Well we're over halfway through the reapings and I'm very excited for all the tributes to go to the capitol. But before that we still have a few more districts to go through. I hope you all enjoy district 8!

District 8 Reaping

Calvin Thompson (14)

I pull the old comforter up to my mother's chin. She mutters something indiscernible in her sleep. Her brown curls, once so lovely are tangled and streaked through with grey. Upon close inspection I find new lines on the skin of her face. Even from a distance I could smell the scent of alcohol on her breath but up close its overwhealming.

I bend down and kiss her lightly on the brow. "Sleep tight."

In the kitchen Weft has just finished clearing up the last of the liquor bottles, stacking them neatly by the sink. I want to ask how much they cost but I know that I won't like the answer. Enough to buy Weft new shoes and put food on the table for a week surely.

Weft glances round as I slide the door shut behind me. "Is she asleep?"

I nod and seat myself at the now clean table. Outside the smog streaked window the sun is just beginning to rise over the grey apartment buildings of District 8. I yawn, exhausted. It had been a long night and will be an even longer day.

Weft hands me a bowl of porridge, rough brown stuff made from tesserae grain. It isn't much but at least its hot. I gulp it down gratefully and make a mental note to buy some bread next time I'm out.

"So, how was the night?" He asks when I've finished eating. His little face is propped up on his hands as he looks at me expectantly.

"Not bad. Could have been better, could have been worse." I always try to be a bit evasive when Weft asks me about my time spent thieving on the back streets of District 8. Not only are details dangerous in this line of work but I don't want my little brother thinking about joining me in the trade. Technically speaking stealing is punishable by death, although more often the peacekeepers will just cut off the hand of the offender. Either way while I'm willing to take the risk myself I don't want Weft getting involved in that sort of thing. He's not cut out for it.

"Did you get anything good?" Despite my unwillingness to talk Weft's eyes sparkle and I catch the tone of excitement in his voice.

"See for yourself." I pull out a little pouch from my pocket. I undo the strings of the little pouch and out my nightly earnings on the table top. A watch and a handful of coins fall onto the wood with a tinkle.

It's not my best haul but it should keep food on the table for a few more days.

Weft picks up the watch and examines it with wide eyes. It can't have been made in District 8, the quality is too fine. If I was lucky I would be able to sell it on the black market for a decent price. "Where did you get this?"

"There's a lot of officials running around for the Reaping." Visitors didn't know to watch their pockets and their wrists when they came to 8. The balding man with the watch had been particularly oblivious, no match for my quick fingers. He hadn't noticed the watch was missing until I was three blocks away. Even then I'd been able to hear his indignant shouts.

Weft stows the trinkets in the box where we keep such things. When I'd first started bringing home other people's valuables Weft had only been six or seven. I told him all the belongings had been 'lost' and he'd insisted on making a lost and found box. Now at ten Weft knows how I really get ahold of the money, but we still call it the lost and found box. After years of pretending I guess the name just stuck.

While my brother puts the box away I flick on the TV. The power comes and goes in the residential areas of District 8, but for the next few weeks there will be no blackouts. On the screen Caesar Flickerman—the shockingly ageless man who has hosted the games as long as anyone can remember—is giving a recap of last years games.

I wince.

Last year had been particularly bad, both of our tributes dying in the bloodbath. District 8 usually doesn't make it too far but to lose both on the first day was a blow, particularly since one of our tributes had seemed like a real contender. The male tribute last year had been stronger than most, a tall blonde boy from the nicer part of town who'd garnered a fair amount of attention in the Capitol. Some had even been hopeful that District 8 might bring home a victor that year. Those hopes had been dashed on the first day when an enormous girl from District 1 had bashed in his head.

On the screen Caesar is now chatting animatedly to a Gamemaker about what he thinks this year's games will be like.

The Gamemaker taps his nose knowingly. "Oh well Caesar you know we aren't allowed to share our secrets. I will say I'm excited to meet the tributes, after all so much depends on them. They're the stars of the show."

I let out a derisive snort. Stars of the show indeed. I can't remember the last time a tribute from 8 made it to the final eight. Everyone knows the Careers are the real stars of the whole bloody game. Everyone else just hides and tries not to starve to death before someone finds them.

"What are you watching?" Weft has returned. I flick off the TV quickly. While the prospect of the yearly reaping doesn't scare me too much—the odds are still in my favor—I know Weft is terrified of everything related to the Games. As he's not yet old enough for the Reaping I try to spare him from them as possible.

