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Gale’s Perspective


This story is from Gale Hawthorne’s perspective and it is written by Bailey.

I could barely sleep, realising that I could indeed be the male tribute from 12, with my name in umm, 42 times I think. But I couldn’t afford to think like this. I closed my eyes and eventually managed to get a couple hours of sleep.

I later woke at the crack of dawn and needed to clear my head, so I headed off to the woods.  I knew I could have my tongue cut out and turned into an avox or worse if I was caught, but that was a risk I was willing to take to provide for my family. I’m sure Catnip does the same for little Prim and for her mother.

I started heading down to the electric fence which is never on, but something caught my eye…a boot print. I thought to myself that Catnip couldn’t sleep either. I went to the trunk where Catnip hid her bow and arrows…they were not there. So I followed the bootprints till I saw Catnip eyeing up a deer.

“What are you going to do with that when you kill it?”

Saying this startled the deer and it began to run. Catnip turned around, “Damn you Gale!”. I could hear the anger and frustration in her voice. “ What are you going to do with a 50 pound deer, Catnip?”. She looked at me with a calm face but still some anger in her eyes, “Well, sell it”. I looked at her with a confused look. “ On Reaping Day? The whole of District 12 will be crawling with peacekeepers.” Feeling bad for Katniss by letting that deer get away, I looked to the ground in search of something to throw. I picked up a stone the size my hand and tossed it towards the treetops, doing this rustled up some birds and Katniss somewhat gracefully shot an arrow straight into the bird’s eye, it hit the ground with a large thud. She turned and looked at me, we both started to giggle.

I heard a faint drone in the distance, leaves started rustling overhead. I grabbed Katniss and we hid under the nearest cover. Looking up in awe I saw what at first looked like a silver cloud, I soon realised that I was looking up at the hovercraft that was used at the Reaping. This meant that the peacekeepers and the announcer Effie Trinket were here. Effie is hard to describe she is, well.. an odd person. At that moment I remembered the bread in my jacket. I rustled the bread out of my jacket and gave it to Catnip. She gasped in astonishment, “ Oh my God Gale, is this real?” I replied, “It better be, it cost me a squirrel”. So we sat there in the long grass eating our bread. I looked at Catnip and she said to me, “We could do it you know, run off into the woods. My family your family and…”. I interrupted her and said, “Yeah we could, but if we got caught that could mean death or being turned into an avox”. She looked at me with bread in hand and she perked up and said, “ Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour”. We laughed, then Catnip asked me, “How many times is your name in the ballot?”.  “Umm 42…I guess the odds aren’t exactly in my favour”.

I eventually said goodbye to Catnip and headed back to my house where my mother had laid out my father’s clothes, the best he had before he died. As I left, my mother wished me luck with a tear running down her cheek. As I was walking to the registration I thought about what Katniss said earlier, about running away to the woods where we could possibly survive but my thoughts and eyes were distracted, I was trying to take in what the announcer was wearing. Everything was PINK, it was quite the eyesore. Distracted by the illuminated pink of Effie, I did not realise that the Peacekeeper was getting rather frustrated by my inattention. When I apologised she still forcefully shoved the needle in my finger, this one seemed to hurt more than all the other years, both mentally and physically.

Then I saw Catnip and Primrose, the pair looked somewhat out of their element. When all of District 12 was huddled into the town square, I scanned for Katniss, I think she was twelfth from the front and I mouthed “Good Luck”. She smirked. As always the sound of the anthem boomed through the speakers and at the end of the song, out walked Effie, with a disgusted look on her face, she started reading a card. I had zoned out after that, she then pointed to the screen and the promotional video was played. At the end she said, “Okay, first will be the girls”. I took a deep breath and waited for the ‘lucky’ soul that it was going to be. “The female tribute from District 12 is……Primrose Everdeen!”. At first I couldn’t believe the words, but it was obviously true because soon after it was announced Prim started walking up. I felt my heart sink. But what happened next felt like a boulder from the mines had been dropped straight onto my chest, Katniss put up her hand and screamed something at first I didn’t understand but she cleared her throat and said, “I volunteer, I volunteer as tribute!”. These words kept doing circles in my head as I ran forward and scooped up Prim. She started screaming and practically blew out my eardrum. “Well…” Effie said “What a turn of events, I present District 12’s very first volunteer.”



