Lucent Saccharyn POV:
The next Reaping is that of District Eight. Nothing exciting will happen. Everything is simple and predictable with this district, and I don't have very high hopes for their tributes. They usually either hide out the entire Hunger games and wither away from starvation or die in the Bloodbath. I'll admit, last Reaping was a bit of a surprise! I wasn't expecting anyone to volunteer, and I certainly didn't think he'd be such an eager beaver! I'm a bit worn out now.
The Reapings get boring near the end. At the beginning, everyone's pumped up to hear about the Careers and the sun is shining and everyone packs into the public areas for an all-day gathering. By the time District Eight rolls around, the sun has us all sweating through our shirts, most of the families with young children have gone home, and everyone is restless from standing up and staring at huge screens for hours at a time.
I'm looking forward to some nice, calm Reapings. Maybe I'll even take a nap at some point! Whatever the case, the sun is high in the sky, it's past noon, and it's been four hours since we began. Hooray for the third-to-last ceremony! Let's hope the final few go quickly so I can hurry back to somewhere with air conditioning.
Ellie "Elle" Callas, 16, D8F:
I stayed up very late last night practicing, but I didn't mind waking up a little tired this morning. It's my own personal compromise, even if Mother would be upset if she found out about it. She's saddled me with some extra chores today and tasked me with making breakfast. And as if that weren't enough, it's also Reaping Day, where the Capitol chuckleheads laugh it up as they watch two dozen innocent children get sentenced to death. At least there's no work to be done today.
I actually don't mind weaving. I like feeling the threads twist around in my hands and the needle as I spin patterns and shapes into them. I like sitting down in a wicker chair with a ball of yarn and a loom to finish a project. Weaving isn't a very strenuous job, but it gets boring sometimes and makes my fingers sore. It is still work, after all. I don't love it all the time.
Mother owns her own weaving shop, and she makes my sister Via and I help her with everything. She's a tough boss, fair but very strict, and always wants us to make things better, finer, more intricate. She's very proud to have her own shop. Father's always been the more relaxed parent. When Via and I were a few years old, he'd scoop us up and give us piggyback rides and when he got home from a long day at the fabric inventory office, he'd always kneel down and pull out a gift for us: little pieces of candy, tiny glass beads, matching hair ribbons.
Mother put a stop to that before long, though. Via's become a lot more like her over the years, and now people say I'm just like my father. I wonder if he ever got up in the middle of the night to do gymnastics. There's a nice lady called Sylvia who offers free lessons in a tiny repurposed warehouse. My parents have been letting me go there once a week since I was six, but they tell me that practicing flips is silly and of no real use. It's fun though, and sometimes it feels like my only interest that's really mine, so I do. But I have to hide it. Weaving with Mother and Via is something I have to do. Reading and writing is fun, but that's mostly for school and so I can get a better job someday when I'm a grownup. Cooking is a chore. Father's stories are for the whole family.
Speaking of doing things for the whole family, Mother tasked me with cleaning up the shop. I prop open the outside door, dragging in a bucket of water and a mop. First I sweep up the dust on the floor using a broom, and then brush off the cloth fibers settled on the table, counter, and all the other surfaces with a clean rag. Now I begin to mop the floor, starting at the back of the room so I don't trap myself in a corner and have to cross the still-wet mop tracks. Mopping is not one of my favorite chores.
Once I'm finished, I have to make breakfast. Via is clutching a mug of weak coffee in the kitchen, having slept in. Her chores were helping Mother iron some finished clothes in the house and dusting the furniture. I'm not thrilled about this. Cooking and baking are lots of fun, but being forced to do something really sucks the joy out of it. I quickly start some water boiling for grits, and pull out a foil-wrapped dish of cooked potatoes to dice and heat up.
Mother and Father both say good morning to us. Father is wearing a loose t-shirt, a sign that the inventory office is closed for the day. He tucks a tanned arm around Mother, who's wrapping up some embroidery. "Hey, Minerva. Whatcha doing?"
"Finishing Mrs. Statham's new apron. Sadly." Mrs. Statham is the mayor's wife. She's a nasty sort of person, always yelling about something or another. She's disgustingly rich, and has disgusting manners as well. I once saw her spit on one of the old tailor's children.
"Screw that, Minnie! I've got the day off, and you should too. The old hag can pick up her apron tomorrow. Besides, we've got a lovely breakfast waiting for us!" He grins and gestures broadly at me, as well as the now full plates I'm dishing up. Mother laughs.
"I might just have to take you up on that, Austin! We'd best take advantage of our free time." Everyone gathers around the kitchen table, munching on the grits and gossiping about the Stathams. There's been talk that we're going to get a new mayor soon, and word on the street is that they're coming from the Capitol. They'll probably be horribly stuck up and love the Hunger Games, but keeping Mr. Statham in power might just be worse. Everyone in town knows he skims off the top. Besides, he's awfully pompous himself.
