Good news, everyone! An original story of mine (though very much Hunger Games-inspired) was recently published in a literary journal in my home state, Massachusetts! I'm absolutely thrilled! You all can read it over at mappingoutasky -dot- blogspot -dot- com / 2013 / 02 / barton-hollow -dot- html, as well as figure out my real name and what I look like...

I'm seriously hoping you all aren't creepy Internet stalkers.

Fun Fact of the Chapter: How the Mentors Won Their Games, Part XI. District Six mentor Anxo won the 180th Games. He had a similar strategy to Foxface's from the 74th: steal from your opponents and try never to be seen or remembered. As a result, Anxo is the victor with the fewest amount of kills, only coming out to defeat his district partner during the last ten minutes of the Games. This was also the year that Cameron's father competed, dying on day three as a casualty of the Careers.

…..

Marius Sheer, District Two

"But the Gamemakers can'thave been talking about District Six. Both from there are dead already. I killed one of them."

Emerald shoots Luka an annoyed look from across the campfire. "You can still talk about people once they're dead, idiot. And there's plenty of reason to talk about Six after their boy's interview."

"Was that the one that the president cut short?" I ask. I can barely remember the night of the interviews. I can barely remember anything during training week anymore. It all seems so insignificant, compared to this.

"Yeah," Gabriel says. "He was saying things about being special and escaping the arena." He thinks for a moment, then adds the word "maybe" before trailing off.

For once, Carreen looks derisively at her district partner. "What? You think there's a way to escape the arena?"

"I don't. He did," the boy replies. "And if President Shadow was concerned enough to cut off his interview, maybe he's not as crazy as we all thought he was. Or, at least, there was something else the words he said could mean."

There is a pause.

"What about days in the Games?" Emerald asks. She seems to be fairly smart under the surface, given the ideas she's brought to this conversation. Not that I'm surprised. "This is night five. Tomorrow is day six. What they said was 'first six, then four more'. They could be adding days onto the Games."

"But they can't control how many days the Games last for," I say.

"They think they can," Emerald shoots back. "That's what matters."

"Maybe they were planning some big event to happen tomorrow," Gabriel says, "and then something happened so they have to push it back four days."

Luka grumbles a bit from his corner of the camp. "Conspiracy theorists. You all are missing the point. They were probably just talking about making more mutts or getting more cups of coffee or something. Unimportant things. The Head just didn't want us to hear their squabbling."

Another pause comes before the boy from Four speaks. "What is the point, then?" he says. "What are we all missing?"

Luka leans forward. " 'All those engineered deaths.' They're taking kills away from us."

Emerald rolls her eyes and calls him an idiot again. Carreen and Gabriel glance at each other, looking worried or something. I look between them all and can't help but get the feeling that I'm missing something, something big between the four of them. Something they're not telling me.

Maybe we planned that something during training and I just forgot.

…...

Veras Valdez, District Five

I have a plan. At least, I think I have a plan.

No. I know I have a plan, and this plan is the last chance I have. I might as well place all of the little confidence I have left in it.

The wolf mutt's been following me, tracing my scent as I jumped from tree to tree. I was stupid to believe that it would just leave as soon as it realized I was gone. And what's worse, the thing has run me to the edge of the arena. No more jumping trees. The nearest one is bare, limp, and just out of reach. The Gamemakers must be proud of that masterpiece of arena design.

But the Gamemakers were arguing. That means they're vulnerable and more likely to make mistakes. If you can get them to forget about you for a day, that's one more day that you've survived—

One matter at a time, I tell myself. You don't have the time to lose. You have to get rid of the wolf now. And make sure it's for good this time.

I let out a small exhale and shift my foot ever-so-slightly, further down the branch. There is a chance the creature could be tricked by that alone, but I'm not going to take that chance. Instead, I grab a handful of snow that had collected on the branch, bending down as I do so.

The wolf sees me. I am certain of that.

I eye the tree calculatingly. I can't monitor its reaction by its face, but I can hear a paw placed forward in the snow. One way the winter weather has come to my aid rather than my detriment.

After the disaster that was the 183rd Games, the Gamemakers are careful to keep the mutts smart, able to anticipate the tributes' movements, or at least their probable movements. And right now, I need this wolf to be thinking I'm about to jump, either to the tree, to my death, or both.

It takes another step forward.

Its eyes flicker from me to the spot it expects I'll land.

I spring—not into the tree or the snow, but onto the wolf itself. My knife is already in my hand and stabbing down into the back of the mutt's neck just as my body collides with its. I jab at the eye sockets first, then the pressure points, arteries, joints—all quick and clean incisions, almost like a deadly surgery, all while the thing snarls in indignation. It cannot see me. It cannot even turn around before the life force in it collapses completely.

I feel nothing. I can handle anything.

…...

Caprice Alexander, District Eleven

"Caprice! CAPRICE!"

I wake to the sound of screaming and snarls. Instinctively, my arm moves to throw my knife in the direction of the attackers before I even realize what they are. More mutts. Damn. Jace has started scaling a tree to escape, but the branches of the closest one aren't high enough for complete safety. I follow her anyway, slashing at the glimpses of fur I allow myself to get before forcing myself to move and all vision blurs.

