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Finally, I find a nice place to sleep, just beside a large rock, that I can hide behind. I put my clothes to dry at the fire, crawl into bed, and fall into a dreamless sleep. I wake up in the middle of the nice, my fire barely burning. I hurry to add wood to it, hoping that it will continue burning. I stare at the trees behind me and it reminds me of the woods back home. There is crunching in the leaves behind me. Slowly, noiselessly, I turn myself in that direction. It’s Cato, in one hand, he has a knife with some dried blood on it, and in the other, he has a jug of water. His eyes are empty like he is sleepwalking. I quickly grab my bow and arrow. He is gone. I turn around to find my target, but he is nowhere in sight. I gather my things, to find another hiding spot. As soon as I stand up, there he is, his knife already in my leg. I stare down at my shoes, watching as a fine layer of ash settles on the worn leather. The ash from the fire mixing with my blood burns my skin. I grab one of my arrows and stab it into his back. He runs away slowly. I was too tired to think about aiming for him again. I rap leaves and vine around my wound as makeshift gauze. Once I think that I am strong enough to walk, I find another place to hide before the morning.

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I prowl at the undergrowth in the rainforest surrounding the cornucopia.  I escaped the beginning bloodbath, only by becoming a running coward.  I need a bow, I tell myself.  If I had a bow, I would’ve won this stupid challenge by now.  Being as quiet as I can, I nearly trip over a backpack that I wasn’t paying attention to.  I open it and am filled with hope.  Inside is a sandwich, water bottle, six throwing stars, and a dagger.  I can work with this as long as I play cautiously.  The bugs are very annoying, they make this whining or buzzing noise that makes it very hard to hear other people walking.  The bugs keep buzzing at me, bzzz, bzzz, bzz.  I pause to listen to my surroundings, something my father taught me when I was a little girl.  I start to hear a hum, and then it gets louder, the bugs are very annoying.  Then I was knocked off my feet with a KAA-KRROOOMM!  A bomb explodes right next to me, throwing me as if I were a ball.  I land on my back, probably paralyzed.  Slowly, quietly, I open my eyes to look up.  I see a squadron of BTL-B Y-Wing Bombers, they have blasted their way through the barrier and are bombing the event.  On the bombers come, loud, buzzing, and very deadly.  I force myself to get up as the next bomb comes crashing down.

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Am I dead?

Slowly, noiselessly, I turn myself in that direction. On the fog comes, silent and steady and flat. Something large hits me, and helpless, I fall towards the cold, wet mud. I feel my fingers slide through the staining mud, reaching past the strip of hardened clay where the grass laid. The broken and frail grass looked blurry against the other symmetrical and fakely green bush. I feel my fingers slide straight into a small tree of sticks and thorns, impaling through the wet mud and into my rough skin. My head feels impact suddenly, seemingly as though my brain was being straddled on either side by large, metal compactors you would only find in the Capitol. I try to open my eyes to see the cause, but I am met with the feeling of a thousand weights on my eyes, along with blurry vision like I am trying to steady my eyes on hummingbird wings. I manage to stare down at my shoes, watching as a fine layer of ash settles on the worn leather.  I can’t move. No matter what I do with my body I can’t make any movement. I can’t even form any energy to panic, any motive to keep moving. It feels like I’m dying, it feels like I’m dead.

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She walked down the street timing her feet to the flickering of the lights.  The rumbling of the cars and the failing electricity plants.  A shadow figure races across the sides of the skyscrapers.   I pick up the pace, racing to meet at the spot, our spot, ten-second place.  The sight of a broken and burned bank comes into picture.  All the light is gone, just me, the darkness, and my city.

“Sweetheart, You must be as thrilled as I am to meet again, yeah?”

“ready to go?”

I blush scarlet and thank every god in the world for the darkness surrounding us,

“Yes, Always, Forever”

We climb up the bank, racing to go address the republic, our republic.

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The black night is quiet, except for the invisible wind jumping in the trees, stirring the leaves and twisting them in its grasp. I want to follow, I want to be free, I want to live like the wind, but I am afraid I will disturb the quiet peace. I close my eyes and imagine what is hiding behind the deep green bushes sleeping, or maybe watching. A sharp crack from behind me interrupts my daydream with a start and I am alert. Slowly, noiselessly, I turn myself in that direction. Not another sound comes and silence overwhelms me yet again, calling me back to my reverie, urging me to ignore what is potential danger. I resist the strange whisper and put my hand on my silver knife, smooth as water, sharp as death. But my high paced adrenaline quickly melts away as I think, maybe it was just a fox. A fox looking for its prey, like He is looking for me. I remember why I escaped into the forest, why I lost my family, why this war started and; I collapse, tears stinging my eyes. This regret will not do, I need to rest and start tomorrow, no matter how hard it is to forget. I put my clothes to dry at the fire, crawl into bed, and fall into a dreamless sleep. The next morning, the sun shines brightly like nothing ever happened, like today is the first day of creation, of life. But it is in a sense, I remind myself, I can start fresh today. A clean slate. There is more work to do. I quickly get dressed and make sure I have my precious knife handy, clean and nice. Yawning, I note the silence that still is present in the quiet morning and gaze at my surroundings. In my stillness, I begin to notice the animals, including strange birds with brilliant plumage, tree lizards with flickering blue tongues, and something that looks like a cross between a rat and a possum clinging on the branches close to the trunk. If gorgeous animals like these exist, there is still hope left - we have not lost yet...

