Twyla Silverstein, age 17

District 8 Female

Some people still remembered me as the eccentric seven year old Twyla, the girl who socialized and smiled and was actually happy. That girl was missed by many. Sometimes I missed her, but she died with her parents in a fire ten years ago. There have been days where I wished for this young, innocent girl to come back to life, days where I grieve the loss of such a girl.

Today was not one of those days.

I watched, cold and calculating, as Eight's escort, Xerxes, took the stage. My upper lip curled at his hideously bright outfit: the neon green button down shirt, with the bright orange suspenders and black and white checkered pants...it was enough to make any self-respecting person want to kill themselves if they were caught in that. I knew that I certainly would.

As I listened to the other girls my age babble on and on about boys, or the latest school scandal, or that they couldn't wait to be free from the reaping, I couldn't help but think, If I had lived a normal life, would I end up like them? Would I be worried if a boy liked me or if I was the next target in a blackmailing spree? The only life I ever knew was one on the streets, scavenging for food in trash cans, sleeping in alleys and constantly looking dirty. Would I be pretty and polished like these girls, or would I still be grungy and unkempt?

Humans were dangerous creatures. They took from everything and returned nothing.

On stage, Xerxes gave his speech, played the video, then practically screamed into the microphone, "Let's chose our female tributes!" He flashed a smile like he expected us to cheer. Like he wanted us to celebrate the death call of these children.

Thoroughly disappointed in our reaction, Xerxes stomped to the girls' ball and ripped the first paper out, muttering under his breath. He opened the slip and called out, "Miss Twyla Silverstein, please come to the stage."

My eyes narrowed towards the stage. Me? Reaped? I simply shrugged and started working my way to the center aisle. I knew I was going to die, what was the point in crying over it?

Sloane Flyme, age 12

District 8 Female

Back straight. Head up, eyes down. Small smile. My mother's instructions replayed again and again in my head. It simply was not proper for a young lady to draw attention to herself, that's what she always told me. Better to slip unseen into the background than stand out and cause problems. Her teachings were invaluable to me; I lived, thrived, even, off of what she said. The same was not said for my sister, Brinley.

According to Mother, Brinley was a "foolish hooligan." Brinley always told her that she'd much rather get caught in the machinery in the factories than be a shadow to some man. I knew for certain she did not mean it. She just doesn't see the value in Mother's teachings like I do. Neither did our father, who left us when I was young. Mother told me that he didn't understand us women, that was why he left. Brinley always told me that our father did not want his daughters to be nobodies. What ever that means.

Back straight. I fixed my posture the second I felt it fall. To give myself something to do, I smoothed out the front of my dark blue dress, and I let my eyes flit up for a moment. I saw Brinley standing in the fourteen year old section, whispering and laughing with her friends. My gaze fixed back on the cobblestones. Several times, my sister had tried to make me break free from the mold Mother had forced us into, to join her. Then there was Mother, who was as strict as she could be, telling me to keep my back straight and to not eat in large bites. There was Brinley and there was Mother, then me in the middle, being pulled in both directions.

They are both appealing. I was not sure which one I wanted.

Xerxes angrily plucked another slip from the bowl, and, against my will, I thought, Why is he still so upset? I could practically hear Mother scolding me. Young ladies were not to think for themselves. It was up to the men to do the speaking and thinking. I had always wondered why.

"The second female tribute to represent District Eight is Miss Sloane Flyme!" Xerxes announced with false enthusiasm.

Sloane, a lady is not supposed to show her emotions. I put a serene smile on my face and quietly stepped through my section, tears prickling my eyes and blurring my vision. I blinked them away as fast as I could. A young lady may not be able to show emotions, but that didn't mean that the fear blossoming in the stomach was not real.

Angele Maurois, age 15

District 8 Female

I slowly closed my eyes, once again sending my soul to the place it could be carefree. Peaceful. At ease. I wish my body could go to that place with my spirit. The reaping was always such a terrible time. So much fear and anguish. Everybody needed something to brighten up the mood. Everybody else needed their own happy place to visit, if only for a few minutes.

When I returned, I plucked the dainty white flower from my blonde hair and twirled it in my fingers. Everything found in nature was just beautiful, with all of the graceful swoops of the shapes of flower petals to the golden hues the sky takes when the sun begins its descent. It's so majestic, like a painting from the Capitol's best artist (only better).

I carefully place the flower back behind my ear and smile. With the sun shining on my shoulders, a light breeze filling the summer air...it really does feel like a holiday. Of course, I would never admit that aloud. The reaping isn't something to celebrate, at least while it's happening. Later today, after the twelve tributes have been shipped off to the Capitol, the remaining citizens of the district will celebrate to ending of the reaping, to celebrate that their sons and daughters and brothers and sisters are safe for another year. There will be music and laughter and happiness and everybody will enjoy everybody else's company.

Why must such a happy moment come after so much evil?

Xerxes beamed at the crowd, gesturing to the two tribute girls. He must have gotten over his little funk. But Xerxes was like that sometimes. If things didn't go exactly his way during the reaping, he would be mad at us for the rest of it. Sometimes, I wished that I could help him find his peaceful valley, his place to go when he was angry or nervous or sad.

"Two great girls so far, District Eight!" he said. "Let's see if the next one will be like these two!" The people around muttered unhappily at that while Xerxes grabbed another slip. He opened it and called out, "Angele Maurois!"

My hands flew to my mouth as a gasped. I looked around, hoping somebody might volunteer, while tears filled my eyes. When the realization sunk in that I was on my own I slowly walked to the center aisle, sniffling.

Today wasn't a holiday at all. It was a predetermined funeral.

