A/N Moving along, folks. I hope I've been a good SYOT moderator or whatever they're called. Even though my updates can't be lightning fast, I've tried to make them as regular as possible! Our tributes are Casper Monroe by MissBunburyHope and Keira Thyme by Ruetheday. I seriously love both these guys and I hope you do too! (Prepare for some feels. Sad feels.)

Casper Monroe's POV

I should take advantage of the quiet while I still can.

In just a little more than two months, I'll be woken up by screaming cries. And then, time will fly right by. Those piercing wails will become laughter and the sound of small feet running. And a sweet voice calling out.

"Daddy, time to wake up!" "Daddy, it's morning!"

But am I ready for that? Am I really ready to become someone's Daddy?

I rub my hands over my face and let them fall limply back onto the bed. Elorica thinks I am. She always says that I'll make a wonderful father. That this little girl is certainly a lucky one. Unfortunately, Elorica is an unwavering optimist. While it is one of the things I love best about her, sometimes it would be nice to have a little brutal honesty.

Right now, Elorica stands at the stove. She's wearing a plain, loose-fitting brown dress. One of her hands, adorned in a simple, gold-covered rope bracelet, stirs something in a pot. The other rests on her protruding stomach. Her hair is in a bun with a few brown strands falling in front of her eyes. She smiles slightly as she concentrates on stirring.

Everything about her glows. Come to think of it, she hasn't gotten much of that morning sickness stuff or anything that could go wrong. And she's never, ever looked happier.

And when she's happy, I'm happy.

I shift in the bed to get a better look at her. The beige sheet twists with me.

"Smells good."

She flashes me a grin. "You know, Casper, it doesn't really take a master cook to make some grits."

I sit up, letting out a soft groan. I'd do just about anything for a softer bed. This one is falling apart and thin. But the sheets are well-washed and the pillows always clean and fluffed. Elorica is an excellent housekeeper. Now, with the baby coming soon, I've actually done some housekeeping myself. And you know, I'm not half bad at it either.

Elorica spoons some grits into a bowl.

"Casper," She says softly, "You should probably get ready."

I stare at my feet, dangling slightly above the cracked linoleum floor. She's right. I should start getting dressed. But there's nothing in this world I'd rather not do.

No place I'd rather not go.

"Hey," Elorica whispers. She walks over to the bed and sits down on it. The bed lets out a soft, creaking moan under her newly gained weight. She sighs a little.

"Hey." I say back.

"It's your last year. You just have to get through this one. And then, you me and the baby can go on with our lives."

"But this year is different. It's like…it's like a living hell."

"I know." She whispers, more to herself than to me.

I rub my hands over my eyes again.

"Elorica, I'm just so glad you're already too old for this thing. As long as you and the kid are safe, everything will be fine."

But she can tell my heart isn't in the words I'm saying.

I am glad that she doesn't have to go through all of this. And mainly that's because I'd be scared stiff that she'd be picked. Marrying an orphan with absolutely nothing to offer is very, very frowned at here. The reason for that is that everyone is so poor and desperate, it's just plain stupid to marry someone even worse off than you are.

Unless of course, you were in our situation.

We met when we were just kids. Really little kids, in fact. We were in the same first grade class and sat right next to each other. She'd never noticed me, but I suddenly became desperate to be her friend. Maybe it was because her life just seemed so solid. She had a Daddy who swung her around and a Mommy who held her hand on the way home from school. To a little orphan being raised in a place with inhuman conditions, that was all it took to impress me.

That, and the fact that she was both incredibly smart and incredibly nice.

It was easy. I just asked her to play with me at recess and invited her to sit next to me at lunch. That was all it took.

We've been inseparable since.

We were best friends for most of my school years. Playing tag, having races, running around the rotting and crumbling playground at school. Now that I think about it, we have a lot of memories at that place. The first time she beat me in a race. The first time I scaled the play-set, to cheers of my class mates.

