And So I'm Stupid For Thinking They

I Search His Eyes For The Slightest Sign Of Anything, Fear, Remorse, Anger. But There's Only The Same Look Of Amusement That Ended Our Last Conversation. It's As If He's Speaking The Words Again. "oh, My Dear Miss Everdeen. I Thought We Had Agreed Not To Lie To Each Other." He's Right. We Did. The Point Of My Arrow Shifts Upward. I Release The String. And President Coin Collapses Over The Side Of The Balcony And Plunges To The Ground. Dead.

So At Least Half The Victors Have Instructed Their Mentors To Request You As An Ally. I Know It Can't Be Your Sunny Personality.” “they Saw Her Shoot,” Says Peeta With A Smile. “actually, I Saw Her Shoot, For Real, For The First Time. I'm About To Put In A Formal Request Myself.” “you're That Good?” Haymitch Asks Me.

I’m In A Shallow Hole, Not Filled With The Humming Orange Bubbles Of My Hallucination But With Old, Dead Leaves.

She Reaches In, Digs Her Hand Deep Into The Ball, And Pulls Out A Slip Of Paper. The Crowd Draws In A Collective Breath, And Then You Can Hear A Pin Drop, And I'm Feeling Nauseous And So Desperately Hoping That It's Not Me, That It's Not Me, That It's Not Me. Effie Trinket Crosses Back To The Podium, Smoothes The Slip Of Paper, And Reads Out The Name In A Clear Voice. And It's Not Me. It's Primrose Everdeen.

I'm Not A Very Fancy Person. I've Been A Writer A Long Time, And Right Now 'the Hunger Games' Is Getting A Lot Of Focus. It'll Pass. The Focus Will Be On Something Else. It'll Shift. It Always Does. And That Seems Just Fine.