65th Reaping [D11]

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Lulu
Retired Staff

[M:2982250]

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last seen Nov 24, 2023 13:45:22 GMT -5

65th Reaping [D11] Oct 12, 2013 0:25:10 GMT -5

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Post by Lulu on Oct 12, 2013 0:25:10 GMT -5

The escort of the district stepped out onto the stage, a smile plastered across his face as he stared into the cameras that surrounded it. It was time once again to choose two children to compete in the Hunger Games, and it was his job to do so.

"It is time," he said as he stood over the impatient people of the district, "To once again send two of our own children to the Capitol to compete in the Hunger Games. Let us begin the Reaping!"

He did not look to see the reaction of his district before reaching into the glass ball that held the names of the female children. "Ladies first," he announced, pulling out a slip of paper. He unfolded it and read out to the crowd, "Matilde Watson!"

[/color] He then reached into the other ball. "Sampson Izar!"

OOC- RPing is allowed. If you wish to volunteer, let the tribute post first either accepting or stepping down from their place for volunteers, and then post. If the tribute doesn't reply by Tuesday, October 15th, a staff member will post saying that volunteering is open. Please do not post until you see this staff message. FIRST COME, FIRST SERVE.

Tributes, please do not make your acceptance or denial of your spot in character; instead, please leave an ooc note at the end of your post stating whether they accept or are stepping down for volunteers.

Also, and this is really important: If you have been selected as a tribute and plan on going into the arena, we HIGHLY SUGGEST you take some RP Tutoring lessons ASAP. It doesn't matter what level RPer you are; everyone can use a little help. RPing a tribute is a privilege; if you're not going to put the time and effort into making your posts the best they can be then you can count yourself among the dead.. It's not a requirement, but please please please just consider the lessons. They'll help even the most advanced RPer. [/blockquote][/size][/justify]

{lulu's cast}

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last seen Apr 19, 2024 17:00:00 GMT -5

65th Reaping [D11] Oct 12, 2013 12:28:46 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Deleted on Oct 12, 2013 12:28:46 GMT -5

Sampson Izar

[/color]

•••

{Don’t put your faith in my heart}
{I will only let you down}
{Don’t let your love grow too deep}
{I don’t think I’ll be around}
{There is a curse in my bones}
{That’ll breathe and fly again}
{Until when we both are ghosts}
{I will miss you like a friend}

•••

“When I grow up, you and poppa ain’t ever going to have to go to the fields again,” I say with oatmeal dripping out my mouth. Momma doesn’t look up from her spot at the table. She’s busy knitting a sock for Deval now that the cold has come. Their silverware scrapes across the plates and sends a shiver up my spine. “On account of how I’m going to make sure you don’t have to.” They deserve better than what we got. I mean, it ain’t so bad. We got a nice little house, with a room for me and Deval and one for them. A big bed to sleep in, too. Momma never lets us go hungry, even when she has to put flour in the stew and always cuts less for herself when we got meat. And I got lots of cousins to watch over me when Deval ain’t around. We got a dream for district eleven, and I’m always sleeping.[/color]

“And my corn’s gonna be the best in the whole district, better’n yours Deval.” I grin as I shove a glob of hotcake into my gullet. There’s platters on the hard oak that we never see during the year: griddle cooked bacon, scrapple (my favorite: ground up pig patties[/color]), fluffy hotcakes, butter, and even a bowl of cashews. Momma used to call it her blessing, since she cooked it in tradition to keep our names safe in the reaping bowl. Make yourself sticky[/color] She used to say, So your name stays in that bowl.[/color] She didn’t do it last year, but I don’t blame her none. We all got covered in black—it clung to our backs and weighed us down so much that she couldn’t even get out of bed. And sometimes, when it’s late at night I could—can[/color]—hear her whispering. ‘Cause that black, even after it’s been hit with light and scrubbed clean, ain’t something that ever goes away. We just cover it up with smiles and memories, piled up like a wall. That way we ain’t got to see the other side.

It has been two full years since Benat was taken from us.

