THE TRIBUTES - The Hunger Game1 By Suzanne Collins

The Hunger Games trilogy is a young-adult adventure science fiction series written by Suzanne Collins. The trilogy consists of The Hunger Games,Catching Fire, and Mockingjay. The first two books were each The New York Times best sellers, and the third book, Mockingjay, topped all US bestseller lists upon its release. By the time the movie The Hunger Games was released the publisher reported 26 million Hunger Games trilogy books in print, including movie tie-in books.

From the book

"When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers

stretch out, seeking Prim’s warmth but finding only the

rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had bad

dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course, she did.

This is the day of the reaping.

I prop myself up on one elbow. There’s enough light in the

bedroom to see them. My little sister, Prim, curled up on her

side, cocooned in my mother’s body, their cheeks pressed together.

In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not

so beaten-down. Prim’s face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely

as the primrose for which she was named. My mother was

very beautiful once, too. Or so they tell me.

Sitting at Prim’s knees, guarding her, is the world’s ugliest

cat. Mashed-in nose, half of one ear missing, eyes the color of

rotting squash. Prim named him Buttercup, insisting that his

muddy yellow coat matched the bright flower. I le hates me.

Or at least distrusts me. Even though it was years ago, I think

he still remembers how I tried to drown him in a bucket when

Prim brought him home. Scrawny kitten, belly swollen with

worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing I needed was

another mouth to feed. But Prim begged so hard, cried even, I

had to let him stay. It turned out okay. My mother got rid of

the vermin and he’s a born mouser. Even catches the occasional

rat. Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the

entrails. He has stopped hissing at me.

Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to

love.

I swing my legs off the bed and slide into my hunting boots.

Supple leather that has molded to my feet. I pull on trousers, a

shirt, tuck my long dark braid up into a cap, and grab my forage

bag. On the table, under a wooden bowl to protect it from

hungry rats and cats alike, sits a perfect little goat cheese

wrapped in basil leaves. Prim’s gift to me on reaping day. I put

the cheese carefully in my pocket as I slip outside.

Our part of District 12, nicknamed the Seam, is"

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