Short Story: The Hunger Pangs (Part Four)

If you’re late to the game(s), get caught up: Part One, Part Two, and Part Three.

Part Four: The Hunger Pangs Begin

The next morning, we are taken to the arena of the Hunger Pangs. I wave goodbye to the Crapitol and sit back in my seat. I’m being sent to my death, and worse, I’m being sent to my death with Pita Hellark. He’s humming the tune “Overboard,” so I plug my ears. After a while, the windows of the plane go black. We’re almost to the arena.

“Pita, you better pray,” I advise him.

Pita closes his eyes. “I close my eyes, and I can see a better day. I close my eyes and pray,” he sings quietly.

“Shut up!” I tell him. Miraculously, he does.

The plane lands, and we are put in tubes that take us to the arena, which is a forest similar to the one in District 12. I look at my outfit which consists of a green shirt that matches my skin color, simple pants, a thin jacket that reflects heat, and my Hamburjay pin. Haysnitch gave Pita and me some advice before we were sent here. I run his words in my mind again.

“Don’t get anything from the Cornastupia. Just run and try not to die,” Haysnitch told me earlier. The Cornastupia is filled with stupid, useless things such a matchbox cars, Windex, or pressed flowers. The list goes on. Sometimes, though, you can find a use for them.

I look at the arena. There’s a lake to the right, and the rest is just woods. Most of the contestants will obviously go to the lake because of the water, so I will want to head into the forest. I observe the items at the Cornastupia. There’s a backpack a few feet from me and a kid set of bows and arrows a bit farther. I don’t care what Haysnitch says. I’m going to get something, and then I will run for my life.

Then something like an elk’s mating call sounds. That must be the bell. Oh dear, I just lost a few seconds figuring that out, so I start moving. I sprint for the backpack, but I feel something hit me. A contestant behind me is pounding a stuffed animal that looks like Big Bird on me. I have to run faster. Death by Big Bird would be terrible!

I grab the backpack and sprint for the forest, but I slam into this huge, olive-skinned boy. He has a Tonka truck hoisted high. I duck before the toy can slam into my head. Then I run as far away from the Cornastupia as I can. When I feel too tired to keep running, I stop and check out my backpack.

“It’s hot pink with Barbie and Ken on it, eww,” I complain. I open it and find a Barbie water bottle, Barbie sleeping bag, Barbie camp chair, and Barbie flashlight. Oh, there’s also a Barbie tent. I think, overall, I probably got a good deal. Normally, few things in the Cornastupia are for camping. I continue hiking until I suddenly hear voices behind me.

* * * * *

Come back for Part Five: Cracker Jackers!

Boundaries of Bashing

My perfectionism makes me a little critical. (For evidence, see my opinion on eBook formatting or my breakdown of e-reader apps.) This extends pretty much to all areas of my life.

In my day job, I spend a lot of time around ASL interpreters. I frequently find myself feeling conflicted. On one side, I’ve known some seriously awesome interpreters, and I know without a doubt I can’t do their job. In fact, I’ve had to in a pinch once or twice. One of those occasions sparked a near panic-attack. (There’s a reason interpreters usually work in pairs and switch off every 20-30 minutes. When I got to around 45 minutes, I went into vapor lock.)

On the other side, mistakes drive me nuts. Or worse, when I see a completely unqualified interpreter botching up everything. When I’m in a position where I’m signing and an interpreter is voicing for me, I pray to have earplugs. For one thing, it’s just hard to concentrate. For another, any little pause or minor misinterpretation convinces me my signing skills are really that terrible.

And I admit, sometimes after enduring something with a really poor interpreter, I have to vent a little to one of my colleagues.

Even then, I try to remind myself at all times that it’s an extremely difficult job—one I cannot do. I try to keep my venting to appropriate venues. When I’m in a position to help an interpreter improve, I do what I can. At the end of the day, I respect their effort, their training, and the difficulty of their job. And by and large, the interpreters I’ve dealt with fall into the Camp of Awesome.

What’s my point? Oh, look, here comes a writing connection!

