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31_days2012-07-04 06:25 pm
seta-suzume.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2012-07-04 06:25 pm
[July 4] [The Hunger Games] Set a Precedent
Title: Set a Precedent
Day/Theme: July 4, 2012 "I'm coming up for air."
Series: The Hunger Games series
Character/Pairing: Mags, OCs
Rating: PG
Author's comment: Ah, okay, so I've been writing about Mags on and off lately. And in this piece (of something larger eventually), we have the teenage Mags as our narrator.
"I volunteer!" I shout, for a girl who is not my sister, my cousin, my friend, my anything, really. Before today it is true that I knew her name, but much more than that I can't really claim. She is a tiny little girl, so precious certainly to those who know and love her. Who are we? Who is District 4, if we can send a twelve year old off to die (because an untrained twelve year old surely will)?
Everyone is looking at me and many of their mouths hang open in shock. There are rules in place that allow for volunteers. There are. The way some of these people are looking I feel the need to reassure myself of that. Even if what I am doing is the height of foolishness when taking my own life and well-being into consideration, at least it has meaning.
"Come," our ridiculous district representative urges, waving her green false fingernails my way, "Come, come here!"
Staring girls part to let me through. I reach Faline. She's staring too. I pass here and climb the rickety wooden stairs up to the platform. Milly and Marc's father built these stairs at the request of our visitors from the Capitol, but not under their supervision. They wobble under my feet and I wonder if he hoped for some stuck-up Capitol citizen to fall awkwardly off of them on live television. If I fall now, I wonder if people will laugh, but fortunately I'm cautious enough and light on my feet. I hop up onto the sturdier platform and shuffle to Apple's side.
She's very thin and tall for a woman. In her flamboyant outfit of pinks and greens and lilacs she looks like a rare and expensive green house orchid. I've never seen one in person, but pictures in books will serve where plants with no practical use are concerned.
"Happy Reaping Day to you, Miss!" Apple chirps. This is exciting for her, I think, if the way her unnaturally emerald eyes are widening is any indication. "Please," she turns the microphone toward me, "Why don't you let all of us know your name?"
"It's Mags," I say, and my quiet tone wavers and expands within the microphone, "Mags Gaudet." Well, everyone calls me Mags. …Should I have properly identified myself as "Margaret?"
"Mags Gaudet, everyone!" Apple repeats and things aren't so strange and scary when I find myself wanting to roll my eyes and say, "Pretty much all these people know me anyway, Ms. Smitt," except that it would be rude of me. …And I realize after a moment that she's doing it for all the other people who are or who will be watching. People in the other districts. People in the Capitol.
I almost feel like I'm not really there on the platform in front of the cameras. I feel like I'm somewhere else- still out in the crowd, maybe- watching myself and I look half like I'm some stoic lighthouse rising above the sea and half like I'm a seasick Capitol citizen about to faint onto the deck of a shuddering shrimp boat. …If that's what I look like to myself, what do the "viewers at home," like they like to say, think of me?
Faline Beaumont doesn't look anything like me, but she's enough younger that's she's probably not my close friend, so, presumably, Apple doesn't know what else to ask. "And the girl you've volunteered for, Mags, she's your…cousin?"
"No," I tell the truth, "Just a…girl I know." But when I say it like that it sounds weak and empty. Whether or not I am either of those things, the Mags that I want Panem to see is not. I'm probably going to die in a few days (the reality of it doesn't sink in immediately). But not because the Capitol chose me- because I chose myself. "In District 4," I begin, hoping that the words turn out all right, "We make it a priority to take care of our own. I'm sure a lot of you can relate to that. I might not be able to win, but at least I have a chance."
"My, how noble!" Apple responds with a cutesy stage gasp.
I force myself to decorate my face with a tiny smile to accent my modest nod. More than enough time has been spent on me when there's still a boy to draw. I take my seat as indicated and Apple moves on, back to the bowl full of names. The eyes of our District 4 audience are divided about evenly now between Apple and me.
Death is pretty much inevitable, but I hope that I've managed to leave my mark. I am the first volunteer out of District 4. To the best of my knowledge (as seen through the scope of the Capitol's presentation, that is), I am the first tribute who volunteered for someone she barely knew.
I realize there is someone important I have forgotten in my selfish moment. I stop staring at nothing and look at my father. He's frowning, gazing back at me. He probably never took his eyes off me from the moment I called out in the crowd.
It was Papa who taught me how minuscule the difference could be between martyrdom and insanity. Sometimes they're the same thing.
I lift up my hand and send my fingers sailing in a rippling wave.
"Jean Paul Mirande!" Apple Smitt calls from the boys.
