Disclaimer: Based on 'The Lottery' by Shirley Jackson. Don't own, don't know, don't sue. Now read.

***

The young man stared at the brutal July sun, screwing his face up so to get a better look, shoving his hands in his pockets. The day was bright, of course; Mother Nature had decided to turn up in her Sunday best on this particular afternoon.
Ironic.
Blinking as he adjusted his olive-green eyes to the light of regular day, he noticed that he seemed to be the oldest one there. At least now; the other villagers were sure to show up soon. He was just early, having felt restless. What else could you do in the heat of a summer day when you'd outgrown the swimming hole yet were too young to join the men in the cornfields? Well, there was the teen program. But it was most likely Frank, Ray, and Bob had found better things to do than walk the mile to the run-down building behind the highschool, which had been abandoned for the time being. Flicking a lock of black hair from his surprisingly pale face, the seventeen-year-old boy thought decidedly that it was best he was here beforehand.
Mr. Summers soon appeared on the top step of the grand bank staircase, looking old and tired. It seemed to Gerard he'd been through enough of these things and that he was ready to let the stale tradition go. Hell, after over two hundred years, you'd think they'd find something better to do.
Old bastards.
The aforementioned man swept his gaze over the town square, still rather empty, save for Gerard and a handful of small children playing in the corner, almost the same color of the terracotta dust in which they'd been rolling. Innocent piles of smooth, round pebbles, pleasant to the touch, sat like plump cakes or pies at the foot of the stairs, ones the children had prepared eagerly almost an hour before in preparation for this annual event. Gerard swore he saw a scowl pass the normally jovial man's face as he glanced at his watch and disappeared into the bank again. "Gee!"
Gerard turned, and a grin cracked across his features.
"Oh-'lo, Frank."
The smaller, stockier boy smiled in return and nodded to the bank, rocking nervously on the balls of his feet. "Seen Summers yet?"
"Yup, he jus' went in to get th'box."
"Okay. Passed your folks on the way here-they still haven't seen Mikey."
Gerard frowned. "Can't take that long, can it?"
"'Cording to the Jackson girl, th'foal was upside-down or somethin'," Frank explained. "It's takin' 'em hours."
Gerard's frown matured to a scowl as he turned back to face the bank. "I can see that." Summers reappeared, hauling the great black box between him and another man-Toro, a burly man, their friend Ray's father. He was legend in the town for his famous bar brawls and his ferocious temper, even when sober. That same large frame, large hair, and easily excited temper was apparent in his son. They placed the box gingerly on a feeble-looking three-legged stool in the center of the top step, keeping it steady for a few moments as they made sure it could hold.
"They need a new box," Frank commented dully. Gerard nodded, eyes habitually scanning the splintered crate, which was in need of a paint job. The same thing was said every year, yet nothing was done.

***

Mikey was out of breath. Judging by the hush that had fallen over the deserted streets, the lottery had already started. He continued to run as fast as his ailing lungs would allow, stopping every few moments to lean against a wall, wheezing and coughing. After recovering at least a fraction of his strength, he managed to make it around the corner and behold the huge crowd thronged in front of the bank. Mr. Summers stood on the top step, pacing back and forth behind the box, speaking in his biggest, most amiable voice. Still breathing hard, the younger Way slipped into the crowd behind his brother. "G...Gerard..."
"Mikey!"
The elder brother was forced to restrict his anxious tone to a loud whisper as he whipped around to face Mikey, eyes wide. "Lord, where've you been?"
"Y'know perfectly well, Gee...the old Bryar mare was... was foalin' an'... I couldn't help but-"
"Never mind," Gerard hissed, but the anger in his voice had lost its edge. He draped an arm over his baby brother's shoulder and patted him on the back. "Y'okay?"
"I will be, I will be," Mikey coughed, glancing up at Gerard and smiling. "Y'seen anyone?"
"Yeah-Frank's over there; Ray's up front with his dad, and Bob ain't here. Reckon he's still helpin' with the foal?"
Mikey nodded. "Ma and Pa?"
"Near the front, as always."
Fourteen-year-old Mikey couldn't be bothered with standing on his tiptoes to try and catch a glimpse of his parents. There was something in the corn here that made everyone grow tall-everyone, it seemed, except for the Ieros, the Ways, and the Bryars. Bradley Dunbar, Rich Hutchinson, and Baxter Martin, their torturers, towered above them-but they still didn't match the Toro genes. With Ray around, no one dared touch the three boys, and if one but glanced at Mikey, he'd be on Ray's list. They were a close-knit group, those boys.
Mikey's breathing had calmed a bit; though he wasn't breathing as hard, he still had a small wheeze from the red dust that shrouded their feet and lingered in the air. Giving a weak cough every few minutes, Gerard's arm still over his shoulder, he listened to the mayor.