The first time we kissed.

It's gone now. I walk by the Primary School everyday to go to work at the factory. The playground has been gone ever since I was Reaping age. (That was also around the time Elorica and I found that we could be, well, more than friends.) I guess the old thing just rotted so much it tumbled right down. The kids used to joke that it was probably pre-Dark Days. Which was the oldest thing we could imagine.

Well, Elorica's "Mommy and Daddy" weren't such perfect parents after she announced she was going off to live with me. They stopped talking to her entirely.

But one thing that makes this whole thing work is that she and I hardly ever talk about our past.

She's heard the rumors, of course. And I have to say, they are true. The orphanage doesn't feed its children. It receives no funding. What money it can get, somehow disappears in ways that it isn't supposed to. There wouldn't be food in our bellies, but an orphanage worker might walk in with a pair of shoes that weren't completely worn in.

God forbid you should misbehave.

For that, there was the cage. Bad children were something no one wanted to deal with. They weren't going to get solid jobs anyway, at the rate they were going. Sometimes, they'd be locked in that thing for days. Without food. A few times, a child lost consciousness. Then there were a few really unlucky ones.

One less mouth to feed.

If the "bad kids" who got "caged," as we called it weren't already psychologically screwed up before there little time out, you could be damn sure they would be by its end.

And so, the place was crawling with psychotic children.

There were a few stages. They went like this:

Stage One was when the kid just lost interest in everything. They went to school, as was required, but couldn't hear a thing the teacher said. Their eyes got a dull sort of quality to them. I would see them walking slowly, staring at nothing. Usually, they were very, very thin. Frequently caged kids got that sort of luck to them.

Stage Two was when the first signs of anger showed up. They wanted revenge. The kids would start to realize how much they just wanted this hell to end.

Stage Three was when they found that they had the power to make it end.

Needless to say, there were no more stages.

There are char marks all over the orphanage. For some reason, fire is a popular method. For those kids, they don't just want suicide. Oh no, they want their tormentors to be dragged with them. The people who ran the place.

I don't recall anyone ever succeeding. But that's not the point.

The point is, it was not the place for a kid to grow up.

We don't talk about it. But, needless to say, I am all the more determined to make the baby's childhood a good one. At least, the best it'll get here.

"Cashmerete!" Elorica bursts suddenly.

I laugh a little at this. It's become a game.

"Too fancy." I say.

"Lacey?"

I shake my head.

Elorica nods, agreeing with me. "Ugh, you're right. Too common."

She sets a bowl on the table. While it cools, I quickly throw on some pants with no noticeable tears in them. I know I should eat quickly. I should just go to the Square, get checked in, and get it all over with. Except something tells me that this won't be over quickly.

And so I find myself in the baby's room.

We already know it's a girl. It cost quite a bit, but I splurged on getting an ultrasound for Elorica, just to make things are all right. They are.

The apartment only has two rooms. That's all right, since most only have one. Even if this second room is tiny, hardly more than a closet. The main room is much bigger, but still very cramped. Our saggy bed leans against the back wall, behind the couch which passes for our "living area." A rough table stands in the center, with two simple chairs. And in the right corner, a little kitchen.

The baby's room is a soft peach color. The paint was a little expensive, but no matter. This little girl will spend a lot of time in this room, so it might as well look pretty.

In the corner, a rocking crib rests. I built it myself. The wood came from Seven. Which, even though is the right before in numerical order, is actually quite far away from here.

We are definitely not known for our trees.

But, cost aside, I am proud of that crib.

"Casper?" Elorica calls softly.

I feel her footsteps follow me into the room.

She rests her hand on my shoulder. "Eat something now, okay?"

I nod absently, staring at those peach walls.

Without warning, Elorica suddenly bursts into tears.

I wrap my arms around her and hold her as tightly as possible. She buries her head into my shoulder and sobs and sobs.

And I let her. It's perfectly okay to cry. After…all of this. We've been wronged. Betrayed. Left alone.

