The morning of June 13th was bright and sunny, with the warmth of a mid-summer day. Orchid trees swayed in the distance and the grass in the gardens shone a rich green. Young children ran barefoot in the fields and picked stones, making noises like wild animals.  

Between 9 and 10 o’clock, the kids were called back home. Parents barked orders to shower and the best clothes and perfume were put on. The raffle was beginning.

The elderly villagers were the first to arrive, who had witnessed the raffle many times in the past. They walked slowly from their houses, always alone, and smiled sadly at passers by. Many wondered if it would finally be their turn this year.

The families were the next to arrive. Some of the older children formed groups and talked of the school semester just passed. The boys discussed teachers, pranks and sport, while the girls stood together gossiping, occasionally glancing over at the boys. The parents did not speak but nodded at friends and colleagues while keeping a watchful eye over the children. 

Finally, the workers assembled. Keys jangled from their pockets, having just closed shop for the day. The mechanic’s face was covered in soot, the baker smelt of bread and the librarian carried a bag of books. They hurried towards the crowd, sweating, and whispered greetings to the other villagers.

By noon, all the villagers were assembled in the local square, in front of the stage. 

The raffle was conducted by Mr. Barkly, the village’s mayor. He was a short, fat man and was generally liked because of his gentle and kind, yet pragmatic nature. He walked carrying a small black box onto the stage where a small table lay. He waved to the residents and called out, “Hot day, isn’t it? Let’s get this started, folks.”

Mr. Barkly placed the box on the table. His face was red from the sun and the boys noticed sweat patches under his armpits. “The raffle should be good this year,” he announced. “Our neighbours found dramatic increases in productivity from it.” The villagers didn’t respond. 

“Is there anyone who would like to be exempt from this year’s raffle?” he asked. No response. Mr. Barkly waited patiently. One minute, then two passed. But just as it seemed nobody would respond, a woman’s voice pierced the crowd. “Please, I beg you, take my youngest son out of the draw. He is too young and sick.” It was Mrs. Young, the local electrician. Her husband had died of pneumonia six months ago, leaving her alone to care for little Billy.

“Exemption denied.” Mr. Barkly said. “Unless they are being sent to another village or under the age of five, all children are eligible.” Mrs. Young bowed her head and cried silently, not bothering to argue the decision. Billy had just turned five two days ago. The crowd around her patted her back and whispered assurances in her ear. Billy stood next to his mother holding her hand, too young to understand the situation. 

“Nobody else?” The mayor’s eyes scanned the crowd, giving ample time for a statement. The whole town was silent. He nodded slowly and removed a keychain from his back pocket where one dozen keys lay. After fumbling around, he found the smallest key and unlocked the black box.

Mr. Barkly stared at the pile of names inside. The pile was smaller than he remembered, he thought to himself. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and reached his fat hand into the box. After some rummaging, he finally closed his hands onto one piece of paper, and slowly pulled it out. The whole town watched quietly.

“Mrs Young.” 

Faces slowly turned to the pale electrician, still holding little Billy in her left hand. The crowd around her backed away with a sigh, offering their apologies. Schoolboys took their rocks out of their pockets, having prepared them already, while others went to get their own from a small pile nearby. Mr. Barkly walked over. 

“Come here, Billy.” He gently called out. “Come here.” Billy looked up at his mother, who gripped his hand so hard that it began to hurt. The boy did not move. Mr. Barkly, with a sigh, beckoned to a giant man in the crowd with his finger. It was the local blacksmith, Mr. Smith, and it was usually he that sorted out situations like this. The large man approached the boy and forcefully broke the grip between mother and son. Taking Billy in his arms, he walked back to the crowd. 

Mrs. Young began to break down in sobs, having acknowledged her fate. “It is better me than him,” she reflected. If only she could have spent more time Billy and made more memories. She wondered if he would even remember her when he grew up into a man. If he grew up into a man. In her last moments, she prayed, despite having never prayed before, that God would give Billy a long and meaningful life, full of happiness and health…

“Sorry,” Mr. Barkly said, with genuine sympathy. “This is the only way we can provide adequate resources for the whole town.” With a final smile, he stepped back and the villagers closed around her. The first rock sliced Mrs. Young on the calf, opening an artery. The second hit her on the chest, where she cried out temporarily, winded by the force, but was soon silenced by the deadly flurry of stones. Even when she was quite clearly dead, some, especially the younger men, continued to hurl rocks at her, further distorting the lifeless corpse. After a few minutes, the villagers stopped and her body sat in a pool of blood, her face unrecognisable. 

“More rations for us all,” Mr. Smith muttered quietly. The town dispersed and headed home. 

Inspired by: “The Lottery,” by Shirley Jackson