The hunger games are normal

That was what I told myself over and over again.

I won't get picked, it's one and million

I stepped into the group of other fifteen year old boys, my hands shaking, harder than they normally did. What was different about today's Reaping? Why was I SO NERVOUS? My dad was the assistant mayor, a high ranking job to hold in district seven, my home. The district of lumber and wood. My mother was beloved by the whole district. My step-mom was quick tongued and genius. They might not have held any rank in the district, but they were well known.

I waited for someone to say, “ladies first!” in a high pitched voice, but it was a new man this year. Alexander King, I learned, his name was from whispers around the other fifteen year olds. All that came was a short and deep, “Rose Appleby-Williams.” A quick sob was heard from the crowd as a short 17 year old girl walked onto the stage.

Her cheeks were stained with tears, but I ignored her and tensed my muscles up, waiting for the boy's name to be called, and me running to my mother, happily eating dinner with dad and step-mom then tomorrow heading to my mother's house for another dinner.

“Charles Asterly.”

But then the world went silent. I was so confused. It was me? Why?

Was it really me? All the other fifteen year olds looked at me, all pitiful and shocked. I saw my mother, standing with the other parents. She was weeping, and my step-mom ran to comfort her. I clutched the ends of my shirt in my hands, it was really a lovely shirt, almost a tux, with a white center. And black pants. I felt handsome enough, but as usual when I was nervous my brown hair fell in front of my gray eyes, as I walked to the stage. I could barely see but I knew my way just by looking at the ground.

I pushed my hair out of my eyes as I walked past my parents. My mother reached for me, her mouth moving, but I could not hear the words. I was deaf with shock. Was that even real?

Take the stage ooh..
You're a supernova to
my heart oohh

As a song my entire family loved started playing in my mind, I almost burst into tears. But no I would stay strong because the cameras were still shining on me. I had to be likeable, not innocent and too emotional like Rose.

“Our district 7 tributes of the 23rd Hunger Games!” Cried Alexander, in his loud booming voice which echoed over the entire audience of children who were weeping and sweating with relief that it wasn't them. Over the parents, who ran to their children, hugging and kissing them. Everyone was joyful, except mine and Rose's parents. “Rose Appleby-Williams and Charles Asterly!”

Now, Rose's sobbing was getting annoying. Girls. I would have laughed at her, if I had the ability to talk without blabbing pointlessly and sounding even stupider than her. Girls, all girls, were so pointless and too emotionally attached to everyone they ever met. Girls would spend hours crying if they weren't at the same school as their friend, who they had only known for a year. As I was deciding how to kill pitiful Rose, the Peacekeepers rushed us both to a meeting room.

The same meeting room, sadly.

I watched Rose's mother and father and six siblings come in, all crying like this was the last time they'd ever see her. This wouldn't be the last time. They'd see me, on the television, killing her. “Momma! Dad!” Begged Rose, “Pay them! Pay them all our money! Just save me!” She collapsed, crying.
Emotional: labeled as weakness. I mentally noted.

I tried to say, garbage, but it came out as a baby blabber, “Goobage.” It was just a shock, i guess, to be chosen to be a tribute. I could not speak. I needed to speak. I tried, looking at the Peacekeeper by the door. My cheeks felt like jelly. “Gere are my parenwts?”

The peacekeeper seemed similar to children speaking like this after being reaped, so he responded, “Coming-” As the door burst open and parents entered.

and your d*******s romance
I knew it wasn't true.
But I still loved you.
Just like shooting stars, ohh
our one shot at romance- gone!

My step-mom and Dad came forward first. My step-mom's makeup was ruined, most likely from crying, as she sputtered, “I'm sorry Charles..I wore the makeup to look good in case the cameras going on on me and I would be filmed to the capitol but not because of this! Charles…Charles..” She repeated my name, as though trying to make sure that I was real.

My father was all talk, “Be memorable, Be awesome, Be yourself.. Get sponsors.” His fuzzy brown hair fell in front of his gray eyes, so much like mine.

nice story