Before I can stop it, a tear slips out of my eye too.

It is always hard to part with Elorica. Wherever I'm going, I instantly begin to miss her smile. The way her hair smells like what I can only describe as sunshine. HEr golden rope bracelet, always dangling from her wrist. The way she plays with it when she's nervous.

How she likes her grits cold.

The way she throws her head back slightly when she laughs.

We just stand there, wrapped up in each other's arms.

Our tears falling and mixing with each other's.

And, sad as it is, I feel a sense of togetherness with her.

One I might not feel in a long time.

Keira Thyme's POV

I hate this place.

I hate the darkness. The way the dim light of the factory has a way of creeping on me. The suffocating feeling I get with no windows in sight.

The dullness of the gray skies. Even the sun sheds nothing but pale light. Here, it doesn't do its job. It is just a grayish white light behind clouds, taunting us below who are so desperate for light.

I hate the whir of the machines. The constant, lurking danger they bring.

Did you hear about little Lucy? Only six and already working. The machine caught her pigtail. Ripped her scalp clean off.

Or Tommy Evans?

Yes, what a shame. Two fingers lost. Their goes his family's income.

How about Calico Blanche?

Oh, yes. Her. Can't even blame the machine on that one.

No, you can't. Starvation, that's what it was.

Sure, that was an accident ready to happen.

Full-out lost consciousness. The worst thing that could happen in a factory.

Especially in front of the Slicer.

Lucy. Tommy. Calico.

I worked right along side 'em. All were younger than me.

We'd go to school, because that was required. But only two, maybe three times a week. That part was hard, because I liked school. It was hard to miss an important lesson. It's sort of funny, 'cause now there are all kinds of gaps in my mind. Like a little kid's mouth. Being thirteen, my times tables are pretty solid. Except for the sevens. I was absent in second grade the day everyone learned it. I'd just started working then.

I know that chloroplast in plants' cells is required for photosynthesis. But I couldn't tell you what the heck that is. Or how I know how to spell pretty well, but I don't know how to read all that well, really.

Well, I like the learning part of school anyways. It's the rest of it I hate.

It started in the third grade, when the rest of the kids began to notice that I cared a whole lot about washing my hands and making myself look presentable. Or that I actually wanted to learn. When I came, that is. How I always wore my hair in two immaculate braids and, though my clothes were no less ratty than the rest of theirs, I tried to keep mine free of stains.

At first, the names weren't real bad. Sometimes I was "dork" or "nerd" or my personal favorite, "Miss Prissy Pants."

But then it got awful, really fast.

There were nasty notes saying I was "too uppity for my own good." Kids laughing and whispering about my mother, who didn't work. "A family of lazy, snobbish asses." I heard that one a lot. I guess that one might have gotten to me the most.

Then there was the whole "brother is an idiot" thing.

All of those things hurt like knives. And sure enough, hate started bubbling up right along with 'em.

But they didn't know one thing. They didn't know that the only reason my Mom can't work is 'cause she has an awful back problem. She was born with it curved all the wrong way. And we can't afford any medical help to get some kind of brace or something on it.

I cannot deny, though. My brother is an idiot. An arrogant, headstrong brute of a boy. That's what Dad calls him.

I hate those kids. I hate 'em all, except for Mimi.

Mimi is my best and only friend. But then I hate those kids even more 'cause they are just downright awful to her to. The worst thing is, they think they can just get away with it. And the reason for that is cause Mimi and I don't fight back. We just stand there, blinking. Trying to ignore them.

Mimi said it would work. She said "Don't get mad, Keira. Just ignore 'em and keep your head held high. That way they know they haven't beaten you. You aren't down to their level."

I like Mimi well enough. And she's awful smart. But she was wrong. Dead wrong.

So far, I've just been walked all over. And not just walked all over, but trampled on. Trampled on by those hateful words.