"Toro, will you an' Ray git up here an' hold the ol' box steady?"
The older man lightly touched his son on the shoulder and they passed silently through the crowd, which parted in a solemn, almost envious way. This meant the Toro family was pretty much exempt from the lottery this year. Mikey could almost hear his friend breathe a sigh of relief as he stepped lightly to the box.
"Thank God," he heard Gerard mutter as he, too, let out his breath. The latter hadn't even realized he was holding it.
Summers shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled at the crowd in the awkward silence, during which the Toro men fixed their large hands on the top and bottom of the box on opposite sides. The time of the lottery was drawing nearer, and the tension in the air was as taut as a violin string.
"Alcott." Summers' voice had become loud and quipped as he ticked off names in his head off a list he'd long-since memorized. A middle-aged farmer, graying hair held in a ponytail, strode quickly through the crowd, eyes on his old boots, and trudged up the bank steps. He lifted his eyes only to assure his hand entrance into the sinister hole sawed in the top of the box. After a short moment, he extracted a closed fist. Without glancing at the paper inside, he marched right down the opposite steps.
"Baxter."
Gerard watched his archenemy's father climb the ascent, extract a slip of paper, and return to his family.
"Bryar."
"Ol' man Bryar ain't here," called a harsh voice in the crowd. "His mare's foalin'." Summers didn't look pleased, and neither did the crowd. Mikey realized with a start what that could mean for Bob's family.
"Copperdale... Dunbar... Dwight..."
Climb up, take paper, climb down.
"Edmonds... Featherstone..."
Mikey found himself biting his lower lip again, just as he did last year. Why did the process have to be so long? Couldn't they just put full names in there, pull one out, and then...?
Summers continued to shout the names, probably loud enough to reach Bob in his father's barn. Frank found himself gnawing on his fingernails.
"Iero."
The boy started, then cast his gaze from side to side. His father was nowhere in sight. Eyes widening, he gazed pleadingly up at Summers. Not being an entirely softhearted man, the mayor jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing Frank to get on up. Mikey let out an involuntary gasp.
Gerard watched fearfully as his good friend trudged with hesitant feet up the stairs before stopping to gaze at the box. Slowly, uncertainly, he lifted a hand and put it into the crate. Moments later, he extracted the slip as if he were pulling it from a snake pit, then turned abruptly and walked briskly down the steps. He didn't dare to even look at his clenched fist.
The minutes dragged on as the letters of the alphabet were slowly ticked off the list. The town was beginning to squirm uneasily now that most among them held slips of paper. Housewives fidgeted and clutched their husbands' arms and the hands of their little children, if they had any. Gerard and Mikey were no exception to this communal discomfort. Their hands were firmly grasped, watching with ashen faces as the last T name was called. There were no U's or V's.
"Way."
Gerard squinted his eyes shut, not being able to bear watching his father march up the steps and take a slip of his own. He turned his face skyward and his brow furrowed in concentration.
Please, God, let our luck hold...
Mikey blinked hard, swallowing several times and opening his mouth in an effort to breathe. He felt his heart pump faster as he tugged gently on his older brother's hand. "Gee, we better..." He cleared his throat. "Better get up with Ma an'... an' Pa..."
Gerard opened his eyes and nodded slowly, following his brother as they weaved through the crowd until they reached their parents. Mrs. Way was wringing her handkerchief nervously, eyes on Summers, and their father was staring sullenly at the dusty red street. "Boys," Mrs. Way whimpered, turning and throwing her arms around her sons, if only for a moment. Summers solemnly called the last name, and the entire world waited, it seemed, as the last man hurried up the steps to claim his paper.
The mayor waited until he was well settled with his family again before grinning jovially. "Alright, men-open your slips."
A whispered crackling went through the crowds as the men opened their hands and unfolded their papers. Spontaneous sighs of relief and murmured inquiries rose from the women as they turned to their kinfolk, their curiosity taking over as soon as the relief was gone.
Ray cast his eyes anxiously through the crowd. Frank was taking forever to open his, holding it an arm's length away, unfolding every crease and wrinkle as if his life depended on it-no, wait. That wasn't the right phrase to use.
He turned his attention to the Ways. Gerard and Mikey were clinging to one another, eyes squeezed shut, hands clasped firmly, as Mrs. Way darted about like a frantic bird around her husband. Mr. Way was the only one who appeared outwardly calm as he opened his slip of paper.
Well, he certainly didn't look calm anymore.
Mrs. Way let out a loud, wailing cry.
