Hunger Games Fanfic
Just practicing writing skills. One of my first longer pieces that's written in first person and present tense. Currently in progress…
Woo finally filled up a whole page of this forum!!

Palette:
#3fbcae - Light Teal
#08415c - Dark Indigo Blue
#db9b24 - Gold

Part 1: Return

Chapter 1
The steady pounding of my flexible leather boots on the ground kick up dust where my feet once were. Even though I've been running for three quarters of a mile, I'm not out of breath or anything. I feel like I could run to the edge of District 12 and back. A small sliver of the sun peeks up through the mountains in the distance where we once mined coal, illuminating the edges of the tall grass surrounding the path. The trail ends abruptly at a deteriorated stone wall. I slide just inches from the wall while making a right turn, conjuring a cloud of powdery dirt, and keep on jogging on a stone paved street.
This part of town is called The Hob, a once illegal trading site several years ago. We learned at the start of this school year in History that the Hob was burned down by this psycho Head Peacekeeper 25 something years ago. Some parts of the Hob were still intact, but it stood no chance after The Bombing of Twelve about 24 years back. Probably 15 years ago they rebuilt the Hob and now it's a big outside mall rather than an indoor market. The Government passed a law the make the Hob and any other markets similar to it legal, so now everyone shops there. Up until last year, we were told at school that the Hob went through “remodeling” instead of “rebuilding.” As a matter of fact, we haven't even learned about the Rebellion yet in school. The only reason I know about it is from my parents, and our school library. I checked out a history book from the 12th Grade section called “The Entire History of Panem” using my mom's library card, because my library card only works for 9th Grade and below. I learned about the Dark Days, the First Rebellion, the most recent Second Rebellion, the Hunger Games, and everything.
I don't know why they don't tell us about all these stuff, I mean, we're not babies. I'm fourteen, and I can handle hard and dark stuff. But, I guess it would be smart to avoid the teaching of the more violent events from my 9 year old brother, Rye. He's terrified of the least terrifying things. When he learned about the Hunger Games in 3rd Grade, he almost wanted to quit school so he wouldn't have to learn about any other “scary” stuff. I enjoy learning about history, like the mysterious Dark Days, and the crazy dictator President Snow, and our new democratic republic Government and our President Paylor. I know so much I could probably sleep through History and miss nothing. Upon thinking about it, I could probably teach class with more information than our textbooks give us, and be more entertaining.
Now half of the sun has risen, and I start sprinting down the Hob's main street, briefly glancing at each of the displays of the shops as a speed by them. If I had activated my roller blades on the bottom of my boots, I would have been at Dad's shop by now, but the loud clicking on the stone was so loud it could be heard miles away, according to some of my friends. Even teachers would appear at school with dark circles under their eyes and tell me I woke them up a 5:20 in the morning; they were obviously exaggerating, because I usually get to the Hob at 6:15 on skates. I take a turn on one of the side streets, my feet crunching on the rough gravel. The sun is almost up now, and I break into full on sprint as I reach a row of more shops. I skid to a stop in front of the stairs of one, run up the small flight of stairs two at a time, open the slightly squeaky door, and slam it shut just as the sun fully emerges.
“Up and ready at the Bakery, 6:30 on the mark,” I announce, taking an very dirty apron that had seen cleaner days off a hook on the wall and fastened it on top of my faded red T-shirt. This is my family's bakery, and the general design is based on what it used to look like before The Bombing. There's a glass counter with mouth watering treats up front, as well as several other shelves on the sides. The front has a small little porch, and in big gold letters, reads “MILLARK BAKERY.” There's a large back room where Dad shows me how to make all of his delicious food. To be honest, I'm not the best chef – I'm better at decorating – but Dad's teaching me how to make simple things like cookies. Today after school, he is going to teach me how to make bread.
I tap the heel of my left boot on the ground, and four inline powder blue wheels pop out from the bottom of both of my shoes. Rollerblades. Two years ago, when I was 12, Mom gave these to me for my birthday. She went on a big hunting trip for her business once around District 3, and managed to get ahold of some cool tech for us. Mom also gave Rye some sort of technology box called a “Gaming Console,” which could be plugged into the TV, and came with four of these controllers that you hold in both hands. It is supposed to be for Rye, but I think I spend 75% of the time on the Console. I skate behind the counter, and pull open a drawer. I take out a little metal nametag pin that says “Willow” in my own slightly scratchy handwriting. A sticker of a baseball with a cute happy face on it is on the tag right next to my name. I pull open another cabinet and find a clipboard with a spreadsheet attached to it. The sheet contains all of our employee's names, and a box to write when you started and finished work. I scan down the paper until I find my name, Willow Mellark, right under my dad's name, Peeta Mellark. I quickly scratch 6:30am in one of the boxes with a nearly dead pen in my apron pocket.
Most of our employees are from the Seam, where most of the poorer people live. Even with one of the new laws the Government passed to help us poor Districts, many people are still begging on the streets for work. Many shop owners have families from the wealthy merchant part of town, and look down on the people from the Seam; Dad is generous and hires almost all of them. I mean, Mom and Dad get so much money from the Capitol every year for being Victors, we have a lot to give out to those who need it. Most of the Seam workers are either around my age or really old, even older than my grandmother, but they're just glad to have a job. Currently, I'm the only one with morning shifts, from 6:30 to 7:50, which gives me 10 minutes to walk to school. Dad then fills in for the rest of the day while I'm at school.
I look at the grimy, yellow tinted store windows. They used to be clear, but now they aren't. Which reminds me that I was supposed to clean them yesterday. But I conveniently slept through my shift because yesterday was a Sunday.