And I'm angry at the fact that everyone still thinks I'm the "sweet little girl that everyone can take advantage of."

So I'm walking to the Square, weaving in and out of busy, narrow streets. And I'm letting all that anger sit in on me.

Now I'm thinking how angry Grandma Twill would be if she knew how full of hate I was. She'd likely give me one of her long-winded lectures from her favorite rocking chair. Grandpa made that for her. Grandma Twill would call me over closer and speak in all gentle words, patting my hand as she went. That's how her lectures go. She starts off all stern and "I mean business" but ends up all mushy towards the end of 'em.

Grandma Twill just can't feel hate, I think. Because, if she saw the things I saw and heard the things I've heard, it'd fill up in her like rusty water from the pump.

It has with me.

I kick a pebble. It makes tracks in the dust. Of course, the dust has a grayish tinge to it. From the factories belching out smoke. I stare up at the sky and I'm thankful to just be outside. Never mind that there isn't a tree or blade of green grass in sight. Never mind.

Anyplace other than the mill is heaven. Any place where I'm not threading things into the jaws of some monster called a machine. Nimble fingers. And a quick mind. That's what you need to survive. Gotta think on your feet, is what Dad always says.

And now that I think of it, those are the exact same things needed to keep you alive in the Games.

I'm sure people think that nobody from here could ever win. And they haven't. Yet. But most of us have those abilities already instilled on us. We know the meaning of danger. We brush at it each and everyday. We aren't afraid of death. We've stared at it straight in the face. Heck, we spend our whole lives dancing with it.

I sure know what it feels like to be starving. There's a difference between hungry and starving. When you're hungry, you might get some of those short, sharp hunger pains.

With starvation, it never ends.

You just kind of slow down. Can't do nothin' but sleep. And even then, you can't sleep quite right.

When you finally get some food in you, it feels strange. Like it doesn't quite belong.

Then there's water. It's awful to not know when it's next gonna come. Most of the time, the sinks just aren't working. Then I'll get sent out to the pump and get rewarded with a tiny, rust-tinted trickle.

And some hellish stomach pains right after.

Bad water. Bacteria. Disease.

So if I can survive that, I'm already a fighter.

I was born one.

Check-in isn't bad. A single drop of blood means nothing. Not since I've spent my whole life surrounded by it. As I walk to the center of the square surrounded by concrete buildings and broken glass, where the thirteen year old girls are, I think about the voting. Who could it be? It's no easy decision to make. Well, it was for me.

I picked Duroy Jennings, the worst of the worst. The word "bully" isn't enough to describe him. More like "tormentor." I remember how satisfying it felt to write down his name. I put it on that paper in big, bold strokes. Black on white. And it is black and white, when I think of the simplicity of it. One word. One slip. And maybe that's what it will take for me to rid him.

Oh, he would die. Most certainly. I've never met anyone in my thirteen years who was more of a sniveling coward than he is. He only picks on me cause he thinks I'm a weakling. Just a little runt of a girl. Someone who actually likes going to school.

Somebody who can't fight back.

Oh, is he ever wrong.

I'm just waiting, Duroy. I'm biding my time. And then…you'll see. You'll all see.

But how would I feel? Joy? Well, it is death. I don't think there'd be joy. But relief, maybe. Or just hollowness.

I can still picture the funny looks the people standing around the voting area gave me. How I was writing that name down so furiously. Hey now, we're voting people to their deaths.

Might as well mean it.

Now these speech things, they're bad. The escort tries to look all proud, standing above us all like that. But he's just talking to a bunch of empty faces. Some younger kids are even crying a little. Cowards. Bet they aren't mill kids. Mill kids don't cry.

Just don't know how anymore.

Behind the escort, there's just an empty stage. That means we haven't had any victors yet. I think that means the mentor has to come from the Capital. That's actually lucky, as far as the tributes will have it. Means their mentor won't be in an alcoholic stupor or a morphine haze.

