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The Artist's Muse -> Dumping Grounds -> Warner's Lottery (Short Story)
Post Info TOPIC: Warner's Lottery (Short Story)
Steph


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Warner's Lottery (Short Story)
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This is a sequel I wrote to the amazing short 'The Lottery' by Shirley Jackson. If you haven't read it, best to do so here: http://www.classicshorts.com/stories/lotry.html
before reading the sequel. Makes sense as a stand alone, but the background helps.

FEEDBACK IS LOVE.

PART A

Warners Lottery
Inspired by Shirley Jacksons The Lottery
 It's the way it has always been.
     I woke up early that day, sun shining brightly through the window onto my white bed. I turned to the figure next to me, her back, her smooth skin. She's still sleeping. I wished that I had never brought her back here, that we could've lived our lives as man and wife somewhere, anywhere else, but I asked her to come back here. She moved a bit, only slightly but I knew that she was now awake. Her big dark eyes would be looking out the window, a small smile creeping onto her lips. I situated myself behind her, kissing the top of her head covered in long black curls.
     "Good morning," she spoke softly.
     "Mornin,'" I answered back into her hair.
     Down in the kitchen she put on tea. She always drank tea. And not regular tea like the kind folks around here drink. She drank green tea, herbal tea, chamomile, a different tea for a different emotion. One for if she wanted to wake up, one for if she was sick, one for reading the paper, one for relaxing. I'd tried some of the teas when she asked me to, but I couldn't swallow without getting a harsh look on my face. She now put on coffee for me.
     "Gotta be down at the square at 10," I reminded her.
     "I remember," she said, handing me a slice of toast she had just buttered. It was crisp but not crunchy, warm but not hot. The butter had just melted in so it was moist but didn't drip. Like everything she did, it was perfect, "What is this gathering all about anyway? You never told me."
     I never told her. She came from a place so different from my home. She was sophisticated. Didn't speak with a twang or say 'ain't' like most in this damn town. She always smelled fresh and her hair was never out of place. She smiled at the appropriate times and never talked out of turn. We were different people, but she said she loved me. I was never a gentleman, never like one of the men she should have married, with money, and class. I yelled. I'd hit a man if he deserved it. "But you're true to the ones you care about," she told me, "You're loyal. Because you love me I can't help but love you back." I near cried when she said she'd marry me. I hadn't a hope in the world asking her, I didn't even give her a ring or get down on one knee, I just asked, "Will you marry me?" And she said yes. She threw her arms around me and cried into my shoulder saying it over and over. Yes.



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Steph


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PART B

She'd never been here for the lottery. We'd only been married eight months, only been living back here for six. I didn't want to come back. I wanted to live in a place more civilized, a place where she'd fit in. Then my mama wrote and told me that Grandpa had died, the only man she had left to take care of her. Never had a pa myself, he left long before I came to the world. And my ma wasn't all together well herself. Got sick all the time. Had to be in bed alot. Her pa looked after her when I went away. Now she had no one left. "She needs you," my wife said, "you need to be with her."
     We moved into a house down the street from my ma. I got a job, rearing cattle, the job I was doomed to have since birth. My wife looked after my ma mostly. I'd work all day, she'd play nurse to my ma and play wife to me. Never once complained. She said she liked knowing where I came from, seeing how I grew up. I think that this couldn't be the life she thought she'd have, but nothing about this life seemed to bother her. So I never told her about the lottery.
     "It's just this thing towns been doin for years and years. Don't worry about it none."
     "But why do I need to carry this tiny slip of paper? What's it for?"
     "Just hand it to me when I get back from the box," I didn't want to worry her, but her eyes told me I was, "Just somethin' my Grandpa Warner told me to do. When a man that old tells you to do somethin', you do it for him."
     People were already gathered in the square. Folks were talking to each other, but no one was really saying nothing. They all knew what could happen today. Nobody wanted it to be them. My wife and I stood at the back, her hand in mine, she was leaning close. The bitty thing fit right under my chin and I held her there. Held her like it could be the last thing I ever do.
     "Everyone looks so sad," she said. They did. We were the only man and wife holding each other. Only two people touching at all, tell the truth. Folk looked round at us, with their tired, nervous faces. The women were all grey and brown and worn; my wife radiant, glowing.
     "No one much likes gettin' taken from their lives for this silly thing," I explain. She shrugs and clasps the hand I told her to hold the paper in tight.
     Mr. Moore walked to the center of the square, like every year since Mr. Summers had his luck with the lottery. They went through all the formalities and started calling out people's names. One by one, each man walked up and grabbed his fate. Everyone was waiting to go on living or get to dying.