"Nothing." I stand, the legs of the chair grating on the linoleum of the kitchen floor. I scoop up the coins that still lie on the table. "Come on." It's still early and mom will be out for hours. "Let's go get some hot buns. It'll be my treat."

Reaping day is a holiday after all. We might as well celebrate.

Willamette Northbridge (17)

"You look lovely." My mother's voice is the first thing I hear as I enter the tiny living room of our apartment. I close the door of the bedroom—I suppose it's just my bedroom now—and turn to face her.

Today marks one week until the anniversary of the day my mother started wearing black. Even though its reaping day and technically we're supposed to look nice she doesn't look any more festive than she has for the past year. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a severe knot at the back of her head and I notice new lines of worry around her mouth.

"Well, spin around, let me see." She demands.

I do as I'm instructed, spinning around and letting the blue fabric of my skirt flare out slightly. My mother had spent many painstaking nights stitching it after my dress from last year got ruined. She claimed she'd copied the pattern from a similar dress they made at the garment factory where she works.

Now she smiles. "I knew blue would suit you."

"Thanks." I tell her flatly. I appreciate her effort, so I tell her so. What I don't tell her is that I don't see the point of dressing up for the reaping. Dressing up, treating it like a holiday, it's grotesque.

She tries to help me smooth out the pleats but I bat her away. I don't need her help. I don't need anyone's help.

"Do you want us to walk with you?"

I shake my head. I'd rather be alone. "I'll see you after though." We don't discuss the alternative.

From what I've seen on TV District 8 is one of the poorer districts. Located in a shallow valley the buildings crowd so close together that some streets are case in a perpetual shadow. Apartment blocks and factories line the long streets. Everything smells of the chemicals they use in the dying vats and a noxious looking fog hangs over the valley.

Technically our apartment is in the nicer area of District 8, but that's not saying much. I troop down the cracking concrete streets and quickly join a steady trickle of other teenagers, all of us heading to the central square.

They've tried to make the square look more festive this year by arranging several beds and hanging baskets of colorful flowers. The bright colors look out of place against the industrial grey backdrop of the textile district.

As I pass through the crowd I can hear a few people whispering.

"Isn't that the Northbridge girl?"

"Look its Tag's sister."

Because that's who I am now: the girl with the dead brother.

I ignore them and push through to where peacekeepers are signing everyone in. Once I've given my name they usher me over to where the other seventeen year old girls are clustered. A few of them glance pitying looks my way which I pointedly ignore.

I stand there, picking at the hem of my new blue dress where a thread has come free. Steadily the square fills, people cramming together until the plaza overflows into the adjoining streets.

When the clock strikes half past noon our escort Domitian Laurelle appear on the stage with his signature wide smile. I'm not paying much attention as he gives his speech on the honor of competing in the Hunger Games. I've heard it all before, enough to know that it's full of crap.

A slight breeze flutters through my short hair.

I remember last year so clearly, hearing Domitian call out 'Tag Northbridge' in that clipped Capitol accent. The pause that had followed. I searched the crowd for Tag and seen him standing dumbstruck amid the others. Domitian had called out again 'Mr. Northbridge!"

"Mrs. Northbridge?" I'm so enveloped in the memories that I almost miss my own name. "Miss Willamette Northbridge if you would please come up to the stage."

No! Tag had been struck still as a statue but I am not. A wordless cry tears from my lips as I try to shove my way through the crowd, away from the stage. This cannot happen again. The peacekeepers tackle me to the ground before I go a half dozen paces.

I struggle against their iron grips as I'll pulled upright.

"Let me go!" They don't. Eventually I'm forced to stop struggling and let them march me up to the stage. As I'm forced to climb the steps of the Justice Building there's some murmuring in the crowd.

That's right, I think bitterly, some families get all the luck.

When it becomes apparent that I'm not going to try and run the peacekeepers release me. I massage my arms then turn to face the audience. On the screens that have been hung all around the square my own face stares back at me. I look angry. Good, because I'm furious. I see my parents too but I avoid their eye contact. Having one child go into the games is every parent's nightmare, but two?

I'm still glaring at my own reflection when they call up the boy: a slight fourteen year old with a mop of brown curls. He stares out at the crowd blankly. I wonder if he's also cursing every god real and imagined right now.

"Tributes if you would please shake hands, in the spirit of the games." Domitian is telling us. I look at my district partner. I have nothing against this boy. It's the Games I take issue with.

Before he can hold out his hand I turn my head away and spit right on the floor of the stage in full view of the cameras. How's that for your games?