It’s likewise easy from the writer’s side of things to criticize how others in the industry do their jobs. Gripe about agents’ long response times. Claim editors are out-of-touch. Rant about the stupidity of anyone and everyone in the publishing business.

There are certainly valid criticisms and discussions to be had on many publishing topics. When it crosses into agent/editor/publisher-bashing, I get a yucky feeling. It just ain’t pretty, and it’s definitely not professional.

Yes, I’m sure they make mistakes. I’m sure there are things they could (and maybe should) do better. Everyone on this planet has room to improve, even (especially) in our areas of expertise. But respect the job, respect the effort, respect the experience and training. Bashing is never the result of respect.

And for more on handling ourselves professionally, check out this post. Yeah, I’m even critical about responding to criticism.

Where do you draw that line between criticism/accountability and straight-up bashing?

Short Story: The Hunger Pangs (Part Three)

I’m back with another part of the parody by a student. Make sure you read Part One and Part Two first. Enjoy!

Part Three: William Tell

In the morning, Pita and I meet our mentor, Haysnitch Aberskunky. He is the only living District 12 victor. When we meet, he’s drunk and smells like a skunk.

“Yo! Aberskunky! What do we do for training?” I ask.

“Uhhhh. Don’t show off,” Haysnitch slurs. “Nobody should know your talents.”

“Okay, so I’ll go light on the archery, and you…” I look at Pita. “Don’t irritate anyone.” Pita nods. I guess he finally figured out that his singing sucks.

Pita and I march off to training, where some tributes are already practicing with the weapons. They scare me, so I drag Pita over to the plant identification training station.

“Helloooo! My name is Billy Mays! Would you like to see my ad for Oxi Clean?” the trainer inquires.

“Uh, unless Oxi Clean is a plant, no thanks,” I tell him.

“But Oxi Clean can make your green skin nice and white again.”

“No, thanks.”

“Awww…Okay, I’ll teach you some plant identification skills.”

Pita and I have to listen to his annoying voice for a full hour before moving on to the next station. We just move from station to station, awaiting our private sessions with the Gamemakers, which will be scored on a scale of 0 to 12. 0 is really bad and 12 is awesome. Of course, District 12 is last so I enter a room full of drunk and bored Gamemakers. I start shooting arrows at the target shaped like a hot dog, hitting the center every time.

“Hot dog, hot dog, hot diggity dog,” a gamemaker sings. I turn around and see he’s singing with an apple on his head.

“If I were you, I’d pay attention!” I scold him. I shoot an arrow at the apple on his head, but instead, I hit his Adam’s apple. Eh, close enough. The gamemaker chokes on his own blood and dies.

“Hey!” another gamemaker calls to me. “Good job! We hated that guy!” I smirk and go out of the room. Pita goes in next and is out of there shortly.

“Eenie meenie miney moe, catch a bad girl by her toe. If-if-if she holla let her go!” Pita sings. “I heard you were a bad girl!”

I think of how I shot the gamemaker’s Adam’s apple with my arrow. “Yeah, I had a William Tell moment.”

We wait for our scores, and I get an 11. Yeah! I rock! Pita gets an 8 and I’m surprised. “What did you do to get an 8?”

“I sang. They told me if I stopped singing, they would give me an 8!” Pita answers.

I can only shake my head.

* * * * *

Up next … Part Four: The Hunger Pangs Begin

Wrenches! I Need More Wrenches!

Yeah, I know, everyone reads that as “wenches” the first time. I don’t write that kind of fantasy.

You ever get that feeling that you just aren’t making things rough enough for your characters? Like things are moving along a little too swimmingly and it’s time to throw another wrench in?

(I know, it’s called conflict. I find I do better if I approach writing in more figurative terms than analytical. I could analyze the crap out of my writing … and in doing so, I’d analyze the life out of it, too.)

This has been particularly on my mind lately since my current WIP is an expansion of a short story. The short has ended up being just a launching point, more or less, and I know where the general arc is going. But to get this to novel length, I realized I needed to pull several wrenches that were still sitting comfortably in the toolbox. More speed bumps and detours for my MC, all tying together to shape the final conflict. (Hopefully.)