I have grown four heads and gained almost a stone-and-a-half. My voice cracks when I shout at Deval for being a noodlehead[/color], and my face flushes when the boys in the fields look at me. Sweaty backs and all, something stirs in me that I can’t explain—not even to my brother. I get to work the fields right next to him now, though most of the time they have me running back and forth fetching water for the men and women doing work. Up until a week ago, I was running around with my shoes off, dirtying up my toes and coming home with smudges of dirt on my face. In the school house we talk about how lucky we are to be alive in the 65th year of the Capitol—though I still get a lump in my throat when I think about how lucky my brother was. It’s a hole deep inside that ain’t ever going to be filled, no matter all the crying I do.

I still pray to the stars. At night, I crawl over to the window and stare up at the sky. They do their dance, lining up and scattering out like someone spilled shiny marbles across the blue. I pray for momma to have a light heart. She got a touch after Benat passed and sometimes gets short of breath. I pray for poppa to know what’s good for us. I think of Rum Tum—he’s an Izar as much as me, even if poppa didn’t give him his last name. I pray for Deval to be loved. Sometimes he gets down on himself in a bad way. I just want there to be a way to show him how wonderful he really is, ‘cause he don’t seem to know. And I finish my prayers wishing that we all grow old together. ‘Cause I want to be sitting on the porch with Deval one day, rocking in my chair and sucking at my pipe. We don’t have to say nothing at all, just watch the sunset and wait for Benat’s star to come onto the horizon. Ain’t nothing more beautiful to me than all us just being together.[/color]

Momma clears the plates and points to the hall. Wash up Samp,[/color] she says in that tone she gets when I ain’t got a choice in the matter. I dunk myself in the waiting tin tub and hurry to put on the shirt that momma’s starched. I halt at the mirror. Still skinny[/color], with small arms and hands too big for the rest of my body. I look like a doodle drawn on crinkled paper. A lot of rough edges and no straight lines. I want to get down about it, but I close my eyes and think. If you don’t think you’re handsome, then you ought to get a better mirror.[/color] Benat’s voice is clear as day. Used to say that when I’d stand here looking. ’Cause all us Izars are handsome. Why do you think there are so many?[/color] For a second I imagine his hands running through my hair, but on turning I realize there’s no one standing over me at all.

On the walk to the square, I putter behind Deval. My chest feels ready to twist into knots. I want to hold his hand the whole march there, but I know I’m two years too old for that. You’ve got to be brave.[/color] We reach the waiting lines of boys and girls, and already I start to shiver. Deval don’t got to stand in the lines this year, and I get shuffled off to the rest of the thirteen year olds. The long rows that usually dot the square have shrunk to just a handful of faces. I stare at the bunch of us. We’ve held jacks, not knives. We got a one room schoolhouse, not gyms. And we sing with soul about shucking corn, not slitting throats. I close my eyes and try not to shake at the sound of the man from the capitol taking the stage.

“Ladies first.” I think about how little tess I’ve taken this year. I think about how they wouldn’t take another Izar, not so soon. I feel my heart pounding in my ears, and clench my teeth. “Matilde Watson.” The name don’t mean a thing to me, and so my heart continues to pound. I think about all the stars I’ve prayed to. About how good we finally have it, me and Deval. How even when all the pieces chipped apart, we put ‘em back together again. “… Sampson Izar”

I open my eyes and take in a breath. The rows turn from the front and fall on me. I step back but someone bumps me forward, and I let out a grunt.

“Deval…” My throat feels like my tongue’s turned to sand paper. I look from the man on the stage to my brother. “Deval!” I take a step from the line, but someone’s already grabbed my shoulder. My mouth swings open and I think, I think about how Benat was so brave, and so strong. He strode right up to that stage but I… but it ain’t supposed to happen this way. “No… no! DEVAL!” My voice cracks and I close my eyes. “Deval, PLEASE,” They drag me forward. Their arms twist mine and I let out a shriek. Ain’t a sound from anyone around me. My voice crawls out to the fences as I yell. Except no one can do a thing. We’re all just trapped in the dirt, ready to be threshed like the wheat in the fields. Only I don’t believe the words that come next. Like a shooting star they streak out, forcing me to turn.

“I volunteer.”

