Swather Henrikson, 17: District 9 Male

What's that metronome I hear?

Perhaps the end is drawing near

You never hear the shot that takes you down

July 3, 73ADD: 4 days before Reaping

"Swather." The breathy voice barely resonates through my ears. It must be part of the dream I'm not trying to wake up from, so I ignore it. It's a Tuesday in the middle of summer, which means a long day of work. Now that I only have one year of school left, they're making me work out in the fields a lot more. Dad says it's to get me accustomed to daily life as an adult. To be honest, I want no parts of working out in the fields full time if it means I have to be outside during this crazy heat wave we've got going on right now.

"Swather." The voice is a little louder and I recognize it. Unfortunately, I'm not dreaming. I feel the pillow hit me right on the face. It's a heavy pillow, so it wakes me right up.

"Sorghum, what the fuck?" I sit up and grab the pillow. I whip it back at my brother, hitting him square in the face. He lets out an odd grunt and then chuckles to himself.

"Dad said I had to be up before 8 today," Sorghum says. "And if I have to be up early, so do you."

"Since when do you listen to Dad?" Sorghum has never been one to listen to any type of authority. Hell, he hardly even listens to the peacekeepers here. It's a miracle that he hasn't been shot at yet.

"Whenever I get the chance to inconvenience you," he answers. He cocks his arm back and throws the pillow again, but this time I catch it. I throw it back even harder than the first time, hitting Sorghum in the chest. The force of the throw sends him flying backward. He lands on the floor with a hard thud, disappearing from view behind the side of his bed.

"Son of a bitch," Sorghum groans. "You didn't have to hit me so fucking hard."

"What was that noise?" Bran sounds so groggy it's almost comical. My youngest brother's voice cracks with every word.

"Don't worry about it," I say. I hop up out of bed and walk over to Sorghum's bedside. He's still lying on the floor. I yank him up to his feet. He wobbles a bit, so I hold on to both his shoulders to steady him.

"Stop being dramatic," I tell him. "I didn't even hit you that hard."

I leave our shared room before Sorghum can open his mouth. There's only so much of him I can tolerate this early in the morning. If I let him keep going, who knows what he would've said. At fifteen, Sorghum has a more colorful vocabulary than the most vulgar of adults I've come across. I've tried to tell him to watch his mouth, but he's going to say whatever he wants at the end of the day. I just hope that Bran doesn't start repeating what Sorghum says. It's bad enough that a fifteen-year-old loves to curse up a storm. I can't imagine how Mom and Dad would react if their twelve-year-old son started dropping f-bombs every other sentence.

I walk into our house's small kitchen. Mom and Dad are sitting at the table, enjoying a meager breakfast. Mom sees me walk in and gives me a little wave. Dad, however, doesn't even notice me as his face is buried in today's newspaper.

"Grain Processing Facility 3 is closed for maintenance," he murmurs.

"Welp, guess that means Sector 3 can't work today," I say. Dad huffs, finally acknowledging my presence.

"Too bad it's still the growing season," Dad says. "Besides, I have an errand for you to run."

"A singular errand?"

"Yes, a singular errand," he confirms. "I put in a pesticide order. I need you to go pick it up for me."

"When do you need it?" I ask.

"Yesterday," Dad answers. I can't tell if he was joking or not.

"Go get changed and head into town," Mom says. "We need to kill all those aphids before there's too many of them."

Aphids. They're a common pest in District 9. I remember five years ago when millions of aphids infested the wheat fields. It was so bad that we almost didn't have a harvest. It's almost time for the harvest now. It's only a few weeks away, at the end of July and into August. It's the longest week and a half of work of the year. And it sucks even more since it leads right into the start of the school year. I never really liked school. Not because I find it difficult; it's just so boring. The only thing I like about school is that it's where I get to hang out with my friends the most. I've had so much responsibility at home these past few years that I barely have any time to myself.

