Clove sat in history, her hand lazily supporting her head. She glanced up at the clock 9:32. Her eyes focused back on the teacher; who was giving an dissolute lecture on the history of district two and how they benefitted "not only ourselves but the Capital and the whole country of Panem as well" Clove rolled her eyes. A few minutes later she found herself daydreaming about Cato. The way his smile lights up his face, and the way his beautiful blue eyes sparkled with wonder and happiness every time he talked about a new book he'd read. Clove wished his eyes lit up that way when he looked at, or talked about her. She puffed her cheeks out in frustration. She glanced at the clock again 10:00 the bell would ring in five minutes.
"Alright students, have a wonderful weekend and I hope to see you here on Monday" her teacher said. As if on queue, the bell rang. Clove gathered her books and headed up stairs to English class. Clove knew that today they would start writing their short stories and she couldn't wait. Most kids wanted to write their short stories on how they where going to win the Hunger Games; but not Clove she was going to write a story about a girl who gets trapped in a dystopia and the only one who can save her is her best friend and unknowingly true love.
Clove doesn't believe that the author comes up with the words for their story, she believes that the words present themselves to the author. When Clove was on the third chapter of her short story the bell rang. She headed down to the gym.
