The 2nd Writer Games: Valentines

Task #1 - Entries (Males)

.: Indy Valentine - District One :.

Everyone looks ridiculous. As we rise from the underground prep centre, all suited and glittered up, I cast a calm glance around me at the other tributes, and burst into laughter. One or two throw me confused looks, some even seem disgusted by how I’m treating such a dark situation, but they don’t know how stupid they look as they stand there, breathing heavily with eyes closed. Hell, I can see the beating heart of the girl next to me, it’s thudding against her chest so hard. This is why I’m going to win. I am confident. Nerves can help, but more often than not they slow you down and twist your thoughts.

The advantage is clear right from the off. Most of the idiots are focussing on preparing their minds, rubbing their temples and muttering under their breath and all that bullshit, whereas I take the time to look at the surroundings. If I wanted a pep talk, I’d have given it to myself earlier. You know, before placed in a deadly arena. Morons.

It hardly inspires me, however. Looks like the theme is Soppy Crap this year, each half sickening in its own way. To the left of the cornucopia are large rolling hills, the thick green grass dotted with pink tulips and other flowers that doubtless smell as disgusting as they look, receding into the distance before turning into mountains that look a deep purple in the sunlight. The right is worse, with everything as far as the eye can see made from pure diabetes. Chocolate willows weeping in the sun, covered in a fluffy pink candy floss blossom, toffee paths of a dark brown that look like they could cling to an eel, and hills of icing sparkling away, inviting you in. It could be worse. We won’t starve, though that somewhat defeats the point of The Hunger Games. Someone hired a halfwit game-maker this year.

And the cornucopia... the cornucopia makes me retch in my mouth a little. It’s little more than a glorified mound on a hill, only the mound is made entirely from millions of stones carved into hearts and dip-dyed red. A few tumble down in a mini avalanche just from a gust of wind, and the weapons and provisions, suspended from poles rooted to the ground below, tower high up ahead, tempting tributes to go scrambling for them up the uneven surface. Someone will fall. That much is clear. That someone will not be me, though I will be making the climb. Right at the top, calling me, is a war hammer the like of which I have never seen before. Get that and I win.

As the final seconds tick away, I imagine some of the other tributes thinking deep and tense thoughts. They’re bound to be split up into a few seconds each.

Ten, the boy from five thinks. This is it. This is all or nothing. This is for my mum, and for my dad, and for my fucking girlfriend and all of the other people I love so much.

Five, thinks the girl from eight, scheming away because she’s a right clever little minx. If I run behind that tree, to emerge exactly four point five seven seconds later, running at six metres per second north, then I can outwit everybody. I don’t need strength. I have my bloody brains.

Seriously. I might be exaggerating a little, but she really thinks that tactics can beat strength and skill. It’s cute, really.

Maybe, as the final three seconds come and go, Etsuko is imagining me imagining the others thinking, the clever little girl. That’d serve me right for being so cynical and sarcastic and all, not that I really care. She’s going to die, and I’m not. I could have the personality and wits of a snail and not care. Not that, if that were the case, I would have the capacity of knowing what was going on.

Zero.

I almost forget to run, which would be quite silly. So the others have a small head start. Let them have their hope. All it takes is a bit of effort, a little strain on the muscles and a grimace of the face, and I’m back level, and then slightly in front, and then way out in the lead. It’s seconds before the others reach the cornucopia, and by then I’m halfway up, scrambling in a deliberately messy fashion so as to send hearts tumbling down at them. A little show of love.