•••

I a g o
I z a r – M c C l a i n e

•••

It’s not his time.[/color]

They called his name, but it wasn’t his time. We all have a chance, damn it. We all have a chance to grow up and be what we’re supposed to be. Benat had walked that road but even he didn’t deserve to die. He was a dirty, smelly boy that liked to rough house in the fields, but that didn’t mean he shouldn’t have his first kiss. It didn’t mean that he shouldn’t grow old and find someone he was sweet on. And for the Capitol’s sake, it didn’t mean his brothers had to lose their way. I saw them collapse from it. My mother and father stopped talking to them when their father turned into a drunk and their mother a blithering idiot that fell to pieces every time her son’s name was mentioned.

I am a McClaine first and foremost[/color]. We wash our hands before we eat dinner and we speak when we are spoken to. Unlike my cousins I don’t run around with my feet in the dirt and wind up with worms. And I certainly don’t strip off all my clothes at the watering hole and swim around in the nude like I don’t have a sense of shame. All this and more has put us where we need to be in life—with carpet in our house and nice china set for tea. People nod their heads at us in the town square because they know who we are. They know a McClaine can figure out a way if there is one. And they know we will not be compromised, not on reporting feed totals or speaking the truth.

But I am also an Izar.[/color]

They grow like weeds in an untamed garden and spread wherever there is space. They attempt to see who can be the rudest on a regular basis—telling the sort of jokes that would make anyone of polite company blush. Their nails are perpetually black and in the hot heat can smell of a swamp left to rot. Just eating next to one of them shows you they regard manners as optional. Sampson used to chew with his mouth open until I told him he looked like a cow learning how to chew cud. And of course they snore like saws cutting wood. Every fiber of my being has been dedicated to enunciating the McClaine over the Izar; every little step forward feels like a move away from the rambling patchwork of fields that is their farm.

But Sampson—Deval, too—they have always taken me in, no matter what I’ve said to them. And Benat used to sing beautiful spirituals, with all of them joining in. They say miracles don’t exist but how he ever made a choir out of our cousins I’ll never know. You got me,[/color] Sampson would say, ’Cause we’re family. Ain’t nothing stronger than that.[/color] I eye him now, sniveling in the hands of peacekeepers. It makes my blood boil. The whole of this district is trash—all of them inbred hicks that would rather be more content drinking gin and fiddling on their porches than doing actual work. Sampson is too good, too sweet. He thinks with his heart and looks to the sky. He plays pretend and doesn’t seen the thieves and slackjaws that line this district. You’re an Izar, and I know it ain’t a lot, but that means something.[/color]

Maybe he knew one thing I didn’t.

“Well don’t just fucking stand there…” I say to Sampson. Here we are. The bridge between one life renewed and one ending. He better not fucking waste it.[/color] He’s a good kid—too good of a kid to be swallowed up by the capitol, the game makers, and the other tributes waiting to slit his throat. My life was the one meant for bigger things. The peacekeepers grab me by the shoulders. I can feel the hot lights and flashes of bulbs on the stage behind me. “Live, damn it.”

•••

{But they’ll never take the good years}
{There are some that never burn}
{No they’ll never take the good years}
{I wish I would’ve learned}
{Don’t be afraid to move on}
{You were meant to bear a child}
{Don’t look for me when you’re gone}
{It’ll only hurt a while}

•••

[Iago Izar-McClaine has volunteered, and therefore taken the place of Sampson Izar as District 11’s Male Tribute][/blockquote][/size][/justify][/color]

Sampson
Merchant

[M:-50]

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last seen Sept 7, 2018 6:51:56 GMT -5

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65th Reaping [D11] Oct 13, 2013 1:42:30 GMT -5

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Post by Sampson on Oct 13, 2013 1:42:30 GMT -5

Have faith in me
Cause there are things that I've seen I don't believe
So cling to what you know and never let go
You should know things aren't always what they seem

The night before our second reaping without Benat, I still whispered to the stars. The idea of both my soul and Sampson's being put up for slaughter tomorrow creates a fear within me that is enough to bring Benat back to life—or, actually, back to the dead. When I met Rum Tum, his face was Benat's so I couldn't believe that my dead older brother lived in the stars anymore. If his body was still walking around, how could I believe Benat was dead? His spirit couldn't sleep in the night sky lights if he wasn't gone. Even after Rum Tum explained how he was some kind of half-brother, it wasn't enough to allow Benat back into the stars. I couldn't believe his soul was listening in the stars, if an exact copy of him still walked the earth.

