Gale froze, a mixture of relief and horror. Relief that it wasn't Katniss. Horror that it was Prim. For a long moment, he felt as though there was a buzzing in the air, and watched helplessly as little Prim finally shuffled forwards in her oversized clothes. How was Katniss holding up? Gale looked across to her. A split second later, she twitched out of her dumbstruck state and dashed forwards, screaming desperately, “Prim! Prim! I volunteer!” Katniss, no – “I volunteer as tribute!” A hush fell over the crowd. Gale withdrew, closing his eyes. Not hearing. This can’t be happening. This can’t b

7:09 AM. The middle-aged woman fumbles with the brakes on her pram, as the train engine drones monotonously in her ears. Finally satisfied, she allows herself to drift asleep. Across from her, Sharon shuts her laptop and crosses her stockinged legs. She looks out the train window at the blur of green and silver, then checks her watch. Still time. She watches the plainly dressed mother subconsciously nodding. Finding it hypnotic, she almost dozes off as well. It had been an exhausting night. (Or early morning.) 2:03 AM. Sharon typed mechanically; her fingers attacked the back-space key every now and again. Her tired eyes could no longer

Akiko 4 AM. For the fifth time that morning, Akiko dragged herself out of bed to tend to her wailing baby. She could barely open her shadowed eyes, but she was used to it. Yet when the baby was finally satisfied and returned to a peaceful sleep, Akiko could not. She made her way out the house, taking in the cool air. She half-wished she could hire a baby-sitter. Or a maid. Maybe even a cook. Of course, the money her husband earnt was sufficient for their modest way of life, but that was it. A secret part of Akiko desired luxuries, a life of ease. She worried for the future of her precious baby. She can’t live like this. It would be

Day after day Nothing changes We wait. Caught in limbo, The sparks of youth are lost Even in children. The sparks of hope Live no more. With nothing to call our own We'd cry But we lack the strength Even to weep. When the darkness sets Closes in around us We'd suffocate But we have long since lost our breath Our voice. Members of authority come and go Speaking of Utopias Unreachable. Slowly (for time doesn't move), We forget our names Why we are here Where we came from Who we are. All is dust. Sometimes, The stillness kills me. (But am I already dead?) We wait. Nothing changes Day after day

She had no choice. Lady Amelia stood by her bedroom window, watching blankly as the Duke's carriage left the courtyard. She knew she was supposed to be happy. Slowly, she turned away and approached her bedpost, leaning against it for support. Her throat clenched up; she wanted to cry. But she didn't. *** Five days. Five more days, until – until… Amelia sighed, and re-read her letters. She had had them pretty well memorised by now, but there was something strangely comforting in drowning in Reginald's words. She hadn't seen – or even heard from – him in a month. He must have found out. She looked up at the light gre

prologue Staring at the ceiling as you trundle by, you think to yourself what a pity it is to have to leave the world at the peak of your life. There is so much left to do, so much left to see, to experience. You want to curse that reckless, cowardly P-plater. Then you hear buzzing noises, but your vision is hazy, and you can't match shifting shadow to muffled voice. You do have a general idea of what's happening around you though. You feel someone brush your cheek, and you can recognise his warm touch immediately. The hand is soon gone, as you are wheeled away (much to your discontent). Bright lights shine painfully above you, and you c