I don't know how many there are. I don't know how fast they are, or how strong, or even if they are really wolf mutts at all and not something else entirely—all I know is that I am not going to die tonight—

I climb higher and higher. I'm good at climbing, and soon I'm higher than Jace, almost at the highest climbable branch. Something starts shaking the base of the tree. Jace loses her balance a little. I catch her and pull her up. I glance down. The mutts are up on their hind legs, using the tree to steady themselves. One of them—its jaws are about a foot away from my face.

My grip on the one knife I have tightens. I lost the other one flinging it at the mutts. I can't lose this one.

Quickly, I duck down and make a stabbing motion into—into nothing. Into air. It's out of reach. The damn thing's out of reach. And reflexively, my grip's loosened. I watch the moonlit surface of the blade fall and hyperventilate as I realize I've lost my last chance.

No.

I'm not going to die.

Not tonight.

Jace still has a knife. Maybe two. She can...

"JACE!" I scream. But she doesn't turn or respond. She just stays there, scarily still.

She can...

I stop breathing as the mutt launches itself into the air and snarls victoriously. I can feel its breath—

—I AM NOT GOING TO DIE TONIGHT—

And then I can't.

—NO—

I open the eyes I didn't realize I was closing as I realize my neck is feeling cold air, not warm. The mutt... isn't going to eat me anymore. Because there's a sound... the sound of arrows hitting flesh...

I stare into the dark and watch as each mutt slides down the tree and turns, growling instead of snarling this time. They all turn in the same direction.

It takes me a moment to make out the figure of a person standing in front of the wolves. It's Bri. She's shooting at the wolves. But why aren't they dead?

Before I get the answer to my question, Bri turns and runs, the whole pack chasing her.

…..

Bri Geers, District Seven

These arrows aren't working. For whatever reason, they aren't sharp enough to pierce the hides of the wolves. Believe, me I've been trying, and it's cost me arrows. I would be aiming for the eyes, but Ican't possibly expect to be that dead a shot while running from two of these mutts, never mind five or six or however many are on my tail now. I'm lucky if I live to see the sun rise in two hours. I'm lucky if I live to even cross paths with Emily Raine before I die, never mind kill her and avenge my father.

But the thought keeps coming back to me, again and again: if I kill her, if I can give the Capitol some entertainment, a dramatic confrontation for the ages, maybe they'll keep me alive. I can promise them action. I got the highest score in training out of anybody. I got an eleven, for crying out loud! And I'm only twelve years old! I could be so—much—more—

They don't think about that. They can't be thinking about that. The Gamemakers are nothing if not preoccupied, if that accidental announcement is anything to be trusted. Strange, I've had barely any time to think about that. I can't even remember what they were saying, not really. There were... just a bunch of numbers... and a list...

"All those engineered deaths."

I glance back at the mutts behind me. Could this have been what they were talking about? Engineering my death—by this wolf pack? Maybe the Five girl's, too...

But why? Why would they want—need—to do that? Why ever?

It's the Hunger Games, idiot. But, see, it's not, not really. The Gamemakers were talking about something unusual, something secret, something I could focus on if these goddamn muttations weren't running me into the ground—

I have to think of something. I have to do something—something extraordinary—to make the Gamemakers spare me another day. They're the ones who own this freaking place. They control everything that happen in here, whether they're arguing about it or not.

But what am I supposed to do if I'm alone?

You're alone, abandoned, everyone's betrayed you and left you to die... your father tried to take care of you, he died. Panem tried to take care of you, they sent you into this arena to die. Your mentor never gave any advice, your sponsors never gave you any help, your allies watched you save them and did nothing in return...

I fall without realizing, sink to my knees without feeling, spread my arms out wide without thinking. Then I see my prey, and all fear leaves my newly-energized body, because this is all I have left.

Best make it a good one.

…..

Emily Raine, District One

The first thing I hear is the sound of the wolves, suddenly stopping and howling for no reason.

Next, I hear the responses, another pack of mutts howling back. More. I close my eyes. I don't think I can handle any more.

Closing my eyes is a mistake. When I do, I can't see them—her—coming. And I need to see.

Then comes the growl. I open an eye to see how many of them there are, because it sounds like thousands. It isn't. It's twelve. But in a way, that's worse.

Twelve. Twelve wolves and another captive of theirs, a twelve-year-old girl. But she is far from prey and far from a friend.

She has a bow, she has an arrow. The arrow is pointed at me. If the wolves don't kill me, she will.

The wolves move first.

We run. And run. And run. We run until the breath is pushed out of our lungs, so forcefully it hurts to speak. But I do anyway. A scream, a cry for help. "UNCLE SPARK—UNCLE SPARK, PLEASE—"

"Your uncle won't send you anything," the girl from Seven hisses. "All he does is kill."

This breaks me. But not like crying or stopping or accepting death or anything. No. It makes me faster. It sets me free. Your uncle won't send you anything. I am the only one who decides—or cares—whether I live or die.

So, when I see the sun rise, I don't even register it in my mind. I only think of my own survival as I run, and it's almost like I'm half-dead already.

I think I can even hear a cannon.