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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
Thanks
Okay
Mocking
Sweetheart
Smiles

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I see now that the circumstances of ones birth are irrelevent. it is what you do with the gift of life that determines who you are
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I take a few breaths to calm myself, step back, and lift Buttercup by the scruff of the neck. I should've drowned you when I had the chance. His ears flatten and he raises a paw. I hiss before he gets a chance, which seems to annoy him a little, since he considers hissing his own personal sound of contempt.
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I wish they were all dead and we were, too. It would be best. Well, there's no good response to that. I can hardly dispute it since I was walking around with a syringe to kill Peeta when I found them. Do I really want him dead? What I want...what I want is to have him back.
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Just give him the medicine! I scream at her. Give it to him! Who are you, anyway, to decide how much pain he can stand!
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Warmblood now a bloodborne death, Will rob your body of it's breath Mark your skin and seal your fate The Underland becomes a plate
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Peeta rinses the pearl off in the water and hands it to me. “For you.” I hold it out on my palm and examine its iridescent surface in the sunlight. Yes, I will keep it. For the few remaining hours of my life I will keep it close. This last gift from Peeta. The only one I can really accept. Perhaps it will give me strength in the final moments.
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And once we reach the city, my stylist will dictate my look for the opening ceremonies tonight anyway. I just hope I get one who doesn't think nudity is the last word in fashion.
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But once I saw Fulvia Cardew crumple up a sheet of paper with just a couple of words written on it and you would’ve thought she’d murdered someone from the looks she got.
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Fine. Somebody else can arrange to get the stupid goat knocked up.
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Do i really want him dead? What i want... what i want is to have him back.
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Why am I hopping around like some trained dog trying to please people I hate?
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I don't write about adolescence. I write about war. For adolescents.
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Time and tragedy have forced her to grow too quickly, at least for my taste, into a young woman who stitches bleeding wounds and knows our mother can hear only so much.
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She genuinely likes people. All people, not just a select few she's spent years making up her mind about.
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A verbal promise behind closed doors, even a statement written on paper-these could easily evaporate . . . .
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Well, I don't have much competition here. You don't have much competition anywhere.
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