rave table lol

"Let me start this event off with a welcome to you all - a thank you to everybody in attendance for taking apart in this election and our community." Dear lord, dry mouth already?

I swallow spit, the district eight attendees taking a second to clap. Smiling through rose-tinted glasses, this isn't your first time, Rosie, politicians, protests, organizations - I've done my own, this is no first time here. I look in the audience for my daughter or my brother, placing one hand on the podium.

"As one of the two older dads this election-" some snickers, I crack a grin before returning to what I practiced. "I have been apart of this community for near five decades now, coming from the factory side of our district. Some of you may recognize me as a co-worker, an employee, a leader or a friend, and for those I say thank you. For support, for stories and for being apart of what makes this district great for what isn't televised."

"Prior to being on this stage before you, I was Ashcroft Roosevelt, the single father. Through forty and more years of working I, along with many of us, have never known riches past middle class. Those of us who managed to survive day to day untelevised, we are the parents working fourteen hours in smoke.

We are the single fathers and mothers barely able to buy the clothes we make." Formality is a scary thing.

What are you here for.

"To us, and to the children looking up to us, I thank you for surviving, at the very least."

Humility is a reaper I'm no stranger of, that I'm not scared of, fixing the cuff of my sleeve before continuing. I'm not scared of losing, I remind myself - there's a crowd listening to my shit words, that's all I've ever needed.

"This campaign is not dedicated to me, nor my child or family, but for those worse off than me. As citizens of district eight we all learn the same things: cover your mouths before clocking in and respect your parents. And as politicians, we are not able to cure tesserae and the reaping; any of us selling the fix to poverty is a scam artist-" a deep breath, glancing at the punctuation of my note cards.

I find my daughter in the second row.

"But as our mayor," I LOVE being left for dead at 5am 

So call me a thief, I thought she would bleed out.

I've seen it enough times to recognize, the way people die. Pale, blood back drop and I'm not proud of it, not since she left a month ago, not since I stopped calling myself a father six years ago. It got too hard to call myself with pride. So call me a thief, call me a bastard, I'm on the other side of the barrel anyways.

Part of me thought she'd die the entire time, that I didn't do everything right. That's a lot of stress for a parent, but I've been nothing if not transparent. I held Marina's hand in the back, because there's never been a Salazar reaped -- and there still hasn't been. Seventy seven years and going strong but Jacinta loves fucking me over, huh. It's a tease, the amount of times I've had to save my own daughter's life just for her to kill herself. Can you fucking imagine? I know I haven't been the best father, but I can attest that I'm the best this lines ever seen and maybe that's on me.

Maybe I am the fuck up.

So call me that. Call me the shittiest dad, but she's still walking isn't she? Sixteen years and she's better off than Lorenzo or I, better than Leo - god, we didn't even show up here together. One fucking dinner with my own daughter, I shouldn't be angry- nervous, scared. Puberty or whatever kids change, but this? Maybe I fucked up by not getting her scared. Jacinta gets shelter and private school and- that's not right, huh?

"Let me start this event off with a welcome to you all - a thank you to everybody in attendance for taking apart in this election and our community." Dear lord, dry mouth already?

I swallow spit, the district eight attendees taking a second to clap. Smiling through rose-tinted glasses, this isn't your first time, Rosie, politicians, protests, organizations - I've done my own, this is no first time here. I look in the audience for my daughter or my brother, placing one hand on the podium.

"As one of the two older dads this election-" some snickers, I crack a grin before returning to what I practiced. "I have been apart of this community for near five decades now, coming from the factory side of our district. Some of you may recognize me as a co-worker, an employee, a leader or a friend, and for those I say thank you. For support, for stories and for being apart of what makes this district great for what isn't televised."

"Prior to being on this stage before you, I was Ashcroft Roosevelt, the single father. Through forty and more years of working I, along with many of us, have never known riches past middle class. Those of us who managed to survive day to day untelevised, we are the parents working fourteen hours in smoke.

We are the single fathers and mothers barely able to buy the clothes we make." Formality is a scary thing.

What are you here for.

"To us, and to the children looking up to us, I thank you for surviving, at the very least."

Humility is a reaper I'm no stranger of, that I'm not scared of, fixing the cuff of my sleeve before continuing. I'm not scared of losing, I remind myself - there's a crowd listening to my shit words, that's all I've ever needed.

"This campaign is not dedicated to me, nor my child or family, but for those worse off than me. As citizens of district eight we all learn the same things: cover your mouths before clocking in and respect your parents. And as politicians, we are not able to cure tesserae and the reaping; any of us selling the fix to poverty is a scam artist-" a deep breath, glancing at the punctuation of my note cards.

