Brynn Hollis~ District 8

‘Cut from a comfortable cloth’ as my Nan use to say, that is, I’m nothing remarkable and not that hard on the eyes either, something in between. I wouldn’t say normal, for who’s to say what ‘normal’ is? My annoyingly red hair certainly isn’t what you might consider normal as it’s not a color that common here, popping up every once in a while, depending on your folks’ heritage. I’ll wear it down when it’s cool but mostly twist it up to keep the strands out of my way. I’ve tried braiding it once or twice but simply don’t have the patience for it, besides, who would I be trying to impress?

While I’d love to say I have striking eyes, they aren’t really, their smoky blue gray is drab in my opinion but I’ve been told I say a lot with them, and no matter how I wish it weren’t true, I know they’re right. My build, well… despite the meager meals (when I actually get around to having one) I’m not thin like a lot of other girls, I have a little ‘more’ to me. Mama says everything just ‘sticks’ to me better and I suppose I should see it as a good thing though I’m not entirely sold on it. A few more inches around the waist means more cloth to cover it, and a little more of anything around here has a price.

I don’t smile too much and when I do my lips seem to thin out and almost disappear, showing more of my teeth than I’d like, hence the learned restraint. Some girls look pretty with toothy smiles and I’m not one of them. Not that I’m upset about it, I am what I am. Pale, short, with a freckled nose and cheeks, but I will say I do, honestly, love my hands. They’re on the small side and my fingers may be a little stubby and my nails never seem to grow out nicely like my sister Loral’s, but they’re practical, nimble, and if I ever lost them I’d lose myself right along with them.



When I was younger I was a ‘freer spirit’ as some say. I’d talk to anyone, smile near constantly, and always had a reason to look forward to tomorrow. I might only be seventeen but even I know things change and I was no exception. There’s so much I keep locked away now I’m not even sure if I’m doing it to protect me or everyone else anymore. I’m afraid, to be frank, afraid of feeling more than I want to allow myself to and afraid I’ll never feel what I want so desperately to have. I’m not the only one to have seen familiar faces come and go, nor will I be the last, but I just find that sort of pain too much to bear. Keeping people from getting too close, keeping myself pretty much alone even when it pains me is far easier to deal with. I don’t like it; I envy those I see happy, whether it be with friends or loved ones, I envy them more than they’ll ever know. I just don’t think I could handle losing anyone I love again let alone knowing what my own death might put them through.

Even though I struggle to keep myself in this ridiculous solitary ‘bubble’, I still can’t help myself sometimes. I care too much, I think, but I just can’t turn away from someone in need. Am I scared it’ll eventually come back to haunt me and cause me to feel something for another person when I already have my sister and mother to worry about? Yes. At times I know it will but no matter how detached I try to be, I can’t harden my heart completely. I may look like I’m shutting out the world around me but in all truth, I’m more aware of it than you think. I notice the look of pained resignation when that new mother is standing on the doorstep, waving goodbye to her babe as she leaves for work for the next twelve hours. The twitch in a boy’s hand as he stares into the bakery window at the glazed rolls glistening in the morning sun, his stomach growling if you take the time to listen. I’m more aware because if I’m not, I may slip and hurt again or worse, hurt someone else. My guard is always up, or at least I try to make sure it is.

So while I may seem quiet, complacent, and solitary, I’m actually always simmering below the surface, battling emotions and desires that make me question the life I’ve chosen to live every moment they can needle their way into my thoughts. I can put on a good act and smile on cue, fade into the background or slip away altogether; just I hope you don’t take it personally if I don’t hold your gaze. I don’t want you to see the turmoil I put myself through and worry about me.



Before my tenth birthday, my life was pretty easy, pretty carefree even for this district. My parents both worked, my Mama a seamstress and Papa maintaining loom machinery. There was a roof over our heads, even if it did leak at times and have more patches in the walls than mice, and we did eat a little something at least twice a day, even if it meant Mama or Papa went without. I had only school to worry about, and my toddler sister to keep out of my box of things hidden under my bed. For as long as I can remember I’ve collected odds and ends, always thinking of some use for the knick knacks, the rare sliver of wood or broken metal bit, and scraps of material I found while any usable sheet of paper was drawn on.

