Music Hunger Games Novels & Stories

When she saw me approach, she only eyed me long enough to see what I'd scored, before returning to a book she must have snuck into one of the baskets from earlier. The Hunger Games. I knew the premise enough to know it was part of an extensive challenge between morals and survival that seemed to have her immersed enough to focus exclusively on the writing beneath her gaze. But while I began to skin and prepare dinner, I realized she was using it as a distraction as she didn't do as much as flip a page. She was simply debating breaking our silence or remaining obstinate.

Hunger is a monster. It sinks its claws into my gut, gnawing, tearing, devouring me from the inside out. My body is shutting down, drained of strength, stripped of any ounce of power I once had. The Ascendants have made their decision. If I won’t drink blood willingly, they’ll make me suffer for it. They starve me. They drain me. Day after day, I’m strapped down, cold needles piercing my skin, pulling what little life I have left.

Her eyes flick to the tray of food I still haven’t touched. “It might be your last meal,” she says, flat. Unblinking. She looks drained. Like her soul’s been scraped clean. “You can never really know what Zeke wants,” she mutters. “He’s one of the real monsters. What he did today was nothing.” The food still smells good. My stomach growls loud enough to echo. I feel the hunger deep in my bones I pick up a fork. Take a bite. It’s not hot anymore, but it tastes like survival. The second bite is even better. I don’t stop.

He shoved the whole spoonful into his mouth. “Slurp—ahh!” The heat made him suck in breath through his teeth, but he could not stop. He crouched on the floor, hugging the chipped clay pot, shoveling the soup into his mouth with both hands. He made urgent, greedy sounds that soon turned into satisfied grunts. [Congratulations, player. You’ve earned the Hungry Dead’s approval. From now on, you won’t feel hunger in the game.] “Slow down! No one’s fighting you for it!”

A song of survival. She closed her eyes, letting the music drown out the growling in her stomach. Hunger was familiar now. An old friend. Some nights, she got by with nothing but a cup of water. Other nights, if she was lucky, she’d take home leftovers from the café where she worked. But today wasn’t one of those lucky nights.

*Aloria* I take the bowl from Kellan, my hands still shaking, but the warmth of the stew seeps through the ceramic, offering a moment of comfort. I lift the spoon to my lips and take a big sip, the rich broth flooding my senses. It’s a welcome reprieve to the gnawing hunger in my stomach, though I can still feel the exhaustion weighing me down, the remnants of the fight lingering like a heavy cloak around my shoulders. The adrenaline has stopped me from feeling it before, but now, as my body is coming down I feel like I could eat a whole moose. The hunger is back… and it is making me feel even more exhausted.

My legs moved faster than I thought possible, propelled by pure, desperate instinct. I grabbed the plate, my hands trembling uncontrollably from weakness and urgency, and devoured it. I didn't care how I looked, how animalistic my actions might seem, shoving food into my mouth like I'd never seen it before. I didn't care if it made me seem desperate or uncivilized. Hunger had no shame, no dignity. My hands shoveled the food in, tearing at the bread, wolfing down the meat. It wasn't warm, it was bland, almost tasteless, but I didn't care. It was food, and my body cried out for it, absorbing every crumb.

His words soothed me, and I finally felt a bit of calm. Back home, I collapsed into sleep. Waking up the next day, I found Chester bustling in the kitchen. He looked out with a worried expression and asked, "Feeling hungry? Dinner's almost ready." I gave a small nod and drifted over to the dining table, my feet barely touching the ground. However, when I saw what was on the plate, it was like my blood turned to ice. Liver pâté. Of all things.

Every muscle in my body felt like it had been replaced by rusted wire, and my right knee, bound in its crude splint, throbbed with a dull, nauseating heat that reminded me the bone hadn't forgiven the impact. "Mommy... I’m hungry." Leo was sitting by the frost-crusted window, his breath fogging the glass in ragged bursts. His voice was thick, heavy with the stuffy-nose congestion that had moved into his chest. He wasn't asking for the high-calorie protein wafers of the elite vanguards or the synthetic delicacies of Rebirth City. He was asking for fuel. For anything to stop the hollow, gnawing ache of a human stomach that magic could no longer silence.

The First Heir lunged violently. Silver power exploded from her body. “STOP TALKING!” The Hunger blocked the attack effortlessly. Darkness swallowed the silver light whole. My breath caught. Impossible. Flash The First Heir kneeling alone in darkness. Starving. Crying. Broken. Then the Hunger whispering softly: “Let me carry the pain.” Silver light dimming. Silence. Present I froze. No. The Hunger looked at me carefully. “She understands.” The First Heir looked horrified. “Don’t listen to it!”