I couldn't believe it until that night. The night before the reaping was always a terrifying thing, and I couldn't bare it without having Benat to talk with. I'd had him in the stars last year and I'd wanted him that night too. My want had been enough to resurrect the idea of an afterlife in my mind. Benat's stars were suddenly brighter than ever and I'd whispered to him like he was really there.
"I'm sorry Rum Tum made me quiet," my words hadn't been forced, as if I were truly talking to Benat like I had always done before on the hilltop. "Must get lonesome up there all by yourself," I really had no clue who all lived (was it considered living?) with Benat in his stars, but I'd known that only a select few were good enough to be in such a sacred place. So it had to be lonely, even if we talked to him a lot. That night, in my nerves and worries, I'd been a fool again. I'd opted to talking to Benat again for the wrong reasons. It wasn't because I wanted my older brother back or because I really wanted to talk to him. I'd wanted someone to listen to my problems and to have another pair of shoulders to dump my stress on. That night, I'd talked to Benat because I was afraid.

"I know you might be lonely up there, but please..." my breathing got heavy so I had to pause for a minute. Thinking about how to say what I wanted had been excruciating. "We're not ready. Neither of us are ready to be back with you." I'd wanted to cry, standing there in my night shirt as I stared up at the moon and the stars. The night air had been chilly and with the winter weather making the grass between my toes ice-cold, I'd started to shiver as I stood outside. My teeth started to chatter as I continued my cautious explanation to Benat that neither Sampson nor I could join him soon. The reaping tomorrow would not book our trips to join Benat in the near future. "Don't save us a spot up there just yet. It's gonna be awhile," my words had been uncertain, but only because I knew that nothing would stop me from keeping Sampson safe. Even if it meant throwing myself to the wolves. If push came to shove at the reaping, my spot among the Izar stars wouldn't be so far away.

The morning after was smooth. Like swallowing a cold glass of water on a hot summer day, it had been easy. From eating our Ma's delicious breakfast to getting dressed in the best attire for our game of chance, the whole process had been surprisingly simple. Normally, I would have felt something tugging on me the entire time. A ball and chain would find its way onto my ankle and I'd lug it around all morning. The entire thing was normally tedious, depressing, and overall, exhausting. For some reason, that morning had been different. I wasn't thinking about Benat or Sampson. I don't remember thinking really at all that morning, even when Sampson had joked with me while wolfing down hotcakes. It was like I wasn't there. I just couldn't bring myself back to earth after talking all night to the stars.

It wasn't until we were walking to the square that I started to rouse. Listening to Sampson walking behind me was refreshing. He was closeby and that was normally enough to set my mind at ease. That night at my birthday party had scared me enough. It was madness, really, that kept me so engrossed with the idea that someone was out to get my last brother. Even so, I figured it was better to be crazy and protective than to be foolish and sorry. Having him at my side was something I needed, just to know everything would be ok.

Finding myself parted into my age group of 15 year olds, as Sampson moves to join the other kids of 13 years young, I find my mind completely. It is the simple fact that I am so grateful both our birthdays fall after the day of the reaping—meaning that this will be our second reaping at our current ages—that allows me to breathe a little easier. We're both still young and I am far more willing to play a game of chance if our odds are slightly better than others. The only thing that has made me so nervous for this year, out of all others, is the quell twist. It prevents the old from dying in place of the younger, so I'm at quite the loss of what I'd even do to save Sampson if his name were to be called. I just know it would probably end with me getting a bullet in my skull. At least, if that were to be my tragic end, I wouldn't have to watch Sampson kill or be killed in the arena.

"Matilde Watson," the mic crackles a little with the name, but I hardly care. The girl tribute position is not the one I am stressing over. Matilde is not the one I am praying to the stars for or crossing my fingers for. "Sampson Izar," is the one I care about. Our district escort literally steals the name right out of my thoughts and I'm dumbfounded. It is impossible. Fate has not dealt me this cruel of a hand. Destiny will not dangle both my brothers' strings above me and whisper "Watch me," as they are cut. I won't allow it.

