Harold Wilde, 18

District 4 Male

The wind lessened as we got closer to shore. I could see the sandy coastline in the distance, which hauled a tangled net of emotions into my chest. I was excited to see Helen, but I always felt unsteady on land. On the boat, I knew my crew and I knew I was safe. Being among the people of District 4 was another story.

Dory called out from the main cabin that we were approaching the docks and the crew jumped into action, pulling up nets and untying ropes. I joined in, but my mind was elsewhere. We'd come to shore because tomorrow was Reaping Day, and every District 4 citizen was required to attend. But the crew didn't know I was of reaping age.

The scars on my back tingled as I reflected on how I came to be on the fishing boat. My father was a cruel man who beat me mercilessly. He blamed me for everything and told me I was worthless. For years, I believed him. And then Helen convinced me otherwise.

She offered to let me live with her, but I knew my father would find me. So I got a job on a fishing trawler. The catch was that I was only 14, and in District 4 you had to be at least 16 to work on a boat that spent most of her time out at sea. I was certain some of my crewmates knew about my lie, but they never said anything. And I wasn't about to reveal my secret.

The boat gently floated up alongside the dock and we jumped to secure it. And finally, we were on land. Dory, our captain, turned to all of us and I suppressed a groan. Dory was notorious for her lengthy stories and speeches and we all knew when one was coming.

"This was another excellent trip," she began. "We exceeded our quotas and stayed bonded as a crew. I am proud to be your captain, and I hope to continue to be a captain you can be proud of. As a wise sailor once said…"

At that point, I tuned her out. I was nervously scanning the area for my father. He likely knew where I was and I wasn't afraid to admit that I was terrified to see him again. He hurt me for years and though I was healing, I would never completely be free of that trauma.

But instead of my father, I saw Helen. She was scanning the docks, presumably looking for me. Out of loyalty, I waited until Dory finished her speech. But the second she finished I took off, sprinting up the rickety wooden stairs.

"Helen!" I shouted. She turned to me and her face lit up.

"Harold!" she cried. She ran to meet me and I enveloped her in a tight embrace. She sniffled a little as she squeezed me tightly.

"I missed you so much," she whispered.

"I missed you too," I told her, stroking her thick black hair.

"I know you can't stay for long, but I wish you could."

"Someday I'll stay forever," I told her. "Right now, I just… can't."

"I understand," Helen said, pulling back and cupping my face in her hands. "And I will love you for as long as it takes, and even after that."

I grinned and pulled her to me again, kissing her gently. She returned it eagerly, threading her fingers through my curly hair. When we pulled apart, her dark eyes were sparkling.

"Mom has been cooking all morning," she said. "And I'm sure you miss home-cooked meals. So, let's get going!" She laced her fingers through mine and tugged me gently. I scanned the docks one more time before squeezing her hand and letting her lead me away.

Mississippi "Missy" Daniels, 18

District 4 Female

I slashed my knife across the chest of a dummy, ignoring the sweat dripping down my face. Fighting with a knife required speed and accuracy as well as strength, and I possessed all three. I was about to deal the killing blow when I heard a burst of laughter from behind me.

Gritting my teeth, I turned around to see three younger trainees watching me. When I made eye contact with one of them, she turned to whisper to her friend.

"I didn't realize that cows could be tributes," she said, her voice loud enough for me to overhear.

"Maybe they're trying to be more inclusive," her friend faux-whispered back. Then all three girls laughed.

I tightened my grip on the knife, briefly debating throwing it their way, just to scare them a little. But I refrained. I didn't actually want to hurt them and I definitely didn't want to risk my position as this year's volunteer.

"You know how ridiculous you sound, right?" I asked instead. I examined my blade casually, feigning indifference. "Those are some of the weakest insults I've ever heard, and I've heard plenty. I think you'd be better off spending your time in the gym. If anyone here looks like a cow, it's you." I pointed the blade at the instigation girl's stomach. "You're looking a little pudgy, love."

Her cheeks flamed red and she stuttered an unintelligible response. Her friend grabbed her arm to drag her away, but turned to me as they reached the door.

"You're going to be slaughtered in the arena, and I'll laugh," she spat. Then she and her friends disappeared through the doorway.

