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Luke -- Age 12 -- District 8

The sun slowly peeked out over the horizon, filling the world with a soft light. With a sigh of relief, Luke untangled himself from the mess of blankets on his bed. He hadn't slept at all. The entire night was spent tossing and turning and worrying. This was the first Reaping Day in which one of those little slips of paper would have the name "Luke" written on it. He knew his chances of actually getting chosen were- thankfully- very low, but the worry and fear came none the less. It didn't help that his dad was a previous Victor. All his life, Luke had grown up hearing about the horrors his father had faced. It was only natural for him to be scared out of his mind.
Slowly, he got dressed and went to the kitchen. His dad was there, still in the exact same position he had been in last night. One of his hands cupped around his head, the other gripping a bottle of beer. Ever since Luke's mom had committed suicide, his father had started drinking more and more. Especially on Reaping Day. Luke did his best to smile. "Morning, Dad." A grunt was all he got in reply.
With a sigh, Luke set about making breakfast for the both of them. He grabbed a knife and began slicing through a thick loaf of bread. The clock loudly kept time on the wall behind him. The room was eerily quiet. Luke licked his lips slowly before saying, "Um... I'm... going to go for a walk. I'll... I'll see you at the Reaping.... Dad?"
One blood-shot eye creaked open and stared at the small boy. "Get out." The growl seemed to push Luke out of the room. He was gone within a second. He winced at the sound of shattering glass that came from behind him.

He could hear them whispering about him. Feel their eyes on him. They were all wondering wether he would be chosen. Or maybe they were wondering where his dad was. Luke tried to blend in with the crowd.
The man on stage was talking. His words droned like bees, and the crowd held still as if hoping not to attract their attention and their sting.
A delicate hand reached into a glass bowl. A slip of paper was withdrawn and unfolded. A girl made her way to the stage. The same hand dipped into a different bowl. A second slip was withdrawn.
Luke was watching the clouds. They were flying across the sky, whipped into a frenzy by the wind. His eyes followed them as they danced across the sky.
His name was called. Reluctant to stop looking at the swirling clouds, he slowly tore his eyes away and retuned to the real world.
They crowd had backed away from him, clearing a broad path to the stage. For a moment, he was confused, but then reality set in. He stumbled forward, his fear and horror plain in his eyes.

Rebekah -- Age 17 -- District 4


The small child tugged on her mother's hand. "Mama, what's that funny lady doing?" The mother looked up, slightly irritated that her been interrupted. The scowl on her face grew as she saw where her child was pointing. She dragged the little girl away, muttering darkly about "crazies who don't belong here."
Rebekah smiled. The silly woman thought she was insane. Actually, they all thought she was insane. It was hilarious. They were the crazy ones.
She was spinning slowly in a circle, her arms outstretched. Her eyelids were closed; her eyes, underneath, watched the shadows that danced across them. The huge tree that had spread itself out over the town square for generations blocked the sun from her closed eyes. Her bare toes slid across the uneven paving stones that covered the ground.
Slowly, gradually, she stopped spinning and knelt. Her eyes carefully opened as her fingers began to investigate the cracks in the stones. There were so many, curving in their strange, angular way around each other.
More people were coming. Rebekah was delighted by the fact that she could tell this from the vibrations traveling up her slim fingers. So many people. All coming towards her. She cocked her head slowly to one side, a curious frown pulling at the corners of her mouth. It looked like the entire district was walking into town square. Even the peacekeepers in their bright uniforms and their shining guns.
She had always wanted to touch one of those guns. They looked so smooth and cool. Everyone else seemed scared of the guns, and Rebekah had to admit that they smelled of violence. But they were still beautiful. Round and smooth and hard and sharp all at the same time.
Her mother was coming up behind her now. Rebekah recognized the footsteps. Step click drag. Step click drag. People starred at her mother almost as much as they stared at her. They thought her twisted leg was unlucky. Ugly. A curse. She thought her mother's leg was beautiful. Like the guns. So smooth and fine for the most part, but then a sudden twist surrounded by wrinkled scar tissue. The shining black cane that was always next to it only added to it's loveliness.
A soft hand landed on Rebekah's shoulder. "Come on, sweetheart. You have to get to your spot for the Reaping. You remember the Reaping, don't you, sweetheart? "
She smiled up at her mother. "Of course, Mama." She stood up, kissed he mother on the cheek, and went to her place in the crowd. Throughout all of this, she moved slowly and gracefully. [Her eyes weren't entirely focused, which only made her look even more like she was in a dream.] (This sentence needs work, but I can't think of a better way to phrase it....)
Why are they all waiting here? We already know who's going to be chosen.
Yes, we do know. But how do we know? It's not natural, Rebekah. You're a freak. You know that, don't you? The man on the stage began talking. Rebekah began ducking and weaving her way to the front of the crowd.
Shut up! I'm not a freak! I'm not....
Yes you are. Everyone thinks so. Even Mama. She'll be glad to get rid of you!
No! That's not true! The man pulled a slip of paper out of a large glass bowl as Rebekah started up the wooden stairs that lead to the stage.
Yes it is. You're a freak. No one loves you. You're going to die and they'll all enjoy it.
Be quiet! Rebekah stood next to the man as he read her name aloud.

No, Not 74th. I'm not sure which one it is, but it's earlier.