Tulle Stone, age 13

District 8 Female

He glanced over the cliff, weighing his options. To jump meant certain death. To face what was coming would mean a much more painful, long, bloody death. No matter what he did, he was going to die. Writing always helped to calm me down, it didn't matter if it was in my head or on paper. It helped to block out thoughts of pain, sadness, the helplessness of just uselessly screaming for help as the person I once called a friend threatened to kill me if I didn't cooperate. My fingers traveled to my wrist, and I lined up the vein with my fingernail and... With all of his goodbyes to his family, he turned his back to the cliff and let himself fall.

There were sometimes when I wished I could be like the boy in my story: ready to do anything, even die, to escape reality. The only person I trusted was my cat, Milky, who didn't even count as a person. People were just unreliable. Milky never told me I was stupid for trying to stop my suicidal thoughts. But that was only because she was a cat. Cats can't express emotions the way humans can - or use their voices.

Then I lost her, and guessed my heart never healed correctly from that. After all, I only trusted Milky.

It took all of my willpower not to recoil away from all of these people. Solitude was my refuge. It was where I could be myself without worrying about others judging me or making fun of me. Being out in public made me, well, uncomfortable. Especially considering that it was out in public where the incident happened...

Stop it, Tulle. You're leaving again. Come back.

I took a shaky breath. My thumb drifted back to my wrist, but I stopped myself. I was only thirteen. How could my life have gone so horribly wrong in those years?

Xerxes marched over to the girls' bowl again and chose a fourth slip from inside. He crossed over to the microphone, opened the slip and called out the name, "Tulle Stone!"

No. Please no. Not me. I stood in my section, tremors wracking my body. Fixing my life... that was the goal. Eventually, I wanted to fix my life and give myself a better one. There was no chance of that now.

Not even a little bit.

Circe Trendad, age 14

District 8 Female

"Really? Then what?" the girl I was standing with inquired, her eyes wide with anticipation. She looked relieved that I was talking to her, which normally wasn't the reaction I got when I started speaking. To most, I was the annoying, talkative girl who no one really liked. But if this girl seemed to enjoy my stories, then I would continue telling her.

"Okay, so then I hung up the quilt to dry, but my neighbor's cat tore it down and decided to sleep in it!" I exclaimed, and started laughing softly. The girl smiled, but her eyes were preoccupied. She still looked distracted. I pretended not to notice.

Now that I think of it, everybody seemed nervous and skitterish. They always did whenever the entire district got together like this, and Xerxes came and picked the names from the glass bowls. I had asked my parents why everybody was so scared, but they would never tell me. They would also never tell me what happened to Aura.

My older sister, who was going to have a baby then all of a sudden wasn't. Then she left. My parents would cry late at night, when they didn't think I would hear, but I did hear. "Why are you crying?" I would ask them. "Where's Aura?" My mother would get angry and shoo me out of her bedroom whenever I came in asking.

All I knew was that Aura was gone. I didn't know where she was.

"But after that..." I started, but the girl wasn't listening anymore. She was focused back on the stage, where Xerxes was picking another slip from the bowl. I rolled my eyes. She had been doing this every time Xerxes went back to picking names. I just wanted to talk to her. Was that too much to ask?

"The fifth female tribute is Miss Circe Trendad!" Xerxes announced with a huge smile on his face. Hey, that's me.

I walked out of my section briskly, not slowly like the other girls had. The entire way, questions spun through my brain. What exactly was the Hunger Games? Why were all of these girls so nervous? Why didn't any of the so called "tributes" from other years ever return? I guessed I was going to find out.

Amber Satin, age 18

District 8 Female

If only the Games were like a fairy tale. All of the female tributes would be rescued from the clutches of the dragon-like Capitol by the male tributes and everybody would go home together happily. If only it was this way. In fairy tales, the princesses and princes rarely died and they never slaughtered each other.

That was the blunt reality of the Games. Everybody died except for one scarred victor who was never really the same afterwards.

I craved the feeling of book pages between my fingers, the worn leather cover nestled in my palms. Reading usually helped to calm me down, especially after a long day. And because I was the weird nerdy girl nobody wanted to associate themselves with, I could read whenever I wanted to, because I didn't have to worry about having to go to a party or hanging out with friends on short notice. I could just immerse myself in a new reality.

Although it wasn't always better than my reality.

A seamstress was a pretty common job in District Eight; it was almost everybody's job once they were old enough to work. But they didn't work for Cassian Grid like I did. He was a terrible boss, who beat me and several others if we didn't do our job fast enough or well enough to whatever. He was just horrible. He was like the werewolf in the book I was currently reading, the one that always showed up whenever the protaganist was finally having a bit of good luck.

Xerxes walked over to the girls' reaping bowl. I felt a worm of dread begin to tunnel through my stomach. There was only one name left. The odds were completely in my favor. I hadn't been chosen the first five times. I would be fine this time. I had to believe.

"The sixth and final female tribute is Amber Satin!" Xerxes announced.

Well, that wasn't what I had planned.

Another three week gap between updates, alright. Going strong. This is more quality over quantity at this point. Anyways, thanks so much to:

Fire'sCatching for Twyla, Tulle, Circe, and Amber,

and EllaRoseEverdeen for Angele.

(Sloane is my tribute, as I created her when I thought nobody would submit). I hope I did them justice! This chapter's suggestion is not a song, but a book. I'm not sure if you guys have heard of Jenna Moreci, but she's releasing a new book on the 24th and it's going to be amazing. According to the reviews, it's kind of like an Ancient Greek/Roman Hunger Games kind of thing. It's called The Savior's Champion, so check it out!

Yeah, sorry for my brief pauses between updates. I hope you guys are enjoying the story so far. Hope to see you all much sooner.

-D9T