The Thirsty Games: a Hunger Games Parody | Teen Ink

The Thirsty Games: a Hunger Games Parody

March 4, 2012
By ava4ever, Woodland Park, Colorado
More by this author
ava4ever, Woodland Park, Colorado
0 articles 0 photos 2 comments

Favorite Quote:
Hence we are hard, we children of the Earth
And in our lives of toil, we prove our birth

Ovid's Metamorphoses

Author's note: This is a parody inspired by the book the Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins. The plot line parallels the Hunger Games in some ways, but has its own twists and turns. Even though our names are changed, I wrote this for a friend of mine, hence the use of "you".

The author's comments:
Please have read the Hunger Games beforehand to understand the full scope of the humor. Thank you.

Negative sixty seconds. That’s all we get to take in the entire arena, our adversaries, and come up with a plan. The countdown begins as soon as we drop onto our pedestals. Falling off isn’t advisable – that leads to a thirty foot drop into the arena below. Right now, it’s filling up with water. It’ll take sixty seconds to fill it up to the bottoms of our pedestals. Then it’s a free for all for the Bread Basket, a twenty foot wide bowl, which, contrary to its name, holds no bread at all. Just an array of weapons, packs filled with miscellaneous things, and other things. If you can hoist yourself into the Break Basket, you can grab anything you want – as long as no one else wants to take it.

I glance around, observing each other the forty-eight contestants. This year is the second Nickel Crush in which twice the players have been added. So, in any case, this isn’t going to be fun.

Anyway, my eyes finally meet with my partner, you. You’re French Bread Taylor, the baker’s daughter, but I call you Frenchy for short. We give each other a nod.

You make a few signs with your hands that I interpret as, “You jump in and toss stuff to me.”

I sign back. “That’s cool.” We both know I’m the better swimmer.

Our sixty second countdown has rounded down to the tens. A voice comes onto an intercom to relay the counts to us. Ten. I position myself to dive into the steadily rising water. Nine. I can see you have done the same. Eight. The water is nearly lapping at my feet. Seven. I’m getting a little bored. Sure, the intensity of the countdown sends adrenaline shooting through me, but a countdown from five would have done just the same. I’m busy complaining for the seven to four counts. Hearing the three snaps me out of it. Three. I glance over at you and you’re gesturing angrily at me. I interpret it as “Ginger! You idiot! Focus!”

That me. Ginger Root Lastingprofessor.

“Alright, alright!” I sign back just as the two rings across the manmade lake.


I launch myself off the pedestal, making a nice dive. All I can think is, “This water is exceedingly cold.” I pump my arms and swim. The water is churning with the splashing of forty-eight people struggling to swim for the Break Basket. It has to be a fifty yard swim.

I reach it relatively first, though someone could be on the other side and I don’t know it. I catch you in the corner of my eye. It takes some leverage, but I manage to hoist myself up the two or three foot high lip of the basket, made of silver.

Groaning and sodden, I splash into the basket, landing on several packs. There’s someone on the other side, but he ignores me as he rifles through things. I pick the heaviest, nearest satchel.

“Frenchy!” I call over the side and I can see you treading water. “Catch!”

The satchel splashes you in the face, but you bring the strap over your shoulder anyway. I’m busy rifling through the other things so I don’t notice right away. More people have made it into the Bread Basket. Two girls are tugging on a pink backpack. Another group is tripping over a pile of weapons. I make my way over.

Meanwhile, you’ve just placed the strap over your shoulder and started for the Bread Basket when a boy jumps onto the lip. There’s only a few of you in the water now, just those with partners much less awesome than I am. He spots you and raises his arm. You realize with alarm that he’s holding a harpoon. You don’t want to become like the next Moby Dick so you bring the satchel up in front of your face and duck beneath the water. The harpoon hits the satchel and sticks, but you’re safe.

You pop back out of the water and shout, “Ha! Ha!”

The boy jumps back into the Bread Basket and emerges with another harpoon.

“Oh snap!” you say and start backpedaling as fast as you can.

Then I arrive, arms full with things. I see you’re busy so I don’t bother throwing them to you. Nonchalantly, I sneak behind the one boy, who’s targeting you with the harpoon. I give him a kick to his outstretched butt and he topples into the water.

“You’re welcome!” I call, tossing you the things and jumping in after you. I have another satchel slung on.

“Ginger! You splashed me in the face.”
“Quit complaining! Let’s move!”

Together, we swim. The only problem is there was nowhere to go. The arena is still flooded with water and would be for a few more minutes before it’s drained. We plan to be far away from the Bread Basket before then.

You gesture over to one of the empty pedestals and we swim for it, keeping a close eye over our shoulders for any followers. But everyone is either doing the same things as we are or battling it out in the Bread Basket. We latch onto the pedestal, breathing hard and soaking wet.

I wipe the water from my eyes.

“What’d you get?” you ask, hoisting the satchel onto the pedestal.

“I didn’t really check. Uh… a few knives, some duct tape… maybe a few water bottles.” Which were pointless considering we were in a freshwater lake. We could drink ourselves silly and not have to worry about finding another source. Then again, it would be draining in a few minutes and this was the Thirsty Games. “Is that a harpoon?”

“Pretty nifty huh?”

“Sure thing!” I say with enthusiasm.

We exchange hi-fives and then sink back down in the water.

“What’s next?” I ask, watching a girl go shrieking over the edge of the Bread Basket, holding that pink bag. She splutters as she emerges and holds the bag in victory.

You’re watching too, but then you turn to me. “It’s not her color.”

I agree.

“Anyway, Wheatitch said we’re supposed to do this and then find food.”

