The Third Annual Writer's Game: Roots

Hannibal Ad Portas | Males

District One - Aidyl Desperado

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District Three - Drake Byte

Was killed after stepping off his plate prematurely.

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District Four - Eton Morgan

There was a time when sunsets held a certain beauty to them. There was a time when the soft fade from a brilliant bright blue to a mauve was fascinating and entrancing. It was like watching watercolors, smears of paint layered over a white canvas. But now the white canvas was stained with blood, harsh reds depriving the sunset of any of its beauty. The stars, now just showing their faces, were smothered in the dripping scarlet. A masterpiece was ruined by carelessly spilt paint.

The evening air was frigid, my breath fogging before my eyes. I watched from afar as the other Careers sat huddled in a circle around our fire, some washing the blood off their hands, most laughing in glee at the huge stockpile of weapons they'd collected. They chatted, their weapons shining in the firelight, some gleaming silver, most gleaming red. Their laughs echoed in the clearing, each reminding me of those they killed, and my hands were the bloodiest of all.

I jumped off my pedestal, running towards the center. Not because I wanted to. No, only to please my mother, who was for sure watching. If I was sane, or here of my own will, I would run to save my life, leaving behind all supplies and chance of death. But I'm not. And I have 'honor' to restore, so I sprint towards the bounty of weapons hoping and praying that I won't have to kill anyone to get what I need.

The other Careers look over at me, watching in wonder as I strip the bark from a tree, using a borrowed knife. Sap clings to the steel, threatening to rip the knife out of my grip, to ruin all the progress I've made. But it doesn't. It lets me continue to create my own makeshift canvas. The outlying edges of the bark peel away with ease, not marring the soft innards of the tree. It was like reaching the Cornucopia. Almost too easy.

The center wasn't hard to reach because no one bothered to stop me. Everyone was too busy focusing on their own survival, whether that be avoiding the Careers or running away. Weapons and first aid kits laid scattered about, many tributes stopping to stoop down and collect means for their survival. One tribute, the girl from Eight, stooped down to retrieve a weapon. She never stood back up.

I step back and stare at the pristine white canvas I've created. All the sap was collected for later use, and the bark thrown into the fire, leaving me with what I desperately want. The canvas is pure. My hands are not. I reach down to the ground to pick up a water bottle and use it to splash my face, the icy water waking me up and clearing my thoughts. Next I cleanse my hands from dirt and blood, none of my guilt flowing away with it.

After witnessing the first death in the arena, I didn't stop running. No, not until I reached the heart of the weapons, where I could have my pick of any weapon. Not that I've used any weapon before, so I don't know why I waited until I had too many choices. The weapons around me gleam in the sunlight, beckoning other tributes around them to come closer and have their pick of the stainless steel.

I turn the knife around in my hand, before finally throwing it into the dirt beneath me. Then I grab the water bottle and pour out half the contents onto the ground, the dirt quickly shifting into a thick black mud. My paintbrush easily scoops up the mud, chunks of dirt marring the 'paint.'

"What do you think you're doing! We'll need that water later!" One of the Career's shout at me, and shoves me away from the mud puddle I've created, but I barely perceive it. All my mind is focused on it painting my thoughts. Painting is the only thing to break the haze I'm in. I stagger over to my canvas and begin to create thin lines of black, contrasting to the white beneath.