The Gamemaker


Angelina’s story from Seneca Crane’s perspective.

We were up high, safe in our balcony overlooking the tributes. Our bird’s eye view allowed us to see them come and go, some were scared, some were confident but all of them felt the anticipation of death, it was tinted in their eyes. It was amusing that they tried to impress us in every possible way because they thought it would save their miserable little lives.Throwing knives, spears at unmoving targets, hardly skilful. I have seen a cat do more impressive tricks than that. I could look at them all day and still have the same opinion. They are not a patch on a real citizen, these peasant rats.

In my opinion, bow and arrows were boring and far too common, I have seen all the tricks that are possible and all the talent over the years but it was always the same. Shoot, hit target or shoot, miss target. So dull. It was more exciting when the shot actually did some damage. A bit of tribute blood tends to liven up the proceedings. That boy from 12 was a little more interesting though, as he threw giant metal balls high into the air. It was surprising to see such a small youth have such a trick up his sleeve. He broke the tedium a little. Some played the game like that, pretending to be a sheep when in reality they were the dangerous wolf. So it didn’t come as that much of a surprise. Besides, it was only a score to show who has more potential, it was more for the audience to pick their favourite out of the bowl of sweets. None of them really stunned us. Until she turned up.

Another archer. I could barely look at her display. Her first attempt was pathetic.She didn’t impress us that Katniss Everdeen. Honestly, I thought there was more to her than that. We had heard that she was a possible star. We all sat patiently, waiting for the shot to be fired. “FWOOMB”. Miss. Laughter exploded from us all. Her chance to impress was gone, there was nothing she could do now to save her skin. She had lost our attention. She was now as visible as a ghost to us.

My thoughts turned to food,“Who ordered this pig?” I asked, more as rhetorical question than anything. Everyone in the room was ready to take a little detour from the proceedings. My eyes turned back to the giant pig, coated with a crispy vanish of fat. Now, this was definitely the highlight of my day I thought as I rose to my feet to help myself. The animal looked delicious, its head tilted up like a ballerina in the middle of a glorious pose, laying on a mountain of luxurious fruit ready to be devoured. It was the sight of a plump apple, sleeping in the concave of the pig’s mouth that really got my juices working. It was red and round, almost like a target.

One of my colleagues, Cassius came up to the table and congratulated me on my promotion, “You are doing a wonderful job, this might even be the best Hunger Games yet.” Cassius was just trying to kiss up, it wasn’t working, I could hear the loathing in his voice. His job was to get all the tributes to ‘play nice’ during training, but he had wanted the Head Gamemaker role. He was bitter,  he always tried to make his facial art more impressive than mine but he tries too hard. You need to have a more signature look but he changes his too often, a fashion victim if I ever saw one. Then it happened.

“THUMP” The apple was punctured by her speeding arrow, straight through the middle of the core. Now it was plastered to the red wall. The apple looked as if it had actually hit someone, red, like blood. We all stumbled back. Time sped up in that moment and my head jolted towards the perpetrator. That Everdeen girl. She had gained my attention after all.

Well, that girl certainly knew how to make a statement. I was shaking with the shock and the adrenaline hit in. I tried to compose myself so I wouldn’t give her (or anyone else) the satisfaction of looking weak. This girl could make the 74th Hunger Games one of the best ever and me the best gamemaker in the history of the Games. It was splendid. That girl stood in front of us, facing us down without holding back or any shyness visible. She was in the driver’s seat and we all knew it. When she spoke and said, “Thank you for your consideration” she spat the last word, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.

It was clear that I’ll need to really focus on her because it will captivate the audience. Katniss Everdeen will be addictive viewing  and the ratings will be higher than ever. I can see it now, “What will the girl do next with her explosive attitude?” That is all the people will be talking about. All will say that the Games have been exceptionally amusing this year because of  the great Seneca Crane. She will be the key to my success and glory! Now all I have to do is build her up as much as possible just to tear her down in front of everyone in the most dramatic turn of events. Ideas rushed to my mind as I watched her bold exit with her hips swinging side to side. She thinks that she can’t be controlled by us. Just wait until she steps into the arena, I’ll teach her how to play games.