I sighed and placed my knife back on the rack. As I did, I examined my spotted hands. I was born with vitiligo, horrifying my parents and estranging me from the rest of the district. My mother didn't let me go out in public or play with other kids for the first six years of my life. It was my nanny who convinced her I should experience life like a normal kid. But I was never a normal kid.

I endured taunts whenever I left the house. My peers constantly mocked me and adults would just look at me in confusion and disappointment. My own parents avoided me when they could. Adeline, my nanny, was all I had.

I gathered my things from my locker, ready to go home. I paused once in the entryway to look back into the Academy building. This was where I excelled; where I proved I was strong. I was going to volunteer tomorrow and show everyone that I was more than my skin.

As I headed home, I wondered who my district partner would be. Cerulean Murray, who was supposed to volunteer, broke his arm yesterday evening. The Academy hadn't announced a new male volunteer yet. There was a chance I was going into the arena without a fellow volunteer. I didn't mind though. Cerulean was a bully and I didn't need to rely on anyone to win the Hunger Games.

The smell of clam chowder greeted me when I opened the front door to the house. I could hear Adeline and my brother Fisher in the kitchen, but my dad's voice was absent. He was probably upstairs in his office, which was a relief. I didn't want to see him and I doubted he wanted to see me.

"Hi Missy!" Fisher said when I came into the kitchen. "We're making soup."

"I can tell," I said. "I need to shower, but you'd better save me some!"

"Don't worry, I won't let him eat it all," Adeline said. Fisher laughed and patted his belly.

"Yummy yummy, in my tummy," he giggled. Adeline laughed and I couldn't help but crack a smile.

Fisher and I weren't very close, since he was only six years old. My mom died in childbirth when I was twelve, but Fisher survived. Adeline was his mother figure, and in a way, she was mine too. Or at least I wished she'd been my mother.

In the bathroom, I examined myself in the mirror. About a year ago I'd dyed half of my hair platinum blonde, giving myself a more striking appearance. I'd also taken to wearing bold red lipstick and heavy eye makeup. If people were going to stare, I might as well give them something good to look at.

I stepped into the shower and let the hot water relax my muscles. Tomorrow I would be a tribute. I knew there would be a long road to victory, but I would do whatever it took to prove my worth. District 4 would scream my name when I returned victorious.

Annoa Cornflower, 17

District 9 Female

Butch let out a fierce yell as he shoved the smaller boy up against the side of a building.

"Hand it over!" he spat, shaking the kid a little. The boy gasped in fear and pain, futilely trying to push Butch away.

"I don't have any money," he sobbed. Butch punched him in the jaw, hard.

"I know you're lying," he said. He kneed the boy in the gut and dropped him on the ground. "Pay up."

The little boy whimpered as he scrambled to his knees and felt his pockets. He pulled out several bills and held them out with shaking hands. Butch snatched them up and shoved them in his own pocket.

"Now, scram!" he yelled. The kid jumped up and scurried off. I watched it all coolly.

"He needed that money," I told Butch.

"I need money too," Butch said, turning to glare at me. Anyone else would have cowered under his gaze, but I didn't flinch. Butch didn't scare me. Nothing did.

I didn't respond to his statement. Most people in District 9 needed money. I was one of the few who didn't. My father owned three of the largest grain mills in the district so we never struggled to live. In fact, I experienced higher living. I was trained in martial arts, piano, violin, and several classic painting techniques. I could use a katana and a bow, and I was learning to throw knives. None of it mattered though. The skills, the money; none of it. It all felt the same.

"I'm hungry," Butch said, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. "Want to get something to eat?"

"My father made enough lasagna for you," I told him. Butch almost always ate at our house. He had six siblings and they never had enough food to go around, so he found other ways to eat. Mainly by following me home.

"Your knuckles are bleeding," I pointed out as we walked towards my house. Butch cursed and used the edge of his dirty t-shirt to dab at the blood. I sighed.

"I'll sanitize and bandage your fingers when we get home," I told him.

When we reached my house, I led Butch into the bathroom and opened the first aid kit we kept in a cabinet. I spread disinfecting cream on his hands and then bandaged the bigger cuts.

"There," I said when I was done.

"Clinical and efficient, as always," Butch said with a laugh. I didn't join in.

I was five years old when I realized how different I was from everyone else. My mother was crying, asking the doctor why I didn't scream when I was angry or smile when I was happy. He said it was because I wasn't angry or happy. I didn't feel those things. I didn't feel anything.