I'm getting real fidgety right now, listening to that stupid video and all.

Now, I'm hoping for Duroy Jennings, but I haven't got a clue who the girl might be. Maybe a prostitute or something? Girls too lazy to work in the mills, is what my classmates say. Well, that's mostly Duroy. The truth is that sometimes they had an accident. Or somebody they knew did. And they just have the sense not to go back.

Guess I don't have that sense.

Or maybe I just need the money real bad. Which I do.

"And now, the gentleman volunteer for District Eight!" The escort shouts.

I don't feel a mite bad that I can't remember his name.

"Casper Monroe!"

A pretty large looking guy walks up to the stage. He came out of the eighteen year old section, which explains the size. I don't know him at all, really. Wonder what he did to get voted in. It sure is too bad the name wasn't Duroy's. That means this guy has to go instead of him. And I'm sure whatever Casper did isn't as bad as what Duroy's done.

Well, maybe I'm not completely sure.

Still, he looks utterly normal. Ah, that's too bad. I was hoping for someone at least a little exciting in that sense. At least.

I don't even notice the second piece of paper being drawn.

"Keira Thyme!"

Casper Monroe's POV

I hold back a sob.

Elorica's been doing enough of that already. She's curled up on the couch next to me, completely in a heap.

And I could ask myself why. But she's been doing enough of that too.

Why?

Why?

Why?

"I-I can't believe this!" Elorica splutters. "How can people be so cruel?"

"Ellie," I mumble. "If there was no such thing as cruelty, these Games wouldn't exist."

She sighs in defeat and buries her head into my shoulder. I rub her back. Little circles every which way, the kind she loves best. She's always telling me it feels like I'm making a little painting on her. She says it's like I'm making something nice out of her pain. Something good out of something bad.

"Remember how you always say you believe in taking the bad things in life, and turning them into something good?"

She raises her head a little, her eyes red and puffy. "Yes. But this is…this is too horrible."

"Too horrible?"

Elorica nods, a look of questioning filling her eyes. Good. I have her, if just for a moment. I've taken that terrible grief and pain out of her. Even if it is just for a second, she's just curious. Waiting for what I'm going to say next.

"Tell me, Ellie, what the meaning of too horrible is to me."

A pause.

"Or to any orphan here, for that matter. All the things we've seen, all the trauma we've been through. First, I watched my mother collapse from that mysterious water-born illness. I could count all her ribs the night she died. Or how the very next morning, I awoke to my father hanging from the rafters. But it didn't stop there. More starvation, more illness. An orphanage that was more of a hellhole than anything else."

Another pause.

"It never ends."

"What doesn't?" Her question comes out thin and wispy. I notice that three of her fingers are linked tightly in mine. She must have done that while I was talking. Maybe I shouldn't have said those things. Shouldn't have scared her like that. But there's no taking it back.

"What I'm saying is; Ellie, death doesn't discriminate. It touches everyone. Grief gets to everyone."

"But haven't you seen enough of it?!" Elorica practically wails.

"I don't know." It's all I can think to say. She's right, after all.

"It was all so perfect." She whispers.

"Too perfect." And maybe I'm correct. What I had with Elorica was just so good. We had a cozy little apartment that always smelled like her sunshine hair. I had a good, solid job fixing the machines at the mill. It payed even better than the regular jobs. So much so that Elorica only has to work five days in the week. And she'll get a whole month off because of the baby. I saved up for it.

There was that pretty little peach-colored room, with it's wooden crib. Long, hot nights spent in front of the projection machine, watching Capital shows when signal got through. Laughing at some parts, crying out in anger at others. Shouts and promises made in the dead of night to shelter the baby from anything to do with the Games.

I was gonna be a Daddy.

"Hey," I say to her softly.

"What?"

"You're right. What we had was perfect. Nothing can change that."

Elorica takes off the rope bracelet around her wrist and gently slides it onto mine. So gently, in fact, that I hardly feel anything.