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Whistle

I heard a rustling in the leaves, and a, THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, like something enormous, was approaching. Slowly, noiselessly, I turn myself in that direction. It was a mutt. I reached for my bow but I couldn’t find it, I must have lost it in the forest when I was sprinting from the tracker-jackers. I still had my arrows on me, I grabbed for one, held it out towards the beast, and screamed like a maniac, similar to what you should do with a bear. I circled it, confused it, and stabbed at it, but only managed to infuriate it more afterward. Suddenly, it started to pour down in freezing buckets of rain. “Thanks a lot, Gamemakers,” I thought. The rain reminded her of her first encounter with Peeta, on that cold, wet, and miserable day. On the afternoon of my encounter with Peeta Malark, the rain was falling in icy sheets. Just like this very moment. How was Peeta doing right now anyway? I was still circling the mutt which had become pointless, but why hasn’t it pounced yet? No time to think about it, time to run. I sprinted toward the forest, hoping that the twists and turns would make her lose the beast. Racing across the forest floor, leaves crunching and branches snapping under my feet, I heard a mockingjay singing a complicated tune. There were only two other people alive, Peeta and Foxface. Foxface never made a sound, so it had to be Peeta. I whistled a minor tune between breaths. There was a response right before the birds repeated it. Another memory flashed through my mind as while listening to each of Peeta’s responses over the birds, trying to find him. I remembered hunting with my papa. When we went hunting, my father would whistle or sing complicated songs to the mockingjay birds, and, after polite pause, the birds would sing back. Oh, how I missed him. Peeta’s bird call grew louder like he was becoming nearer. I stopped just as I saw him and felt a crack on the back of her head. Everything went dark to the sound of Peeta screaming.

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Every morning my father and i would wake up before the sun and walk out to the forest. As we walked the sun would wake up and say good morning with its thousands of colors and warmth. We would play a game of name colors, orange, red, blue purple, green, yellow,white. We would grab berries from bushes. Filling our pouches. There were millions of types. The squishy purple types, the hard and pointy red ones, the square orange ones and the poisonous ones. The forest would greet us with thousands of sounds. When we went hunting, my father would whistle or sing complicated songs to the mocking jays, and, after polite pause, the birds would sing back. I think that one day he will teach me. The other animals would fall silent as my dad whistles and sang. But after the horrible accident my father would not come. So I would go.  Then one day I heard a sound. Slowly, noiselessly, I turn myself in that direction. I turned silent and into a stone. My father had always said the danger won't come unless you call it to you. In my stillness, I begin to notice the animals, including strange birds with brilliant plumage, tree lizards with flickering blue tongues, and something that looks like a cross between a rat and a possum clinging on the branches close to the trunk.  It was staring at my berry pouch and it jumped. I ran and ran. But eventually he caught up.

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Sohani Gauniyal- Different Story Besides Hunger Games

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Sohani Gauniyal- Different Story Besides Hunger Games

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(parenthesis means i inserted the sentence)

The sky was a dark grey, with nothing but the clouds quietly drifting by. This rocky outlook over the wild sea was a calm, serene place. The wind blew softly, but unbeknownst to the king, it would soon kick up into a fervor. The king stood right at the edge of a large drop leading straight to watery doom. But under the waves and water lied a being of great power. A being the king wanted to possess. So he was here, shivering as the cold spray of the sea caressed his face. He wanted to turn around, to go back, because in his heart he knew this was foolish. You can’t control a god. But yet, he still raised his sword to the sky. He wanted this power. With it, he could rule nature itself. All he had to do was say the words, he told himself. That was it. Just say the words, and you will become the ruler of it all. And so he did. (The wind suddenly stopped. And the sea began to foam. And soon, it started to rise. A hulking, terrifying figure. Larger than life itself, it rose from the waves, and the wind started blowing, slicing across the king's face like an ice cold knife.) The king stared at the god, trembling. The god, barely peeking its face over the cliff, opened its eyes. (the wind howled and whipped through the air, dancing around the cowardly king as if to mock him, as the god stood at its full height.) There was nothing to do. The king was powerless, meek, small. (He found himself with no words to speak, as though the world itself had flattened his tongue.)

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A night on the lake                                                                                                    I  slowly, calmly rowed through the creek opening to the lake I lived on. The evening was cool, silent except for the peepers and the splash of my paddle hitting the water. On the fog comes, silent and steady and flat. I know I should head back hope before the fog swallows me, trapping me on the open water. I begin to paddle faster as night comes which will only aid the fog in keeping me here until morning. I try my best to decide which direction my home on the shore was.Slowly, noiselessly, I turn myself in that direction. The animals calm me and seem to guide me. The frogs hopping, the turtles sitting on logs soaking up as much moonlight as they can, even the fish follow my boat in almost a trance.At some point I must have fallen asleep. I bolted up right almost tipping my canoe. I had a horrible dream that I was surrounded by mobs of strangers, and I was never left alone. People keep talking at me, talking, talking, talking. But when I woke I was relieved.  I could see my isolated cottage on the shore, still peacefully alone with nature and my home to keep my company. My house might be quaint and small and not the greatest but its home.

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A night on the lake                                                                                                    I  slowly, calmly rowed through the creek opening to the lake I lived on. The evening was cool, silent except for the peepers and the splash of my paddle hitting the water. On the fog comes, silent and steady and flat. I know I should head back hope before the fog swallows me, trapping me on the open water. I begin to paddle faster as night comes which will only aid the fog in keeping me here until morning. I try my best to decide which direction my home on the shore was.Slowly, noiselessly, I turn myself in that direction. The animals calm me and seem to guide me. The frogs hopping, the turtles sitting on logs soaking up as much moonlight as they can, even the fish follow my boat in almost a trance.At some point I must have fallen asleep. I bolted up right almost tipping my canoe. I had a horrible dream that I was surrounded by mobs of strangers, and I was never left alone. People keep talking at me, talking, talking, talking. But when I woke I was relieved.  I could see my isolated cottage on the shore, still peacefully alone with nature and my home to keep my company. My house might be quaint and small and not the greatest but its home.