Breakfast goes far too quickly, and the time to head to the Reaping comes. Via and I dress in identical sea-green pinafores, (Mother made them herself), with some green wildflowers in our hair to match. Pretty, but not garish. When we get to the central square, the Peacekeepers don't bother pricking our fingers. They're very lax with regular citizens like us, and are mainly used as Mr. Statham's personal money collection force. He sends them to the homes of his business rivals to demand taxes. Except the taxes go directly in his pocketbook. District Eight is a pretty good place to be a Peacekeeper, actually. If you like to sit and play cards all day and kick in the occasional door, you're all set.
The escort is absolutely bizarre-looking. I can't tell if they're male or female. Their hair is a light purple, and flounces out from their head in a wavy bob. Their makeup is dramatic, with lots of blush and eyeliner and glossy lipstick. They're adorned in a sort of bright pink and blue muumuu made of satin and tulle, with bright accent bows all over their noticeably flat bust area. They wear short violet boots. Their voice is clear, smooth, and a little low as they speak into the microphone. Their Capitol accent, surprisingly, isn't very prominent, but it still grates on my ears a tad.
"Welcome, District Eight, to the annual Reaping Ceremony! Today I have been tasked with selecting two brave young people to represent you all in this year's 400th Hunger Games! Exciting, isn't it? Unfortunately, I can't give you extra time to think, but worry not, my dears. You'll have plenty of time to reflect on your district's valor while I play this short video for you all! It's come straight from the Capitol, and I'd appreciate it if you'd all kindly direct your attention to the screen behind me!" What nonsense. They step aside, giving the entire crowd a full view of the film. It lasts only a few minutes, depicting war, injured people, battalions of Peacekeepers in riot gear, and rebels being bombed. What an effective and convincing piece of media that was, courtesy of this walking propaganda machine.
"Ah, yes. Those were very troubling times for our nation. But four hundred years later, we have thankfully gotten past that! Wasn't that message so moving?" When nobody answers them, they continue. "I now will select your female competitor!" They reach down into a bowl of names, lacquered nails scraping the bottom. I hold my breath as they choose a slip. "Ellie Callas! Will our valiant young woman come up here please?" I feel a flash of anger, but force my features to melt into a mask of neutrality, ignoring Via's panicked expression. I walk up quickly, feeling my spirits dampen as the escort places a comforting hand on my shoulder.
"Now for our male tribute, yes?"
Harry Striffer, 16, D8M:
I woke up late this morning. It's a good thing I don't have a normal factory job, otherwise I'd have missed the first hour of work. Instead of toiling away in the industrial buildings, making materials into thread and thread into cloth, dyeing fabrics in huge vats of indigo, ironing garments flat and folding them and putting them onto trains to be shipped all over Panem, I work odd jobs. I'd much rather bargain for groceries at the local market or teach someone's kids how to read or repair a broken fence because I get to decide if the pay is worth the effort I'll have to put in.
That might not bring in enough money for some people, but I tend to live pretty thin, and I can afford all the necessities of life alright. I live with Grandmother in a small wooden house. It's got a nice indoor fireplace for cooking, and a water pump on the enclosed side patio in the yard. It's tiny, only two rooms plus the patio, but there's plenty of space for both Grandmother and I. We live comfortably, and there are always clean clothes to wear and decent foods to eat. My room is the smaller of the two, stuffed with a plain low-to-the-ground cot and a shelf of my possessions. Grandma sleeps in the main kitchen and living area in an old armchair so big it seems to swallow her up.
She's nice, Grandmother. My parents died of a sickness when I was really little, and I've been living with her ever since. She apparently used to work in one of the factories as a seamstress, but it's been a while since her eyes have been good enough for sewing. She seems to get more ill every day, and I'm scared that she might pass away like my mom and dad did. There's nothing much I can do to help her aside from gathering herbs and trying to figure out what she's sick with. There aren't many proper doctors around anymore, but we wouldn't be able to hire one anyways. The local healer has taken a look though, and he said things aren't looking very good for her.
She says that her one wish is that I fall in love before she dies. She sometimes tells stories of when she was young and met my grandfather. He died before my mother was even born, so I've never met him, but she gets sort of wistful and her eyes glaze over and she'll thumb through an old photo album until she finds a picture. She'll point at it, telling me that she wants me to someday feel that way and that I should find a nice girl to start a family with.
When I first told her that I wasn't interested in girls at all, and that maybe sort of I might have thought about a boy that way-but only once or twice- she didn't care. She just said that whomever I'm attracted to will suffice and she just wants to see me over the moon about someone. Unfortunately, that hasn't worked out too well. I still haven't managed to connect with anybody, even though I've tried plenty. There have even been a few awkward instances where I accidentally flirted with a straight boy, but it's not as though anybody, even the gay ones, have ever shown any interest back.
