The Author Games: Literature

Ring Acceptance Entries

District 2 Female: Slate Welby

Pushing through the layers of satin, wool and cotton coats, I continued walking toward the exit. The forest of coats became much more dense as I trudged onward.

I can't be stuck. Not again. Not like when I was left alone on that cold night, when I was shivering and no one could help me. I was alone. Will I die in this cubicle of clothes? Will I be that tribute? The one who died alone because of her own stupidity. For once, I did not think things through. Look where I am now.

I frantically waved my arms around, desperate for an exit. My arms meet rough and soft but still no wood--until I fell. I plummeted down to the base of the wardrobe and my head banged. I found wood. I found the exit. I swiftly rose to it, my head still throbbing from the impact of the side wall. My fingers moved, finding the doorknob and twisting it.

I don't know what I was expecting. Sunlight. A feast. A crowd full of people cheering. Animals. Snow. Cold. The wardrobe. Presents. My family. New weapons. Safety. To be awoken from a bad dream? But none of the fantasies flying through my mind was real. None. The reality was that I was standing in a hole. A deep, wide hole. In a hill. I was not in Panem, at least not the Panem I knew. The wardrobe door had transformed into a circle. It seems like nothing here is real, nothing here stays. This is the games. Things are made and destroyed in the snap of a hand. The hole is a house. Someone lives here. Why would someone dig a huge hole just to live in a hill? Around me are dirt paths that intertwine and move upwards, up and away from the hill. The paths are identical: skinny, winding, made of dirt.

Everything feels unreal. In front of me is a tree, its roots spreading from its base, gathering water to quench its thirst. Its large green leaves dangle from branches, and bark shields its trunk, standing so valiantly. The tree's upper body stretches to reach for the sky. Wrapped in sparkling string lights, the tree shines brightly. Strolling closer, I could see tables set with plates and food, but no people. Enough food on one plate to feed five people, yet all 18 of us tributes were starving. Eerie is the only word to describe it: a vast buffet of uneaten food, a banner proclaiming "Happy Birthday Bilbo Baggins," 18 places set, and the rest destroyed by an apparent fight. Eerie.

I lose my train of thought when I see a tiny man walking toward me. He doesn't seem like a threat, but I'm grabbing for my bow and arrow while staring at his curly hair and large, oddly shaped feet. He motions me toward one of the seats at the vacant table, but then his eyes bulge when he sees my weapons. "There is no fighting in Shire. Shire is a peaceful place!" He says quite quickly as he puts one hand out. If I have to give away my weapons so do the other tributes. No fighting- maybe I could actually survive today. Unsure about handing over my only means of defense, I put them in the man's hands slowly but leave the fireworks hidden, figuring they can't cause much damage, and I take the seat he has gestured to.

I am seated in a hard wooden chair. The wood is rough and the seat is stiff.

Other tributes come along, looking just as surprised with the setting as I was. They have the same weary look when the tiny man takes their weapons and leads them to their seats. The seats closest to me are not occupied. The foolish part of me wishes no one will ever come to those chairs, but I know they will.

Eliza Clarkie walks down the same path as the other tributes, her dark chocolate hair swinging in the wind. No. She can't sit next to me. I tried to be nice but she was a trap. She is not the peaceful person her demeanor tries to suggest-- more like the devil. The tiny man performs the same ritual, taking weapons and leading the tributes to their seats. But now he is walking toward me. No! He pulls out the seat next to me and gestures to Eliza. She takes the seat. The devil is sitting with me.