“Right. Food. Got’cha.”
The lake starts to drain, pulling us all back toward the center. We cling to the pole that holds the pedestal aloft and begin to sink toward the unknown arena below. What would it hold? No one can know.
Anyone left in the Bread Basket is abandoning it, leaping over the side with their arms full. I can tell by the number of people floating in the water that many hadn’t made it out. It takes a few minutes for it to drain, much slower than it had to fill. Many of the other contestants are weighted down with supplies and begin to swim toward us, ‘cause they know we got it right.
It’s like a scene from the Titanic. One kid is trying to blow up a floating whale while simultaneously swimming. Two others come along and take the whale from him. One continues the kid’s work and the other dunks the kid repeatedly, laughing maniacally.
“Back off!” I shout, kicking one boy away who is trying for our pole. He takes the hint and backs off. This happens several more times. Once or twice, I have to send and hook kick around the pole because someone’s trying to choke you. You kick someone off when they go for your harpoon, screaming “My harpoon!” in a bloody rage.
I raise an eyebrow.
“I won it. I deserve to keep it,” you respond testily.
Below us, the arena begins to take shape. Snow-capped mountains form below us, the tip of the tallest already poking out of the surface of the water. It is on the other side of the arena, so there is no point in trying to go for it. Besides, it would be a hassle to climb all the way down it. There would be no food on top of the mountain, and it would be cold even though everyone was clad in water resistant, thick, bright orange coats, hot pink swimming shorts and neon green tennis shoes. Underneath the coat is an equally bright yellow t-shirt. Everything is soaked through at this point.
You seem to reach the same conclusion as me, because you give me a shrug. We peer at the water beneath, trying to decipher what lies under us. Three seconds later, our feet hit solid earth. Both of us are surprised and we continue falling. We tumble several times in opposite directions before coming to a rest at the bottom of the hill our pedestal’s pole protrudes from.
I groan and hear you doing the same. We sit up and meet at halfway around the hill. You’re rubbing your neck and I’m doing likewise with my shoulder.
“That sucked.”
We both glance at our surroundings. The arena seems to be made of layers. The first layer, located the farthest out, all around the circular arena, is made up of mountains, completely covered in snow and jagged. Impossible to climb. The next is a coniferous forest, made of pine trees packed so close together I couldn’t see the land underneath. The third is what we are standing on. Hills rolling over the landscape, completely covered in snow. Below us, toward the center, is grassland that then broke into what looks like a rainforest. Beyond that is hard to tell, as it is still undulating water. The Bread Basket shines above all of us.
I squint at the sun. It’s early morning.
“What now?”
“Food,” we say at the same time.
We wring out our coats and swimming shorts, but it’ll be hours until they’re dry.
“Which way? Up or down?”
“Down’s where everyone else is,” you begin, and we both watch two people who landed too close together battle it out. “Or they’re on the same level as us. I say we go up and find a good place to sort through things.”
You mean our packs, but I get what you’re saying.
I fix my satchel so it better fits on my shoulder. You do the same. I give a broad sweep of my arm and say, “After you.”
We trek upward at a soft angle, slowly making the circle around the arena. We ascend into the coniferous forest and have to slow our pace. The trees are thick and closely packed together. There is no discernable path, so you pull out your harpoon and use the pointed tip to cut one. Neither of us is afraid of the other contestants. We’re strong and frankly, awesome. Besides, you have your harpoon and I have a few knives. Two of them are my favorites. I name them Slasher and Dasher – Slasher’s the one with the serrated edge.
Hours pass, though the sun hasn’t begun to sink yet. Still, the temperature is cold. Our bright orange coats are stiff and frozen, while our hot pink swimming trunks are frosted over. Our shoes have stopped making that annoying squishy sound, but are cold. If it wasn’t for the fact we are moving, we would be freezing to death.
“Frenchy,” I say, rubbing my arms to get the circulation flowing.
“I’m beginning to question your choices.” I gesture toward the beach, which we could clearly see from where we are, way up in the trees. There are a few contestants out sun bathing – then again, they could be dead. “Soaking up the sun sure sounds better than freezing to death in the trees.”
“Don’t be such a whimp,” you say irritably, but you’re shaking slightly from the cold. The trees block out any sun and our sodden shoes don’t provide any protection from the cold of the snow. “Are you saying we should start heading downhill when the sun’s about to set? You know most of them are down there.”
“Yeah, and you have a harpoon. Besides, we’re a great tag team! We could manage for a few hours.”
“By the time we get down there, it’ll be night and we’ll have to make camp.”
I weigh my tiredness against my coldness and say, “I think it’d be worth it if we can clear our own spot for a while. Maybe even start a fire. That’d be nice wouldn’t it?”
You just scoff and shake your head.
“We should probably go through our packs first though,” I continue, ducking under a branch, which you purposefully position to smack me in the face. “Maybe we’ll have something that’ll blow the competition away.”
You stop, so I do too, and squint at the sun. I hold up my hand and compare the width against the distance the sun is from the horizon.
“I’d say we have about three hours ‘till sundown. We should probably look for some food and shelter for tonight.”
“Ginger, your insight intrigues me,” you say sarcastically (but not really).
I roll my eyes and smile. “So what’s the plan, Stan?”
“Food comes first. We can tough it out for one night if we don’t have time to make camp,” you say, beginning again.
I follow nonchalantly. “Think you can spear a squirrel with a harpoon?”
“Oh definitely! ‘Cause you know I’m that amazing.”
“Well there’s one right now,” I say, pointing at a tree.
You spin around and hurl your harpoon at the tree. “Hi-yah!” It breaks through the branches and lands several yards away. I hadn’t really seen a squirrely but after you break so many branches, I see one skitter up the side and leap into another tree. It misses by a few inches and crashes to the ground. Dead.
We both approach the squirrel slowly and stare down at it, befuddled. The poor thing has a shocked look on his face, his eyes wide and mouth wide open. Still, our stomachs growl at the sight of it.
“Do you know how to cook a squirrel?”
“Not really.”
“Me neither.”
“This is gonna turn out like our cake isn’t it?”
“At least that was edible.”
I turn to give you a smug smile. “Hey, I bet you I can make a mean squirrel soup.”
You laugh sarcastically. “Oh yeah? I make a better one!”
Hours later, we have a fire going steadily. Our feet warm by it, and we’re hungrily eating fresh squirrel soup and quiche.
“Wow Frenchy, this squirrel soup tastes so good!” I say between mouthfuls.
“A lot better than yours huh?” you reply, smirking.
“Well, I did have a lot less squirrel to work with,” I amend. “After all, you took most of it to make your excellent quiche. But hey, at least there was meat left since it died of natural causes. Your harpoon would’ve speared it all off.”
You straighten indignantly. “Excuse me! You were the one saying I couldn’t do it!”
“And you didn’t!”
“I meant to scare the squirrel off the tree with my harpoon. And it worked!”
I gobble up the quiche. “Whatever. As long as it worked.”
“My point exactly.”
“Golly Frenchy, this quiche is divine,” I say.
You look smug. “Well, I guess we know who ruined the cake, Ginger!”
“What? I was the only reason that cake was edible!”
“No, I think I just proved my cooking skills are far superior to yours in every way.”
I scoff and wave at her dismissively. “Sure Frenchy. You rock and whatnot. With you around we’ll never go hungry!” What I don’t mention is it’s because you’re the baker’s daughter and have more cooking experience than I do.
You cross your arms and sit back. “Darn tootin’ we aren’t.”
“Say, where’d you find all the supplies to cook this quiche?”
You point to your satchel at your side. “There were spices and everything in here!”
I gaze quizzically at the bag, but don’t question it. We had sorted through our stuff while the soup and quiche were cooking, our frozen feet stretched out by the fire. We found we have three rolls of duct tape in varying shades, four more knives – though some only seemed to be for eating and not killing – a pair of thermal pants in a pleasant shade of fuchsia that we’d immediately pulled on over our swimming shorts, a sleeping bag for each of us, some rope, a water bottle for each of us, and some packages of dried fish. Apparently, your backpack holds more things than I think, including dishes to cook the quiche in, but I don’t question the Entertainment Manufacturers’ – or as we call them, Fun-Suckers’ – decision. They can put into the games whatever they want.
We finish off the quiche, seeing that it won’t keep until morning but save the soup, and then crawl into our sleeping bags. Snow starts to lightly fall, dusting the already snow-covered ground with a new layer. The sleeping bags keep out the cold, but we have to pull our hoods over our heads so our faces don’t freeze off. We fall asleep.
The sun rises and wakes us immediately. We pack up our satchels and continue on our spiral upward. The snow has to be four inches deep now. Not too much to handle, but annoying when walking long distances. Luckily, our pants help to keep out the cold, but our shoes are too absorbent for their own good.
By the time it’s midday, the temperature has barely improved. We’re exhausted, tired and hungry. Our water bottles are empty, but we fill them with snow in hopes it’ll melt. If not, we’ll just have to start eating it.
“Remember Frenchy,” I say as we stuff the snow into our bottles with freezing, burning hands. “Stay away from the yellow snow.”
“Thanks Ginger,” you say, shaking your head. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
We continue on our way, seeing no indication of any animals since the squirrel. Not even a pile of poop. Eventually, we break down and feed our grumbling stomachs with the dried fish. It’s salty and cold, which doesn’t make it any more palatable. Between the two of us, we eat half of the fish and hope we won’t have to eat the other half for a while.
It is afternoon now, and we’ve stopped to take a break. We’re nearly out of the trees now. We can tell by how hard it’s getting to breathe, how much thinner the air is. But we like it this way. We’re from Dub P! The mountain neighborhood of Panem.
Anyhow, we’re resting and my stomach starts to rumble. I can hear yours too, but you don’t say anything.
“You know,” I begin nonchalantly. “I’m starting to wish I could eat my words.”
“You know what Ginger? It’s not my fault there aren’t any squirrels!”
I can’t think of a clever come back in a reasonable amount of time so I let it drop. Instead, I turn to the tree I am leaning against and start hacking away at the bark.
“What are you doing?” you ask.
“I read this in something,” I say, pulling out the soft bark beneath the tough exterior. “The bark is edible.”
You laugh and shake your head. “I’m not desperate enough to eat bark just yet Ginger.”
I place a bit in my mouth and start to chew. I can’t really tell what my expression is, but the taste of it is worse than I imagined. It tastes, well, like bark. Maybe cardboard soaked in mud. Anyhow, I barely manage to choke it down. It does nothing to sate my grumbling stomach.
“Yeah, not worth it,” I say, frowning and trying to get the taste out of my mouth with snow.
“You’re not gonna start catching bugs and eating them Bear Grylls style are you?”
I shudder. “Definitely not.”
Just then, we hear a rattling, a crashing through the trees. We both stiffen and take a few steps toward each other. Terrified and panicked, we both latch onto each other’s sleeves and hold on for dear life. Okay, admittedly, we both wet out pants a little – A LITTLE! It’s barely noticeable.
I gain my composure first
“Hey!” I complain, trying to push you off.
We release each other instantaneously and sort of shove one another because we’re embarrassed. We’re in the Thirsty Games for Peeta’s sake! Here to kill other people. A little more self-control would be nice.
“Watch it! I–” you start to say but cut off.
Two people burst into the same clearing, only a few feet from where we’re standing. Elk Face and Nutmeg. They’re holding sticks and clubs, ferocious looks in they’re eyes. But they’re old friends of ours, so you relax and let go of me.
“Hey guys! How’s it going?” you asked, taking a few steps toward them.
Elk Face screeches like a Banshee and swings her club at you.
“Oh! Jeez!” you stutter out and lurch back.
We grab hold of each other’s sleeves and make a break for it. Trees appear out of nowhere as we run blindly and we smack into them. Branches break. Bushes are stepped in. Roots and rocks tripped over. Until I realize something and stop in my tracks.
“Don’t stop!” you shriek, trying to pull me along.
“Frenchy! We have weapons too!”
You fall still and think about it a moment. Then, with a sly grin, you pull your harpoon from the satchel. “Right! Steve!”
“He’s my harpoon!”
I don’t have time to respond because Elk Face and Nutmeg crash through the trees, mere feet from us. With a bad-ass look on my face, I drew Slasher and Dasher. You take Steve into both hands and we prepare for attack.
It takes us all of three minutes to disarm Elk Face and Nutmeg. We hesitant in finishing the job until Elk Face tried to gnaw off your finger, and then we end it quickly. Neither of us are exactly proud of ourselves as we stare down on our fading adversaries in a mixture of guilt, pity, and apathy.
“I bet you’ll forget about us by tomorrow,” Elk Face chokes out, barely holding on.
I frown. “What do you mean?”
You and I share a look. “Who’s there?”
“See! You’ve… already… forgotten…” She falls limp.