"I'm going to need a name." Her brown eyes gaze up at mine with a look of intensity.

"I don't know, Ellie. I can't think of any good enough."

Her lips curl up. There! She's almost smiling. Just because I want to see the way her eyes light up when she smiles, just this time, I offer her the most sincere smile I can manage.

And then she does it. She really smiles. "Go on, admit it." She says. "You have a name in there somewhere. One you think is absolutely perfect."

"Actually, though you might think it's dumb, I really like Star."

"Star." She repeats, testing the way it sounds. I almost feel my face starting to get red.

"I-If you don't like it, that's fine."

And then, Elorica laughs. I can almost see a little spark coming from her. "I love it!" She shouts.

"I, ummm, I just thought it reminded me of how we used to go to the roof and look at the stars. You know, us being overly-sentimental kids and whatnot."

She gets a distant look in her eyes. "Oh, I remember."

I lean over to her ear. "Love you, Ellie." She loves when I do that. Always did. Said those were her favorite words in the whole wide universe. And when she said that, I always laughed for some reason. Then we'd laugh about it together, about how "love" is the most overused word ever.

"You put up a fight, got that Casper?" She says, somewhat suddenly.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." My answer is somewhat empty.

"I want Star to know that her Daddy was a fighter. Or maybe…a Victor."

I give her a smile, but it doesn't reach my eyes. One thing's been bothering me.

"Tell me, Ellie. How sad are you going to be? I couldn't stand the thought of you just never…I don't know, moving on, I guess."

A long pause. Silence settles in on the room. She fingers for her bracelet, before realizing that she isn't wearing it anymore.

Suddenly, she sits up and gives a long, low sigh.

"If you die, at first sadness is all I can feel when I'm thinking of you. Maybe I'd take little Star up to our roof, and we'd look at those stars together. And I'd tell her all about you. I'd look at those stars up there, twinkling so cruelly. I think I'd wonder why they could be so bright, when everything for me is so dark. But time will pass. And I'd feel a mix of grief on my heart, but a little happiness when I start talking about those good times. The best times, really. And everything won't seem so dark anymore. I'll realize that grief isn't what you'd want."

She brushes some hair out of her eye, but I end up doing it for her.

"And someday," She continues. "Someday when I'm old with gray hair and Star's all grown and all this time has passed, I'll look at those stars again."

"And?"

"And I'll smile, Casper. Because it happened. Because you happened. There won't be any sadness at all anymore."

"Why not?"

"Because for one, brief shining moment, I had real happiness. And hardly anyone can say that, can they?"

I nod.

"The stars and I, well, we'll have a good laugh. Cause just for a little while, I had you. I had just a spot of perfection."

Keira Thyme's POV

There is nothing I hate more than seeing people cry.

So a room full of crying people is pretty much my idea of a personalized hell.

My mother is all curled up in a heap on a sagging chair in the corner, while my father rubs her back trying to comfort her. Nice try, Daddy, but it isn't working. He's trying to bite back tears. That fact is plain as day. Grandma Twill is dabbing at her eyes with a piece of cloth, but tears make a steady flow down her weathered face. It reminds of a river, flowing through crevices.

Naturally, Flax, my brother, just stands to the side. He looks completely lost. For once, he's silent.

And that makes me feel…hollow somehow. A silent Flax means that something is definitely wrong.

Grandma Twill rests her wrinkled hand over mine. "It'll be all right." She whispers.

Like I need her soothing me or something. Of course, she still thinks I am nothing but a little girl. One who needs protection. One who can't fend for herself.

"It was a coincidence." She says angrily. Surprisingly so, for her.

"I know." I say. And I do. Because to everyone, I am weak. They simply voted for me because they thought no one else would.

Pure coincidence.

And yet, I'm quite sure it's fate.

That fact just can't be ignored. Here I was, letting hate stew inside me and wishing I could do something about it. I was just standing there, wishing I could show people how strong I can be. And how, one day, I would show them all. Make them all feel so much regret for how they treated me.

