by David Estes
None of them have a name on it.
Not a good sign for tonight.
I’m thankful when my parents get home because I’m feeling depressed about the game. I don’t tell my mom though because she’s been telling me all week not to play it.
Mom makes lunch—salami and provolone cheese, my favorite!—while Dad scoops ice cream into tall glasses and pours Root beer on top. All the while they keep up a constant chatter about how nice and sunny it is outside—cold, but nice—how we should all go in the backyard and spend time together later, and how beautiful the leaves are now that they’re changing. I’ve never heard them so cheery, which scares me.
After lunch, the day whizzes by, like it’s sprouted wings and flown south for the winter. Tina refuses to come out of her room. I don’t feel like going outside either, but I finally give in to my parents and follow them to the backyard. We sit cross-legged in the grass for a while, which feels weird and awkward, probably because it’s something we’ve never done before—I mean, why would we?
Dad has a ball, which we pass around. Each time someone catches it, they have to say something that they love about the person who threw it to them. Although I know what Tina would call the game—“Totally cheese ball!”—I kind of like it. Not only do my parents say some really nice things about me—my dad says I’m “as pretty as a flower,” and my mom says my sense of humor “is as good as your father’s,” which is saying something, because Dad’s pretty funny—but I also get to hear them say some nice things to each other. I’m not embarrassed to admit that I’m disappointed when the game ends and we go inside to eat dinner.
Tina finally makes an appearance, although she doesn’t talk much, just types out “later texts” on her phone, which I guess are texts she’ll send to Brady—her guy—after The Lottery is over. She says they’re all positive messages which will help their karma, so they both get picked. I don’t ask her what messages she’s sending for me so I’ll get picked. I also don’t tell her that she never gets chosen in my game.
Dinner is delicious: my mom’s famous meatloaf and creamy mashed potatoes, drowned in brown gravy. Hot fudge sundaes for dessert this time, compliments of Dad.
When we finish, we get dressed in nice clothes, as if we’re going to church. Dad says there will be lots of photographers at each of the local Lotteries, taking pictures for future history books. I wear a medium-length purple dress with amethyst beading that Tina once admitted makes me look “all grown up.” When we meet downstairs she gives me a nod as if to say, “Nice choice,” which makes me smile. She, on the other hand, tries to slip past Dad in a tiny black skirt and a tight, low-cut red blouse. He makes her change twice before she finally gets it right. I guess even on Lottery Day, he’s still a dad.
Dad wears his best suit and a pink tie that almost makes him look like another person. Mom is in her favorite blue gown—the one with all the sparkles.
Like everyone else, we walk to the school, where The Lottery will be held. It’s slow going, because Tina and Mom are wearing heels, clopping along with short strides. I’m glad I wore my ballet flats.
Dozens of other families are doing the same, and we greet many of them with cheerful cries of “Hello!” and “How are you?” They answer with the same forced cheerfulness.
We arrive at the school and enter the auditorium through the propped-open double doors. Dad hands some papers to man at a desk who then signals us forward. Already the hall is half full. Ushers direct us up one of the aisles and into the next available row. Normally I’d want to sit by one of my friends, Maddy or Bridget or Haley, who I spot sitting a few rows forward, but I know tonight is meant to be spent with family. Even Tina sits with us, which she never does these days.
Despite all the greetings and warm wishes that were exchanged outside of the auditorium doors, once inside, no one speaks to each other, or even smiles. It’s like we all know that the others are our enemies, people who will strip us of our winning ticket in The Lottery, take away our family and friends.
Not long after we arrive, the auditorium fills up. I stare at the empty stage, where I once stood dressed like a tree in the school play, The Wizard of Oz. Now it looks barren and desolate, like a hot, dusty stretch of desert. Mom checks her watch and shows it to me: one minute until eight o’clock. Time for The Lottery.
She squeezes my hand and holds on.
All is silent in the hall, not even a whispered comment breaking the quiet. Footsteps echo onto the stage as a man who I recognize from TV moves across to a podium in the center. A local politician. The mayor or governor or something like that. The man in charge tonight.
