A/N A fast update! At this rate, I'll be done with these Non-Reapings before I go back to school on January 5. Special thank-yous to TranscendentElvenRager and Singlewave for sticking with me despite the hiatus and everything.

Tyson Yarrow, 18, District Eleven Male

My eyes meet the cold, brown eyes of the man behind the counter. "Excuse me?"

"You can't shop here," he repeats, "We don't want your business."

"And why not? I need this food. I've got money to pay for it too — money I earned fairly."

"Ha!" the man says, "A likely story. You probably stole it. Now get out before I call the Peacekeepers on you and accuse you of stealing."

I grit my teeth and consider pulling a knife on him. I need this food, and I don't have time to be wandering the streets after dark. Besides, he kind of deserves this...

...but if I get caught, I could be shot. Peacekeepers have little patience with us here — and rightfully so. Being sent to the poorest, dirtiest, rowdiest district in Panem does mess with a person's emotions. Well, I'm sorry we don't have the opportunities you do. Pulling a knife simply isn't worth it. I'll have to see if the baker threw anything out on the way home.

I sigh and leave the store. In District Eleven, either you're black, or everyone hates you. You see, anyone not black in the district is either a rich douchebag that oppresses his employees or a poor beggar that probably hasn't showered in a week. I don't think I need to explain why us non-blacks are hated so much. Now, I decidedly fall into the latter, but it doesn't matter. Both ways, life is hard.

I walk down the dirt road to the bakery, which is conveniently located on the way home. The sun has begun to drop, and I've only got a little bit of time before darkness rules. That's one time I don't want to be caught outside as a non-black. Gangs especially like to pick on people like me, alone and hated by everyone.

As I approach the bakery, I smell the wonderful smell of fresh-baked bread, and my hand reaches into my pocket, fingering the money. I could go in and try to buy some. I take my hand back out, empty-handed. It's not worth it. In a few minutes, the baker will throw away the old bread that he can't sell and he won't eat. I steal another look at the position of the sun. That'd better be soon. I sit at the base of a wall and wait.

As I predicted, the baker comes out a few minutes later with a bag. No doubt all kinds of trash are in there, but I'm certain there's some edible food. Once the man is out of sight, I scamper over and peek inside the dumpster. On top sits the most recent addition to the stinking mess, and when I open it, I'm greeted with a stack of bread. Some at the bottom are moldy, and I wrinkle my nose. Even I won't eat that. Better go hungry than get sick. However, the ones on top are just badly burnt. I can deal with that. I nab a few on top, careful to avoid any that have touched the mold, and steal away, returning "home."

"Home" is a small shelter of scrap I made on the edge of town, beside a wall. It's only big enough to sleep in, but it's fit my needs well for the past month. Most other residents of Eleven aren't willing to wander into this corner of town, so it's relatively safe. I sit down and nibble at the first piece of bread. The sun is actually setting now; it's the only thing beautiful left in this district.

I sigh and stand up. Still holding on to my bread, I wander away from town and look over the fields. The long rows of vegetables are lined up perfectly, a sign of the Capitol's meddling. Every year, when the camera crews come to film my district, they go over the fields and ignore everything else, making the district seem neat and organized.

I close my eyes for a moment, and the memories invade my mind. The bloody knife. The screaming. The tears. The lifeless bodies. With a jolt, I open my eyes. It was a mistake, a decision that should never have been made. When I made that choice, all hope was gone.

"Hey Tyson," a voice comes from behind me.

"Hey Poplin," I say without looking back. Who else would it be? She's the only person in the whole district that will willingly talk to me. "What's up?"

"Nothing really," she says, standing beside me, "How about you?"

"That son of a b**** grocer refused to sell me food today," I say.

"That's a whole new level of cruelty."

"Yeah, as if he wasn't happy with simply cheating me and insulting me."

We stand in silence for a while, watching the sunset, before she breaks it. "Do you ever feel guilty?" she asks in a soft, gentle voice.

"Guilty? For what?" I ask even though I know exactly what she's referring to.

"For… you know. Killing your parents."

I fidget uncomfortably. "No," I say, "They weren't going to make it anyway. They had been stabbed too many times. There was no hope for survival."

"There was some hope," she says.

"The doctor wouldn't have taken them. You know how much he hates anyone who isn't black."

"There are many doctors," she insists.

This argument isn't going to work. I try a different angle. "They deserved it too. All their years of cruelty towards their employees and their kids finally caught up with them."

She bites her lip. "I don't want to believe that that's what you actually think," she admits. One look at her face tells me she doesn't believe me. That's not surprising, considering how I don't believe me either. She looks at me. "I have to go. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Bye."

Alone, there's nothing to keep the accusations inside my head away. Guilty. No matter what I tell myself, I know that I'm still guilty.

Clover Forney, 16, District Eleven Female

"Clover Forney," the missus of the children's home calls. "You have a visitor."

