animal crackers in my soup | sarina/bill

little bill cubs

All he wanted was some soup.

Little Bill spent the day tying strings and wires around rocks and poles, fastening shards of broken metal to wood and swinging his makeshift weaponry in the air at dummies he couldn’t bring himself to stab and targets he didn’t think he could hit, but all the while his mind sat firmly on tomato basil, on chicken noodle, on Ma’s cream of mushroom she made in early fall and froze for winter. It took a few days in the training center before a longing for home he never thought he’d have sank in, because outside of his sheep he really had nothing binding him to district eight; but he had soup, and the cold, brittle air of an unfamiliar and unending air conditioning system kept him craving a warmth only remedied by pale, milky broth, a handful of fungi, and a splash of sherry.


When the trainer finally let him leave despite numerous attempts to have him “just hit the damn dummy,” the gentle giant utilized his unusually long legs and swept himself down to the dining hall, mouth watering and arm hairs stood on end. He hoped the arena wasn’t a snowy one or he’d step off the platform and blow himself to bits of Bill the capitol would never forget.


He grabbed a bowl as he reached the table and quickly began to fill, and though his heart begged him to turn the dinnerware up and drink the soup like cider he waited in line for some girl – the one from 11, he thought – to move so he could pick up a spoon, mostly to prevent the other tributes from seeing him as some gnarly, unmannered brute, until she walked straight into him (as if the 6’7” boy from 8 was hard to see in fluorescent lighting) and knocked piping hot chicken noodle all over himself. Before he could catch himself he growled, loud and angry, aware of the girl’s exasperated apology but unable to think of anything but spilt soup.

She started wiping him off with napkins, and he stood there, silent and still, forlorn about a bowl of soup that never would’ve pleased him the way he needed. “…Thanks,” he pressed his lips together and rolled them over his teeth. “You don’t have to clean for me, though. I’m used to my own messes.”