Lucent Saccharyn POV:

This next Reaping has got me thoroughly excited. District Seven is what I like to think of as a wildcard of sorts. It's the only one of the outer districts that consistently holds its own in the arena. Even District Eleven has nothing on them when it comes to basic ability. Because of the nature of logging and lumber production, everybody has experience with either an axe or a knife. I have no specific expectations or hopes for this ceremony, no ideal dream tribute. The ideal scenario is getting at least one competent tribute with the usual proficiency with a weapon of some sort. My drink is long ago and I want another to help get me through the boredom, but I need my full mental faculties and I just can't risk being inebriated on the job. That's a mistake many have made, and it's a trap I'm going to avoid. Instead I grab a bowl of potato chips (some Capitolites refer to them as crisps), to snack on absentmindedly, along with a glass of cold water. I take a long swig in anticipation of the salt, and heave a long sign in anticipation of the boredom I'm sure to experience during this particular Reaping. Nothing's liable to be very exciting until the next Career district, and Seven's escort is particularly dull. The Capitolites in the crowd are getting fatigued. They take trips to the bathroom, children demand to be picked up, and people shift from foot to foot. I feel equally disinterested as I crunch down on my chip, trying to focus on the screen in front of me.

Jenna Reyer, 18, D7F:

Work began as usual this morning. I'm not thrilled about it, but work isn't as bad as home, despite my pit viper of a boss. His greasy hair flops in my face as he leans over me and observes my chopping of the logs. He hovers over me for a few minutes before drifting away, throwing out a "Work faster, bitch!" behind him. Such a lovely specimen of a man. His name is Doyle, and he's surprisingly prickish for someone less than a year older than me. At least he didn't have any real critiques for me. My work is impeccable, any old-timer could tell you that. I might be poor and come from a shitty, broken family but that doesn't mean I automatically have no work ethic. I can hear Doyle interrogating and insulting other loggers nearby. Sometimes I wish for his position, so I could outrank my father and he wouldn't be able to hit me anymore. Honor is very important in our district. Rank is everything, and it's highly forbidden to question one's superiors. If only I could get a promotion I'd be safe from him. Grunting, I dig my fingers into the tree's bark and claw my way up it. I've finished the low bits I can reach from the ground, so now I have to go up and saw the branches down.

I slam my axe into a limb, cleanly severing it from the tree it was just attached to. I'm high up in the tree right now, legs wrapped tightly around a fork near the trunk. I'm working on a much fatter area now, the kind that'll take five or ten minutes of continuous blows before coming down. It would probably go much faster if I stopped to sharpen my axe but that would require Doyle's permission, and I don't want to deal with him right now. He's just as nervous about the Reaping as everybody else right now. Kids and adults work in different parts of the vast forests that surround us. My group, in our teens, are all eligible this year. Most of us have reacted by ignoring it and pushing the thoughts out of our minds, but Doyle has resorted to bullying everyone even more than usual. He's the sort of person who'd die in the Bloodbath if he ended up getting picked. All talk and nothing to back it up. As much as I dish on him, I do pity him. His father is a lot like mine. I guess I just turned out as best as I could. I look for my friends in the neighboring trees, but find none. They must be working a little ways off today. We don't often end up in the same area, but it's nice when it happens. I find it much easier to be cheerful around them. When I'm alone I tend to be more serious, with nobody to crack jokes with or distract me with a story about someone's new crush.

I certainly hope I'll outrank my father someday. Doyle managed to, but look at him! He lost all potential kindness the second he learned he had power over other people. In five or ten years' time he'll become exactly like his dad, and mine too. Well, mine's more of an "I got drunk and beat you with an empty liquor jug until you couldn't move your arm because the glass shattered in it" than an "I just whipped across the face with a strip of leather because I blame you for your mother's death" like his. I probably have it easier but who can tell? You can't compare two different kinds of abuse and say which is worse.

I hack at the branch with little results. The axe needs sharpening, badly. Although it bothers me to make such meager progress, I try to stick it out until the break for the Reaping, which takes place midmorning. Eventually the whistle comes and we head back to the main camp. I join up with a few of my friends, who, like me, are sweating and exhausted even though we've only been working a couple hours. Hickam and Juniper bear the universal expression of dogged determination every last logger wears once they get to rest. It's almost a job requirement of being a lumberjack (lumberjill?) to put on a brave face and brag about all the stuff you did on your shift. Usually, Hickam has the best boasts.

"That tree I chopped was 'bout four feet through the middle!" he crows. "It's thankless work, but you bet I hacked it in just three swings!"

Juniper looks fake-offended. "Well mine was near to thirty feet tall! But yeah, go all on about your measly little four feet. Not like mine is six times higher than that, but whatever,"

We all immediately burst into giggles. Tall tales are fun, but the Reaping is upon us and we have to change, so we stagger towards Hickam's house where we can go get dressed to face our certain potential doom.