I look up from the old, faded textbook. "I do?" Who would visit me, especially at… ten o'clock at night? It dawns on me. "It- It's my dad, isn't it."

She nods solemnly and brushes her dark hair out of her eyes. I silently get up and follow her to the visitation room.

Unlike most kids here in the children's home — a fancy name for the orphanage — I actually have a dad. It might as well be that I don't have one, though. My life might be simpler if he didn't exist.

She opens the door to the room, where my dad sits in a chair on the other side of the old, rotting table. I sit down on the chair on my side. I take a deep breath, and I can smell the constant stench of alcohol that follows him around.

"Dad," I say. In his eyes, I can almost see a glimpse of the man he used to be, the man that sang me to sleep and cared. It is gone in a moment.

"Clover," he says in a half-whisper, "You've grown up again."

"Of course," I say, holding my voice steady. "It's been a year since the last time you visited."

"Yes, yes," he says, his thin voice a shell of what it used to be. Heck, he is only a shadow now. He looks even worse than he did last year. I wonder how many nights he didn't sleep, staying up the whole night drinking.

"Why did you want to see me?" I say, trying to get out of this place. Seeing him brings back memories of when our lives first began to take a nosedive. He had been so happy when my mom and sister were still here. When they left, they took him too.

"I just wanted to see my baby girl," he says, "Is that too much to ask?"

"Yes," I say, my voice audibly quavering though I try to hold it steady. "I'm not your girl anymore. You made that decision when you chose that bottle over me."

"Clover," he says, I almost feel bad for this, but I know this is his fault. I shouldn't feel bad for someone else's mistakes. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm sure that both of happier without each other. I remind you too much of them, and I can't stand staying with an alcoholic that doesn't care about me." I get out of my chair and push it under the table. "Tell me you're sorry when you stop drinking."

I look back at the missus, and she nods, knowing that I'm out. She opens the door for me, and I leave that horrid room.

I start off walking, but I speed up until I've run the whole way to my room. I slam the door behind me and collapse in my chair by the desk. My fingers twitch uncontrollably.

Stop. You've put this in the past. You've moved on.

Instinctively, I reach out for a piece of scrap paper and begin to fold and tear it until it's a perfect square. Fold it in half. Flip it over. Tuck the corner in. I don't even have to think about the motions now.

The past is in the past. Your dad doesn't bother you anymore.

I make another fold in the dirty paper.

Take a deep breath. You're under control.

I open the bottom and set it down on the desk. It's a paper boat, and a nice one at that, if I may say so myself. I grab another bit of paper. Here goes another one. And another. And another.

The door creaks open, and I pause to look up. Briony slowly steps in. She's one of the seven girls I share this rooms with, but it's safe to say that she's the only one I really care about.

"Are you okay?" she says.

"I'm fine," I say. I take a deep breath. "I'm under control now."

She looks at my fleet of paper boats, sitting on the desk. "No, you're not fine."

I sigh. "Bri, you know me too well."

"Want to talk about it?" she attempts. She smiles weakly.

"No," I say. I never do, I silently add. I finish this boat and move the boats to the corner of the desk, clearing enough room to study. It's a whole lot of organic chemistry.

Bri looks over at the textbook. "I'm not even reading the words and I'm confused." She sighs and pulls over a chair. "Clover, please take a break. You'll work yourself to death. You're already in… the most advanced classes?"

"I like it that way," I say softly, "It gives me a chance for the future."

"I know it's deeper than that," she says, "What is it? What do you want from this? Success? Fulfillment?"

"I don't know," I admit, "But please, let me study."

She sighs. "Okay. Imma go prepare for bed." She looks back on her way to the bathroom. "If you need to talk…"

"I know," I say, "Thanks."

I go back to reading on the practical uses of the combustive properties of hemiacetals, and the next time I look up, it's almost eleven, which is when the lights go out. We're lucky to have reliable electricity. I hear it's because we are connected to the same system as Victor's Village, but I wouldn't know anything about this.

Sighing, I get up and go to bed.

I stare at the bottom of the upper bunk above me, where Bri sleeps. Maybe she's right. I'm obviously not only thinking about future success. If I were, I wouldn't be studying this; there are easier ways to be successful. But what am I really looking for?

Questions:

1. There was a lot of "He's not 'black' " when Tyson was revealed on the blog. Does he make a lot more sense now? Is it a reasonable explanation? How do you feel about him?

2. What are your thoughts on Clover? How will she fare under the high-stress conditions of the Games?

3. Was it a bad idea to bring up race? Did I cross a line?

4. Do you have anyone you hope to be the victor? If so, who?

5. New Year coming up soon! Personally, I don't tend to do well with my resolutions I make. Do y'all make resolutions? How well do you do in keeping them?

A/N Expect the District Twelve Non-Reapings to be here soon! Also, from the two reviews on the last chapter, it seems that character recaps would be very helpful, so that will come up after that.

See y'all,

~Joseph