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Peeta smiles at me, sad and mocking. Okay. Thanks for the tip, sweetheart.

Suzanne Collins

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Suzanne Collins
Age: 62
Born: 1962
Born: August 10
Executive Producer
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Writer
Hartford
Connecticut
Suzanne Marie Collins
Suzanne Collins
Mocking
Sweetheart
Smiles
Thanks
Okay

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Want a sugar cube? he asks in his old seductive voice.
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I merely feel emptyness. A hollow of dead brush where flowers use to bloom.
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So that day, in music assembly, the teacher asked who knew the valley song. Your hand shot right up in the air. She stood you up on a stool and had you sing it for us. And I swear, every bird outside the windows fell silent...and right when your song ended, I knew - just like your mother - I was a goner.
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People don't need wings to survive Mockingjays do.
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Peeta looks me right in the eye and gives my hand what I think is meant to be a reassuring squeeze. Maybe it's just a nervous spasm.
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You never know. Say the arena's actually a giant cake- Say we move on, I broke in.
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What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again.
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Haymich finally drops the good-natured act. you know who else, Katniss. You know who stepped up first. Of course I do. Gale.
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I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to stay right here and cause all kinds of trouble.
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Sometimes when things are particularly bad, my brain will give me a happy dream. [...] When I fully awaken, I'm momentarily comforted. I try to hold on to the peaceful feeling of the dream, but it quickly slips away, leaving me sadder than ever.
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A faint light burned in the pit revealing a furry creature hunched over a stone slab, fiddling with something. At first Gregor raised a warning hand. He thought it was a rat. Then the creature lifted his head and Gregor recognized what was left of his dad.
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I’m in pain. That’s the only way I get your attention
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Well you are a piece of work aren't you?
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What about you? Not a clue. I keep wishing I could bake a cake or something.
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Let them go, I tell myself. Say good-bye and forget them. I do my best, thinking of them one by one, releasing them like birds from the protective cages inside me, locking the doors against their return.
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Never underestimate the power of a brillian stylist.
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Fine. Somebody else can arrange to get the stupid goat knocked up.
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So instead of acknowledging applause, I stand there unmoving while they take part in the boldest form of dissent they can manage. Silence. Which says we do not agree. We do not condone. All of this is wrong.
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It's ideal really. They will come up with a plan. No one will like it. Everyone will feel they have been treated unfairly, but will be happy that their neighbors feel the same. And that is the nature of compromise. Now let's go eat an awful lot.
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I miss him so badly it hurts.
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