---
[to be continued, but here or elsewhere, I am not quite sure yet :/]
Day/Theme: July 4, 2012 "I'm coming up for air."
Series: The Hunger Games series
Character/Pairing: Mags, OCs
Rating: PG
Author's comment: Ah, okay, so I've been writing about Mags on and off lately. And in this piece (of something larger eventually), we have the teenage Mags as our narrator.
"I volunteer!" I shout, for a girl who is not my sister, my cousin, my friend, my anything, really. Before today it is true that I knew her name, but much more than that I can't really claim. She is a tiny little girl, so precious certainly to those who know and love her. Who are we? Who is District 4, if we can send a twelve year old off to die (because an untrained twelve year old surely will)?
Everyone is looking at me and many of their mouths hang open in shock. There are rules in place that allow for volunteers. There are. The way some of these people are looking I feel the need to reassure myself of that. Even if what I am doing is the height of foolishness when taking my own life and well-being into consideration, at least it has meaning.
"Come," our ridiculous district representative urges, waving her green false fingernails my way, "Come, come here!"
Staring girls part to let me through. I reach Faline. She's staring too. I pass here and climb the rickety wooden stairs up to the platform. Milly and Marc's father built these stairs at the request of our visitors from the Capitol, but not under their supervision. They wobble under my feet and I wonder if he hoped for some stuck-up Capitol citizen to fall awkwardly off of them on live television. If I fall now, I wonder if people will laugh, but fortunately I'm cautious enough and light on my feet. I hop up onto the sturdier platform and shuffle to Apple's side.
She's very thin and tall for a woman. In her flamboyant outfit of pinks and greens and lilacs she looks like a rare and expensive green house orchid. I've never seen one in person, but pictures in books will serve where plants with no practical use are concerned.
"Happy Reaping Day to you, Miss!" Apple chirps. This is exciting for her, I think, if the way her unnaturally emerald eyes are widening is any indication. "Please," she turns the microphone toward me, "Why don't you let all of us know your name?"
"It's Mags," I say, and my quiet tone wavers and expands within the microphone, "Mags Gaudet." Well, everyone calls me Mags. …Should I have properly identified myself as "Margaret?"
"Mags Gaudet, everyone!" Apple repeats and things aren't so strange and scary when I find myself wanting to roll my eyes and say, "Pretty much all these people know me anyway, Ms. Smitt," except that it would be rude of me. …And I realize after a moment that she's doing it for all the other people who are or who will be watching. People in the other districts. People in the Capitol.
I almost feel like I'm not really there on the platform in front of the cameras. I feel like I'm somewhere else- still out in the crowd, maybe- watching myself and I look half like I'm some stoic lighthouse rising above the sea and half like I'm a seasick Capitol citizen about to faint onto the deck of a shuddering shrimp boat. …If that's what I look like to myself, what do the "viewers at home," like they like to say, think of me?
Faline Beaumont doesn't look anything like me, but she's enough younger that's she's probably not my close friend, so, presumably, Apple doesn't know what else to ask. "And the girl you've volunteered for, Mags, she's your…cousin?"
"No," I tell the truth, "Just a…girl I know." But when I say it like that it sounds weak and empty. Whether or not I am either of those things, the Mags that I want Panem to see is not. I'm probably going to die in a few days (the reality of it doesn't sink in immediately). But not because the Capitol chose me- because I chose myself. "In District 4," I begin, hoping that the words turn out all right, "We make it a priority to take care of our own. I'm sure a lot of you can relate to that. I might not be able to win, but at least I have a chance."
"My, how noble!" Apple responds with a cutesy stage gasp.
I force myself to decorate my face with a tiny smile to accent my modest nod. More than enough time has been spent on me when there's still a boy to draw. I take my seat as indicated and Apple moves on, back to the bowl full of names. The eyes of our District 4 audience are divided about evenly now between Apple and me.
Death is pretty much inevitable, but I hope that I've managed to leave my mark. I am the first volunteer out of District 4. To the best of my knowledge (as seen through the scope of the Capitol's presentation, that is), I am the first tribute who volunteered for someone she barely knew.
I realize there is someone important I have forgotten in my selfish moment. I stop staring at nothing and look at my father. He's frowning, gazing back at me. He probably never took his eyes off me from the moment I called out in the crowd.
It was Papa who taught me how minuscule the difference could be between martyrdom and insanity. Sometimes they're the same thing.
I lift up my hand and send my fingers sailing in a rippling wave.
"Jean Paul Mirande!" Apple Smitt calls from the boys.
---
[to be continued, but here or elsewhere, I am not quite sure yet :/]