We sit in our nice little cave, somewhere between the coniferous forest layer and the mountain layer, nursing our cuts and bruises from Nutmeg and Elk Face’s clubs and sticks. Night is only a few hours away, when the day should have been at its warmest, but it’s freezing and we’re shivering uncontrollably. We risk a fire, doubting anyone would venture up this far before night. Or should I say, no one is stupid enough – except us.
“I say we go up,” I say, poorly mimicking your tone.
You scoff. “I did not say that!”
“You did too! Let’s go up! Down’s where everyone else is!” I rub my arms because they’re freezing cold. “You know why everyone is down there? It’s warm.”
“Yeah, but that’s where most people have died,” you say, warming your hands over the fire. “Would you rather be warm and dead? Or cold and alive?”
“Is that a trick question?” I grumble, looking out the opening of our cave.
Snow might be falling where we are, but, if you look past the white flakes, you can see the beach. The sun is still warming it and I swear I can see the heat radiating up from the soft sand. I close my eyes and pretend I’m there. Of course, I could probably abandon you here, but, really, where would you get without me? Obviously, I’d have to make the decisions from now on.
“You know what?” you begin and I feel as though I should listen because you have something important to say. Usually I try to tune you out. “I think we should solve this dilemma.”
Here it comes. Crazy, out of our minds time. “What dilemma?”
“We can’t have people bathing on the beach.”
“How? I mean, they’re so warm and we’re so cold.”
From your satchel, you pull out a bundle of red candles. I’m about to laugh when I realize that, wait, those aren’t candles. They’re sticks of dynamite. You pet them with an evil, mischievous grin on your face.
“We’ll blow it up.”
I smile. “I like the way you think… Apart from the ‘Let’s go up’ part.”
“Oh my gosh, Ginger! Are you still on that?”
“I’m good,” I say. “So anyway, how are we gonna go about this?”