I’ve also noticed I tend to opt for smaller wrenches when larger ones would be more interesting, powerful, motivating, etc. Why do I shy off from making things really hard on my characters? Maybe because a part of me always wants things to work out and be happy. (Hello, optimist!) Maybe because I get mad at certain writers for doing things like killing off certain characters. (She knows I’m glaring at her right now.)

But a writer’s gotta do what a writer’s gotta do.

At the same time, I don’t want to do things just to emotionally manipulate my readers. Annoyed as I am with that writer, I know she killed that character for a reason. There should always be a reason, even if it isn’t glaringly obvious on the surface.

So my goal on this current project is to go ahead and make things hard for my MC. Give her reason to doubt, reason to despair, reason to possibly make the wrong choice(s). Because hopefully doing so will make the resolution that much more satisfying when she finally gets there.

Do any of you have similar struggles with getting your characters to, well, struggle enough? Do any of you tend toward the opposite extreme from me, using a hefty torque wrench when a little half-inch crescent wrench would be more appropriate? (Does doing so result in a soap opera?) Any ideas about finding that balance between way-too-hunky-dory and letting Murphy’s Law become more fundamental than gravity?

Please, let me know. My MC is eyeballing the latest wrench in my hand, and I’m afraid she might try to wrestle me for it.

Short Story: The Hunger Pangs (Part Two)

For those who missed it last time, read Part One of this parody written by a student.

And now …

Part Two: Oooh! Burn!

I’m whisked off to the Crapitol with Pita (a.k.a. Justin). I wear a Hamburjay pin that the mayor’s daughter, Padge, gave me as a token. Right now, we are getting prepared for the fashion show part of the Hunger Pangs. It’s a preliminary event where we have a chance to garner support from the audience. So we must dress to impress. District 12’s stylist, Cinnamon, along with his three assistants, Larry, Moe, and Curly, come in.

“Hello, we are your stylists, and I assume you two are my contestants?” Cinnamon asks.

Pita croons, “And I’ma be your one guy, you—”

“If you say I’m going to be your number one girl, you’re dead meat,” I warn Pita. “But yes, Cinnamon, we’re your contestants.”

“Great! So, I was thinking. District 12 is all about coal, right?” Pita and I nod. “So, I was going to set you two on fire!”

“We can’t go nowhere but up from here!” Pita sings. I roll my eyes.

“That’s what I was thinking, too!” Cinnamon exclaims. “What about you, Katnip? Do you approve?”

“Why not?” I give in to his plan. Pita resumes singing his Justin Bieber songs.

“He even looks like Justin Bieber!” Cinnamon notices. I agree; Pita does look like Justin with his mop-top but he has blue eyes and Justin has brown. If he wasn’t so annoying, I might actually like him.

The fashion show is later that night. Pita has a black suit and I a black dress. Both doused in gasoline. Cinnamon assured us the flames wouldn’t hurt us when he lights us on fire. I look at the other contestants’ outfits. District 4 has kiddie pools circling their waists. District 3 has matching Herbie costumes. The District 2 contestants look like two rubies; even the guy is wearing red lipstick. District 11’s contestants having matching apple tree costumes. Pita and I will totally kill these people. Each district marches on the stage, and finally, District 12 is called. We are always last. Cinnamon strikes a match and sets us on fire.

“Pita, do you feel hot?”

“You’re the coolest girl I know!” Pita belts out.

“I don’t feel really cool now.” Sweat beads on my forehead. People cheer for us as we float onstage. “Okay, now it hurts,” I exclaim. “Ow! Ow! Ow!” Pita is screaming as well. I search for a source of water and head straight for District 4’s costumes. I jump at their waists into one of their kiddie pools. Ahhh. I feel so much better.

“Thank you,” I say to the shocked girl from District 4. Pita is still on the stage flapping his arms like he has wings. “Pita, you dolt! Come over here!”

“I’m coming for you!” Pita sings/screams. He jumps into the other contestant’s pool.

“Oooh! Burn!” the girl says, but then the audience starts clapping. Pita and I get out and bow. I’m going to kill Cinnamon for this. What if those Crapitol idiots actually figure out it wasn’t an act? Pita and I would be so dead. The good news is that we had extra layers under our costumes so we didn’t get burned badly; it just felt like a sunburn.

