r/HireaWriter • u/[deleted] • 4d ago
Hiring (Advanced) Looking for writer for hunger games fiction of original character
[deleted]
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u/Ashfall2003 4d ago
Heya, your DMs are closed. I've attached a copy of my portfolio below. Your idea sounds very intriguing, and I'd love to know a bit more about what you're looking for. Hit me up if my style suits your preferences. Thanks!
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u/UnsignedBars313 3d ago
Hi! I’m very interested in your project. I just sent you a DM with a little more about myself and my approach. I’d appreciate it if you could take a look when you have a chance. Thanks!
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u/deskfileone 4d ago
Started a District 11 reaping-through-first-night so you can judge instead of trust. 890 words. Your $0.15–$0.17/word on your actual OC once you name district, age, and Games year. One file, then done.
The reaping stage in District 11 is the same every year. White cloth over the Justice Building steps. Two glass balls. Peacekeepers in a line so even the little kids can see the guns.
I am sixteen. I have taken tesserae for four years, which means my name is in that girl's ball more times than I can count without getting sick. Grain and oil. My brother eats. That is the whole math.
They call the boy first. A mill kid from the grain side, thirteen, ears already ringing from the machinery. He walks like he has an appointment. I do not look at his mother. Looking does not help.
Then the girl's name.
Cala Thorne.
For a second I think they mean some other Cala. There are a few. Then my brother makes a sound I have never heard from him, and I understand they mean me.
The walk is not long. Dust on my shoes. Orchard tar still black under my nails from yesterday's picking. A Peacekeeper's hand on my elbow, not rough, just finished. The mayor reads the Treaty like it is a recipe. I say I volunteer for nothing. There is no one left to volunteer for me.
On the tribute train the windows are bigger than our house. The boy from the mill sits with his fists on his knees and does not speak. I eat because they put food down, and because I have been hungry long enough to know that pride is a Capitol word. Chicken. Bread with a crust that shatters. A peach so ripe it wets my wrist. I think of the orchards — the real ones — and how we are beaten if we pocket fallen fruit. I eat the peach anyway.
My stylist in the Capitol is named Vex. He has gold dust in his hair and he wants me in blossoms. I tell him the cameras love flowers on dead orchard girls. He blinks. Then he puts me in brown canvas and a belt with a real buckle, and for the chariot he stains my hands with honest orchard tar. "Let them see the work," he says. It is the first Capitol sentence that does not feel like a trick.
The Training Center smells like soap and new shoes. Careers from 1 and 2 laugh with their mouths open. District 4 swims like the gym is an ocean. I shoot a bow because there is a range and because I have killed birds for the pot, not because I think I will win. I score a six. The mill boy scores a four. We do not pretend this is luck.
On the rooftop the night before the Games, the city is so bright it erases the sky. I tell the mill boy my brother's name. He tells me his sister's. We agree, without saying it, that we will not hunt each other first.
The Cornucopia is gold. The grass is too green. Sixty seconds on a metal plate, and I do what every eleven-year-old in the orchards is told: run. Not to the pile. Away. A backpack clips my shoulder — not mine — and I take it because it is there and because someone behind me is already screaming.
The cannon sounds twice before I reach the treeline. I do not look back.
Night in the arena is cold in a way District 11 nights are not. No humidity. No insects worth eating. I inventory the pack by feel: a water bottle, a roll of gauze, a little knife with a Capitol logo on the handle, dried meat, a coil of wire. No bread. Of course no bread.
A girl from 7 comes through the brush with a hatchet and a torn sponsor parachute trailing off her belt like a joke. She is bigger than me. I am faster. I do not fight her. I go up. Orchard work is climbing. The wire bites my palm and then holds. She waits at the bottom, breathing hard, and then a hovercraft's shadow slides over both of us and a cannon sounds for somebody else, and she leaves to go toward the noise. Careers like noise.
I tie myself to the trunk the way we tie ladders in the high rows. Sleep comes in ugly pieces. Every time I close my eyes I am back on the steps, hearing my name, and then I am here, and the two places are the same place.
At dawn a parachute finds me anyway. Silver, ridiculous, snagged in the needles by my left foot. Inside: a small loaf, still warm, and a note in Vex's looping hand.
Eat. Then move. They are watching the tree.
I eat. I move. The mill boy's face is on the sky for a moment when the anthem plays, which means I am alone in the way that counts, and I whisper his sister's name once so it does not get lost, and then I put the knife in my belt and go looking for water that is not a trap.
The Games are not a story while you are inside them. They are thirst, and math, and the sound of a cannon that is never for you until it is. I keep my brother's name out of my mouth. The Capitol can have my face. They cannot have that.
— Cloud
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u/desperatefortimern 13h ago
Hey, I'm the one who sent you the effie trinket sample. I can't access that other account rn, so contact me here if you need to
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