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Many years ago, before the second floods and the heat and the cold, we lived in reservations. There, we still had little to eat, and many problems,” my grandfather starts the story to the smaller ones. They focus intently. Storytelling is holy to us.
I can tell the story by heart, as with all other stories: the napikwan, the white man, came to shore one day, crossed Panem, and arrived in our land. They tried to kill us, we tried to kill them, until finally we were herded onto lands and left alone, poor and dependent on their government. As we were left there, the world changed; the world grew hotter, the water rose, until floods came crashing through Panem and the land changed.
We watched from a distance as the people fought with each other for resources. We watched as they released deadly weapons. We then watched as the Capitol formed and peace ruled again. The Capitol told us that we now lived in the 7th District. We used to live in a land called Montana, but that name was supposed to be no more, as were our languages.
Well, we never listened to the napikwan the first time, and so we kept our languages and our culture, and our stories. We work in lumber, as everyone else, but Grandpa reminds us of the foolishness of having “all of ones’ eggs in one handbasket.” It means that we are entirely dependent upon other districts for what we need, and the Capitol to provide us it. Once again, we are on the reservation.
Except this time, everyone else is with us.
—
The Peacekeepers stare at me as I sit on the train with my District 7 partner, a white boy who is crying. One Peacekeeper stares at me in hostility, one in fascination. We have always worn our traditional dress to the Reaping. The tradition was to wear the finest clothing, so why not?
Once, someone was offended. “Keep those savage clothes at home,” he hissed to an elder. The elder turned and smiled at the man.
“Savage clothing for a savage occasion, I suppose,” the elder replied. It had been the first time I had heard the word savage used against us as a group. It’s not true, of course. We are not feral animals. Perhaps we should be.
—
“Jane, huh?” my mentor comes into my boxcar. He is named Larix, a man in his 40s, one of the first batch of Hunger Games winners.
I nod.
“You don’t look like a Jane. What are you, Spokane?” He is naming a tribe to the west of us.
“Blackfoot.”
“A squaw?” I wince at the offensive term—somehow, it has lingered in the Panem vocabulary.
“No,” I reply seriously.
Larix looks sheepish. “I’m sorry. I’ve only known your people from a distance. So, what can you do?”
“I can win,” I tell him. “I live in the woods. I have done much on my own.” I subconsciously finger the bear claw on a string around my neck.
“Did you kill that animal around your neck?” Larix asks seriously. I nod.
“What is it like, though, when one wins?” I ask Larix. He sighs.
—
When the Games begin, when the cannon announces the beginning, I run to the woods and wait. I do not bother with that silly Cornucopia. Instead I kill a few rabbits with large rocks, cook one, then turn the others into moccasins, using the brain tanning method taught to me by my aunt, and some sinew. I can practically hear the commentary. “What on earth is she doing?” the commentators must ask each other. “Why would she get rid of those nice boots?” Because I can’t feel anything through my boots, that’s why. When I am done with the moccasins, I hold them up for everyone to see on TV. “Are they not beautiful?” I ask. “Fur lined. If I planned on being here longer, I would make an outfit of a deer, but I don’t know if they’re here.”
It makes me sound crazy, but I can nearly feel my grandfather laughing, which makes me feel better. I escape up into the trees for the night, watching the stars. They are interrupted by a display of who has died tonight. That is when I realize that these stars may not be real at all. I sigh and fall asleep.
—
I will spare you the details of how I moved about, avoiding people, avoiding those devilish Gamemakers. This was until I saw the boy from my district, wobbling forth. I leap down from the tree I was in and run to him. He is bleeding profusely.
“Cerris!” I cry as I run to him.
“Oh, Jane,” Cerris sits down. “I feel I am dying.”
I sit with him as he lies down, his breathing shallow.
“Jane, I remember in the interviews, they asked about if you’re afraid, and you talked about this place you believe you will go to if you die,” Cerris tells me.
“They used to call it Heaven,” I tell Cerris. “Where I am from, we call it the Sand Hills.”
“Tell me about it,” Cerris asks.
“There, you are happy and peaceful. You are with your family that has already passed on—”
“My mother!” Cerris cries. I smile. “What else?” Cerris asks.
“You live in a house of your choosing, one that does not leak, in a land with beautiful trees and food, and animals.”
“Yes,” Cerris is growing paler with loss of blood. “I see it.”
“Here you are content forever.”
Cerris smiles and closes his eyes. The cannon rings and I know he has slipped to the Sand Hills. I sit there for a moment until a silver parachute drops next to us. I open it, where there is only a note.
WINNING IS NOT WORTH IT.
I leave the note, the parachute, Cerris. I walk away from him while singing in Blackfoot. There are only a few of us who can speak it anymore. “Leave family, leave,” I sing loudly. “Leave into the woods, and I will come for you.”
