Stump Heartwood: District 7

Name: Stump Heartwood
Age: 15
Gender: Male
District/Area: District 7
Appearance:

I don’t think I’ve ever forgiven my parents for naming me Stump. It’s extremely misleading, I resemble nothing of a stump, I would have loved to been named something like Oak, or something simple, like George. I’m only two inches shorter than 6 feet, I believe that’s relatively tall for my age, and while I’m not the leanest of my peers at 180 pounds, in fact I’m rather stocky, most of it is muscle, and it shows. The work I do chopping down trees has made my arms and legs strong. Stumps don’t have arms. I’m nothing like a stump.

Maybe it’s because they new my appearance would be rather boring. I share their plain, black hair and brown eyes, and while I usually keep it in a tight ponytail that hangs just below my neck when I’m working, I often find it tangled when I wake from a night’s rest, much like the branches and leaves of the trees I work so hard everyday to cut down. Stumps don’t have branches, or leaves. I am no stump.

I can’t help but be annoyed at the rate my facial hair grows in, I often find myself shaving only to see it grow back three days later, my eyebrows share the same density and thickness as my beard. My skin is rather pale, not sickly, but I wouldn’t say I’m “fair-skinned” either. My ghostly skin contrasts rather oddly with my black hair. The only significant marking on my body is a heart-shaped birthmark above my right eyebrow, its very faint, but, any blemish would be easy to spot on the blank white canvass that is my body. It’s odd, having a heart shaped birthmark with my last name, but, I enjoy it.

My face is rough, not like an ogre, but I’m far less baby-faced than most of the boys in my grade. My face is still rather round and plump, some of my friend’s joke that all the fat goes to my cheeks, and not the ones connected to my legs. My lips are always perched into some natural frown, but that doesn’t mean I’m always sad, despite what everyone seems to think. My nose is broad, but my eyes are narrow, the tips pointed downward, almost the opposite of my cat, Bark. An ironic name for a cat, I know, but I feel it matches the irony of my own name, Stump.

I can’t say that I lack friends, but I’m not one of the more popular kids in school either. Usually, I find camaraderie in my co-workers, nothing like diving out of the way of falling trees to stir up a laugh between each other.

I’m not exactly the smartest person I know, but I’m resourceful. I’ve even managed to make my own tree-house somewhere high in the canopies, in the deep part of the forest that has yet to be tapped for lumber. I know if I get caught, I’ll get in serious trouble. Maybe imprisonment, maybe whipping, but I don’t really care. I don’t know if it’s bravery, arrogance, or stupidity, but it’s definitely something.

While I may not know about much more than the plants in our district, and the proper ways to use an axe, I consider myself a master of words, and words are very important. It doesn’t take much to convince the foreman to allow extra breaks, or to even let us home early at times. I rather enjoy writing poetry, my friends call me soft for it, but I know their kidding…at least I hope they are. I like writing better than I like speaking.

Despite my ability to put ideas in writing or speech, I never seem to have the ability to talk to women. In some ways, I admire the other boys, who know when to talk to a girl simply by the way she looks at him. I get looks sometimes, I just don’t know whether it’s because they think I’m some sort of massive freak, or because I simply haven’t uttered an unnecessary word to a female my entire life. There’s just something so sneaky about women, the way they use their emotions to get what they want.

I guess it’s only because I’m a bit distrustful. It’s hard to trust people in times like these, I don’t go hungry often, as I’m one of the better wood-cutters in the district, and get rewarded as such…but, other people resent me for it. I can only trust those closest to me. I hear the whispers at school. There’s even a popular saying, “Silent as a Stump.” I don’t know if it’s literal, or supposed to be a subtle jab at me. But it doesn’t bother me much. I am pretty silent.

Sometimes I wonder why I am the way I am. I think back to my older brother, and his attempt to leave the District. I was only seven at the time, but no public execution made more of a lasting image on me than that. Sometimes, I think my parents take out their resentment for it on me; he was their favorite after all. But I don’t mind, I understand. I loved him too. Besides, since then I’ve always been alone, but I’ve never felt lonely, not once.

I have an odd companionship with the Axe he left behind, it’s embroidered with his name on the handle: Cotton Heartwood. I don’t think my parents had a very good proficiency for naming children, as Cotton was anything but soft. He taught me all there is to know about woodcutting. How to cut trees so that the wood doesn’t split in parts that make it wasteful, how to properly attach rope to the trunk of a tree to allow for easier climbing.

While I may not be the fastest kid in the district, I am one of the stronger ones, mostly because of Cotton, and of course, the work I do. But more importantly, Cotton showed me how to conserve energy, the proper footwork and swinging techniques for woodcutting, even the right way to climb a rope. Because of that, I’ve always excelled in the President Snow fitness test that they do one a year.
While most others in my district fear the reaping, I have a special view on it. As a lover of poetry, I find the Hunger Games to be poetically tragic. I can’t say that I’ve wanted to hear my name called, I don’t, but I feel like if I do, there’s no more of a fitting end. Dying for your district, the ultimate test of survival, it gives life more meaning, doesn’t it?

My father is sick, and my mother, she’s…simple-minded. Since Cotton died, they look for me to put food on the table, and I believe I do, well enough. But, I’m a big kid, always have been. And for all the energy I burn off in the woods, I feel as though I’m entitled to a bit more food, that’s when the tesserae comes in. Combine my hunger, with my admiration of the Hunger Games, as well as a slightly unknown penchant for gambling (I always wait till the last minute to jump out of the way of falling trees), the tesserae have always been appealing to me, so I put my name in an extra 3 times since I was 13.

The next time the reaping comes around, I should be sixteen, which means I’ll have about 17 entries, if my math is right. So far, the odds have been ever in my favor.