A peculiar sensation jolted Hazel, an alien vibration resonating through her bones. She sat up, her senses sharpening, her green eyes snapping open. A resounding thwack reverberated within the tree trunk right behind her head. Hazel's copper hair cascaded over her shoulders as she glanced upward, noticing the pine needles above her trembling. For a brief, sun-drunk moment, she thought it was an earthquake. But within a few moments, she realized that the rhythmic chopping originated from the very tree she had been resting against.
Her heart raced as she peered down, her eyes locking onto the figure hacking away at the base of the trunk. Draped in a dark green coat, the figure's presence was out of place amidst the summer's warmth.
"Hold on!" Hazel's voice rang out, clinging to a hope that her call would halt the figure's actions. The axe-wielding figure paused, turning their head upwards as if acknowledging her presence. Despite facing her, their face remained veiled.
Hazel's eyes darted to the tree's trunk, where the axe had made a deep, wedge-shaped gash. The exposed wood pulp was sandy brown, rough, and splintered. Shards of bark lay scattered around the base. Unheeded, the figure resumed his task with renewed vigor, each strike of the axe sending a jolt of terror through Hazel. The tree now swayed under the assault. It groaned and creaked, mourning its impending fate.
"Stop!" Hazel's voice cracked with panic, her words a desperate plea. But they only seemed to fuel the assailant's determination. Hazel tossed her lunch aside, the homemade apple bread slipping from her lap. Its golden crust and melting butter were a fleeting dream that disappeared into the abyss below.
Scrambling to descend, Hazel's movements were frantic and uncoordinated. But time was a luxury she no longer possessed. The air was again filled with the deafening sound of splintering wood, a fitting soundtrack to her impending death. Birds scattered from their perches, their frantic wings beating against the sky in a series of alarmed cries. Leaves and pine needles rained like confetti at a grim celebration, obscuring Hazel's vision. The tree's mighty trunk cracked, reverberating through the woods like thunder. Her hands clawed desperately at branches, bark tearing away beneath her fingertips.
Time slowed briefly, agonizingly, as the tree reached its tipping point, teetering on the precipice of collapse. Then, with a deafening roar, it surrendered to gravity's relentless pull. Hazel's world tilted, a rush of adrenaline flooding her senses. Her stomach churned as the ground rushed to meet her, the massive Ponderosa Pine succumbing to its fate.
Hazel's reality blurred into a whirlwind of motion and noise as the colossal tree hurtled toward the ground. Her tightly shut eyes couldn't block the overwhelming sensation of freefall. Amid the turmoil, a familiar voice pierced the chaos, calling her name.
Hazel's body spasmed, jolting her out of the terrifying plunge. She sprawled erratically in her bed, drenched in sweat, her heart still pounding from the vivid dream. The lingering adrenaline coursing through her veins clashed with the creeping calm of awakening. Dawn's first light remained a distant promise on the horizon.
Blinking away the remnants of her dream, Hazel fought to shake off the sensations of crashing branches and the gut-wrenching drop. Her room lay still in the pre-dawn darkness, and she groaned softly into her pillow, pulling the comforting patchwork blanket closer.
"Lazybones," the voice from before teased, gentle yet insistent. A tall silhouette emerged from the shadows, a comforting and known presence in the half-light. The faint glow framed their figure, casting a soft halo around their features. "Come on, you have to get up, or we will be late."
Hazel remained still, her face nuzzled deeper into the welcoming embrace of her pillow.
"Come on, Haze," the voice urged once more.
Hazel let out a resigned sigh, her nightmare still fading. She rubbed her eyes, trying to erase the last traces of fear that clung to her. "Ugh, Silus, what would I do without my personal alarm clock?" she said, her words accompanied by a yawn.
"You definitely would have been fired a long time ago," Silus's deep and warm voice grew louder as he teased her. "You are welcome, by the way." Hazel turned to glare at him, her gaze traveling up to meet his. His tall, muscular frame, a testament to his work as a lumberjack, loomed in the dim room. Despite his large stature, his voice retained a deep warmth, matching his youthful yet strong face. At 17, Silus's features were nearly an exact copy of his father. His closely cropped dark hair framed deep chocolate brown eyes that sparkled with mischief in the early morning light.
He wasn't wrong. Mornings were always a struggle for Hazel, a battle she had fought for as long as she could remember. Her eyes briefly flicked to the sleeping forms of Lily and Linden, her eleven-year-old twin siblings, nestled together in their bunk bed. The bunk's wood emitted a gentle creak as the twins shifted in their sleep.
"Shh, you'll wake them," Hazel whispered.