I find my daughter in the second row.

"But as our mayor,"

rave making his own tables for once wow

"you are weak
but not foolish
you have learned
how to die."

There is a relief this reaping, the terrorist attacks, the meeting with Vasco and a nice quell twist. Pierre was sure the entire twelve to eighteen-year olds in his family were to be purged. Nope. Just two unknowns.

It is the evening of the reaping; the two kids have been shipped off to the Capitol and the television is re-running the ceremonies again. Now they are on Eight. Pierre really does not know what to think of Campano and Konstantine. His hope has rested on many kids shoulders over the past ten years and over the past ten years, only two have come back alive and that is because it was the twist of the games. He doubts they will reuse that surprise this year.

Maybe a victor will help rejuvenate his campaign trail this year. Campaign trail…he has been in two minds for months. Especially with the ever-growing crater in his family and the fact the old man has been doing this for decade and for what? For sure his wife enjoys the lavish lifestyle but the now Grandad has an entire family tree to pass his heart onto. But then there is the fact that he is in the financial position to feed his family, provide for whatever each one comes begging for out of the woodwork. Abi says he is too generous. Too generous to put his mother into a care home. Too generous to not hand out pocket money to kids who are not even his.

At least he is alone this evening, tomorrow all the officials will come cramming into his little office, papers on who of the two kids is the most likely to survive after twenty-four hours in the Capitol. So, the games season begins, he will not be seeing much of his family for next three weeks. Being mayor is a real twenty-four/seven job. It is not even a job anymore; it is just his life. There have been many times where he has slept in his uncomfortable leather chair, head on his desk and the most excruciating pain in his neck when he wakes up the next morning. All for what? To experience that dreamily life the common tailor shop boy used to fantasise about.

Pierre pours the rum up to the rim of the small glass. There will be a lot of liquor and coffee consumed this month. He does not know whether he is a drunkard, or the alcohol has just become his prescription medicine. He has done so well to keep it quiet for the past five years, he at least has not gotten himself into such a state before. But there is always the time. Pierre does not know whose house he would likely rock up to if he got himself truly intoxicated, he does have nightmarish thoughts of waking up at Birdie’s doorstep. Now what an embarrassment that would be to the family.

Pierre flicks through some papers that the officials have left behind, a few possible quell twist. Some he shudders at the thought of. No victors. The arena is a District, or it may be linked to the recent terrorist attack. Not that Pierre can think of a way it will be. There is even tributes reaped from a pool of over 20s crossed out on the list. Each of his aching muscles groan at the possibility, he doubts anyone will volunteer for him if that were to ever happen so hopefully that one can be forever crossed out.

So, Pierre prepares himself for another crazy three weeks of The Hunger Games. Hopefully, they will fly by like the rest of them but now of course he has the election to look forwards too. Who is going to vote for old greying Pierre Hope again and again?

"Let me start this event off with a welcome to you all - a thank you to everybody in attendance for taking apart in this election and our community." Dear lord, dry mouth already?

I swallow spit, the district eight attendees taking a second to clap. Smiling through rose-tinted glasses, this isn't your first time, Rosie, politicians, protests, organizations - I've done my own, this is no first time here. I look in the audience for my daughter or my brother, placing one hand on the podium.

"As one of the two older dads this election-" some snickers, I crack a grin before returning to what I practiced. "I have been apart of this community for near five decades now, coming from the factory side of our district. Some of you may recognize me as a co-worker, an employee, a leader or a friend, and for those I say thank you. For support, for stories and for being apart of what makes this district great for what isn't televised."

"Prior to being on this stage before you, I was Ashcroft Roosevelt, the single father. Through forty and more years of working I, along with many of us, have never known riches past middle class. Those of us who managed to survive day to day untelevised, we are the parents working fourteen hours in smoke.

We are the single fathers and mothers barely able to buy the clothes we make." Formality is a scary thing.

What are you here for.

"To us, and to the children looking up to us, I thank you for surviving, at the very least."

Humility is a reaper I'm no stranger of, that I'm not scared of, fixing the cuff of my sleeve before continuing. I'm not scared of losing, I remind myself - there's a crowd listening to my shit words, that's all I've ever needed.

"This campaign is not dedicated to me, nor my child or family, but for those worse off than me. As citizens of district eight we all learn the same things: cover your mouths before clocking in and respect your parents. And as politicians, we are not able to cure tesserae and the reaping; any of us selling the fix to poverty is a scam artist-" a deep breath, glancing at the punctuation of my note cards.

I find my daughter in the second row.

"But as our mayor,"