Sampson is screaming for me. I hear his squeaking voice above the thick silence that haunts our district square. I can practically hear all the people thinking about how tragic the Izar family is. The people around me step away. How courteous of them. They have to see the animalistic look on my face, the way my nostrils flare like a beast pumped with rage. "NO!" the single word escapes my mouth like a roar. They cannot have my last brother. Sampson is mine to protect, mine to die for. He will not go into the Games. If I can't volunteer in his place, I'm prepared to fight off the Peacekeepers with only my hands. Flesh against armor, fists against bullet, I will go to war for him. It makes no sense, because I cannot possibly win, but they cannot possibly have Sampson. All logic escapes me as I begin shoveling through the crowd of kids, teeth bared as I aim to take on the entirety of the Capitol to keep my brother home.

I push past the ropes that separate our ages, enraged by the sound of Sampson crying and pleading. Ready for such an outburst from me, as Peacekeepers have a special talent for putting down 'disgruntled' family members of the poor souls who will be stolen, a man in the white armor grabs onto my right arm. I shove him away, only to be struck by another set of white hands. More Peacekeepers clasp onto me, readying themselves to beat me to a pulp if I don't calm down soon. But I can't help it. My body will not stop moving towards my brother. I can't stop fighting, not even when I can barely see Sampson past the white bodies struggling to stop me. Angry, helpless tears burn in my eyes. Oh god, Sampson. I cannot reach him. No amount of pushing and punching will get me to him in time, yet I will not stop. My world is about to be killed.

"I volunteer," a single voice calls out, releasing me from the hands of the Peacekeepers and sparing my brother from the grip of the Reaper himself. My knees are weak as I scrambled over to him. My Sampson. I can do nothing else but sweep him behind me, press him to the back of my legs, and turn to confront the dangerous world that tries so hard to kill my little brother. Even though I am stone-faced and my fists are clenched as my body is entirely ready to fight off the Peacekeepers that I still fear may try to reach Sampson, tears flow down my face. The cousin that has stepped up to do battle for my brother has no face.

I said I'd never let you go, and I never did
I said I'd never let you fall and I always meant it
If you didn't have this chance then I never did
You'll always find me right there, again

Rosetta
Retired Staff

1,872 POSTS
last seen Aug 5, 2020 8:28:28 GMT -5

65th Reaping [D11] Oct 14, 2013 0:31:20 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Rosetta on Oct 14, 2013 0:31:20 GMT -5

Matilde"Scout"Watson

[/font]

If I had known I’d been Reaped in just one day, I might not have broken Stanley Jones’s nose.

My bruised knuckles were still aching when they called to me amongst the others in Town Square on Reaping day. The wind blew coolly, shivering the mass of us like leaves on a tree. We were a smaller lot this year due to the Quell, a dreadful twist that had made Ardal shake his head and murmur and Bertie grip my shoulders even tighter. Yet, I could imagine we were larger than the pools from other Districts, judging from what I saw on television during their Reapings. It was that fact that gave me just a little bit of hope as the Reaping date approached. If the pool was to be smaller this year, it wasn’t going to be as small as that in the other Districts.

Despite that reassurance, we felt awfully tiny in stature in that square. Or at least I did. Or at least Ardal tried to make me small so that maybe they wouldn’t find me. Little did he know, on Reaping day, I’d be made a giant.

“Matilde Watson.”

Ardal had helped me prepare in the morning, tightening this silly pink sash around my waist, and tucking some stray hairs behind my ear (they’d never stay). Bertie had washed my face until my cheeks were rosy and Carlos had fastened a silver locket of my mother’s around my neck like I was some kind of doll, the expensive kind none of those silly pig-tailed girls in my class could never afford. The only stray threads on my tapestry of porcelain were the bandages around my hand. Bertie had done that last night while Carlos rolled his eyes and Ardal watched mildly from behind a book. “You’re lucky I don’t have to stitch this,” he told me, shaking his head.

“You’re lucky I’m not Stanley,” I reminded him. Split knuckles were better than broken bones.

“Stanley wouldn’t be this way if it weren’t for you,” Bertie growled, tying off my bandages with more gusto than necessary, but I knew he really wasn’t mad. How could he be? I was only standing up for Ardal.