Cerris’ body is picked up, and I move to another location of the Arena. There are only three of us left. Soon there will be two.
I hear a cannon a few hours later and come down from my tree. I run quickly through the forest with my knife I had found and get near the Cornucopia. I see the young woman from District 1 near the Cornucopia.
“Come out, Tree Girl!” she yells.
“Leave family leave!” I reply in Blackfoot. I hope my family hears the message through the screen. “Run to the forests!”
“Stop speaking that weird language!” she screams. I could throw the knife now, I realize, and leave. It would be over. She has a family, doesn’t she, though?
“How many people have you killed?” I ask her. She laughs.
“Five,” she tells me.
“I have killed none,” I reply, mostly to myself. I want to go home. I aim my knife and throw it.
—
I am fêted, I am dressed in fine clothing, I am fed. The interviewers marvel at my techniques, how I moved quickly, how I revolutionized the game. I am the 35th winner of the Hunger Games, and the new President, President Snow, congratulates me. He is young, but already looks worn.
—
Larix and I ride home in silence, until the last few minutes.
“What you told Cerris to comfort him, that was beautiful,” Larix said. “Just know that what you did will be analyzed for years, including those things you shouted in Blackfoot.”
“They won’t have time for that,” I tell Larix quietly. He looks at me, puzzled. “It was nice to know you Larix. Thank you for your advice.”
We shake hands and bid farewell as I walk into my town. I walk through my streets as people greet me. I walk to my neighborhood, that ramshackle place. I walk to my house.
It is empty. I smile. They understood. They ran into the forest as I told them. I look to the forest and begin walking.
—
It is not easy to live like we do, with no one else. However, our ancestors, all ancestors of humans, have lived like this at some point. My tribe has adapted, and we have grown in the forest, away from the eyes of the Capitol.
At first, they tried to find us, but as they looked, we moved further into the woods. Eventually, no more planes flew overhead. Eventually, we were free
Submitted by abikleinsmith
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There is a part of District Eleven where all they grow is flowers. Acres of them, blooms of every color as far as the eye can see.
That was where he worked, the boy. That was where he worked and where he watched her, and where, under the light of a half moon, he first kissed her. That night she had come to him smelling of earth and honey and there were yellow flowers in her hair, and he had loved her.
On the day she was reaped, he watched as she walked up onto the stage, head held high and unsmiling. She wore a green dress and there were pink flowers in her hair, and he loved her.
The night of the Tribute parade he held her mother’s hand as they watched her chariot’s processional through the Capitol. She wore a dress made up of a thousand twisting silver garlands and there were golden flowers in her hair, and he loved her.
The day she died he watched as the girl from seven plunged her axe deep into her skull. She fell backwards into the stream and blood bloomed like a red flower in her hair, and he loved her.
He waited at the train yard for her to return to him until, finally, the tiny pine box was unloaded alongside the barrels of grain and crates of salted beef. She wore the clothes she died in but he placed white flowers in her hair, and he loved her.
Fifty years later, he watched the girl from eleven die bloody and broken in the arms of the girl from twelve. She had a spear through her belly, but there were flowers in her hair.
On the day the Victory Tour came, he thought of her as he licked his lips and whistled. He wore a faded red shirt under his overalls as the bullet entered his skull, and he loved her.
Submitted by jedishywalker
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The 60th Annual Hunger Games
District eight’s designer hated the Hunger Games. She would always get attached to her tributes only to see them die. So on the year of the 60th Annual Hunger Games she decided to show the Capitol what the games were really about… When District eight rolled out onto their chariot the people of Panem gasped in shock. The tributes were dressed in tattered, bloody clothes with makeup arranged on their bodies to resemble deep gashes and cuts. The male tribute’s head piece was a fake knife that was embedded in his head, while the young female tribute’s head appeared to have been half chopped off with the way she held it. They truly were what the games were about, horrible, bloody and disgusting. District Eight’s designer knew she had set herself a death sentence, but the people of The Capitol couldn’t undo what they had seen. So when Tigris was called to see President Snow, she simply smiled.
Submitted by gossipchicken
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cats are little narcissists because they will see you upset or troubled and they’ll think “you know what would help? a healthy dosage of ME” and they’ll headbutt you and snuggle you.
anyway it DOES work so I can’t fault them
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OH MY FUCK GOD SHIT GREATEST MOMENT OF MY SHORT LIFE
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Kim Han seul - https://hanseul-kim.deviantart.com - https://twitter.com/edcroo111 - https://www.patreon.com/haren1125 - https://www.facebook.com/Haren1125
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kim taehyung in red for gucci © ICEDVANILLATTAE
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omg everybody do this it's really fun
validate me
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this is a callout post for myself
why r u awake
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