Damon Archer, 14, D7M:

"Darling, wake up!" Ma skips into my room bearing a plate of omelettes and doing a dance in the doorway before departing to the kitchen again. "It's Reaping Day!" Ah, yes. The day the Capitol picks a bunch of kids to be murdered, not to mention how my father died in the arena before I was born. Yet another reason our overlords aren't as benevolent as they appear. How many people actually believe that bullcrap? The Capitolites are as shady as you can get. It's always the rebellious ones who get picked for the Hunger Games. Hmm, ever wonder why? Because the Capitol could never confront rebels directly, so they rely on taking away people's kids. That's the easy way out. I haven't yet attended any meetings, but I plan to. I just want to make it past the Reaping first, to be extra safe. I hate the Capitol, because every single problem we have can be traced back to them. People starving? Capitol doesn't feed them but somehow has parties where each guest eats a whole turkey. People dying of disease? Capitol doesn't give them medicine but can dye their skin, eyes, and hair thirty different colors. People getting abused? Capitol doesn't arrest the criminals but holds floggings for people who pick berries through the hole in the border fence. How logical.

I groggily roll myself out of bed and change right away. The weather outside is pretty chilly and the water from the pump is sure to be freezing from the cold metal pipes. I don't even consider putting on nice clothes for the death lottery, so I wear one of my normal work outfits. I cut down trees in the forest for a living and work in an unofficial workers' union to defend against bear attacks. My boss gave me the day off. Usually I'd be working, but the union contributes a lot to the safety of the woods so we tend to get some special privileges, which includes having time off on the few holidays a year. I briefly consider going into the forest just for fun, but I decide to stay home with Ma instead. It's always been just us, and although I'd have loved to know my dad, I like it with just her. Besides, it feels wrong to leave her alone on Reaping Day considering how my dad died and how traumatic it was for her.

I go into the kitchen, which has a nice cozy feel to it. Ma's always been keen on decorating things and the kitchen is her happy place. There's always fresh flowers and gingham curtains and a tablecloth. I sit down at the table across from her and she dishes out omelettes. I start digging into mine almost immediately, taking time to savor it. Ma runs a breakfast shop out of the house, so she makes enough money to live comfortably and afford meat. She tells me of old recipes, lost ones, that nobody remembers exactly or has all the ingredients for. When she talks about food, her voice gets this wistful tone like she's remembering something from long ago and has to drag it back through years of not thinking about it. The dish she speaks of most reverently is a pasta thing she calls carbonara, and when she says it the words roll off her tongue in an accent I can't place as belonging to any particular district. I decided when I was a little boy that my life goal was to try it someday, find a recipe for Ma to make her smile with the brightness reserved for cooking a long-forgotten meal for the first time.

My thoughts are interrupted by someone ringing the bell at the shop counter, and Ma has to hurry off to attend to them. In the meantime I try to think about what I'd like to do before the Reaping. Going to the woods is already out of the question, so I decide to hang out with Ma instead. I'm quite popular with other people my age but sometimes it's easier to stay around Ma than deal with the pressures of being with them. When Ma has finished with the customer she sits down beside me and wraps her arms around me, engulfing me in a hug. "How are you doing, honey?" she asks me. She doesn't have to specify what she's talking about because we both know already.

"I say screw the Reaping. Can't we just stay here and make pie or something instead?"

"You know I do love a good pie. I'll tell you what: go play with your friends for a couple hours and I'll make some pie for you to have when the Reaping is over."

"But Ma! You know I don't want to go!"

"Well, you also know you've got to show up anyway. Now go have some fun and I'll get this pie made." I give her puppy eyes but she shuts the door on me anyway. I decide to hang out around the Reaping plaza before the ceremony/pre-murder festivities, getting my finger pricked and hanging around, chatting with some guys I know a little from school. Eventually more people filter into the square and the "celebration" begins. The escort starts off by playing the Dark Days video, then jumping straight into the Reapings with no interlude. She doesn't specify which bowl is which, but we all know it's the girl tribute when she yells out:

"Jenna Reyer? Is there a Jenna Reyer here?" An older girl in a woven green hunter's shirt and skirt strides up to the stage, smiling in a slightly threatening manner, eagerness playing on her lips. When the escort picks the boys' slip, I hold my breath and pray silently to whatever divine being happens to be out there that my name is not fated to be on that slip.

"Damon Archer!" Well, it appears the divine beings were not listening. Or that they don't exist in the first place, but it never hurts to ask for a favor from fictional people when your life's on the line. I swallow my fear, the dread already sinking in. I walk quickly and solemnly to the stage. A generic, boring entrance. Being remembered will get me killed. I can already imagine how my father felt fifteen years ago when the very same name was called, the one that was passed onto me. The terror creeping in, of being from an outer district and young. I don't want to scream "easy target" by crying, but I also don't want to draw attention to myself -that will make me seem like a threat. So instead I push down all of my emotions and shake hands with Jenna, who looks like she's going to fit right in with the Careers based on the intimidating smirk alone. My destiny already seems clear, and it's the same one that befell my father: torture, followed by a slow, agonizing death.


Hey y'all! I'm happy to announce that two-thirds of the tribute slots have been filled. That means eight tributes are still available, so make sure to take a look at the tribute form in my bio and submit some if you haven't already! The next Reaping should be posted soon! Side note: where I live, in gambing country, (Las Vegas), early voting has opened for the U.S. presidential election. If you are eligible to vote, please do! It's a highly important civic duty and we'd like to keep dystopian countries safely in the fiction realm. Love you guys!

~LC