Primrose Everdeen


Megan has written from the perspective of Primrose Everdeen.

I am twelve years old now, this is my first year having my name in that dreary, old Reaping bowl.  I am so nervous, over the past few days leading up to the Reaping I have been having horrible nightmares about me being called up onto the stage and having to prepare myself for death, it is so horrible.  But luckily my older sister Katniss is there to reassure me and help me get back to sleep again.  But today is the day where one boy and one girl will be called up onto the stage and will be the tributes for District 12.

I am in a pretty shirt and pants that my mother chose for me, I am looking so good, in fact I have never looked this good.  My hair is in a tidy french plait and my tail of my shirt is tucked in. A painful prick goes into my finger, all I can do is let out a small yelp, it is horrible.  Effie Trinket, a representative from the Capitol stands on the stage with a victor who had won the Hunger Games years ago, his name was Haymitch Abernathy.

“Welcome! Welcome! Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favour!” she says. “Now, as usual, ladies first!”  My heart is beating so hard that I think it might actually explode!  “PRIMROSE EVERDEEN!”  Oh my God, did my name actually get called out?  How is that possible, this is my first year ever. Why me?  “Where are you? Come on up dear, “ Effie asks. But just as she says this Katniss screams out, “Prim! I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!”  My heart stops beating for a moment taking in what Katniss has just said, all I can murmur is no!  Before I can move, Gale Hawthorne comes up and puts me over his shoulder and takes me away. I’m kicking and throwing my arms around but it doesn’t help, the one person in the world that I look up to  has been taken away from me and she is going to die.

Balbua Horatius – Capitol Citizen


This story from Keegan is written from the perspective of a sheltered and selfish Capitol citizen.

It was the day of the Reaping, the day that 24 young tributes are chosen fight to the death, how magnificent! The rush they must have, the excitement, the honour. Everyone in districts, from 1 to 12 must wish to be a tribute. Who wouldn’t want to become a honorary tribute and fight for their proud nation? Their fathers must be proud. Yes, some will die but they all deserve their fate, after all it is their fault they are in this situation.

Now hundreds and thousands of our nation’s proud citizens are at the Reaping. I can’t wait to see who is chosen from Districts One and Two, they always have the best tributes. Strong proud warriors are always on offer, unlike most districts. The lesser districts like 12 always scream and cry. It is ridiculous none of that nonsense is needed! The Reaping in my eyes, portrays strength and honour. The best tributes will be astonishing!

As I think of those who will come from Districts One and Two the excitement flows through my veins. Two muscular men and two very agile young woman what a gift towards our worthy cause! They will be so unlike those from Districts 3-10, all their tributes are weak and pathetic! I know this is a really good year, not only do we have Districts One and Two’s magnificent tributes, but we also have one athletic tribute in District 11.

Its time for the last Reaping of today, its District 12. No one of note will come from there. The girls has been chosen, a Primrose Everdeen, a child! She won’t last long. The only entertainment comes from Effie Trinket wearing that magnificent gown.  She is glorious! What’s this? A young woman has volunteered. Now that’s a surprise. It looks like she is the girl’s sister.

This volunteer, this Katniss Everdeen looks strong. She may ruffle a few feathers. The 74th Hunger Games may be the best yet! May the strongest tribute win.


The Avox

avox story

By Cameron 

There are thousands of pearls intricately binding her throat. Thoughts of envy roll off the seaside and fog up my mind as I stare at her flawless necklace. My mind is daring me to reach out and snatch it. The flick of her wrist and snap of her fingers lure me out of my impregnable imagination. I notice she is having trouble cutting her meat and as predicted she commands for me to do it, “Avox cut my meat.” I give her a silent nod of recognition, then proceed to fulfill the current order. Both her husband and presumed son watch me intensely. Their peering pairs of eyes burn holes into the outer shell of my hollow body. I feel the immense pressure build up after every cut I make. Knowing that even the smallest of mistakes will be worthy of severe punishment.

But as long as I serve their food and cater to their every need, they will spare me. But this is their ingenious plan, as long as the Capitol still evoke fear into the heart of the districts, no one will fight back. We will follow their every order, and our reward is surviving to live another day. As long as the Capitol has their bombs and their weapons, the districts and their people will skulk back to their corners and cower. The Capitol is the predator and we are the prey.