After making our plans we rest for the night. True, there were some minor details to work out, but it would take us an entire day’s hike to get back down to the beach. Our sleeping bags are nice and heat-reflecting, so the cold only reaches our faces.
Morning comes, and in the soft rays of early morning, we pack up and head out. The temperature’s even colder, getting to the point where we eventually bring our arms inside our jackets, letting the sleeves dangle. There isn’t an animal in sight as we trek downhill, making fresh prints in the snow. The only prints around.
And we’re hungry. Last night we’d shared our last dried fish and melted snow. But it’s only been a day, so technically we have a week before we should worry about dying from it. Then again, physical exertion usually cuts that time in half. I figure I shouldn’t mention this though. Don’t want you worrying yourself. Unless you’re already thinking the same thing as me, then thanks! I don’t want to hear it.
It’s late evening and we’ve only just made it to the middle of the rainforest. It’s considerably hotter, so we shed our longer fuchsia pants and coats and hike around in our bright yellow shirts and hot pink swimming shorts. We stuff the extra in our satchels.
“Wanna stop for the night?” I ask, exhausted.
“I can go a little longer,” you say.
I grimace, but then smile and pull ahead, taking the lead. “Yeah, me too.” Secretly, I’m thinking: Great… More walking.
It’s night by the time we find a decent opening in the jungle to plop down and sleep. We lay out our sleeping bags and immediately fall asleep. Are we worried about people coming and killing us in our sleep? Not with Slasher, Dasher and Steve around.
Besides, no one comes. I awake just a few hours before dawn and shake you until you do too. You bring Steve up defensively, but you see it’s me, grumble, and roll over. Then you ignore me.
“Don’t you wanna make the beach go boom?” I ask, lightly kicking you. “Sixty foot high plumes of flames?”
You sit up grudgingly. “I want one hundred foot high plumes of flames!”
We pack up camp and start for the beach. It’s considerably warmer down here, compared to the freezing temperatures just miles away. We don’t even need our jackets. The sun’s just beginning to rise when we reach the beach.
Stealthily we crouch behind a bush on the edge of the forest, peering through the thick foliage. There are people littered everyone, some evidently dead, some possibly dead, and others obviously alive. A lot of them are sporting sun burns, bikinis, Speedos, and look! – there’s that whale from the beginning of the games! The same two boys are holding onto it. Then there’s also the boy who harpooned you. I notice most of the girls in the bikinis are with the guys.
The Professional pack.
“So what’s the plan Stan?” I whisper.
“Stop calling me Stan.”
“What’s the plan Ste-fan.”
You scowl at me.
I smile back.
“We blow it up,” you say after a moment of our joyous exchange. You laugh maniacally and paw at the dynamite again.
“We can’t just blow it up! The Professionals are gonna run away before they get a chance to explode.”
You look at me in confusion. “What’s this about the Professionals? I thought we were going to blow up the beach.”
“I thought we were blowing up the beach because that’s where the Professionals are.”
“Are you saying… Are you saying you actually want to kill people?”
My jaw drops in incredulity. “… That’s the whole point of this isn’t it? Where have you been?”
“Excuse me Ginger, but they didn’t say anything about killing anybody.”
“We killed Elk Face and Nutmeg!” I say in a hushed whisper.
“Because they attacked us,” you respond, emphasizing this with a flail of your arms.
“The Professionals are gonna attack us if we blow up their beach.”
“I cannot believe you Ginger! And here I thought we were on the same page.”
I frown and shake my head. I glance at the Professionals. They’re splashing in the shore now. Otac (the one who harpooned you) splashes Twinkle playfully with water and they giggle and cavort. It makes me sick.
“Apparently we’re not,” I say, looking back at you, completely serious. “If we blow up the beach, there will only be a few of us left. I don’t want it to get down to the two of us because you know who would win.”
“Me,” you say, nodding your head.
I point at myself. “Me!”
“Oh come on Ginger, you know I would win.”
I punch my own hand a few times. “The Second Degree Black Belt.”
“I have a harpoon!”
“That’s what I’m trying to say,” I amend. “Let’s just split this off before it gets to us. If we’re lucky, you’ll be dead and I’ll be the vanquisher!”
You give me an evil look. “I hope you die and I’m the vanquisher!”
“That hurts!”
“You said it first!”
“That didn’t mean I meant it!”
We both hush each other when we begin to shout and duck deeper behind the bush.
“Fine, if you want it that way, then let’s split up.”
I stalk off, using Slasher and Dasher to create a path in the trees, hoping it’d lead to you.

