Young Writers Society

My eyes peruse the cornucopia, my breathing rapid. A genie lamp with a grain symbol on it, a growling German Shepherd, what looks to be an ordinary cloak, a piece of rope, and a rectangular piece of paper leaning against a wall—those are my choices.

I can take one… Only one item. I thought. And that one item must help me be the only one left at the end of this nightmare. My heart pounds a rhythm to the thought that becomes my mantra—Only one. Only one. Only one. That’s me… The only one. The item I choose will mean life or death to me, the only one on this field I am allowed to care about. I can’t think about Strange, my old friend from District Three—though I don’t know his real name. I can’t think about MaryAnna, either, though she quite reminds me of my sister. I must remember that she is not my sister—that I must survive her in order to---.

The gong sounds, and the race to death has begun. Desperately, my flying feet carry me directly towards the rope. In the nanosecond before I seize the rope and lunge away, I glance at the ticket and glimpse the word ‘celebrity’ on it. Dodging and weaving in a dire attempt to make myself a poor target, I flee towards a copse of trees, seeking shelter.

Straining my ears for any sounds of pursuit, I maneuver swiftly around trees, jumping logs and large rocks. Once the sounds of bloodshed have abated, I allow myself to slow down and scout around. Almost instantly, the sound of percolating water drifts on the breeze to me, and I cautiously follow it, pausing every few yards to listen intently. Just as I glimpse a creek through the trees, I throw myself to the ground, praying that I had not been noticed. One of the other tributes is there, and he has the vicious-looking German Shepherd with him.

Quietly scooping up some loam, I begin rubbing it into my skin, hoping to mask my scent. I retreat several yards from the creek and find a sturdy oak to station myself in. Once nestled in its branches, I examine the rope I still hold. It is a hawser-laid hemp rope, about a foot long. Fingering it, I think of all I could use it for. The Peace Keepers often used one on miscreants; when sodden, it would leave some painful lashes and bruises on any tribute intent on harming me. It could be made into a snare for catching game, or perhaps a noose to snag tributes. Should the situation become dire—well, more so than being alone in an arena full of people intent on trying to kill me, I thought wryly—it could be used as tinder for a fire.

Coiling it up and tucking it into my belt, I feel satisfied with my selection. There is no telling what other creative uses it might have when the blood hits the fan. I know that I would have to be the winner—the only one.