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Foxface in the Games

Yo! The name's Carmony.

This year I was reaped for the Games. I was scared. I saw the first few reapings and the thought of being in the Games with ceartin assilants (i.e. District 2 male) did not exactly appeal to me, I tell you. I wasn't scared. I knew I could probably outsmart all of them. I'm only 13 but I can already unwravel the physics of the universe in 10 seconds, but right now I'm focused on the nchemical that makes boys so darn annoying. I expect this story to be funny as it is.

Read on.

WARNING: This story is copyrighted by the law of purple crayons incorperated. Anyone violating this copyright will be sentenced to serious punishments or death by my little arena friend. Also, fined 73098274629846398732654982687957388333333333333333333333333333333333 dollars. Have a nice day :)

I lie in bed, and as soon as I finally drift off, I hear someone walking into my room. Without warning, the covers are yanked right off my body.

I get out of bed to go kill my brother, but before I can get anywhere, I see the outfit laid out for me. We don't have much for looks in District 5. I am stunned by the beauty of the flowing green silk. I pull on the silk shirt, along with gray sweatpants, which make a bit of an ugly contrast, but I can live with it. I couldn't care less what I look like. People are not going to remember me by my debut at the reaping, but my skill and intelligence at the arena. I demonstrate that I have a wily and intellectual attribute. I would choose to operate the games independantly, so as not to have anyone turn on me. But as I look up, I see that a few of them might make a good ally. My eyes focus on the window. The reaping is about to begin. I rush out the door with my brothers just as the reaping begins. Quickly, they extract the fluid that circulates in my principal vascular system, or in other words, they draw blood from my finger, to identify who the heck I am. When the name reads CARMONY LYNSTRUME, I am sent to sit with the others that are my age. They reap the boys first, always, after the dreary Treaty of Treason we hear time and again every year. But then, they look straight at me. I can see in the escort's eyes that he's scanning for a good contestant. Then he reaches in and picks out a name. The clearing is silent.

His name is Ben. I look at him in the eye, his red hair is a bit more toned. Then I see the girl who gets reaped. Timid. Weak. Sick-looking. Beautiful. But she can't go. She can't. One of my best friends has gotten reaped. If someone was sick, Rosalee would get twice as sick. She had a disease that if she started bleeding, she would just keep bleeding. I remember one figure in history had the same disease. But I can't let her go. I've already experienced what happens to her sometimes, when she gets too sick, she could be on death's door. Then another person steps up. Two more. One is my friend, Anna, with her sheen of long, dark hair, the other was a futile and deficient girl, and, in general, simply nugatory and incompetant, lacking skill she needed to navigate the depths and secrets of the arena. She, and I will not name her here, because I dislike being offensive and I don't appreciate negative vibes, was a huge bully to everyone in Elementary school and most of middle school. I don't know why, I just don't know why she wanted to volunteer for Rosalee, but I think it was to show how much tougher she was than everyone else. I reach up my hand. "I volunteer. My name is Carmony Lynstrume, and that's my friend up there. She's very sickly, but not timid. I would be honored to take her place, to spare her life. I think she will have a very optomistic future for her, and I want her to have it. She deserves it. She's fought through every sickness she's gotten, and she's strong. So I will take her place." Leaning down to her, I say, "Go, you're safe now." Turning, I shake hands with the male tribute. Ben. There's a friendly glint in his eyes. I don't know why I return his smile with a stony face, but I don't feel like making friends. Like I said, I prefer to operate by myself. You can't trust another district. Sometimes you can't even trust your own.

We watch the reapings in our train car. I sit in my room, the big flatscreen stretching across an entire wall. I descend a small flight of steps to my bed. Crystal balls dangel from the ceiling above me. The bedspread is a light cerulean, with tawny fleece blankets the same pallor as the shag rug soft enough to sleep on. There is a green sculpture of something, a plant maybe, sitting on a black wooden table. I turn on the TV and hit the mute button to silence the happenings on the screen. The girl from District 1. They must have much cause to look good there. I see their silk shawls, long flowing soft robes

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