My feelings are hurt. I really thought we’d be partners through and through. Okay okay, I know I can’t say that it was all your fault, but I can’t believe you didn’t know the Thirsty Games’ whole purpose was to kill the other contestants so you could live. What’d you think this was? Breaking Dawn where everyone important lives? Anyhow, I wander through the forest, not exactly aimlessly, but my despondency doesn’t allow me to have a clear purpose.
Somehow, I find myself a pair of rabbit tracks somewhere at the fringes of the coniferous forest and follow them until I come to a rabbit hole. Someone’s following me, so I turn to them and say, “Shh, be wery wery quiet. I’m hunting wabbits! Giggle giggle giggle, guffaaaw!”
Then, slowly, I stick Slasher into the rabbit’s hole. Out pops a rabbit munching on a carrot.
“Munch, munch munch… Aaaayah, what up doc?” it asks me.
I falter and glance around. What is this? When did I get transported into Looney Tunes? Keep your cool Ginger, I tell myself. You’ve seen enough episodes to know what happens next.
“How’d you know I was a doctor?”
“I…” The rabbit looks wery confused. “I generally say that to anyone that comes by my rabbit hole.”
“How now brown cow?” I ask and then make a gesture daring the rabbit to respond to that. When I see I’ve caught him off-guard, I continue, “What a maroon! What a nim-cow-poop!”
The rabbit points his carrot at me. “What’s this? You’ve stolen my lines!”
“Hi-yah!” I shriek and charge. When Bugsy is chomping on his carrot no more, I use it to make him into stew. Am I proud of it? No. I personally liked Bugs Bunny, but now that he couldn’t humor me, he’s feeding me. What can you do? It’s the Thirsty Games.
It’s late afternoon and I’m sitting alone by a camp fire I made to cook Bugs. Part of me hopes someone comes and finds me, just so I can take them out and say, “See Frenchy? This is the whole point of this!” But no one came.
I start to become disconcerted by the fact I haven’t heard an explosions yet. Surely the amount of dynamite you had would’ve at least made a bang. Maybe you got killed before you could light them. I shrug. I don’t care anymore anyhow. As long as you’re out of the way I guess.
With a sigh, I take a bite of my stew and think about how it needed some spice. A little spice from Frenchy. It makes me sad again.
Then I hear it. Shouting, screaming.
I drop my stew and scale a tree so I can see the beach in the distance. Just as I stop and look, I see the beach light up in a fiery explosion that catches my ears moments later. I whistle low, in awe at the shear magnificence of the explosion and wonder where you are.
I don’t have to wonder for long.
Out from the hundred foot high plumes of flames shoots a stream of smoke at great speed and velocity. It shoots off to the side and the wind blows away the smoke to reveal a person. You. You soar through the sky, and though it’s delayed, I hear you holler, “GGGGiiinnngggeeerrrrr!” Then you disappear behind the trees and I catch a distant thunk as you land.
Well there you have it. When you play with dynamite, you’re bound to blow yourself up. I just hope you are…. I mean aren’t okay. If you managed to blow up the Professionals along with yourself, then I would become the vanquisher of the Thirsty Games.
Shaking my head, I descend the tree and return to my soup. Anyhow, at least that left less people in the arena to worry about. I was beginning to think there weren’t a lot left, considering I hadn’t seen anybody since you.
My stew tastes even better when it’s laced with the thought of victory. A voice booms over the arena and I’m spewing stew in disbelief as I register what it says. Two people may win the Thirsty Games? As long as they are from the same neighborhood? What in the world? This wasn’t a part of the plan! Abort! Abort!
Then again, you and I had made a great team while it lasted. We took care of Elk Face and Nutmeg no problem. With Steve, and Slasher and Dasher on our side, our chances of winning were all the better!
Before I can stop myself, I call, “Frenchy!” Then I slap my hands over my mouth.
Stupid, stupid. Just alert everyone that where you are! Go for it!
Besides, you probably wouldn’t have been able to hear me anyway. We all know what explosions do to your hearing.
“Darn it!” I curse when I remember you just blew yourself sky high. What am I supposed to do with you if you did survive? Patch you up? Wait… I open my satchel and see the nice rolls of duct tape. Maybe that was exactly what I can do.
Sighing heavily, I pack up my stew and save a little for you. Then I pack everything up, don my satchel and head in the general direction you flew. Maybe I could follow a nice path of destruction when I find you. Only one way to find out.
I spend the entire night walking. Based on your trajectory, you probably landed somewhere in the upper most part of the forest, or the lower part of the mountain. I was hoping for the former. I come to the outskirts of the forest, where the snow is four inches deep and growing, and my breath is steam in the air.
The sun is rising when I see the first sign of you. A few broken trees and a path where someone skidded to a halt is what alerts me. It is still steaming. I shake my head when I find you aren’t in the pile at the end of the skid mark. I see some tracks, scattered snow from someone who wasn’t fully in control of their actions. There’s blood too, which begins to worry me. An injured partner is a hassle and nuisance. No offense.
I follow the tracks until they suddenly end. I frown down at the snow. What’s this? Did you suddenly disappear? What am I supposed to do now?
Hesitantly, I clear my throat and say as loudly as I dare, “Frenchy?”
No answer.
I start forward in the direction of the last tracks. “Frenchy?”
“Don’t step on me.”
I start and jump back, but there’s no one in sight. No tracks other than my own. Then I see it, a pair of mittens in the snow. I pick them up and put them on my frosty hands. Mittens. Mittens. Mittens. I love mittens. They’re good for warmth, and snowball fights too! I place my hands on my cold cheeks and feel the softness of the mittens, smiling to myself. Wait! If there’s a pair of mittens there must be a hat nearby!
“Frenchy!” I call, now digging through the snow.
“Ouch! You stepped on me!” you shout, but I still can’t see you. Then you move and the snow shifts. Your head emerges and you blink at me. You’re wearing said hat. “So you found me.”
“Whoa, Frenchy, you’re covered in snow. I guess all those times we had snowball fights came in handy.”
“Yes snow, the last defense of the dying.”
I look at you seriously. “You’re not going to die.”
You sigh dramatically. “We’ll see.”
I lean closer and grab your hand. “You blew up the beach?”
You choke down tears. “Every last bit.”
“We gotta win,” I say, giving your hand a squeeze.
“We are,” you respond, looking exhausted. “Going to win with the both of us now.”
With that settled, I let go of your hand and straighten.
“Alright,” I say. “Let’s get you out of this snow and taped up.”
“Taped?” you asked, sounding worried.
I nod. “Taped.”
It takes several minutes to exhume you from the snow. Somehow, you managed to bury your legs under three feet of hard packed snow. I tug on your arms for a few minutes, but get nowhere. I’m forced to dig out the snow, but luckily my mittens keep my hands warm. The entire time you’re whining, “My side! Oh my side!”
“Stop complaining,” I say through gritted teeth.
I give another hard pull and you emerge from the snow. We collapse, me panting from the strain, you still whining.
“Ah, my side.”
“What happened to your side?” I ask wearily.
“I blew it up.”
“You blew–” I splutter and then pause. No, I did hear you right. “You blew up your side?” I say slowly.
You nod, grimacing from the pain. You look on the verge of tears.
“Well that’s what you get for playing with dynamite and blowing yourself sky high.”
Now, I’m not going to type what you say next because, quite frankly, it’s mean and rude, and do you kiss your mother with that mouth? I mean, here I am trying to save your life and you call me those names. I could leave you, you know. Anytime. And all you could do is crawl back into your snow and die. So, instead of the words I actually heard, I imagined you saying, “Thank you Ginger. You’re the best partner in the world and I don’t deserve you.”
Minutes later, you have several layers of tape around you, covering up the worst of the hole you managed to blow out of your side. It is only about the size of a pea, but you complain about it anyway. Besides, I’m having fun wrapping the duct tape around you, so, by the time we’re done, there are a lot of superfluous layers. I coax my Bugs Stew into you, which you gobble down only after adding some of your spice, which you managed to keep through the explosion. That and Steve.
“What do we do now?” you ask, still chomping on a carrot (I’m reminded briefly of the thing that makes up my stew).
I look at the sky. It’s probably afternoon by now, but the temperature had never really gone anywhere all day. I am chilled to the bone so I can only imagine how cold you are, having been trapped in snow for a night.
“Shelter,” I say. “But there aren’t any trees or caves nearby.”
You set down the remnants of the stew and look at me as seriously as I had ever seen you do. “Igloo.”
“Come again?”
“We build an igloo.”
I blink, uncomprehending.
“Look, we have all this snow around us,” you say, gesturing at the whiteness. “Snow insulates heat. So if we build an igloo, we should be fine until I’m all healed up.”
“Healed up,” I repeat, nodding. I glance down at my hands, warm and toasty in their mittens. “Alright! Let’s get to work!”

