Long time no see mah lil' wattpaders! How is everybody today? I do apologize for the lengthy wait ehe, for I started a new story (Yay) -I'll probably post it in a day or two...anyways, this chapter is actually more of a filler, hence its short length. But fear not! I plan on posting Chapter Five (tribute Parade and possibly the Training) like right after this one. Although this chapter doesn't exactly pertain to the actual Hunger Games, it shows how Mags aquired some of her talent with making fish hooks out of like nothing. Have a nice day and I hope you enjoy this chapter :) 

Chapter Four

Fish hooks

                   That night I curl up on one of the sofas and replay clips from previous Hunger Games on the transparent television, slowly making my way through a powdered tart. I can't remember much from the very First Games—just that the tributes were placed in a Tropical landscape, with an assortment of weapons, food, and other equipment. On the screen, twenty-four tributes are being launched into the arena, staring wide eyed at the new world around them. The gong rings, and after a few startled seconds, some race towards the Cornucopia, whereas others stand there in shock, still trying to fully absorb what is happening. After a few close ups of fallen tributes, it cuts to the dense forest of spruce trees fencing in the abandoned Cornucopia, and clips of the victor slaughtering his opponents.  I wonder what it would have been like to be in the First Games, not having the faintest idea what neoteric terrain lay in front of them. Having no clue just how trapped and victimized they were. Gladiators left in an arena viewed by millions, having to kill their own kind. A shiver runs down my back. That's going to be me soon. Holding a knife in my hand and dying from hunger.

                   Stop, I mentally scold myself. You can't keep thinking so negative. Suddenly I remember what my mother had once told me. "Mags. Negativity is only an anchor dragging you down." Her soft, calming voice brings a sad smile to my face. I would trade the world just to have her by my side right now, to have the familiar sense of safety and comfort. But no. My days of security and love are behind me now, and I must accept my fate and move on. But yet my past still nags behind my busy mind, and the thoughts of my old life bubble to the surface. Surprisingly, it is my father's face that shows up first. I am around six years old, and my father, clean-shaved and smiling, is sitting in a small boat with me a little ways from shore. The sun is hanging in the center of the deep blue sky, peppered with little clouds, and a tangle of fishing net carpets the floor of the boat.

                   "Now grasp the string here, there you go," My little hands wrap around the long twine, and he grabs a thin, stout wire. "Carefully bend your wire, like so," My father meticulously forms the wire into a gentle curve with a small loop hole at the stem. I obey, creating a somewhat hook. Slightly grimacing, he takes mine and smooths it out until it mirrors his, handing it back to me. "This is called a 'J' hook. See how it forms a J?" Nodding my head vigorously, I proceed on to the next step, threading the twine through the loop. "Good. Now you just have to tie it!" He shows me how to tie it so that the hook won't fall off when it gets caught in the fish. After several attempts, I am finally ready.

                   "Now what daddy?"

                   "Now we attach the twine to the branch," He lifts up a small branch about four feet tall, all of its bark and bumps shaved until it's a pale, smooth wooden pole with a shallow, 2-inch cut splitting the top of the branch. He rests the twine with the hook onto the intrusion and lightly wraps the remaining string around the bottom of the pole. He hands it back to me, placing my small hands in the correct positions. "Make sure to hold onto your pole tight, Mags, you never know what fish will find your hook." He winks, his tan skin forming deep creases at the corner of his eye. Placing a small piece of bread on the hook he says:  "Now carefully put your hook into the water and--shh, you have to be quiet--when you feel a tug, yank upwards!"

                   "Why don't we just use regular poles and hooks daddy? Why do we have to make one ourselves?" I question after a while.

                   "Mags, someday when you grow up, you're going to have to know how to deal with things yourself. There isn't always going to be a store or factory to buy and make your things for you. Someday you're going to have to take care of yourself..." He trails off, a distant look in his eyes.