Silus chuckled softly, the sound resonating warmly within the snug room, softened by the log cabin's sturdy, hand-hewn timber walls. He straightened, his height even more pronounced in the small space. He shook his head, a playful glance toward the twins, "Those two sleep like the dead; I swear they wouldn't wake for an earthquake," he joked. "And you, if you could manage to wake up without my help, I wouldn't have to risk waking them by dragging you out of bed every day."
"Alright, alright, I'm up," Hazel conceded with a mock grumble. She swung her legs out from under the patchwork quilt and onto the rough-hewn wooden floor, each movement feeling more laborious than the last.
She sat forward slightly. Her red hair and wild, tousled mane tumbled over her shoulders, tickling her skin. The room, still dim in the early light, held a cozy charm. She stretched, her muscles stiff from sleep, and the sensation of rising from the bed was both a challenge and a ritual. The morning air was cool, brushing against her skin, drawing her more into the waking world.
Standing up, she felt the floorboards creaking softly beneath her weight. She glanced at the room around her. The room, though modest, was rich in character. Its walls were covered in squares of rough paper, each showcasing Linden's black and white charcoal drawings. On the windowsill, in a coffee cup-turned vase, a few wild roses and dandelions added a floral touch, even if they were slightly wilted along the edges. She spared another glance at Lily and Linden, comforted by the sight of their undisturbed sleep.
Silus and Hazel crept through the house, stepping lightly on the cool, bare wooden floors. Each room they passed bore the marks of a family of eight living closely together: homemade furnishings worn smooth by years of use, walls adorned with a hodgepodge of family photos and children's drawings, shelves lined with well-thumbed books and hand-carved toys.
In the kitchen, the familiar pre-work ritual of the early morning was in full swing, all under the watchful eye of Rowan, Hazel's sixteen-year-old stepbrother. His movements were graceful, his longer limbs moving with a fluidity that contrasted with Silus's more robust stature. The dim, warm light from the overhead lamps highlighted his bronzed skin, turning his curly, longer hair into a wild, tousled halo.
"Ah, the sleeping beauty awakens," Rowan teased, his voice cracking slightly amid adolescence's unpredictable changes. His eyes, reminiscent of Silus's in their deep chocolate hue, were distinguished by specks of gold that shimmered under the kitchen's warm lighting.
Hazel yawned, stretching her arms high, her joints popping softly in the quiet kitchen. "I still don't get how you two are so chipper at this unearthly hour," she grumbled playfully. Picking up a slightly bruised apple from the fruit bowl, she began to fill her thermos with the strong, steaming black coffee, its rich aroma a small comfort. "You're like a human rooster," she said.
Silus's laughter echoed a deep, resonant sound, hand patting him on the back. "Now, that's an image. Rowan, the human rooster of District 7."
"Hey, you can be our new district mascot." Hazel joked, winking at him.
Rowan rolled his eyes but directed a warm smile at Hazel. "Better a rooster than a night owl who can't get out of bed without help." Observing Rowan's softer features, Hazel couldn't help but wonder if these traits came from his mother, differing significantly from Silus and his father's more rugged appearances.
A deep, groggy voice from the doorway suddenly cut through their light banter. "Can you three keep it down, please?" Hazel's stepfather, his hand wearily rubbing the sleep from his eyes, asked. His middle-aged face, lined with the marks of years of hard labor, mirrored an older version of Silus. His deep chocolate eyes, so much like his sons', held a mix of weariness and warmth. Once uniformly dark, close-cropped hair now bore the beginnings of gray sprinkled along the sideburns.
"Sorry, Dad," Rowan and Silus responded in unison.
Hazel met his gaze, her apology coming out softer, more tentative. "Sorry," she murmured, her voice just a whisper. He offered a nod of acknowledgment before turning to retreat to his room, the door closing softly behind him.
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Silus gave them both a conspiratorial wink. "Let's get going before we wake up. Mom is next." The three exchanged knowing glances, a silent understanding. They hurried, doing their best to move silently through the house.
In the dim light of the early morning, Hazel and her siblings approached the rack by the door where their axes were stored. The old wooden rack had seen better days, its surface weathered and worn from years of use. The axes, lined up in orderly rows, bore the scars of countless hours of labor. Their father had handcrafted each handle, polished smooth from years of gripping and swinging.
Hazel's hand reached out for her own axe, a well-worn tool that felt like an extension of herself. The handle rubbed smooth from years of use and fit perfectly in her grip, its weight both reassuring and familiar. She had affectionately nicknamed it "Oliver," a name her brothers relentlessly teased her was dumb.