Now, I mused the possible karma that might’ve been involved in the situation. “Matilde Watson.” They’d surely said my name…dare I blame it on the actions of yesterday, come to haunt me? Or was it just a snapshot of bad luck, concealed in two simple words, two names: Matilde Watson. A snapshot that would capture a lifetime. Perhaps it was just easier to blame this entire affair on breaking Stanley Jones’s nose yesterday and absolve today’s unlucky Matilde of all sin. I used up what may have been the last calm moment in my life on measuring my karma. It was like the time I fell out of the tree and on the way down dissected the aerodynamics that the fall included, how I surely must be slicing through the air, aided by gravity. Nevertheless, once I hit the bottom, the full severity of the situation knocked the breath right out of me and when I regained it, I was back in reality. I knew, as the tug of my name propelled my forward, out of the silent mass of children, once I hit that stage, I’d lose it all.

My mind flitted back to Stanley. Maybe his crooked little nose was screwing up in delight. I wanted to turn around and look, but my eyes were glued upon the stage. And if I did look and by some chance found Ardal, I might break sooner than expected. Stanley right now was probably loosening his little sweaty grip on the skinny arm of the kid, but rather than lowering his hand, bringing it up to his face to gingerly pat the sterile white bandages there, trying to feel me. He had a hard nose and on my second punch, he had opened his mouth, the idiot he was, and split the skin right across my knuckles with his buck teeth. When the teachers finally pulled us apart, we were bloody messes, blood dripping down his face and dribbling over my hand. It stung and even more so when the school nurse, knowing immediately who began the fight, ignored my hurts to attend to the victim first and I was left, fuming, with a bleeding hand for some time.

The stairs leered closer and closer and it was only now that my heart began to thump. Where it was lifeless before the calling of my name, now it was alive and beating out a tap routine (I had to taste every second of it while it lasted) and my teeth were grit. What were Bertie and Carlos going to do without me? I was their little sister. I was their punching bag, their human target, their friend. And Ardal…what was my sweet, lame father to do when I wasn’t around to pummel down anyone (like Stanley Jones) who insulted his lack of mobility and apparent lack of contribution to harvest?

Ardal, of course, had objected to my enthusiasm to please and defend him. He thanked me for the gesture, but also (just as I expected) lectured me. “You’re not going to understand everyone,” he told me. “What may look right to you might look wrong to everyone else.”

“But, he was wrong, Ardal!”

“It’s all about perception, Scout. Perception and choosing the right fights to fight.”

It was my fighting spirit that shuddered on the first step. Then, my courage on the second. And my dignity of the third as I turned to face the crowd. The wind could nearly shove me aside, slight little me. My stomach was lurching. Perception. This wasn’t any Stanley Jones Games. This was the real deal. There was no choosing the right fights. The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up.

There was some commotion with the boy’s name. Some volunteering business that I ignored and instead took the time to find them. Bertie, Carlos and Ardal stand in a line. Brother, brother, father. They were calling something, their eyes frantic, but I couldn’t hear. But then, I read their lips.

Scout.

[/i]

I felt my insides turn to butter and slip and slide all around. I felt my knees weaken. I felt my head lighten. Matilde Watson might’ve fallen to her knees. Matilde Watson might’ve cried. In my darkest hour, the family chose not to recall me by my name, but by my being. Scout punched Stanley yesterday, Scout defended her father’s honor and now Scout stood before them. Now, Scout, Scout, well, she just might have a chance. Her skin turned to steel, her goosebumps plowed down, her knocking knees straightened.

Scout. They were calling Scout, Scout, Scout. [/i]

And I stood directly up, brimming with their strength. I swallowed hard, turned to the escort close to me and made sure to say loud and clear. “Actually, call me Scout.”

[Matilde “Scout” Watson was accepted][/color][/size][/blockquote][/blockquote]

Last Edit: Oct 19, 2013 0:52:36 GMT -5 by Rosetta

^^Made by the excellent Shrimp!

zakattack
Merchant

[M:-450]

152 POSTS
last seen Dec 31, 2013 14:15:27 GMT -5

65th Reaping [D11] Oct 14, 2013 22:34:54 GMT -5

Quote

Post by zakattack on Oct 14, 2013 22:34:54 GMT -5

The quell twist had been eating at me since the moment it was announced. I wasn’t in danger for once, but someone close to the only person that mattered to me was. Sampson.