* * * * *

Next time … Part Three: William Tell.

Short Story: The Hunger Pangs (Part One)

And now for something a little different.

The busy stress of the last week of school was lightened when a student let me read a story she’d written—a send-up of The Hunger Games. I had to fight to keep myself from laughing aloud several times, since students were working on final exams.

She’s given me permission to post it here and share the joy. I’ll post each part separately over the next week or so.

(Remember, this is by a teenage student. Any nasty comments will suffer instant death.)

And so, I give to you…

Part One: Wicked Bieber

Today is the day of the Reaping, and my sister, Nessarose, just had a nightmare. She hates the day of the Reaping.

“Katnip! I just had the same nightmare of when the Hamburgers are chasing me!” Nessarose screeches.

“For the last time, Nessa, they are called Hamburjays, not hamburgers!” I correct her. Sheesh, she can be so stupid sometimes, but I love her dearly. She starts rolling her wheelchair towards me.

“Whatever!” She rams me with her wheelchair, but I just shoot an arrow at her foot. “Ow!”

“Shut up!” I snap at her.

“Children!” my mother interrupts. “I swear, you two are the loudest pair in District 12! Katnip, did you go hunting with Gale?” She struggles against her straightjacket, but she can’t take it off. The doctors have told her to wear it ever since my dad died in a coal mine accident.

“Yes, Mother. I got a whole squirrel and two strawberries for the family. Gale took the deer and the bucket of blackberries,” I answer. Gale Rawthorne is my best friend who I go hunting with all the time. He is eighteen and two years older than I am.

“Wonderful! Now, let’ go to the Reaping.” So we head out the door, not bothering to dress up for it. I have my long, brown hair in a loose braid, and my sister has hers in a braid, too. We are both dressed in our blue school uniforms and mother in her straightjacket. We get to the square where they announce the contestants for the annual Hunger Pangs, a contest where a boy and girl from each of the twelve districts in the continent of Painem fight to the death until there is only one person left, who is the winner. The winner gets riches while the rest of the continent is left to their hunger pangs. Food is scarce on this continent, and almost everybody is poor except for the people who live in the Crapitol, where the government is.

“Happy Hunger Pangs!” Eiffie Trinket screeches from underneath her grim reaper costume. “And may the odds be ever in your favor! Ladies first.” She steps toward the Bingo wheel and pulls out a numbered ball. Kids from the age of 12 to 18 are required to compete in the Hunger Pangs, and each kid basically fills out BINGO and a free space as they get older. Twelve-year-olds just get a free space, and eighteen-year-olds get a full BINGO and a free space. I’m 16, so I have a free space and BIN. Nessa only has a free space since she’s 12. My friend Gale, though, is 18 so he has acquired a full BINGO and a free space.

“Free space 42,” Eiffie announces. A man gives her a piece of paper with a name. “Nessarose Evergreen.”

“What?!” I cry out. Nesa starts pushing her wheelchair towards the stage.

“Take her place, Katnip, you have a better chance than Nessa,” my mother frantically whispers in my ear. Nice to know my mom loves me.

“Wait!” I scream. “I’ll take Nessarose’s place.”

“Yes!” Nessa squeals. Well, don’t try to stop me, Nessa, I think.

“Why, yes, you’re her sister Elphaba, right?” Eiffie solicits. My skin is an evergreen color, and people still confuse me with Elphaba since my sister’s name is Nessarose.

“No, I am not from that damn play ‘Wicked!’ My name is Katnip Evergreen,” I inform her. “And no, I do not defy gravity!” They always ask that.

“Oh. Sorry! Next, our male contestant is I-56.” A man comes over to give her a paper. “Pita Hellark!” I know that kid from school; god, I hate his singing. I prepare for an onslaught of Justin Bieber songs.

“Baby, baby, baby, ooooooooooh! Thought you’d always be mine!” Pita sings.

Yep, the Hunger Pangs have begun.

* * * * *

Stay tuned for Part Two: Oooh! Burn!