Another Op'nin of Another Show [for Yale]
Jun 26, 2012 19:59:32 GMT -5
Post by MissPrint on Jun 26, 2012 19:59:32 GMT -5
There was something about watching the Games each year that made Fern Ponderosa want to curl into a ball and cry. Of course, for every child in Panem, there was that lingering feeling of relief that someone you loved was not on that screen. Still, District Seven was not large, and chances were, you knew the two people fighting in its name.
And every year, it was the same. As she would watch the tributes, encircled on their launching pads, waiting to begin the battle, there was a swell of hope that perhaps this time, maybe someone from her district would make it back alive. It hadn’t happened in Fern’s recent memory, but there was always a chance, wasn’t there?
This year, especially, was hard. Drew Cumberland was only one year older than her — one year younger than her brother Ash — and he’d been killed so quickly. Fern had seen him whittling away in the cafeteria just weeks ago, and now, he was dead. There was only Jana. The same age as Fern, but just a speck unluckier. Jana, the loudmouthed tomboy who could never stay out of trouble. She was still fighting, as Fern would have expected her to, but how much longer could she last against the Careers, the mighty warriors who had been training for this all their lives.
The worst part was, as nice as those noble thoughts were, the wishes than Jana would make it out alive, there was still something buried deep inside Fern that was ugly and grateful. So grateful that it wasn’t someone closer to Fern than a classmate. So glad she only had the same to lose as all the others in District Seven. Fern hated that she could feel glad that two more people were being sent to their deaths, but the fact that all the Ponderosa siblings had managed to evade the Games one more year was undeniably wonderful. Soon, Ash would be too old — but then again, Willow, the youngest, would just be coming of age. It was a never-ending cycle, an endless Möbius strip of death.
But what else could they do? It was the way of things long before Fern or any of the Ponderosas had come into this world, and it would continue long after they were gone. All Fern could do was keep her fingers crossed that her family made it through one more decade of reapings and wish the tributes the best.
These were the terrible, horrible thoughts that ran through the 15-year-old’s mind as she watched the mandatory screenings. She watched, seated with the others her age, staring into a screen when she just wanted to go home and hold her family close. Even Bay, in his 13-year-old prattishness, was endearing now, when she was forced to watch others his age be slaughtered in all their macabre glory.
But finally, the third day of the Games was over, and they could go home. Fern felt a collective sigh of relief circle through the hall, as slowly, the audience stood, shaky from sitting so long, and shuffled out, back to their homes. Fern caught a glimpse of Drew’s family, his mother wracked with grief, and it tore at her heartstrings. Still, there was nothing she could do, so she stood with the other fifteens and began shuffling out of the rows.
As she entered the main queue, she saw little Willow, standing alone toward the back, wiping her tears on her ratty sleeve. Fern’s heart ached for her little sister, only eleven years old, so terrified and looking so alone and forlorn. Fern picked up her pace, rushing toward her sister, slipping past the herd as it marched to the exit. She had to get to Willow, hug her and comfort her, like a big sister was supposed to.
But just as Willow turned to see Fern, the elder collided with something heavier and far more solid than she. Someone had turned at precisely the wrong moment, sending Fern sprawling to the ground. Most could have managed to catch their balance before falling all over themselves, but unfortunately, Fern was not blessed with the grace or balance of the other Ponderosas. She stumbled, tripped, and fell flatly onto the floor, her rear end smarting with the blow.
Fern stared up, her light brown hair fanned across her face, her feet propping her legs up as she rubbed the already bruising, smarting area. Blowing her hair out of her face, she looked up at the solid trunk of a person that had collided into her, thoroughly bemused.
And every year, it was the same. As she would watch the tributes, encircled on their launching pads, waiting to begin the battle, there was a swell of hope that perhaps this time, maybe someone from her district would make it back alive. It hadn’t happened in Fern’s recent memory, but there was always a chance, wasn’t there?
This year, especially, was hard. Drew Cumberland was only one year older than her — one year younger than her brother Ash — and he’d been killed so quickly. Fern had seen him whittling away in the cafeteria just weeks ago, and now, he was dead. There was only Jana. The same age as Fern, but just a speck unluckier. Jana, the loudmouthed tomboy who could never stay out of trouble. She was still fighting, as Fern would have expected her to, but how much longer could she last against the Careers, the mighty warriors who had been training for this all their lives.
The worst part was, as nice as those noble thoughts were, the wishes than Jana would make it out alive, there was still something buried deep inside Fern that was ugly and grateful. So grateful that it wasn’t someone closer to Fern than a classmate. So glad she only had the same to lose as all the others in District Seven. Fern hated that she could feel glad that two more people were being sent to their deaths, but the fact that all the Ponderosa siblings had managed to evade the Games one more year was undeniably wonderful. Soon, Ash would be too old — but then again, Willow, the youngest, would just be coming of age. It was a never-ending cycle, an endless Möbius strip of death.
But what else could they do? It was the way of things long before Fern or any of the Ponderosas had come into this world, and it would continue long after they were gone. All Fern could do was keep her fingers crossed that her family made it through one more decade of reapings and wish the tributes the best.
These were the terrible, horrible thoughts that ran through the 15-year-old’s mind as she watched the mandatory screenings. She watched, seated with the others her age, staring into a screen when she just wanted to go home and hold her family close. Even Bay, in his 13-year-old prattishness, was endearing now, when she was forced to watch others his age be slaughtered in all their macabre glory.
But finally, the third day of the Games was over, and they could go home. Fern felt a collective sigh of relief circle through the hall, as slowly, the audience stood, shaky from sitting so long, and shuffled out, back to their homes. Fern caught a glimpse of Drew’s family, his mother wracked with grief, and it tore at her heartstrings. Still, there was nothing she could do, so she stood with the other fifteens and began shuffling out of the rows.
As she entered the main queue, she saw little Willow, standing alone toward the back, wiping her tears on her ratty sleeve. Fern’s heart ached for her little sister, only eleven years old, so terrified and looking so alone and forlorn. Fern picked up her pace, rushing toward her sister, slipping past the herd as it marched to the exit. She had to get to Willow, hug her and comfort her, like a big sister was supposed to.
But just as Willow turned to see Fern, the elder collided with something heavier and far more solid than she. Someone had turned at precisely the wrong moment, sending Fern sprawling to the ground. Most could have managed to catch their balance before falling all over themselves, but unfortunately, Fern was not blessed with the grace or balance of the other Ponderosas. She stumbled, tripped, and fell flatly onto the floor, her rear end smarting with the blow.
Fern stared up, her light brown hair fanned across her face, her feet propping her legs up as she rubbed the already bruising, smarting area. Blowing her hair out of her face, she looked up at the solid trunk of a person that had collided into her, thoroughly bemused.
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