[/i] There was a squeezing inside me as I had to sit and dwell on the fact that Deval’s little brother was the only one of us that was on the chopping block this year. I didn’t like the little creep, I can’t lie, but I loved Deval, and since Sampson was important to him by default he was important to me. As much as I wanted him to leave me alone, the thought of him gone forever wasn’t one I could deal with.

There was a different feeling as I prepared for the Reaping, there were no rituals for me, no wishes of luck, because I couldn’t be reaped. I had already turned 16 and as I filed into the row for our age group it made me sick that they still corralled us like cattle[/i] I tried to look for Deval. My hands were sweating and I was aching to lock my fingers through his to show him I was there for him, that he wasn’t alone in this. Even though it would have never done any good, he’d already told me that he thought fate had it out for the Izars…but I wanted him to know that he was wrong. Fate couldn’t hate them, no one could.

My teeth chewed on my lower lip as the clown climbed on stage laughing and jovial as if we weren’t about to send off two of our youngest to die. District 11 hadn’t had a victor in as long as I could remember, our tributes were just fodder for the rest of them. They were practice for the skilled and dangerous. And now we were sending the babies. I hated this. I hated them. The picture in front of the Capitol escort couldn’t have been one that they enjoyed as their nose wrinkled before they sunk their hand into the bowl with the girls names. I couldn’t help but think of Freya, and if she had ever cheered her favorite tribute on. Ever dressed up and pretended to play the most popular game as a child… if she had ever really understood what it felt to stand in a sea of people praying for your life and those of the ones you dare enough to care for as someone who thinks you’re no more than a joke could steal your life.

The microphone crackled as the first name was called, ”Matilde Watson”. The name didn’t trigger a memory, no one I could place a face too, the blonde hair bobbing forward made me wonder if it was the girl from the swimming hole from what seemed like forever ago, She had seemed to have eyes for ”Sampson Izar”.

The words completed my thought and for a moment they didn’t even register. Not till I saw the commotion in the 15 year olds and heard the scream of the man I loved. His pain shattered me and I shoved the girls aside trying to break through to him. “Deval I won’t let them take him! Deval stop!”[/color] I saw a swarm of peace keepers, clad in white armor, heading towards the sounds exploding from Deval. Then Sampson’s voice hits me, the cracking of puberty, the loss of innocence and I feel the tears burning my eyes. This was wrong.[/i] I shoved again through the crowd as I felt the hot wet drops falling down my cheeks. They wouldn’t take him. They couldn’t.

”I volunteer! ”

I don’t know where the words came from, I didn’t understand anything other than it wasn’t a girl yelling it out. Stopping dead in my tracks my neck whips around so fast I nearly stumble over and I see the dark haired slip of a boy who’d only given me looks of disdain as we’d passed in the street starting up towards the stage. Standing there slack jawed in amazement I watched him, my heart simultaneously exploding and breaking all at once before I look to Deval who is physically shielding Sampson with his body, his face a matching picture of mine with tears streaking his handsome cheeks.

They couldn’t have him. They couldn’t have any of us. [/i]

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Raseri
Career Tribute

552 POSTS
last seen Dec 5, 2023 15:35:48 GMT -5

mayor of bootyville

65th Reaping [D11] Nov 5, 2013 14:05:04 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Raseri on Nov 5, 2013 14:05:04 GMT -5

[bg=262629][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, border-radius: 0px 0px 45px 45px;][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,485,true][atrb=style,width:485px;]

”…all over the ages of 14 will not be eligible this year. May the odds be ever in your favor!”

”Evangeline.”

The name spilled from my mouth before I felt it coming, and I quickly put my hand over my lips, as if that could somehow shove the word back in. But it couldn’t, and there was no hiding the fact that everyone in the room was thinking it. In our living room, with everyone shoved together on top of and all around our couch to watch the Capitol’s broadcast like some game of musical chairs gone wrong, I was sure she could feel the seven sets of eyes on her, watching for a reaction. Eva would be the only Holbrook with her name in that bowl this year; Toby, Desmond, Iona, and I were all too old. Four out of five kids were safe, but it wasn’t seen as a cause for celebration. Not to me. Damn it. Damn all of it. ”No. That’s not fair,” I muttered uneasily to no one in particular. ”They can’t do that to little kids.” But the problem was, they did.