“That’s enough!” she says, as if she is displeased with my effort. I display a plastic smile to the entire family, then skulk back to my corner of the room and cower. Their opulent glass table is the feature point of the room. It’s coated in trays of lavish foods, silver cutlery and fine dining wear. There is a baby blue silk table cloth that runs along the table, it drapes perfectly down to their marble floor without  seam out of place or a crease in sight. Their marble floor is a sea of bleach. The white waves lap at the walls, dulling their bright colours with the incoming tide. Although the marble floor soaks up the room colours, my mistress’ hair makes up for what is lost. Its extremely red, not like a rose but like a fire. The inner layers of her hair blend in with the orange colour of her tips. This hairstyle is very much in vogue. Everyone is wearing flames. I heard this style was created after a plucky tribute in this years Hunger Games. The Capitol loves an underdog.

I watch resentfully as the redhead picks at her roast chicken with her glossy nails. She makes a great effort to extract the undesirable parts of the bird. Even those undesirable parts that she so imprudently avoids, are luxuries that we could not afford back in 12. The sight reminds me of the chicken I stole back in District 12. Although in retrospect I didn’t think that poultry would determine my life as a slave to the very people who mutilated my tongue and condemned me to a world of silence. “You are dismissed,” the man says. I trudge back to my closet bedroom and lie down upon the floor. Shards of light shine through the cracks in my curtains revealing my drab room. I watch the sunset paint red and orange smears on blossomed clouds, and then transform into the dark nightsky. I see Mockingjays nestling down in a tree outside my window. My covetous eyes watch the birds, the freedom they display. I yearn to mimic the Mockingjays, to leave this place and glide upon the wind; as far as my wings will take me, to an unknown location. But this is my life, it won’t be any other way because the Capitol’s the predator and I am the prey.

In-character Writing – A Matter of Perspective


Year 10 students have been busily writing as a character from The Hunger Games. The task was to create a piece of writing based on The Hunger Games. Students were to retell an event from a fresh perspective.

I have really enjoyed reading the stories and will add some of them to this blog.

The first one is from the perspective of an Avox. Avox means ‘without a voice’ in Latin. Avoxes are rebels and to punish them the Capitol has ordered that their tongues are cut out. They become servants that must wait upon the citizens of the Capitol and tributes.

The story is by Cameron.


In this descriptive piece, Lydia takes us to the Greek island of Santorini.


A few scattered buildings remain in darkness amongst the landscape of pastel. Soft, golden light emanates from the shells of cream and peach, casting lilac shadows on the walls of tiered, cubic houses, like illuminated facets of a Grecian prism. They flicker and morph into trees and flowers swaying in the wake of passers-by. Even the people’s silhouettes seem to stroll slower than usual. More relaxed. The building’s white paint has faded after years of beating sun and sea air, but its navy, stucco domed roof is a perfect glowing arch against the diminishing blue sky. In the corners of doors and window panes, the paint has crumbled off into fine brittle flakes and settled on the ground like a sprinkling of snow. You’d almost think that winter had arrived; if it was not for the Mediterranean climate. Cobblestone paths weave in and about the disarmingly beautiful seaside village and around its people and their homes. Around lives precariously built into the obdurate cliff face. And it is as if at any moment that the ancient settlement may just slide into the sleepy cavernous sea, and the world wouldn’t notice.

The night air is balmy, almost tangible. You just want to inhale and hold it in. From afar, twisting lanes bathed in light from nearby windows, are like slumbering serpents. The cathedral with a blue cross atop its arched crown, the snake charmer. Sitting grandly at the head of the city, it oversees the luminous resort pools and white balconied bedrooms of the hotels and houses. It is from there that the rich, sweet scent of baked fresh fish wafts around the dusky air. Mothers lay dinner in front of children who, squabbling like seabirds, swoop on the warm, aromatic catch. Topped with ripe, seasonal vegetables, diced like confetti, the clear sweet juices ooze over tender Atherina fillets. Out in breezy outdoor courtyards tourists eat much the same. Almost as an accompaniment, olive trees sway in time, to the sound of tinkering stringed instruments which float amongst the haze. Drifting behind the diners’ ears; behind their secret whispered conversations. It’s a sundown melody for tired tourist legs and empty bellies as they refuel with local cuisine.