As Hazel lifted Oliver, the blade's metal caught the first light of dawn, casting a gleam that seemed to slice through the dimness of the early hour. The blade had been carefully maintained, its edge sharp and ready for the day's work. The blade's surface bore the marks of countless cuts.
Stepping outside, the trio was met with the crisp morning air, a refreshing yet bracing reminder of the day ahead. The warmth of their home lingered on her skin, a contrast to the cool embrace of the outside world. Hazel adjusted her grip on Oliver, her fingers finding their familiar positions on the worn handle as they prepared for another day of labor in the rugged beauty of District Seven's forests.
The three siblings walked in a comfortable silence towards the lumber mill, their boots crunching softly on the gravel path. The first hints of dawn began to paint the sky, casting a soft, rosy glow over District 7. Nestled in a valley surrounded by towering forests, it slowly woke up.
District 7's location tied heavily to its lumber and paper industry, as the region it was situated in was famous for the vast forests that produced redwoods, pines, and many other kinds of trees. The path they trod was a well-worn ribbon winding through the heart of the district, flanked by trees that stood like silent sentinels. Tiny houses dotted the outskirts, their fields a patchwork quilt of greens and browns, providing a picturesque backdrop to the lumber-filled landscape. But beyond this lay the vast expanse of trees, the lifeblood of their community.
Hazel's eyes traced the familiar landscape as they walked – the lumber mills with their constant, rhythmic hum of activity and the paper mills standing tall, their chimneys releasing plumes of white smoke into the morning air. There were also the smaller lumber-based businesses: the carpentry workshops where fine furniture was crafted and the artisan studios where skilled hands turned wood into intricate carvings and sculptures.
The Alpine River, flowing through the heart of District 7, shimmered in the burgeoning light of dawn. Its waters, a vital artery, supported the mills and the people who lived here. A massive dam, a marvel of engineering perched at the river's edge, controlled its flow, harnessing the river's power to aid the district's various industries. The low, rumbling hum of the dam could be heard in the distance, a constant reminder of the district's reliance on the water's force.
Around it all, the mountains loomed, their peaks shrouded in a mist that seemed to weave tales of ancient lore and timeless secrets. They were blanketed in a perpetual haze, their forested slopes untouched by the industry that defined the valley below.
The people of District 7 were a hardworking bunch, their lives intricately woven into the rich tapestry of the dense, endless forests that surrounded them. They weren't wealthy by Capitol standards, but their resourcefulness, combined with the abundance of natural resources at their disposal, ensured that they lived comfortably. Their lives were deeply intertwined with the natural world– the river, the forests, and the mountains.
From a young age, most children in District 7 were taught to handle axes, wood cutting, and carving tools as part of their early education. It was as much a part of their kindergarten curriculum as reading and arithmetic. The people here had a profound connection with the land, and their ability to work with wood was a skill passed down through generations.
Hazel inhaled deeply, the familiar scent of fresh sawdust filling her senses. It was a smell she loved, a comforting reminder of home and the forests. The crisp, earthy aroma of pine and cedar mingled with the subtle sweetness of freshly cut timber. However, that pleasant scent was occasionally marred by the less appealing odor from the papermills, a scent that no one in District 7's history had ever grown to like.
The early morning light cast long shadows across the cobblestone streets as they approached the town square. The square was the heart of the community, where people gathered, traded, and celebrated on certain days. But today, it bore a different atmosphere.
Hazel's eyes were drawn to the stage set up in the center of the square. Workers were busily erecting the platform and draping it in the colors of the Capitol. It was a stark, jarring sight against the rustic backdrop of their district. The stage, a symbol of the Capitol's presence in their lives, was a reminder of the fast-approaching reaping.
With its garish decorations, the sight of the stage seemed to hang heavily in the air, casting a pall over the square's usual vibrancy. People walked by with quickened steps, their faces etched with expressions of worry.
Hazel felt a tightness in her chest as she looked at the stage.
"Three days to the reaping," Silus said, his tone a mix of reflection and apprehension. His words echoed in Hazel's mind.
The knot that had taken residence in Hazel's stomach tightened further at his words. She exhaled slowly, "Just glad it's my last year," she responded, her voice barely audible, as if afraid to give voice to the fear within her.
Rowan shot her a look, "Lucky you. I've still got three more to go and Silus two. And let's not forget the twins... and Sage."
The thought of eight-year-old Sage, with his bright, light chestnut eyes full of innocence, sent a chill down Hazel's spine. "I can't even bear to think about it," she whispered, the cheerful crunch of the apple she had eaten now a sour memory in her mouth.