I was thrust into a role of responsibility long before I was ready. Acora used to be the one who helped out the most when things got tough. She even took out tesserae for the whole family. That was until four winters ago when a huge snowstorm blasted District 9. Nearly a foot and a half of snow fell in less than a day. Temperatures plunged below zero. Our house, which has no heat, became an ice box. Acora got caught in the storm after staying at school late that day. My sister never made it home.

That was hands down the worst day of my life, but there was no time to properly mourn Acora. If anyone took any time off that year, we all would've died. I had to start taking out tesserae after that year, so now my name is in there way more than I would like it to be. On top of the stress of me having my name in the Reaping bowl twenty-one times, this is the first year that both of my brothers are also eligible. Bran has been scared out of his mind all summer. I've been trying my best to distract him, but with the Reaping only a few days away, it's become nearly impossible.

I go back to my room and get changed into a plain white t-shirt and tan shorts. Before I leave, I notice Bran sitting up in his bed, watching my every move.

"Where are you going?" he asks, sounding much more alert.

"Going into town to pick up some pesticide," I say. "Wanna come with?"

"But it's so far," Bran says. "It's gonna take so long to get there."

"We can go see Cain," I say. The mention of my best friend gets Bran to jump out of bed. He and Cain seem to get along very well even though Cain is my age. I just hope he doesn't start picking up Cain's party-boy mentality. Sorghum's defiance is already enough to deal with. It would be hell trying to wrangle in both of my brothers at the same time.

After Bran changes, he practically drags me out of the room.

"Can I come too?" Sorghum asks. The smirk on his face suggests that he wants to stir up some trouble in town.

"Nah, you're just trying to start some shit," I say.

"I would never!" Sorghum fakes being shocked. He's way too easy to read. The whole reason no one asks him to run errands is because he can't be trusted. He'll always find a way to get into trouble.

"You're not fooling anyone," I say. "Besides, Mom and Dad could use some company while we're gone."

Bran and I leave Sorghum in our room. We both say quick goodbyes to Mom and Dad and then we're out the door. It's already hot and humid outside and the sun has hardly come out. I can tell that it's gonna be another scorcher. This heat wave has been killer.

I just hope it isn't this hot during the harvest.

Cassandra Shibboleth, 12: District 9 Female

We can't lose touch

But we can let go

Blue and white gun

Made from Lego

July 4, 73ADD: 3 days before Reaping

"Cassie, can you come help me please?" Mom's voice bounces off the walls of the house and into my room.

"Coming!" I call back. I put down my book and walk over to my parents' room. I hear Dad's groans of pain as I get closer. He curses a few times as Mom tries to calm him down, but to no avail. I walk into the bedroom and see Dad biting down on a towel. Mom is squeezing on Dad's leg.

"Another bullet?" I ask.

"Yeah," Mom sighs. "Get some alcohol and a rag from the kitchen. We can't let the wound get infected once this thing finally pops out."

I rush into the kitchen and grab the rubbing alcohol from the cabinet. I take a rag that's hanging on the oven door and go back to my parents' room.

"Okay Connor, it's halfway out," Mom says. "You're doing great, hon."

"It doesn't feel great," Dad says, voice muffled by the towel in his mouth. He squeezes his eyes shut as Mom grabs a pair of pliers and clamps them on the exposed end of the bullet.

"I know, I know, " Mom says. "Just bear with me."

Mom starts twisting the bullet in Dad's skin, trying to get it to dislodge. He lets out muffled screams of pain. He tries to grab the pliers, but Mom moves them out of the way.

"Cassie, hold your dad's hand for me," Mom says.

"Alright," I sigh. Last time we took a bullet out of Dad's leg he nearly broke my hand with how hard he was gripping it.

Reluctantly, I grab Dad's hand and he holds on tight. With one hand, Mom begins applying pressure to the area just around Dad's bullet wound. With the other, she uses the pliers to grasp the bullet.

Just like last time, Dad howls in pain and squeezes my hand hard. I wince and try my best to power through the pain, but Dad's a fairly strong guy. His grip only tightens as Mom wiggles and tugs on the bullet halfway inside my father's thigh. While Mom is still fighting with the bullet, Dad takes the towel out of his mouth.