My mother sobbed as she said that I was broken; that I wasn't human. I looked at my hands. I was just as human as she was. I had skin and bones and blood and a heart and a wiggly tooth that would fall out soon. She had nothing to worry about.

My parents were curious to see if I developed emotional depth as I got older. I didn't. It bothered my mother, but I didn't see why. I went to school and got good grades, and I had hobbies, and I had friends, like Butch. I wasn't a monster.

Robin Violet Clade, 17

District 12 Female

I examined myself in a slightly cracked mirror, taking a few moments to brush back my hair and adjust my earrings. I was quite proud of them - I polished the stone and drilled the holes and bent the wire myself. They were my favorite pair and I usually got lots of compliments.

But today wasn't about me. It was about Rosemary and Micah. The couple said their wedding vows less than thirty minutes ago and now they wanted to share their first dance to my music.

With a final ruffle of my cinnamon-colored curls, I stepped out of the bathroom and went into the yard. Rosemary was wearing a pretty green dress and had a bouquet of daisies, and Micah was clean-shaven and had dress shoes on. The other guests - mostly family - were also dressed nicely. There was a cake and several other dishes, brought by the guests. It wasn't an extravagant wedding, but for District 12, it was lovely.

Everyone looked at me as I stepped outside. I waved at the couple and Rosemary waved back. She was a year above me in school, so we weren't close, but she was always friendly. She and Micah wanted to be officially married before they faced their last Reaping.

I never felt as happy as I did when I sang, and today was no different. I liked to believe my joy was tangible in my music, and that everyone could feel it. It certainly felt like it as Rosemary and Micah swayed to my song. It was about oceans and mountains and how hard one would fight to return to who they loved.

The music made me a little bit sad too. My dad taught me my music, and my culture. As far as we knew, he and I were the last living members of the Covey. And then he died, and it was just me.

My dad loved the Covey and he wanted to make sure our way of life was preserved. When he was killed, I knew it was an attempt to silence him. But I wouldn't go down. I sang songs and told stories and did everything I could to keep the Covey alive. If I didn't do it, there would be no one left.

When the wedding was over, I was thanked warmly and sent home with a piece of cake. I tucked a cloth over it, deciding I would give it to Auntie Em. She would be out late at the Hob, finishing the business I usually did.

I was six when my dad was killed and Auntie Em, my mom's sister, became my caregiver. She was the strongest woman I knew and she shaped me into a strong woman as well. Between selling moonshine and the vegetables she grew in her garden, she was able to avoid the mines. And when I was old enough I canned vegetables and made moonshine too. And I performed.

But District 12 was too small a stage. I needed the world to see me. So, next year, I was going to volunteer for the Hunger Games. Auntie Em didn't like the idea, but she knew it was my chance to be heard. I trained as much as I could and I firmly believed I stood a chance. And even if I did die, I'd have said my piece. I would have kept the memory of the Covey alive.

Hi everybody! I'm back with the next set of tribute intros. A big thanks to Sparky She-Demon for Harold, Gomex for Missy, Carlpopa707 for Annoa, and AstralKnight98 for Robin Violet. I hope I wrote them well! In all honesty, I'm not completely happy with this chapter. It's very tell-y versus show-y. I struggle with the "show, not tell" aspect of writing, so my apologies for that. I'm trying to improve.

I'd also love your opinion on a formatting decision. After the intros I'm going to write the Reapings, which will also be from the point of the view of the tributes. Should I write four Reaping chapters with four POVs each, or eight Reaping chapters with two POVs each? Please let me know which one you'd prefer because I'm stuck.

I also wanted to say that I do take reviews/reader activity into account when deciding placements. You do NOT need to review every chapter (though I would appreciate it). Even every fourth chapter is fine. You can even just PM me and say that you're enjoying the story, or you want to see something change. I just really want to know that people are reading. I don't want to give a victor or a high placement to someone who submitted and bailed (not that I think any of you would do that - I just thought this was worth saying).

QUESTIONS

1) Which tribute was your favorite? Why?

2) Which of these tributes would you most want to be friends with? Why?

3) Is there anything you'd like me to include more of in my writing? Less of?

Have a nice day, be kind to each other, and never stop reading!

- Fiona