Hunger Games Creative Response
Creative Response
I stood on the pod as I catch my last glimpse of my stylist Johnny Huckle, he tells me to be brave but most of all be smart. He’s been the only person I’ve actually like since I got here, the Capitol that is. I never in a million years thought that I would have been chosen. Me, little old Douglas Huckleberry from district 12, after Peeta and Katniss won this thing a few years ago district 12 hasn’t had much to root for in the last few hunger games. But here I am, replaying my game plan over and over in my head. Run to the first backpack I see and sprint to the woods. I say this out loud as the pod rises; I’ve got no time to be afraid I just need to survive. I don’t even pay attention to the countdown; I look around at each tribute, making eye contact with a few. The fear in some of the tributes eyes is nothing compared to the anger and arrogance of some. Mostly the career tributes, they have been training there whole life for this, while some had no idea this would happen. I’m not this biggest but not the smallest, I’m lucky to have had a chance at football in some tournaments that the Capitol had put on, I made the District 12 rep team for AFL, it’s still as poor as the district itself but at least we were allowed to leave to play other teams, the weights training in the program has helped me gain muscle and strength and I’ve always been fast and agile. This defiantly gives me the edge over some tributes but unlike the career tributes I haven’t trained to kill people my whole life. Put it this way, playing footy is very different to taking someone’s life.
There is only 10 seconds left in the countdown as I snap into gear, I get ready to run, confident that I can beat everyone, I’m sure everyone will head to the weapons first, not me once I get my bag I’m out of there. The horn blows and my legs are running a million miles an hour to a backpack before I can even think, I pick up the backpack in on smooth fluent motion, not one breaking stride
I stood on the pod as I catch my last glimpse of my stylist Johnny Huckle, he tells me to be brave but most of all be smart. He’s been the only person I’ve actually like since I got here, the Capitol that is. I never in a million years thought that I would have been chosen. Me, little old Douglas Huckleberry from district 12, after Peeta and Katniss won this thing a few years ago district 12 hasn’t had much to root for in the last few hunger games. But here I am, replaying my game plan over and over in my head. Run to the first backpack I see and sprint to the woods. I say this out loud as the pod rises; I’ve got no time to be afraid I just need to survive. I don’t even pay attention to the countdown; I look around at each tribute, making eye contact with a few. The fear in some of the tributes eyes is nothing compared to the anger and arrogance of some. Mostly the career tributes, they have been training there whole life for this, while some had no idea this would happen. I’m not this biggest but not the smallest, I’m lucky to have had a chance at football in some tournaments that the Capitol had put on, I made the District 12 rep team for AFL, it’s still as poor as the district itself but at least we were allowed to leave to play other teams, the weights training in the program has helped me gain muscle and strength and I’ve always been fast and agile. This defiantly gives me the edge over some tributes but unlike the career tributes I haven’t trained to kill people my whole life. Put it this way, playing footy is very different to taking someone’s life.
There is only 10 seconds left in the countdown as I snap into gear, I get ready to run, confident that I can beat everyone, I’m sure everyone will head to the weapons first, not me once I get my bag I’m out of there. The horn blows and my legs are running a million miles an hour to a backpack before I can even think, I pick up the backpack in on smooth fluent motion, not one breaking stride