And here I am now.

Funny, isn't it? Fate favors the ones who want something the most of all, I think.

I want this more than anything. I want to win.

"Don't be scared, Keira." My mother whispers as she moves toward me.

"I'm not."

She covers her mouth with one hand, while tears slip into it. "Oh, you're so brave. Yes, that's right. You'll fight them. Won't you, Keira?"

"Of course."

My father lifts up a mousy brown strand of hair out of my eyes.

"My little brown-eyes will fight with every ounce in her." He says in his soothing, gruff voice.

"They won't know what hit them." I feel a little smile coming on my face. My father is right. And he's just made me feel even stronger. It will be all right. I am going to come home.

"You come right on home to us, won't you?" Grandma smiles, a little sadly.

"In a huge train looking better than ever, I will."

Dad pats my back. "That's my brown-eyes."

Suddenly, Flax lets out a sound between a laugh and a snort.

"This is ridiculous!" He shouts.

"What is, Flax?" My mother's wispy voice is shaking even more.

He gestures to me, his muscular hand flinging out from his side. "She can't possibly win! Why are you even talking about it?"

"Flax, hush now." Grandma Twill's voice has a note of warning in it. She's trying to seem authoritative. But I can see her hands fluttering. She's wringing them and the fingers vaguely scratch at her palms. She even twists her wedding band. And I can see her brown eyes, the same ones as me, holding a single note of fear. It's plain as day.

If I'm not buying it, Flax certainly isn't either.

"Well, don't give her false hope or anything." Flax says flatly. "We might as well just say our goodbyes and cry and hug her and be done with it."

"Flax!" My mother gasps. "What a thing to say!"

He shrugs. "It's the truth. She knows it too. She's just sitting there."

"She in shock." Dad growls.

"I am not!" I fall back in the couch and it makes the sort of huffing noise I'm actually feeling right now. I don't need Dad to stand up for me. I'm not going to have my Daddy to hold my hand where I'm going. He's not going to be there to carry me away.

Flax takes a few steps back, signifying that he's not part of this anymore. Whatever "this" is.

Grandma Twill suddenly stands up, a little wobbly on her feet. She pulls something out of her pocket.

A weathered, dusty old piece of paper.

Quietly, she moves over to me and presses the wad into my hand. "Your token."

"Mother, what is this?" Mom asks.

"Shhh…just let her look at it."

So I do. I squint at the words, marching across the page in neat, curved lines. Grandma's writing. It's a poem. But I can't figure out where she got it from. Hardly anyone has poems anymore. All those type of things were lost years ago, before the Dark Days. Before the Districts even came to be. Oftentimes in school, the teachers will talk of days past where poets crafted stories as beautiful as the best fabric itself.

But I've never seen one before. Not a real one, at least. Not ever.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

"It-It's really beautiful, Grandma. Thank you." I whisper, still clutching the paper.

"I couldn't find all of it. It was my grandmother's and there were pages still missing. I got it when I was even younger than you."

She stoops down to give me a little kiss on my cheek.

And then, they're whisked away.

Flax's head is down. My father's feet scrape the ground as he clutches my mother's sobbing form. And Grandma wrings her hands. Still afraid. They're all so afraid.

They don't have to be. I'm coming home.

Just like the moon and the stars. Like the dust too, just like the poem says.

I will rise.

A/N I apologize for that one taking longer than the rest. It took me a while to get it just right, so hopefully it'll hit you right in the feels! The poem is Still I Rise by Maya Angelou, who is my favorite.

There's a poll on my profile to vote for which alliance you like best. Hurry and vote on that, even if it's still early. You'll get internet cookies! Or at least the alliance with the most votes will stick together the longest. Here's hoping you agree with my alliance choices.

Woohoo! 50 reviews! You guys, that's just incredible. I am so happy I have readers like you.