I slide down into the water, letting it block out the sounds around me. I wish the tub would expand so I could go swimming, like I used to on hot summer Sundays in the woods with my father. Those days were a special treat.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, April 28, 2012.

Found in Catching Fire, authored by Suzanne Collins.


The bath tub was fashioned from tin and beaten into shape with a flat hammer. It was just big enough for a child to sit in and the water was never more than tepid. Once you out grew it you had to wash with a damp cloth or go to the river, there was no chance of getting something bigger. No-one could spare the metal for something like that.

By robertgreen, October 19, 2014.

When he was done and Tanuvia took his tray. Bragi lifted his chin with a jerk, and his eyes, a dark shade of gray, like slate in the rain, went steely - both of them as wordless as rocks, Tanuvia helped her father from his shirt and trousers, then handed him the wet, soapy cloth he needed. At his side, his daughter waited to assist and washed the nether regions his disability prevented him from reaching. Finally, Bragi's trousers were slid back over his withered legs and his feet propped on a cushioned stool. He had done as much as he could himself, but the man had limits.

By Kecia Sparlin, July 27, 2016*.

Found in The Farmer's Daughter, authored by Kecia Sparlin.