The Writer Games | Once In A Lifetime & World Edition

Eye See You Entries: Males

Samuel Stone: District One

Did not hand in.

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Greyson Stone: District Two

Did not hand in.

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Finn Albidella: District Four

Did not hand in.

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Custer Mudd: District Eleven

Custer Mudd looks smugly  around him. He lets out an amused cluck as the flowers open, yearning  toward him as if he were the sun. These flowers were not looking for  heat, they only searched for tears. Custer fixates his gaze on the floor  in before him, deliberately ignoring the blossoms surrounding him. His  head stays, stubbornly locked in place, but his eyes flit around,  welling with curiosity.

Out of the corner of his  eye he spots a scintillating tulip, it's hue a subdued shade of  heliotrope. His legs subconsciously halt. His head meticulously cranks  itself around as if it was entranced by the placid eye. Custer stares  down the flower inquisitively. His own eyes squint, attempting to  identify the lackadaisical iris. The turquoise color seemed muted and  blurred.

Custer frantically  whipped his head around peering at the surrounding sprouts with an agog  expression. The boy stands up slowly with a quiver. His eyes look hollow  and troubled. He stumbles onto the dirt edge of the tunnel, his feet  working to keep himself upright. As his forehead presses against the  rough wall, tears stream slowly down his cheek, trailing along valleys  and mountains situated underneath his pale skin.

He can't recognize any of them.

He fails to tell the  difference between his mother or his friend, and ponders whether the  flower below him is reminiscent of his father or not. His hand wipes  grime across his eyes as he brushes away his tears.

A lone cannon thuds  somewhere that seems so distant to Custer. He draws in his breath and  lets a heartbreaking moan into the stale air. He starts to mutter but it  comes off more as strangled coughs.

"Who am I?"

"Who am I to take  advantage of love and care for granted?!" Custer slams his fist into the  barrier of rocks. Dirt puffs out at his face and crimson tear fall from  his fists. "What kind of a friend am I? What kind of a child am I? What  kind of person am I?!"

A shriek vibrates  through the hollow dirt encasing Custer in solitude. The boy's eyes  light up maniacally and flashes a beaming smile of pride. He pulls of  the pot sitting triumphantly on his nest of hair, and runs toward the  sound of struggle.

Custer rounds the corner  as his legs pedal desperately, being careful to stay light and agile as  to avoid slipping on the thick film of gravel laid across the ground.  His eyes widen, trying to peer through the shadows raining on the long  tunnel. I see the vague outline of Felticka and someone standing over  her ferociously.

She squeals as her hands  push her backward, away from her assailant. I bolt into the scene  wielding my pot. Custer hefts the cool metallic handle and steps up to  the man he now recognizes as Greyson.

Felticka crawls away and  her distracted pursuer is oblivious to the metal pan until he feels it  on the side of his throbbing head. The weighted swing killed him  instantly and he falls to the ground in harmony with the muffled ring of  the cannon.