With the igloo done (mostly by me, seeing that your side was “injured” and you were in “pain”) we sit inside it, sipping melted snow with some pine needles and spices in it. It tastes surprisingly good, though I have the insight not to ask you what you put in it. But, admittedly, you’re a master with the spices. It was as though you liked your food to be explosive!
“What now?” I ask between sips.
“Hmm.” You ponder while you studiously categorize your spices and put them away. “There are only a handful of us left.”
“Really? How do you know that?”
You look directly at something I cannot see. “A little birdie told me.”
I set down my cup of tea and frown. “I’ve never really understood that cliché. I mean, birds can’t talk can they? And if they could why would they tell you something. Unless… unless–” I point an accusing finger at you in pure shock “– you’re in league with them!”
“Yes Ginger, I’m in league with the birds,” you say, your voice dripping sarcasm.
“I knew it!” I shout, pointing at the ceiling of the igloo. “And all along you didn’t tell me. We’re supposed to be partners! Allies! If you have an advantage, you’re supposed to share it with me – especially now that we can both win! So, what else can your birds do?”
“They’re birds Ginger. They don’t do much.”
“Well what about you,” you prompt. “Do you have anything we could use that I don’t know about?”
“Other than my awesomeness?” I gesture generally to myself, smiling smugly. Then I grow serious. “Actually… yes, but I’m not supposed to tell.”
You nod eagerly. “Go ahead! Spill. We’re the only ones in the igloo.”
I glanced slightly to the side at something you can’t see. Then I shrug. “Sure, why not? I am the master of a league of ninja assassins, as well as one Italian assassin whose name he often shouts.”
From outside, we hear a distant, Italian cry of, “I am Ezio Auditore de Florence! Want some pasta!”
I jab my thumb over my shoulder. “That’s him.”
“That’s handy,” you note as you glance at the well constructed walls of our igloo.
“He did kill the Pope once.”
You nod approvingly.
I yawn and stretch my arms as far as I can in the confined space. Grudgingly, I make my way over toward you because you’re occupying the only sleeping between us. And it’s all your fault. If you hadn’t lost your sleeping bag when you blew yourself up, we could have avoided this situation. But no. You had to go crazy with the dynamite.
“Scoot over,” I grumble.
You do so hesitantly with a dejected look on your face.
“Let’s just face the facts,” I say. “We’re in for a horribly long, awkward night. Might as well get it over with.”
“Let’s set up some base rules though,” you respond. “One: no talking. Two: no sleep moaning. And three: no kicking. If we both remain silent and motionless, there won’t be any issues.”
“Sounds like your first time,” I mumble with a small giggle. Then I cringe as I realize how bad that sounds.
You just shake your head in disgust. I notice for the first time that you’re holding Steve protectively to your chest. Frowning, I pull myself from the bag.
“What are you doing?” you ask as I fumble through my satchel.
I pull out Slasher and Dasher. “If you get to have Steve, then I get Slasher and Dasher,” I say as I return to the back and force my way in. I scowl at you. “You took more space.”
“Did not!”
“Did too!”
“Alright, new rule! No arguing with the injured person!”
“You were barely cut! That doesn’t even count!”
You turn on your side so you facing away from me. “Whatever Ginger,” you grumble. “I’m in immense pain and you don’t even care.”
“Fine Frenchy,” I say in the same tone. “Goodnight!”
You mutter something offensive under your breath.
We both fall asleep, though neither of us is comfortable. But hey, what can you do? It’s the Thirsty Games.
We are both jolted from dreams of sugar plums and… dancing rainbows? I don’t even know how that works! But it’s your mind Frenchy. Whatever. Anyway, a thunderous rumbling awakens us. The entire earth is shaking. Or at least the earth beneath us. It’s hard to tell. We jolt upright in our sleeping bag, ripping open the zipper. I tumble to the side, flailing Slasher and Dasher just in case there’s an attacker. There’s not. And I end up cutting open the rest of the bag, missing you by centimeters.
“Ah!” you scream, trying to lurch to your feet, but two things inhibit you. One: the fact the ceiling in only three or so feet high, so you hit and come crashing down anyway. And two: your injury… or the duct tape. I can’t tell which. “What’s going on?” you ask, rubbing your snow covered head.
“I don’t know!” I shout back because the rumbling is getting loud.
Something happens. Something strange that neither of us can ever know how it came about or what caused it. We’re sent hurtling in our igloo, somersaulting head over heels, rolling and tumbling. I guess that’s not so strange, and that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about how our modest little igloo stays with us, completely in tact, as we roll down the hill.
It seems like hours later when the noise and shaking finally stops. By that time, we are buried in snow that has built up under the foundation of our modest little igloo. We emerge at the same time gasping for air and blinking snow flakes out of our eyes.
“What in the world was that?” I ask, pulling myself free so I can help you out. Your “wound” has opened up again.
“Don’t know,” you say as I pull you free.
We lay, dazed and confused in our modest little igloo for a few more moments, panting. Then, we muster up the energy to try to push our way out of the entrance, which snow had sealed such. I break free using both my ninja skills and awesomeness, and also my shoulder to ram at the snow. I burst out into pure sunlight. The whiteness of the snow blinds me and it takes me until you exit the igloo to orient myself.
We’re in the rainforest layer again. I turn and see a trail of snow and debris covering our path of descent. An avalanche seemed to be the cause. We turn to each other and share a looks. This had the mark of the Fun-Suckers all over it.
“There’s only a few of us left,” you say, and I can’t help but notice a little bird chirped right before you said it.
I twitched slightly. “That’s means we’re near the others.”
You heft Steve up and tighten your grip on it. You give me a subtle nod before assuming a confident expression. I return your nod, bring up Slasher and Dasher, and put a similar expression on my face.
We got this.
I motion with my head in a certain direction and you nod your approval. Together, we make our way through the jungle, prepared for an epic battle to the end. And we are going to win. There’s no doubt about that. Okay, there’s a lot of doubt. We’re two short, white girls from a small town. Only one of us has had combat training, and the other is injured. There is a lot that could go wrong. But so far, due to some sort of divine intervention, we had made it this far, and we would see it through to the end!
Just as I reach this conclusion, I splash into a stream and falter. Odd. I hadn’t seen the stream coming. Frowning, I look down at my feet. Sure enough, water is flowing around my shins. I can’t even see my feet in the murky water.
“Whoa!” I call to you behind me so you don’t follow me in. I try to turn around so I can step back onto dry land, but something’s wrong. My feet aren’t moving. “Oh no…”
“What is it?” you ask, finally catching up to me.
I struggle to pull my foot loose, but thick, goopy mud has it locked in its grasp.
“Don’t come in!” I warn. “I’m stuck!”
You hold out Steve… the sharp end. I only hesitant to grab in for an instant, but my uncertainty vanishes when something tickles my leg. I latch onto Steve like the lifeline it is.
“Pull!” I shriek.
You heave on your end and I do my best to help. There’s a sickening sucking noise and the harpoon digs into my hands. But I’m not free. Not yet… And then your hands slip and you fall back into the thick bushed with an oof. I would have fallen too, if it weren’t for the fact the mud was over my shoes now. I still flail and nearly drop Steve.
“Frenchy!” I shout, infuriated. When you don’t emerge right away, I shout even louder, “FRENCHY!”
“I’m here, I’m here!” You pop out from behind a bush, leafs in your hair.
“Grab it and pull me out NOW!”
I thrust Steve at you and you grab a hold. We try again, and both of our arms are straining, but the mud isn’t giving any slack. It has taken possession of my ankles now. The blade of the harpoon digs into my palm, drawing a small amount of blood. I don’t notice until I hear a single drop of it splash into the water.
Something tickles my leg again.
“Stop!” I shriek.
You cease your pulling, breathing hard. “What?”
“There’s something in the water,” I say, searching the muck around me.
A fish leaps out of the water, its scales flashing in the sunlight like shards of broken glass. It goes about ten feet up, does a fancy little back flip, flashes us a grin, before dropping back into the water. It isn’t just a fish though. It has teeth as sharp as blades.
“It’s a transformer!” I shout, pointing at where it disappeared in the water. “It’s more than meets the eye!”
“It’s just a piranha, Ginger.”
The fish tickles my leg again and I blanch. Then it bites my leg, sinking its teeth in.
“Owee!” I scream, yanking Steven from your grasp. Blindly, I drive the harpoon in the riverbed, feeling it strike something. When I pull it free of the muck, the fish is flopping at the end.
“STEVE! How could you do that to Steve?!”
“It’s a harpoon! It’s for spearing fish!”
