after us so we don't talk. When we get there we check in, I kiss and hug Abbey and say "everything will be ok." She walks to the area with the 12-year-olds, while I find my way to the 17-year-old section. I see my ex-boyfriend Riley, but I avoid making eye contact. "Good afternoon everyone and welcome to District 8's 98th annual Hunger Game Reaping. As you know the Hunger Games started with the first dark days. And then came another Dark Days. I'm not going to show you the video this year because I forgot it with me" says the escort Kaya. She is very pretty. She has pale skin, green eyes, long smooth pink hair. She's really nice to. "Okay now we are going to start off with our lady tribute" she says in a cheerful voice. She goes over to the bowl the girls names are in and pulls out a piece of yellow paper. "Is Abbey Piper here?" Oh gosh.
Abbey walks up. Very slowly. No one bothers to volunteer. Everyone starts crying though. "WAIT STOP! I VOLUNTEER I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!" I scream. Everyone looks at me. "Well then", says Kaya. "Looks like someone has volunteered." I walk up to the stage. Abbey starts crying, but she doesn't bother saying anything. I mouth to her I love you and she mouths you can't do this. But I look away and walk onto the stage. "My name is Simone Piper, I'm 18-years-old, and I volunteered because that was my little sister." I say into the microphone. "Thank you Simone." She walks over to the boys and that is when I burst into tears.
Katherine J
Castor Mryle
Sometimes the entire year passes by much too quickly. It's not much either. It's all just some school time, and work. There's lots and lots of work to be done when you're in District 8. You'd think it would be easy to be in this district of fabric, but no. The factories are titanic, but not nearly as big if you want to stuff about 3,000 people in there at a time. And it gets much to tedious. To watch a single string, and to loop every thread sent to you on a spool, then to pass that on is very annoying. When I got promoted, I got to move up to the step of weaving clothing, or rugs on a mill. It looked simple, and was easier on the eyes, but it was hard, very tiring work. I've yet to move up to the simplest of jobs, but apparently the most important, packaging boxes of this stuff on trucks to the Capitol. I could be good at this job. With years of pushing and pulling the little lever on the weaving mill, I have much experience with things like carrying heavy boxes. I've heard that men and women that are up in this step of the textile process can snag a few things from the boxes. They always seem to have more lavish things than us.
I think the Capitol purposely makes sure we always have work. Judging by the stories passed down from the last victor from District 8 has told us, they get anything with the touch of a button, whether it's food, or something called shampoo, in all different sorts. If they had such complex technology like that, I wonder why they didn't just make dozens of machines to do all this clothing work themselves. I know they could've. But they're just that stuck up about themselves sometimes. With all these little thoughts floating through my head, I just have to scowl to myself as I see the little clock on my bedside table shows me its 12:00 already. I would have to get to the opening for these damn reapings once more this year.
Finding the clean white button-up and black pants at the bottom of my bed, I put them on. With a quick bite of a smokey, district 8 kind-of bread, I race out the doorway with my feet only partly slipped into my shoes. I've no parents to take me there every year. No parents to make me breakfast before going to work. Nobody, but just myself to take care of this lifetime. I think they would've gone to District 1, and maybe when I'm finally 19, the sacred age, I can run away there, too.
My mind is constantly thinking, always wondering about something that isn't important. Maybe it would be ok, if I tried to change some things, but as I am only 15, it isn't possible. Thinking is the only way I can get myself to push through hard work, like at the factories, or running as fast as a squirrel to get the Reaping. The toes of my shoes are gone, and the bottoms flap on the solid ground when I take a step up. It's gruesome.
But when I finally reach the place, they let me check in just a little late, and put me into the 15-year olds section. Nobody waves to me. Not many friends are made when work is done in separate cubicles of the factory. When there's work, it is to be done. And work never stops 'til the end of the day.
Kaya is smiling slightly to the crowd, but she knows we hate this. There have been such people that aren't horribly modified, and I think Kaya would be one of them. With just dyed soft-pink hair, and a small tattoo of a peony flower on her arm, I could count her as one of the normal Capitals. She knows that it is cruel to watch kids die in the Hunger Games, for no reason whatsoever. I'm sure the Capital would fire her, but she has this silent charm. And oddly, our District 8 has had 3 victors in the past 23 years since the rebellion. Obviously, Kaya must have some sort of trick up her sleeve. It wasn't normal for such an outlying district like ours to have so many victors.
I am thinking as always, again, so I miss the girl tributes' name being called out. Though a cry out catches my attention as I see someone who looked like the smaller girl's sister volunteer for her. How sweet. But unfortunately, the Hunger Games isn't rated on sweetness. I think, how many times has my name been added to that oversized fish bowl? 4 times, since I'm 15. 2 more times, since I needed tesserae. It's not impossible for me to get picked, I can't look at things as if my chances are as close to slim, I really could be picked.
It must've been mind-reading when they actually called out my name a second later.
"Castor Myrle?" She called out with no Capital accent, just with the same curiousness. I turn beet red, and smile as I know why we would turn red, or as "white as a ghost." Our blood vessels constrict with the adrenalin of it all, causing less or more blood flowing through our bodies. So as I am thinking, I don't realize my feet shuffling up to the stage. She looks at me oddly, and I realize I am still smiling. Sometimes, I wonder what would happen if my mind keeps taking over.
I look the girl in the eye, and she looks at me sadly. I feel sympathetic, and hold her hand as we are forced to look into the cameras. She doesn't flinch away, like I know most girls would, and she grips me so tight I wonder if she's cut off my bloodstream. With this, they play the National Anthem, and Kaya hums a little, even though she knows it must be pure torture to us. When it is finally over, she and two of our past victors, Chicory and Domitia slightly pushing us into the Justice building.
I wait there in a plush chair and 10 minutes later, a little girl finally pushes open the door. I don't know her. I remember when I was 11, I went to meet the boy that was chosen for our district. It was just out of curiosity, I wanted to see what it looked like from the inside. When I was that young, it seemed like a bright, leathery and rich place. Now it seemed grim and dark. The boy four years ago died, and I had cried out in grief for our quick friendship. This girl was meeting me, like I had done unto that boy, maybe she will regret it when she sees me die on TV.
But she introduces herself as Abbey, a 12-year old girl that was the girl tribute's sister. That she was chosen, but then Simone had volunteered. I found it rather sweet.
Nonetheless, the little girl left, and I was left alone until a few Peacekeepers pulled me out to go to the trains. I board it with the girl, Simone, and the tears finally are let out from both of us when the doors shut close with a snap.
