He spouts the last three sentences with such conviction that it’s like he’s leading a pep rally, trying to get us all pumped up for The Lottery, but his words fall flat on our ears and we just stare at him. Mom glances at Dad and he rolls his eyes.
“Well, uh, I guess we should get started then,” the guy says when no one applauds. “First, the formalities. The names of all five thousand, two hundred and forty six residents of this district have been entered into a database, sorted alphabetically by last name. When I press a button, the computer will randomly select a name from the database, simultaneously removing it from the list. I will read out the name. I ask that you try to keep your celebrating to a minimum so that I can move on to the next name. As announced by the President of the United States a week ago today, each citizen of this country will receive a one in one hundred chance of being chosen, and therefore, I will read out fifty two names for this district. Good luck.”
He pauses and I remember my game, remember how excited I got when I opened my eyes to see that I’d picked one of my family members. If I magnify that feeling by a million, that’s how excited I know I’ll be if all of us get picked today.
He reads the first name: “Helen Chambers.”
Somewhere behind us a woman squeals in delight, but I don’t look back. That name is foreign to me. I close my eyes, wait for the next name.
Another stranger—a blank strip of paper. No one worth getting excited over.
Ten more names—ten more strangers. I flinch with each one. And then—
Maddy gets picked! My eyes flash open and I look where I know she’s sitting. She’s smiling as her mother puts an arm around her shoulders, hugging her, but she also looks kind of scared and I know why: no one else in her family has been chosen.
More names, more exclamations of excitement, more blank names on white pieces of paper. Although I’ve tried to keep track, I’ve lost count of how many names have been called. One of my neighbors gets picked, a guy who’s always been nice to me, bought Girl Scout Cookies from me and said hello when I walked by, but I realize I’m not happy for him…because he’s not my family. Like the rest of the people around me, he’s the competition.
Three, four, five, six names: not us. Enemies.
There’s a pause and my breath catches in my throat. Is that it? Has The Lottery ended so quickly without warning? Will my family go home without a ticket, left to face the meteor with the rest of those not chosen?
“Ten spots left,” the man says, and I let out my breath. A warning. A bone. A shred of hope. Almost like a redo, like in my game when I pick out a blank paper, I can just put it back and try again. Ten more tries.
“Morgan Rivers.” A stranger in the front row.
“Willow Meadows.” Sounds like a made up name.
“Robert Dorsett.” Who?
Seven left.
Three no-names and then a man my father works with. Three left.
“Meghan Taurasi.” Never heard of her.
“Brian Henderson.” An older man two rows in front of us tips his brown bowler hat at the stage.
One left. He pauses, scans the audience, as if he’s taking in each of the faces, knowing full well he has bad news for most of us. Ten seconds go by and I wonder if I miscounted, if Mr. Henderson was the last name the computer has for us.
But then he clears his throat and speaks: “Anna L. Smith.”
~THE END~
2) An Interview with Perry the Prickler
Originally posted on Lola’s Reviews . Awesome questions by Lolita Verroen, who conducted the strangest interview of her life.
Lolita: Hi Perry! I am so excited to have the chance to interview you today! You are definitely one of my favorite side-characters of Fire Country!
Perry: Well, thank you for that. I wish you’d tell the natives, they can be extremely sour and unpleasant sometimes, bitching and moaning about their little “problems.” Meanwhile, they’re the ones trying to chop me and my brothers up to make salad or stew or some other such local dish.
Lolita: So Perry can you tell us a little something about yourself (like who and what you are)?
Perry: Well, as you mentioned, my name’s Perry. Well, it’s not really. I never really had a name, until this strange black-haired girl came along and starting talking to me, which nobody had ever done to me before, and well, she called me Perry and it kinda stuck.
What am I? Hmmm, I understand that most of your readers are from the 21st century, so they’d probably understand the term “cactus” although the people of fire country refer to me as a “prickler.” Basically, I’m a thick-skinned plant that grows even under the harshest conditions, like in fire country, where’s there’s not enough burnin’ water to barely quench my thirst. I’ve got spiky little buggers all over me, so watch out if you get too close—Siena learned that the hard way when she ran smack into me. I’m able to store loads of water in me, so the natives like to use me for a quick drink and something to munch on, if they can get past my pricklers that is! Sometimes I bear beautiful flowers, but only if we get enough rain, which is rare, so usually I’m just plain old gray-green Perry the Prickler.
Lolita: How old are you?
Perry: If treated well, I’m immortal, able to last for centuries even out in the desert, but because of the Meteor god, who became angry with the humans, all desert plant life was pretty much wiped out. Somehow, somewhere, some prickler buds survived though, and sure enough, I started growing once the great dust clouds rose and disappeared, and the searin’ humans started crawling from their hiding places. Long story for a short answer, I know. I’m approximately exactly Four hundred and eighty nine years old, by the humans’ reckoning. In prickler years that makes me twenty one, so I’d like to say hi to all the ladies out there looking for an extremely eligible bachelor. Hiiiii!
Lolita: What is your favorite color?
I love a deep magenta with a yellow border. I sprouted these flowers once that were exactly like that. Absolutely breathtaking. A nasty baggard by the name of Keep picked them clean offa me and gave them to a female inmate up here in Confinement, trying to win her affections and such. Well, she spat in his face. But then she wore my flowers behind her ears until they withered away to nothing but brown mush.
Lolita: What is your favorite time of the day?
Perry: Nighttime, when the searin’ humans are sleeping. Not that a little darkness ever stopped Siena. In fact, she seemed to talk to me more at night than any other time, always going on and on about conspiracies and her father and blah, blah, blah. I was like, hey girlfriend, can a guy get a little shut eye? Not that I have any eyes, but I still need my beauty sleep.
Lolita: How is it like to be bound to one place?
Perry: Bound? Oh, I wouldn’t call it bound. I mean, I ain’t got any feet, but that don’t stop me from walking far and wide. Maybe not in person, but through the eyes of other pricklers. You see, all pricklers are connected. We see what each other see, we hear what each other hear, we know what each other know, you get me?
Ha! I could see it in your eyes that you bought that whole load of tugblaze! I was just screwin’ you around a little, all in good fun of course. Honestly, it really sucks sometimes, not being able to move from one place. I’ve got to rely on all the action coming to me up in Confinement, but I still feel like I miss so much of the goings on in fire country. But I guess it could be worse. I could be one of those pricklers stuck in the middle of the desert with only ’zards, Cotees, and vultures to keep them company. Or worse yet, one of those pricklers that end up in someone’s prickler salad, all cut up into little chunks.