“But it’s my harpoon!”
“Arg! Does it really matter right now? Just help me out!”
This time, my feet pull free after a good yank. We collapse onto the bank of the river, breath hard. The fish is still flopping on the end of the harpoon and I see that it has a piece of fabric ripped from my pants in his mouth. Anger over comes me and I stomp on the thing until it falls still. Then I see the blood running down my leg, go still for a moment, and pass out.
You sit up, gripping your side, in time to see me collapse to the ground.
“Ginger!” you say in surprise and concern.
Then, in a moment of pure genius, you rummage through your satchel and pull out the duct tape. Carefully, you roll me over onto my back because I pass out face down – the only way to truly pass out. You proceed to use half the roll of duct tape to wrap around my leg because, as you soon find out, duct tape doesn’t like to stick to wet surfaces and my pant legs are soaking with mug, water, and blood. By the time you’re done, my leg’s an extra inch thick. At least the bleeding has stopped, you think. Then again, you can’t really tell because you’ve covered my entire leg.
There’s a rustling in the trees. You stiffen and look up slowly. Thirty yards away, there’s a trees that’s moving. You hear a whoosh-plunk and the tree goes toppling town. After the debris has cleared, you can see the source. Otac.
Your face contorts in pure terror.
“Ginger!” you stutter, shaking my shoulder. “Wake up! I don’t want to have to carry you!”
I cough and open my eyes weakly. “What?”
“We gotta get moving.”
“Get moving my foot. We’re not going anywhere.”
You hoist me up by fistfuls of my jacket and point at Otac, who has spotted us by now and it industriously hacking at the foliage to clear a path toward us. Behind him Twinkle is grinning and flitting about from side to side.
“You get ‘em Otac!” she says in an overly preppy voice. “You can do it, yes you can. Who can do it? Otac can!” All she is missing is pom-poms. Oh, wait, I spoke too soon. She whips some out from behind her. “Five-six-seven-eight! Kill them now for Peeta’s sake!”
We both bellow in annoyance, “Oh my gosh – SHUT UP!!!”
Twinkle’s lip quivers.
“Hey!” Otac shouts so loud with both jump. “Don’t shout at her like that!”
We both pale and gulp audibly.
“She’s my cheerleader. She encourages me to win when I feel like giving in.”
“Have you ever felt like giving in?” I ask.
Otac give me a looks that’s unreadable, but make me feel like kicking him in the balls. “No, because she has always been there for me.”
“Oh my gosh – SHUT UP!!!”
That seems to frustrate Otac and offend Twinkle close to tears. I wonder, for a moment, if her tears would twinkle… Maybe, I could make her cry. Then I remember my leg.
“Okay Frenchy,” I say under my breath. “Let’s go!”
You hoist me to my feet and we stagger off (and by we, I mostly mean me. But that’s what you get when you let your partner be chomped by a piranha). The good news? We’ve caught Otac in the middle of an emotionally stirring speech depicting his traumatizing childhood and how he overcame diversity to singlehandedly win the first football game for the Dub P Panthers in over ten years. Blah blah blah. Nobody likes the football team.
We move quickly through the forest, but we’re hindered by my leg and the fact it feels fifteen pounds heavier because of the duct tape. You’re half dragging me, though, let’s face it, you’re not moving all that great either because of your “wound”.
Finally, we break free of the trees and burst out onto the remnants of the beach. Well, if you even call it a beach. It’s not. What you’ve made of the beach… it’s actually quite remarkable. Instead of the fine sand that so many had been frolicking freely on before, there now lay a barren wasteland of black and crusted earth. No water. I guess that’s why you can’t call it a beach anymore, because a beach implies water. Well. I should never let you have dynamite ever again. If we live past today that is.
The air is acrid smelling, but we don’t stop. Why? Oh, because there’s a pack of piranhas emerging from the trees close to where Otac and Twinkle are chasing after us. They have legs. It’s the weirdest thing we’ve ever seen. If anything, it propels us farther and faster than before.
We reach the Bread Basket, which has descended to what used to be the middle of the lake. The only way we could think of escaping the piranhas is to jump into the Bread Basket. Easier said than done. This time around, you reach the Basket first and hoist yourself in, then you hoist me up. We’re safe for a moment.
“Hey,” I pant. “Maybe the piranhas will get them.”
Oops. It seems I have a tendency to speak too soon.
Otac hoists himself into the Bread Basket, groaning. We notice he’s bleeding from several places and that gives us hope. Twinkle doesn’t follow him, but from the lack of cheers and pep-talks we know where she’s gone.
“This is all your fault!” Otac screams, gripping at his hair. “She was the best thing that ever happened to me!”
We share a look.
“Dude, this is the Thirsty Games. Get over it.”
“You don’t understand! She was the love of my life! Now she’s gone!” he wails, wrapping his arms around himself as though to keep his heart from falling out.
“Well, maybe you should’ve saved her from the piranhas?”
He ignored us. “Ah! I can’t stand the pain anymore!” Before either of us could stop him, and it’s not like we would have, he leaps to the edge of the Bread Basket. He holds his arms out, his head facing the sky. “I’m sorry my love!” he shouts. “Forgive mmeeeee!”
We watch, transfixed in disbelief, as Otac hurls himself over the edge. True, it’s not that far of a fall, and the thunk comes quickly compared to how they are in the movies. Then we hear the piranhas begin to go to town.
“Well,” you say, “that’s one way to win.”
I nod and smile suddenly. I grip your sleeves and give you a shake. “Dude! We WON!”
We grin and look around at the sky, waiting for the usual burst of confetti. But nothing comes. Not a single shred of paper.
Then the announcer is on and it’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Completely infuriated, we look at each other. We’re the only ones left in the arena. And there can be only one vanquisher. They changed the rules on us again. What is up with this? Are they bipolar? “Oh let’s have two vanquishers this year! Won’t that be fun?” Two hours later. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Let’s have them kill each other instead!” Whatever. I’ll take the noble way out.
“It’s okay Frenchy,” I say as I sit up. I tear at the duct tape on my leg, knowing if I yank it free I’ll bleed to death. But there’s a problem. “How many layers did you put on my leg? It’s an inch thick!”
“What are you doing?” you ask.
I don’t answer. Instead, I pull out Slasher, because Dasher wouldn’t make sense in this situation, and slash off the tape. It falls away and sure enough the blood starts coming.
“I’ll bleed to death Frenchy, and then you’ll be the vanquisher.”
You shrug and nod. “Okay. Sounds good.”
I stare at you blank faced for a moment. “Wait a minute. You’re not going to try to save me? Aren’t you going to say, ‘No wait Ginger! I’ll die so you can live!’ or something like that?”
“Why would I?” you ask, looking confused.
“Give me that duct tape!” I shout lurching at you when I realized that you’re the one with the duct tape.
“What tape? There’s no more left!” you respond, barely managing to fend me off.
“WHAT!?!” I shriek. I scramble over to the remnants of the duct tape and struggle to reapply it to my leg. “You’re a monster! I should’ve let you freeze to death in the snow!”
“You don’t mean that!”
“I do! A friendship can only go so far!”
“Alright,” you say, your tone changing. You stand up and heft Steve into position so you can throw it at me. “Let’s end this now. Come on. Stand up and we’ll end this once and for all.”
Begrudgingly, I stand up and have Dasher join Slasher. I think about some snarky comments but nothing seems to compliment the situation, so I just shake my head disapprovingly.
“On the count of three,” you say.
I nod and we begin together.
You raise your arm in preparation to throw. I tense my arms, ready to slice and dice.
Nothing changes, but I think commentary is necessary here. Oh, maybe a bird flutters by and a distant Italian shouts something.
We yell our battle cries and run at each other.
“WAIT WAIT WAIT!!!” a voice yells from the sky.
“What the hell?” I groan, because I was about to do something spectacular.
“Please welcome the vanquishers of Dub P!”
We share a look. So we were both winning now. I have no idea why. We weren’t going to commit suicide together or something dramatic like that. We were about to fight to the death like they wanted us to. None of this was adding up.
Then we hear a distant shout.
“GINGER! Frenchy’s mom is here to pick her up!”
You and I look at each other for a moment. We still had time to end this now. Maybe we could finish this off before…
We both sigh.
“Coming Mom!” I shout and we rush from the Bread Basket for my home in the distance.
When we arrive, your mother’s car is waiting in the driveway. You grab your stuff and hop in the car. I pound on the passenger window and shout your name because you forgot your socks into my room. But your mother drives away and I’m left alone in my driveway.
I stare in shock even after your car has left my sight. Someone comes and offers me some juice.
“Oh, thanks,” I say, realizing it was my mom. “I was rather thirsty.”

