Hunger Games (24 AUTHORS NEEDED)!

This is a HG Grp story where one author will write from one tribute's point of view. It's going to be cr-aa-zy! I need one author for every tribute of each district. If you would like to sign up, pls comment and let me know. Thanks. :)

Chapter 8

District 4- Valerie Conch

by: Hopey_xD
I pushed my dark blonde hair out of my eyes this morning. Just like usual.
I leaned backwards to pop the bones in my back. Just like usual.
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and stretched my arms over my head. Just like usual.

But today? Everything is unusual.
It's reaping day.
I took all the tesserae for my younger siblings as needed.
My name will be in the bowl 60 times this year.
I'm so getting reaped.
At 16, I stand at 5'7 and I have a muscular build. Typical for my district, 4. I have tan skin, dusted with freckles, and bright green eyes.

I wander into the kitchen, where my older brother, Zander, stands, leaning on the counter and eating something I can't identify. Oh well. Guess dad left us to our own devices. Zander's 19. Too old for the games. Too old to be living here too, but dad insists on his staying here. I shoot him a look that says hello, and he smirks. Our 4 younger brothers soon run in, chasing after each other. There's David, Michael, Andrew, and Peter. All of them are game eligible. But their names are only in once apiece. Because of me. The only girl in the house. Mum drowned when I was 4, just after the twins were born. And I don't remember her well. Anyways, in order, my brothers are: 15, 13, and 12. Andrew and Peter are the twins.

Dad yells for all of us to get dressed. So the five eligible 'tributes' rush off to our rooms. The boys burst out soon after, all dressed in collared shirts and cargo pants. Barefoot, as usual. It's a district 4 thing. I pull my pale green sundress over my head after pulling off my nightclothes. Then I step out of my room, brushing my hair out before fishtail braiding either side. Then the whole family, eight in all, head towards the square, We split up and walk to our sections, the twins groaning about the finger prick. I'm used to it.

Finally, the es cort appears on stage, sporting the highest heeled shoes I've ever seen, and a sickly yellowish wig. Capitol fashion makes me sick. She sticks her dainty hand into the reaping bowl and pull out a small card. I can just feel it holds my name.

"Valerie Conch!" she yells.

I sigh and step out, walking up to the stage and waiting for her to stop asking me questions and just pick my district partner already.

Here goes nothing.

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