"Maizie please," he says. "Just leave it alone."

"Hold on, I almost got it," Mom says. She ignores Dad's pleading and continues to pull on the bullet until it finally dislodges. "Got it."

Dad's grip on my hand loosens and I wriggle it free, shaking it out a few times to get some feeling back. After regaining enough feeling, I grab the bottle of rubbing alcohol and pour some on the rag I picked up from the kitchen. Before Dad can say anything, I put it on the open wound.

"Shit, Cassie!" Dad yells. "At least warn me first. That burns!"

"Would you rather have it get infected?" I snap back.

"You need to watch your tone," Dad says. "But to answer your question, no. I don't want it to get infected."

"That's what I thought," I mumble.

"What was that?"

"I was just saying that this was a gnarly one," I lie.

"Yes it was. The peacekeepers really got me good," Dad says. "But those fuckers can't take me out."

"This wouldn't have happened if you had just kept your mouth shut about this rebel nonsense," Mom says.

"No, this wouldn't have happened if the Sibboleths weren't a bunch of treacherous snitches," Dad hisses.

"You know they were your family at one point," Mom says.

"Not in my lifetime," Dad says. "Those bootlickers don't have anything in common with us."

"You can't keep this feud going forever," Mom says.

"Y'know, none of this would've happened if you'd just listened to me for once," I interrupt.

"What do you mean by that, Cassie?" Mom asks, giving Dad a confused look. He looks confused as well.

"You know exactly what I mean," I say.

"No, we really don't."

"I told you two weeks before Dad got shot that something very bad was gonna happen," I say. "But you just brushed me off."

"We didn't brush you off," Dad says.

"Yes you did," I argue. "And look where we are now."

Ever since I can remember, I've been very good at predicting things. I've been able to call a coin toss right almost every time. I can predict a dice roll with what has been called "scary" accuracy. Sometimes I get a vague vibe of how certain events will turn out, but what happened six months ago was so much stronger than any vibe I've felt before. I was so certain something bad was about to happen soon, but I couldn't put my finger on what exactly. I tried warning my family, but everyone brushed me off. Dad told me that I can't just get bent out of shape because of a hunch.

Well, that hunch turned out to be right. In January, our house was raided by a brigade of peacekeepers. Dad was shot several times. They took away my two oldest siblings, Cody and Callie. The peacekeepers left as quickly as they came. We rendered first aid to Dad the best we could, and he miraculously survived. There's no way of knowing what happened to Callie and Cody, but I have a feeling that it's not good. At first, I couldn't figure out why they didn't take Cami and me, but as the months passed, it became clear what the plan was.

Cami's fifteen, and I'm twelve. We're the only two Shibboleth kids that are Reaping age. The Capitol has obviously heard of my father's association with the very small rebel group in District 9. They've labeled my family a threat and they're trying to take us all out. They tried to kill Dad, and when they couldn't do that, they took Cody and Callie. They left me and Cami for a reason, and with the Reaping three days away that reason has become glaringly obvious. One of us is getting reaped.

I'm not sure which one of us it'll be, but either way it's not gonna be good for the family. I can already see Dad's reaction when they call that name. It's only going to make him even more rebellious than he already is. He's not going to stop until the Capitol kills him, and that might happen sooner than later.

I have a really bad feeling about the next few weeks.

Uhhh, hi. It's been quite some time, huh? I didn't mean to disappear for over a year but life happens. I never forgot about writing Kismet, but certain external factors got in the way. I still fully intend to continue writing, but it'll be at a slower pace. On the bright side, I think that the quality of my writing will take a leap due to the longer gaps in between chapters.

Huge thanks to TyrantrumofAstora for Swather and to goldie031 for Cassandra!

Swather: Broken Dreams by Shaman's Harvest

Cassandra: Ms by alt-J

I'll see y'all again in District 10!

Until next time,

Ty