Similar books


This book has 6 comments.

K. said...
on Dec. 23 2013 at 9:28 pm
I Love this! I mean, I liked the Hunger Games, but I'm not all hatey because people make fun of my fandoms. This wa SOOO LOL. Like seriously. You're gifted. :)

ava4ever said...
on Dec. 6 2012 at 10:07 pm
ava4ever, Woodland Park, Colorado
0 articles 0 photos 2 comments

Favorite Quote:
Hence we are hard, we children of the Earth
And in our lives of toil, we prove our birth

Ovid's Metamorphoses

I'm working on it, though it's going slowly

on Dec. 2 2012 at 9:34 am
Stella_Val_Illicia GOLD, Salt Lake City, Utah
13 articles 0 photos 247 comments

Favorite Quote:
"In the beginning, the universe was created. This has made a lot of people angry and been widely regarded as a bad idea."
--Douglas Adams

You should definitely make one for Mockingjay, because Mockingjay wasn't nearly as good as the other two, so it would make a great parody. My family was giving me weird looks as I read this, because I was laughing so hard. 

ava4ever said...
on Dec. 1 2012 at 11:00 pm
ava4ever, Woodland Park, Colorado
0 articles 0 photos 2 comments

Favorite Quote:
Hence we are hard, we children of the Earth
And in our lives of toil, we prove our birth

Ovid's Metamorphoses

Thanks! I try :P

on Nov. 10 2012 at 5:29 pm
Stella_Val_Illicia GOLD, Salt Lake City, Utah
13 articles 0 photos 247 comments

Favorite Quote:
"In the beginning, the universe was created. This has made a lot of people angry and been widely regarded as a bad idea."
--Douglas Adams

This is brilliant! I loved it, and my family was giving me weird looks as I read it, because I couldn't stop laughing. I read your sequel, too, and they were both hilarious! :D

on Mar. 9 2012 at 11:22 am
Willflower.-.-. BRONZE, Yuma, Arizona
2 articles 0 photos 72 comments

Favorite Quote:
This is us. This is who we are. We demand attention.

Look like it'll be good!