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Steph


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PART C

"Warner!" Moore called. People turned to me as I let go of my love and walked to the box. "Beautiful girl you got there Malcolm," Moore whispered as I fished around the few papers left in the black wood container.
     "Thank you sir," I say, grabbing hold of a white piece of folded paper.
     "First new Warner up here in eighty years!" Moore announced to the crowd. A few people clapped, some smiled, some let out low affirmations. I could see my wife, smiling with amusement. I waved my hand to the people in my village, made my way to the back as I heard Moore say, "May you're grandaddy rest in peace."
     I got back to my wife and grabbed both her hands. I handed her the paper from the box as she handed me the paper I had cut from home. She saw the worry in my eyes, but I managed to smile as I resumed my position behind her, hugging her close.
     Moore finished moments later. We were all told to look at the paper we had taken. Most did it slowly. I could see looks of relief all around. I looked in my hand. Blank, as it should be. The crowd started murmuring. "Who's got it?" a man asked. People got agitated. "Moore, who's got it? You made one didn't you?" Mr. Moore looked completely confused and utterly terrified. Some of the crowd started to close in on him, others left for home. They knew what was going to happen. The workings of the lottery were Moore's responsibility. Anything goes wrong, he faced the punishment. I pulled my wife and turned for our home.
     "What's going on?" she asked, our backs to the angry mob.
     "Moore musta messed up the papers," I said, "Folk get mad when tradition don't go right."
     We got home. She was still confused by it all but I told her start some lunch, we'll take some sandwiches over to my mama's. She nodded obediently and started toward the kitchen. I grabbed her arm before she was out of reach and pulled her into a kiss. After a moment she pulled away smiling. I smiled back. "Can I have the paper I gave you?" She took the small piece out of her dress pocket and handed it to me. I followed her to the kitchen and watched her start to slice bread and tomatoes for our sandwiches. Then I turned and went out the back door, into the yard.
     No one was around. Most were still at the square. I looked around just in case before I took the book of matches from my pocket. I heard my wife singing in the kitchen. 'Amazing Grace.' She sung that alot. I lit the match and looked into the flame for awhile. Everything was alright. I could keep her safe. I brought the flame to the small piece of paper my wife handed me. The piece of paper from the box. I dropped it to the dusty ground and turned to watch my wife through the back window. Stood there as the flame burned the paper and the little black dot on it until it was nothing.          
--FIN--

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MrBS


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Ah redemption of the southern hicks... or city slickers... or some people. Was quite interesting reading the original by mizz jackson, and yours added to the infamy, per se. Interesting how reading about human sacrifice never gets old...

Personally though, it's good as a sequel, but it couldn't really stand on its own. Which for a short isn't too bad, but just reading that having never read the original lottery would be a bit 'wtf?' sorta thing. But your writing itself is good, if a little bit colloquial... intentional I'm presuming, considering the protagonist is a country bumpkin of sorts, and it is 1st person.

smile.gif

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"I have always had delusions that what I see isn’t real. That my eyes deceive me. That I’m lying to myself. I’ve never had much proof, just a deep resonance in my heart and bones that there is a perpetual motion machine perpetually blowing smoke up everyone’s ass, perpetually causing a genuine and spiteful sense of will full ignorance. No proof though. Just a hunch."
Steph


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It is indeed meant to be all said with a bit of a southern twang. Simple speech. I don't know if that was Jackson's intention but thats how I read it.

You're probably right about it not being such a hot stand alone. I've had people read it who haven't read the original and they though it was well written and they were left with alot of questions. Which could be a good thing if I want the reader to make up their own mind about what exactly is going down.

CHeers for the R&R

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