The Hunger Games (Trilogy)

This is not a review of the Hunger Games. It's a recommendation to read the books if you haven't already. The trilogy is beautifully written, the story is gripping, intense and thought provoking. You could be the laziest reader in the world and this book will make you excited about reading!! I'm going to include in this post an excerpt from the book to hopefully get you intrigued enough to want to keep reading the rest!!!
"Then came the Dark Days, the uprising of the
districts against the Capitol. Twelve were defeated, the
thirteenth obliterated. The Treaty of Treason gave us the
new laws to guarantee peace and, as our yearly reminder
that the Dark Days must never be repeated, it gave us the
Hunger Games.
The rules of the Hunger Games are simple. In punishment
for the uprising, each of the twelve districts must provide
one girl and one boy, called tributes, to participate. The
twentyfour tributes will be imprisoned in a vast outdoor
arena that could hold anything from a burning desert to a
frozen wasteland. Over a period of several weeks, the
competitors must fight to the death. The last tribute
standing wins.
Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one
another while we watch — this is the Capitol’s way of
reminding us how totally we are at their mercy. How little
chance we would stand of surviving another rebellion.
Whatever words they use, the real message is clear. “Look
how we take your children and sacrifice them and there’s
nothing you can do. If you lift a finger, we will destroy every
last one of you. Just as we did in District Thirteen.”
To make it humiliating as well as torturous, the Capitol
requires us to treat the Hunger Games as a festivity, a
sporting event pitting every district against the others. The
last tribute alive receives a life of ease back home, and
their district will be showered with prizes, largely consisting
of food. All year, the Capitol will show the winning district
gifts of grain and oil and even delicacies like sugar while
the rest of us battle starvation.
“It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks,”
intones the mayor.
Then he reads the list of past District 12 victors. In
seventyfour years, we have had exactly two. Only one is still
alive. Haymitch Abernathy, a paunchy, middle-aged man,
who at this moment appears hollering something
unintelligible, staggers onto the stage, and falls into the
third chair. He’s drunk. Very. The crowd responds with its
token applause, but he’s confused and tries to give Effie
Trinket a big hug, which she barely manages to fend off.
The mayor looks distressed. Since all of this is being
televised, right now District 12 is the laughingstock of
Panem, and he knows it. He quickly tries to pull the
attention back to the reaping by introducing Effie Trinket.
Bright and bubbly as ever, Effie Trinket trots to the podium
and gives her signature, “Happy Hunger Games! And may
the odds be ever in your favor!” Her pink hair must be a wig
because her curls have shifted slightly off-center since her
encounter with Haymitch. She goes on a bit about what an
honor it is to be here, although everyone knows she’s just
aching to get bumped up to a better district where they
have proper victors, not drunks who molest you in front of
the entire nation.
Through the crowd, I spot Gale looking back at me with a
ghost of a smile. As reapings go, this one at least has a
slight entertainment factor. But suddenly I am thinking of
Gale and his forty-two names in that big glass ball and how
the odds are not in his favor. Not compared to a lot of the
boys. And maybe he’s thinking the same thing about me
because his face darkens and he turns away. “But there are
still thousands of slips,” I wish I could whisper to him.
It’s time for the drawing. Effie Trinket says as she always
does, “Ladies first!” and crosses to the glass ball with the
girls’ names. She reaches in, digs her hand deep into the
ball, and pulls out a slip of paper. The crowd draws in a
collective breath and then you can hear a pin drop, and I’m
feeling nauseous and so desperately hoping that it’s not
me, that it’s not me, that it’s not me.
Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip
of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice. And it’s
not me.
It’s......"