Waves tumble on the sandy shore at the base of the city. The black iron sand is disguised in the night and blanketed by the breathing sea. A long pier hangs above it made of aged wooden planks that smell of salt and fish. Quaint boats are anchored to it, silently bobbing. The half-moon hangs in the sky like a nocturnal sun and its silver rays dance across the ebbing tide. Deep below, slight fish dart amongst a watery jungle of seaweed. The gentle rise and fall of the inlet, reminds you of a slumbering giant. Who will wait until the storm closes in, before he wakes up in a fit of anger. Tossing the peaceful boats about as if they are playthings,and causing chaotic waves to pound the shoreline.

But for now, all is calm.

The Farm


In this story Ashley sees her grandfather’s farm through the creative eyes of a young child and as a teenager.

“I’m going to play in the paddocks,” I yell out to mum. I scramble out the door before she can smother me in sunscreen. The race was on! My cousins and I love to play and we race to the very last paddock of our grandfather’s property. I never won. I always slowed down at the second gate, a mysterious and magical world forming before my eyes, just like in the picture books I had been reads. Rabbits in waistcoats and butterflies the colours of the rainbow. The trees transforming into the large friendly giants I saw them as, they would talk to me, and smile politely as they asked about my morning, I would always reply the exact same, “Magical, thank you,” because Mum had told me that I must always use my manners. As I would run to catch up, I apologise profusely to the many creatures below my feet, burrowing deep into the damp ground. While climbing over the last rusted gate into the third and final paddock, my cousins stood around in awe. Large gnarly branches swarmed around my feet like my Oma’s fingers, weak and arthritic. The once emerald leaves were now brown and neglected.

Everything went black as I rolled down the unexpected hill hidden beneath branches and flax, towards the trunk of the monstrous creature, and I woke to my cousin leaning over me brushing the thickly applied dirt from my knees, I can still remember the horrible taste left on my tongue. At that moment I looked up at the large creature standing tall above my head and laughed, “How do you eat this stuff’?” as I threw the dirt above my head, letting it rain down upon my thick, brown curls. As we made our way under the trees interior, the earth below crunching beneath my knees as twigs snapped and old leaves made the satisfying crunch you went out of your way on the footpath for. This tree is our secret little hideout.

Now as we walk along this empty battlefield, the trees are no longer bewitched, or even here at all. We reminisce, laughing at our past stupidity and ignorance. This paddock is now empty, only trunks visible as far as the human eye. Overgrown blackberry bushes line the fences; they are intertwined with prickles, savagely winding around rotting fence posts. Now the blistering heat from the sun gleams through where the branches once shaded us. It was hard to believe these now dead, empty paddocks were once our source of entertainment and that the trees once whispered to me. The only movement is being made by fast scuttling rabbits no longer in their Sunday best and the birds high above us. Instead of the majestic world I once saw, all I see is the run down farm that it is.

The Bush

In this story, Liam describes the bush when the conditions are calm and when they are not.


Now it is the summer time and the sun peeks over the horizon and warms the crisp morning air. The sun’s soft rays light up the blue sky. As the sun penetrates the forest canopy the shadows stretch designs across the ground which is scattered with twigs and dead leaves. The sunlight slowly moves up the face of the hill just like a wave crashing upon the golden sand of a beach. Just below the peak of the ancient mountain the sun reflects off the rusted iron roof of an old hunting lodge. It lies on the pleasantly quiet clearing. The frosty dew that was once sleeping on the lush grass begins to melt and soak into the soil.

The gently rolling breeze picks up as the fluffy cumulus clouds scatter across the early morning sky. The whispering wind swoops through the trees, rustling leaves and swirling the sweet smell of pine needles through the hills. The breeze happily fills the wings of late waking birds nesting. The chirping birds sing sweet harmonies, waking the groggy hunters that then stumble through the hut door and prepare their rifles for a good day hunting.