When the broadcast switched off, everything was quiet on the outside (inside an animal yell begged to surface and make itself heard, to drown out the world and all of the Capitol’s ripred-forsaken cruel-as-shit rule changes.).

[/i] While I stood up from the couch, my fingers twisted themselves in my greasy curls, grasping blindly for something that made sense. I was no math wiz, but I was pretty sure this “quell twist” meant that Eva had just about as much chance as a kid my age would have on a regular year. It was all wrong. If anyone in this family was going to be reaped, it was supposed to be me, with my height and my muscles and my life experience. Not Evangeline, the baby, the princess, with her skinny arms and pretty hair. They would be sending 23 babies off to the slaughterhouse this year, and no one could do anything to stop it.

You’d have thought I would have slept easier that night, now that a few uncertainties were out of the question: would one of us be reaped this year, and if so, which one would it be? And if it was a younger kid, which one of us would be volunteering in their place? But I knew that if luck, or whatever other great controlling power, wasn’t standing with us in that Square tomorrow, we might end up getting some extra room on the couch for the next Capitol broadcast, and no one in the family would be able to volunteer to take my sister’s place. All night I stared at the ceiling until shapes danced in the darkness across my vision, when finally my eyes forced themselves closed.

I didn’t say much at breakfast, just cleaned my plate and then got up to help Aunt Susan get the hot water for the baths. I took mine last—since I was the eldest and wanted to make sure the younger ones got theirs first—and towel dried my hair before putting on my nicest pair of jeans. My light blue cotton shirt was draped over the back of a kitchen chair, so I grabbed it, unbuttoned it, and pulled the sleeves over my arms, which felt kind of like squishing a sausage through a straw. It was a size too small, and I didn’t like the way the fabric felt stiff against my skin, and the way the front of the buttoned collar bobbed when I swallowed. I never felt or looked right in fancy clothes, but I knew I wouldn’t be getting reaped anyways.

- - - - - - - -

”Matilde Watson.”

We all exhaled at once, although I don’t think any of us smiled. Evangeline was safe, but no decent person would smile at the sight of this pretty little twelve-year-old girl walking up those stairs. Her death was almost certain, and we all knew it deep down—our District hardly ever came out on top in the Games. We’d started believing in Benat’s chances once, but he had been cut down in the end just like so many before him, leaving his brothers alone to find their way without him. Last year’s tributes hadn’t even come close to surviving halfway through. There was a strong possibility that this year would be the same. But Matilde held her head high, with all the bravery of someone older and taller. Goose prickles rose unannounced on my forearms.

”Sampson Izar.”

My heart skipped a beat at the sound of his last name, and I coughed to keep it from jumping out through my throat. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t even thought of him; Sampson was 13 just like Eva. Anger welled up inside me, bubbling in my chest like a kettle of boiling water waiting to scream, but I couldn’t form words. I couldn’t volunteer, Deval couldn’t volunteer. We were too old. Cries and hollers echoed through the crowd, some of them Sampson’s, some of them Deval’s, even some of them Asha’s, all of them sending shivers down my spine. None of them deserved any of this. How dare they. Ripred, was it so much to ask for the Izars to be okay, just for a little while?

”I volunteer!”

The heads of the children in the crowd spun around, looking for the source of the sound. I didn’t recognize the voice or the face of the boy that was now making his way to the stage. But I would be cheering for him this year. A guilty wave of relief flooded through me. He’s ok. Sampson’s okay. We’re all ok.

[/color]thinking, doing, hearing, ”saying,” other
{ooc-welp there you go it's sorta a reaping reaction post it’s late but whatevs} [/center][/size][/blockquote][/justify][/td][/tr][/table][/center]

Last Edit: Nov 5, 2013 14:08:16 GMT -5 by Raseri

"i shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
i lift my lids and all is born again.
(i think i made you up inside my head.)"