We all have dreams. Wishes that never came true. But hidden under our deepest desires are our scariest nightmares, fears that could possibly come true if we are to be courageous in the face of death.
My fear certainly came true. The Writer’s Games it’s like some sick joke – “fatten a kid, kill a kid” isn’t that what they say? It’s like the meat industry, grow and breed animals for slaughter. It disgusts me.
Staring at the white landscape from my small, silver stand – it was hard not to see your life flash before your eyes. Swallowing my pride, I allowed myself a moment of vulnerability – the first and last time I would. I thought out my plan. I needed a weapon, but more importantly, I needed supplies.
Bags full of meagre ice-related supplies littered to frozen landscape between the tribute’s stands and the shining, cornucopia in the centre. – The horn glistening like solid gold. The more valuable the item, the closer it was to the cornucopia. Those usually went to the Careers, since the weaker tributes wouldn’t dare to go any closer than absolutely necessary, unless they were trained and actually could get in and out without getting a knife to the back or whatever.
When the countdown ends, everyone – except for the few idiots who weren’t paying attention – explode from their starting places, either hurling towards the bloodbath in the centre or running to safety with nothing.
Sliding along the ice and scoop up a backpack and a pickaxe of some description. By now, the snow and ice underfoot is stained red. Bodies litter the ground, lives ruined in a matter of seconds. Backing up, I whirled around and sped off toward the ocean/mountains. Maybe I could find food there, and shelter. Then all I had to do was wait.
This is About Survival of the Fittest.