When he reaches the stand, the microphone cuts his face in half, so he lowers it until it’s even with his lips. He speaks, his voice magnified and deep, like the real Wizard of Oz from the movie.
“Residents of the Sawcutter School District of the great state of Pennsylvania. Today is a momentous occasion in the history of our great country.” Although he looks up every couple of words, his voice sounds stiff, scripted, like he’s reading off of something, perhaps a hidden paper on the podium. “I know you all must be scared, because you have little control over the random selection that is about to be made, but remember that this is an opportunity to defeat the cosmic powers that strive to wipe us off the face of the earth. For the first time in history, a species has had the wherewithal and foresight to prepare for just such an event. We will not be forced into extinction! We will fight to survive, whether above or underground! We cannot be defeated!”
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?
&nb
sp; “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.
Lolita: How does your normal day look like?
Perry: Well, when the sun comes up and turns the sky all red and the clouds all yellow, I usually start with some stretching, reaching for the sky, working the kinks out. Then I do mental jumping jacks, just pretending, trying to get some exercise. It’s almost the same thing as actually doing them, and I swear I would do them if I had legs and well, arms.
What next? Ahh, yes, I drink a smidgen of the water I’ve got stored inside me, just enough to quench my thirst and keep me from drying out and getting too brittle. Nobody likes a brittle prickler! Then, if there are any brambleweeds being blown past by the wind I do my best to catch them on my spikes. You know, like sort of a game. It’s fun. I mean, I can only lean a centimeter or two to either side, but sometimes that makes all the difference.
When I get bored in the afternoon, I usually take to taunting anyone who’s nearby. I’m an avid taunter, did you know that? Of course, I’m sure you do. I pretty much taunted Siena every second of every day she was stuck in that cage of hers, and even when she wasn’t. I tend to taunt those I like the most, so she got a very healthy dose.
As night falls I always watch the sunset, because hey, I got the best seat in the house and who doesn’t like a good sunset?
Nighttime is for listening, and although I’ve got a big mouth, I can listen pretty searin’ good if I put my mind to it. The desert has so much to say at night with creepy-crawly things, well, creeping and crawling and slithering and scurrying. And Cotees howling too, a mournful, eerie sound that makes you shiver in the best way possible.
Lolita: What do you like doing in your free time?
Just having fun mostly. I mean, what else is life about but having fun. So I usually try to keep things exciting by making up new taunts I can use on any passing humans. Or I might scare a passing ’zard with a loud “Argh!” in their face. That always gets me laughing. But really, I don’t have too much free time, what with all the humans passing through to observe. Then it’s my solemn duty to pass any information I get through the mental telepathies of all the other pricklers….Ha! Got you again! I wouldn’t know a prickler on the other side of fire country from a prickler sitting right next to me.
Lolita: Can you tell us something about your first meeting with Siena?
Perry: Well, first of all, you should read her book, Fire Country, because it’ll tell you everything that happened. But if you want to know one thing, it’s that I didn’t mean to prick her with my spikes. I tried to move, I swear it, but my two-centimeter lean wasn’t nearly enough to get out of her way. And when she crashed into me and my spikes got her, I felt awful, terrible really, for maybe five, ten seconds. And then I just thought it was really funny and I couldn’t stop laughing, because who runs into a prickler!
Lolita: Can you tell us something interesting you have s
een happen in the confinement of Fire Country?
Nothing really. These humans are so wooloo, I never know what they’re thinking. They shove people in these cages, which is pure foolishness, because what a waste it is to have perfectly good arms and legs and not be able to use them. That’s why I was really happy for Siena when she used her perfectly good arms and legs to bust out of Confinement, not once, but twice! Impressive, really, although I couldn’t help giving her a hard time about it. A human’s gotta be free and a prickler’s gotta laugh, right?
Lolita: Thanks so much Perry for letting me interview you! I think it was one of the most fun interviews I have ever done !
Perry: Wow, is that it? Is that my fifteen minutes of fame? But I’m not done yet, I have so much more to tell, I just want to say—