The spooked deer scatter from the protection of the shrubs and flaxes, leaving a trail of footprints zig zagging downhill to the river below. At the same time they absorb the comfortable warmth of the early sun. As deer come to a halt on the bank, the water quietly flows, slightly churning in the rapids and is contained by the rocks on the river’s edge. A little pool swirls by a grass verge, protected by a large rock separating it from the churning white water further up the river. It’s a place for the animals to drink and where trout leap out of and dart through the fast paced water. The fish live in the crystal clear pools, little havens separate from the stronger currents of the open river. The trout prey on the innocent bugs that make the fatal mistakes to land on the rippled water. The trout’s colours glimmer in the water, its shining scales reflect the sunlight that pierces the river’s surface.

Then came the winter storms. The lazy sun slowly awakes in the early morning and grey gloomy sky appears where it was once cold darkness. Clouds move to cover the sun and the land is cloaked in temporary darkness. The fog that blankets the mountains flows down the hillsides settling in the damp valleys.

Next the wind starts to howl and the black clouds begin to race across the sky. Thunder echoes through the ridges and lightning temporarily lights the bush one strike after another. Rain thunders down, pounding the leaves of trees. The trees strain in the wind as they are stripped of most their leaves that are then cast away in the swirling wind. Birds cling to the trees in desperation crying songs of fear as the wind tries to take them with it. The rain pelts onto the top of a hunting hut that fights and struggles to stand strong as the storm unfolds around it. Sleepy hunters battle the door trying to keep it open so they can get out as the wind continuously gusts. The clearing’s grass swirls and waves in the wind like seaweed in the oceans current. The wind blows the rain in sideways through the pines, the beds of dead pine needles are no longer a shelter where the deer would sleep.

As the rain persists to fall, trails of deer footprints marked in the mud snake down the hills towards the valley below. The trail reaches the river where the deer try to seek shelter, the creeks mix with the muddy river carrying unfortunate trees torn from their place at the riverside. Trout thrash their fins furiously like the wings of a bird, trying to gain the upper hand on the raging white water zooming over them. Further down the torrents reach a towering waterfall leading to a waterhole at the bottom scattered with mossy boulders. As the brown water collides with the rocks at the bottom it roars. Any log that is stolen from its place from the river above is swept off the waterfall and smashed at the bottom. All around the waterfall the air is full of mist. It looks like the perfect scene for a terrifying horror film. Above, the sky still continues to unfold its hateful storm until the elegance of night tames it.

Shelter 3, 2035

Adam has written a chilling (and topical!) little tale.


Shelter 3, 2035

37º58’0.35”N, 96º14’26.54”W

The alarm rings in the wall next to me. I cringe, knowing what will happen when I hit the wall to turn it off. Gingerly, I raise my arm and smack the wall. Immediately, a shock courses through my body and I’m involuntarily jolted out of my bed. Now completely awake, I pick up my clothes and exit my room. I head to the shower rooms at the end of my block. After the one minute shower, I head off to school. I hate school. I have heard stories of how school was 45 years ago. With separate, the ability to go outside between classes, fresh air, and sunlight streaming through the windows. But now. They don’t let us go outside at all. The air is stuffy, and what sun? That doesn’t get through to us anymore. After the nuclear war of 2014 between the world and (what was) North Korea, there was so much dust thrown into the air and radiation, the remaining ten percent of the world’s population was forced to take cover in four massive shelters eight kilometres under the earth’s surface, all connected by impossibly huge tunnels. My parents told me of Up Top. The green grass, the giant trees, the oh so sweet fresh air. They told me of the threats that the DPRK (Democratic People’s Republic of Korea) in the north made to The Republic of Korea in the south and the USA. They said that nobody took them seriously until Los Angeles was razed to the ground. They shared with me the fear they felt, their sorrow when their parent were killed and the anxiety of being sent into these holes. They described how clean and white this place was. How well the governments had simulated the surface down here. And how as time went on, it got dirtier and dirtier, to how it is now. Last year, they both died in a tragic accent in the tunnel to Shelter 1. They were going to visit a friend who’d moved there. Now, there wasn’t a square foot of untagged wall, floor or ceiling. Everyday, people in the Shelters were mugged and murdered. Everyday, I would get to school and someone would be gone from one of my classes, replaced by another. I lived my life in fear. And hope. Hope that that missing classmate wouldn’t be me.