Back then Fray Totherow and I were each other’s shadow, playing in the alley between our houses, tailing her older brother who taught us how to slip into the old buildings, warehouses, and factories probably not fit to be walked in even back then, but it was fun playing hide and seek in those musty, dark monstrosities. We learned to climb rafters, balance on beams, swing from ladders, everything my Mama warned me not to do or else I’d break a leg. Well, I never did break one, but I did often hear her brother Dyer talk of how life should be more than what we were ‘allowed’, more than living to work and working to death. As a child I just thought he was a teenager whining over going into the mill soon, we all knew we’d end up there and how we all tried to hang on to being a child as long as we could. Only now do his words echo in my ears and give me thoughts I know shouldn’t be voiced. But Dyer did.

One day I ran home from my Nan’s, eager to find Fray and go see what mischief we could get into… and the Totherows were gone. Standing in that empty doorframe, young as I was, I knew I’d never see her again. I knew what became of them, everyone around that block of homes did, you could see it in their eyes but none spoke of it, as if doing so would bring the Peacekeepers down on them as well. Losing Fray nearly destroyed me. For months I pushed everyone away, even Mama, Papa, and Loral. My other half was gone and I felt the hole left in my heart so painfully I couldn’t see the sense in trying to go on. What else did I have in this life besides my dearest friend to grow old with, suffer this dreary existence with? And then a few months later Papa had the accident at the mill and the infection that set in took him as well. Papa was all Nan had left of her own kids and she died of a broken heart Mama said. It seemed everyone around me was dropping off and I was terrified. I became afraid to FEEL. I even had trouble hugging my baby sister without feeling hollow because I just couldn’t allow myself to give in to emotion. I started to just exist and not ‘live’. Then a new teacher arrived at school.

Mrs. Petty worked in the design department of the mill just down the street from the school. It was her first time teaching and while she kept trying to get me to talk to anyone and do anything with the other kids in class, it wasn’t until she had made me stay after school one day that she found a way past my protective shell and gave me something to look forward to. I was expecting another ‘talk’ but all she did was hand me back yet another slip of my work, half covered in doodles, and three used, short, colored pencils, scraps from the design department she’d kept for me. I stared at those three beautiful colorful cylinders and remember mumbling some sort of thanks before grabbing them and running home to try them out. Color! I got to use color for the first time! I still have some of those paper pieces Mama always saved for me from the pattern scraps at work, some of the most atrocious drawings on them in a sickly orange, red and blue. Most were of Fray, Dyer, and the old warehouse we called Big Dusty. I use to love drawing before that day, using whatever I could get my hands on, bits of chalk from the seamstress shop too small for the women’s hands, burnt pieces of twig, old pencils at school I might find on the floor, but suddenly, adding color to my drawings helped me see the color in the world around me and reconnect with it again.

Since that day seven years ago, I’ve learned to do a lot with these hands. To sculpt, to paint, to sew, to create, to focus my imagination and wit on things I CAN change… problems, challenges, be they riddles or a mousetrap, and work has become a major part of my life but by my choice, not anyone else’s. The more I came to use my hands to create something the more I felt I had a purpose, had a reason to put up with this damnable life, even if nearly all my creations are either immediately destroyed or tucked away, far from me and eyes that might not understand. I could love my family again, knowing one day we’d be separated but that I shouldn’t hurt them in the meantime by pushing them away. The rest of my emotions I’ve kept under as tight a reign as I can, using my art and other ‘creations’ as an outlet for my anger, frustration, and hope. Anger at the lives forced upon us, frustration over how powerless I feel to do anything to change it, and hope that one day I’ll get over my fears and find that better life Dyer use to talk about, the one with meaning. The one where I wouldn’t have to hide anymore.



Codeword: Odair

Comments/Other: I’d like to clarify more on the fate of the Totherows. From Brynn’s point of view, she only knows one fact- the Peacekeepers took them. What became of them, she will never be sure of. As she grew older she was able to correctly surmise why- Dyer became too bold with his tongue and his family paid the price along with him. Their disappearance had no connection to any Hunger Game. As for Brynn’s artwork, she works in the design department with Mrs. Petty, which is the only reasonably safe way she gets to indulge her need to express herself, hence her actual interest in her work. Still, she has to be mindful of what she creates, even more so what she does on her own. Most of it is done in some form that can be destroyed easily (chalk and charcoal that can be washed away, paper that can be burned, even dirt that can be kicked out of form) a few things she manages to incorporate into the clothing she pieces together for her family, while one is hidden in Big Dusty and is the only one she’s too attached to to destroy, despite the risk of it’s existence.