Knives Lawrence, 16, District 8

I like to think of the world as my playground. Other people are my toys.

Today is the reaping, and I hope I get picked as the tribute. Most people in District Eight are such losers. They are so afraid of the Hunger Games and have no idea why. I would volunteer for someone, but I don't want anyone to actually think that I cared about them, so this is a good chance for me.

Some people think I'm creepy or whatever, but I don't like people anyway and it doesn't hurt me beause I don't have feelings. If they could just learn to keep their mouths shut then they would probably be a lot more like me. I guess I haven't always been like this. I live in the community home, I have since I was dropped on the steps as a baby. Life without parents but with people like this made me incredibly unhappy. Then, I learned that instead of acting like a brat who's always upset, I could instead be angry, fierce, and violent. This has worked out well for me.

I put my hair up in a bun and put two knives through it, in criss-cross style. I love knives. I love them so much that when I was old enough to talk, I insisted to be called that. I slip on the indigo dress with spaghetti straps. It hugs my curves, this may give me and excuse to beat up some guys if they try to call me hot.

And now favorite. My big, clunky black boots that go a little above my ankle. I lace them up and tie them together. Ready.

The square is hot and I don't like it. I try to stay as pale as possible because it makes me look even creepier, but the second I get in the sun, my skin turns darker. This looks much more natural and I hate it.

A boy whistles as me and I smirk and walk over to him. I guess he was expecting me to flirt with him, so he smiles. Then I clench my hands into a fist and punch him in the jaw. He raises his hand to his jaw and is about to look up to me, but I'm already walking away. Fools 'em every time.

And now finally the reaping starts. A woman with bright yellow hair blabs about pointless crap before announcing, "Now lets get on to the names, shall we?" Yes. She opens the slip of paper. Come on. She pulls it apart: "Knives Lawrence?"

I smile.

So much fun.

Aldo Rainn, 15

I know I'm not supposed to, but I told people to choose me. I hope they do.

I'm really not supposed to risk a life like mine. I live alone. There's no one left. I didn't dare go to the community home, that place was a wreck. I raised myself. Got myself food, found a small abandoned house and fixed it up, and trained myself just in case the Hunger Games would tear through me.

Maybe they would now.

It wouldn't matter. Since there is no one else, who would care if I was gone? And if I came back, wouldn't I be happy again? This is what I think. It's a win-win situation so I guess it's worth the risk.

The day of the reaping is hot and the population of District Eight isn't playing off well with it. People are complaining and all and it's just annoying. We have to come so you may as well keep your mouth shut. I'm especially hot, though, in my black pants and black shirt and black shoes.

The escort keeps babbling and no one really cares, so I tune her out and take what could be a last look at District Eight. Factories and buldings everywhere, grey fog coming out of pipes at the top, dry air. She announces some girl who is paper-white and sticks knives through her hair.

"Aldo Rainn?" The escort asks. I walk up, unaffected-looking. Like any normal guy walking down the street.

The Justice Building is the nicest place I have ever been. With soft, green velvet couches and mohagony wooden desks. I'm expecting no one to come in, but then an unfamiliar woman walks in.

I look up confused. A woman with green eyes, like me, dark brown almost black hair, like me.

"Aldo, good luck." Is all she says with a smile.

She's about to walk out when she says something else. "I'm your mother. I'm sorry."

Then I'm escorted off the the train station without another word coming out of my mouth. Shocked. Utterly shocked. But I snap myself out of that trance. I may be related to her, but that woman is far from a mother. She didn't take care of me, so how I am I supposed to call her mom?

Remember, Aldo, it's a win-win situation.

There may be one winner of the Hunger Games, but irreagrdless if I make I make it through or not, I still win.