Silus, ever the peacemaker, smoothly shifted the conversation. He draped an arm around each of his siblings, “Hey, let's not get bogged down in that right now, okay? We've got a whole day's work ahead of us. Speaking of work, did you guys catch the news about Birch? Got himself demoted for smoking Cyder on the job."
Hazel let out a laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. "So, Birch was high on Cyder? That sure explains his existential rants. I always thought he was just sunbaked."
Silus, with a wide grin, added, "He was definitely a form of 'baked.'"
Rowan chuckled, "Guess that's one way to make cutting trees all day interesting."
Their banter continued as they reached the lumber mill, a sprawling complex already springing to life with the onset of the morning shift. The rumble of truck engines filled the air, creating a constant and familiar backdrop to their daily routine. The lineup of massive lumber trucks, resembling colossal metal beasts, stood in formation, ready to transport them deep into the heart of District 7's vast forests.
Climbing into one of the trucks, Hazel settled into her customary spot next to her brothers. The interior was abuzz with the chatter and laughter of their fellow workers, their voices blending into a symphony of camaraderie. Yet, today was different. The atmosphere was charged with an undercurrent of tension, palpable even beneath the façade of casual conversation.
As Hazel exchanged glances with her brothers, she could discern the unease that flickered in their eyes, lurking just below the surface. Their unspoken fears mirrored her own, and the weight of the impending reaping hung heavily over them all.
As the truck wove its way through the serpentine forest paths of District 7, Hazel found herself lulled into a drowsy trance by the vehicle's rhythmic motion. Resting her head on the cool window of the vehicle, her conscious mind ebbed away into a light sleep.
Suddenly, a surge of unease coursed through Hazel. She stood in the familiar forest, but everything felt dreadfully wrong. The towering trees loomed overhead like malevolent giants, their branches swaying like sinister appendages. A pervasive dread clawed at her, telling her something was horribly amiss, though she couldn't quite decipher what. The forest, usually a place of solace, now felt alien and foreboding. The darkness was thicker than she had ever known, and an eerie fog clung to her skin, chilling her to the bone.
She caught a fleeting glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye. Her gaze locked onto a figure cloaked in a shade of green that blended seamlessly with the surroundings. Their eyes, a shade of vivid green that mirrored the forest itself, seemed to emit an eerie, haunting glow. There was something familiar about this presence, a faint echo of recognition that teased her memory.
Hazel followed the figure against her better judgment, each step carrying her deeper into the forest's heart. It was as though she had no control over her movements, a helpless witness to her actions. The figure appeared to communicate in hushed tones, whispers that were laced with promises and warnings. Their cryptic words slipped through her grasp like water, leaving her with a sense of profound disorientation.
Abruptly, the figure vanished into the shadows, leaving Hazel utterly alone in the impenetrable darkness of the forest. The air grew thick with a fog that coiled around her feet, and as she gazed downward, she noticed little white flowers gleaming in the scant moonlight that filtered through the dense canopy. An oppressive silence enveloped her, broken only by the eerie sound of something slicing through the air—a menacing, steadily approaching noise.
The sound intensified, growing louder with each passing second as if the unknown entity was hurtling towards her. Panic surged within her as she braced for the unknown assailant.
And then, it materialized before her eyes—a massive, menacing axe, its gleaming blade spinning end over end, closing the gap with frightening speed. The blade, cold and sharp, was poised to strike. Hazel's heart raced, her instincts screaming at her to flee, but she was paralyzed with fear. Just as the axe's cruel edge was about to make contact, Hazel's eyes shot open, and she let out a soft gasp as the remnants of the harrowing dream still clung to her thoughts.
Hazel's eyelids fluttered rapidly, an effort to shake off the unnerving dread that enveloped her like a dense, unyielding fog. Gradually, her fingers relaxed their iron grip on Oliver, and she passed a trembling hand over her face, pressing at her eyes as if to physically erase the remnants of fear.
"Get it together," she whispered, the words barely audible. 'Maybe I need more sleep. Or perhaps I should stop letting Rowan brew the coffee.'
Her eyes then drifted to the forest beyond the truck's window. In the dim light, the towering trees stood tall and imposing, yet they lacked the ominous, almost sinister presence that haunted her dream.
Hazel shook her head with a deep sigh, her fingers massaging her temples in small circles. The reaping always gave her nightmares, but this time, it felt different. She told herself it was just paranoia or sleep deprivation. Concentrating on the day ahead, she suppressed a persistent, distant voice that warned her this year would be unlike any other.