This morning Grandma's made something leafy for breakfast. Flowers, vegetables, and herbs have been simmering on the stove for hours, or so she tells me. "Boy," she croaks, "This is my Reaping Day special! Marigold, chicory, hollyhock, cranberries, and pumpkin blossom!" Eating vegetables in the morning would normally be awful, but Grandmother knows how to bring the sweetness out of them. "Pay attention," she warns. "A raw cranberry or two might have slipped through the cracks." Sure enough, I find one, and I wince at the bitter-tart flavor of it. She hoots with laughter when she sees my face, but cringes when she stumbles across a raw berry of her own. Then it's my turn to laugh.
She tells me she wishes she had more time with me this morning, but the Reaping is getting pretty close and she'd hate for me to be late. "After all," she adds, "They might whip you if you're late." The thought of one of the lazy, drunken Peacekeepers actually being able to expend the energy required to stand up, let alone whip someone, almost makes me chuckle, but then I remember that they're even crueler than they are useless, so I hurry up nonetheless. I've been short all my life, so I've not had a new formal outfit since I turned twelve. Now the navy blue dress pants and jacket are a bit small for me, but still only a bit.
I put them on quickly over a white shirt and kiss Grandmother goodbye. She sends me off, wringing her hands. Adults in District Eight usually don't come to the Reaping. Our square is usually overcrowded enough on a normal day. When you shove the entire teenage population in at once, there's barely enough room to form an aisle. We'd be packed in so tightly nobody would be able to move if the adults attended too. I see a few of my friends and gravitate towards them naturally, almost shouting over the noise of the crowd. Gina, the healer's daughter, comes over right away and leans over the rope separating our sections, throwing her arms around me. A few other friends wave from their own pens. "Are you nervous?" she yells.
"Yes I'm nervous! How can you not be nervous?"
"There's nothing to be nervous about! None of us are gonna get picked!" Her voice, although hoarse, still seems to tremble. We're all just trying to convince ourselves somebody else is going to be Reaped. What else is there to do really? I understand that the Hunger Games are necessary to maintain order and are almost certainly better than constant warfare and rebellion, but it's still terrifying to consider your own mortality. Whoever goes into the Hunger Games is unlikely to ever come out again.
"That's right!" I decide to call back. "We're all going to be just fine!" There's nothing more I can say, because the escort comes out onstage. Their outfit is insane. Their appearance is insane. Their speech is also insane, talking about how awesome the Capitol is and how strong of a district we are. I can sort of appreciate that they're trying to hype us up, but it's falling very flat. I might not abjectly hate the Capitol, but they're definitely exaggerating its greatness.
They select the female tribute first. They try to move on to selecting the male tribute, but then pause so the girl can say something about herself. Her name is Ellie, and the only words she says after scampering quickly up to the podium are "I prefer Elle, if that's alright with you." Her voice is surprisingly quiet and soft, and a bit how I imagine a mouse would sound. Then the escort finally gets around to sticking their hand in the males' bowl, and I pray silently that I'm not picked, that I can go home to Grandmother and eat more flower soup and maybe try to-
"Our brave young man is Harry Striffer! Would you be so kind as to come up here now?" I freeze, like a rabbit when it hears some leaves rustling. I look around, trying to determine if there's another Harry Striffer who just happens to also be around. No alternate Harry presents himself. Gina gestures frantically at me, trying to convey that it's me and I have to go. It's me. It's really me. I wonder how Grandmother's going to find out. What if she gets sick when I'm gone?
"Harry Striffer! I know you might be a little shy, but you've got to come up here, darling!" The escort's words confirm to me what I already know. There's no running away from this. I walk up to the stage at what I hope is a normal, casual pace, and the escort greets me right away. "There are your two glorious tributes, District Eight! Let's give them a nice big round of applause!" They're the only ones who clap, so they miraculously decide to repeat themselves rather than give up. "I couldn't quite hear that! Let's give them a nice big round of applause!"
There's a smattering of claps from the kids in the audience. The escort appears satisfied, bowing graciously before hustling us off the stage, before they can accidentally humiliate themself any more. "Good luck, District Eight, and may the odds be ever in your favor!"
Hey y'all! I have some exciting news to share with you: I have been making some new developments on the sponsor system! I would highly recommend checking out my profile/bio page to see those, as well as the new poll I have posted there. I intend to put out at least one more chapter this week, but in the meantime you can read up on the sponsor system, or check out other authors such as contemporarydancer2, who has just completed an amazing SYOT, or 30777, who's just begun one!
~LC :)