"It wasn't fair!" she shrieked, pointing an accusatory finger at the mayor. "You didn' give 'im enough time-I saw you rushin' him 'long-like a sheep-herder, you was!" The crowd buzzed. So the Ways had gotten it.
Frank and Ray became frigid.
The brothers' eyes flew open simultaneously, panic seizing their lungs as their mother's indignant cries rang painfully in their ears. Gerard tightened his grip on Mikey's hand and brought their entwined fingers to his mouth, furrowing his brow and praying fervently.
Oh God, don't let them take Mikey, please God, I'm begging you...
"Way?" Summers asked casually, casting his gaze on the family of four to his left. "You got it?"
The man nodded slowly, not making eye contact with the mayor.
"How many?"
"Four. Two kids."
"Alright. Everyone drop your papers."
The villagers did as told, letting their papers fall to the ground and skip across the dust like tumbleweeds.
"Ray? Do the honors, please."
The young man started, staring incredulously up at the mayor. He knew perfectly well that he was like a brother to Gerard and Mikey-how could he possibly "do the honors"? How could that bastard even call them honors? His upper lip twitched as he made a move to stand up, also threatening to topple the box off its precarious resting place.
"Ray." He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to glance at his father. The man's face looked worried, fearful, and sympathetic.
"Ray, I'm sorry, but... you gotta do what th'man says."
The younger Toro's eyes flickered as he stared wordlessly, indignantly, at his father, then up at Summers. He stood up and walked stiffly down to the crowd, collecting three blank slips of paper and then Mr. Way's, the one with the terrible black dot, which consisted all but graphite from a pencil, and trudged back up to the mayor. Shoving the papers in his hand, he pushed past him and growled, "I ain't puttin' no death tickets in that Goddamned crate."
Summers narrowed his eyes at the impulsive, fiery young man as he deposited the slips into the box. Darting his eyes to the Ways, he gestured them up.
Mr. Way led his family up the bank steps. His poor wife was now shaking and sobbing hysterically, clutching his arm and Mikey's hand with an adrenaline-fueled strength. Meanwhile her sons, shell-shocked, walked numbly behind her. Gerard was still holding their hands to his mouth, breathing hard through his nose.
"Any time now, Way."
The old man looked sharply at Summers before plunging his hand into the box. Slowly, he pulled out a slip of paper and unfolded it with agonizing hesitation. Even his wife paused her hysterics to watch.
It was blank.
Mrs. Way wailed.
Her husband slowly urged her forward, whispering softly into her ear. Taking her shaking hand, he guided it into the box and helped her draw the second of four.
It, too, was blank.
The poor woman fainted dead away.
Gerard's knees weakened and his head filled with a dizzying static. It was him or Mikey. Oh, God, oh God...
Bravely lifting his free hand, he gradually slipped his hand inside.
The box's interior was warm and dry-almost welcoming. An ironic, cruel twist, thinking of the only things that would ever be inside it. Groping blindly around, he finally came up with a slip of paper.
He pulled it out and slowly unfolded it.
His eyes flew open and he fell to his knees.
"No," he murmured. "No... no.... no, this can't... n-no, no, n-n-no..."
Summers stepped up, looking mildly interested, and plucked the paper from Gerard's shaking hand.
He held it up to a shell-shocked crowd.
Mikey fell next to his brother, throwing his arms around him, silent tears streaming down his face. "No, Gee, no-I want to take him with me, no-you're not taking him!"
He made a feeble attempt to whack at the burly farmers that had appeared from nowhere, clutching his and his brother's shoulders firmly. Gerard tightened his grip on Mikey, sobbing into his shoulder, desperately pleading with them. "No! No! You won't do it! No, please, don't!"
The Toro men had moved the box. There was no need for Mikey to extract his own paper.
It took the farmers a long time to finally tear the brothers apart, They wrenched Gerard's arms behind his back, cop-style, and took him away, kicking and screaming.
"NO! YOU CAN'T DO THIS! PLEASE, NO!"
The crowd was silent and parted quickly for them.
Mikey was left, kneeling and shaking hysterically on the top step.
"No... Gee... oh, God..."
Mr. Way, eyes shining and cheeks wet, placed a tender hand on his son's shoulder before he, too, disappeared into thin air.
The villagers had already gathered their stones. Their pockets bulged with the things, so soft and innocent to the eye.
So sinister and painful to the skull.
They watched Gerard as he was hauled away to places unknown, his shrieking and screaming slowly fading away. They turned to face Mikey, their faces saturated with confusion, sympathy, and regret.
The younger Way's mind was reeling. He clutched his head in his hands, rocking back and forth.
"Oh my God... oh my God..."
A stone hit him in the temple and his glasses fell from his face.
"Oh my God..."
Another hit his ribs.
"Save me, Lord..."
The crowd closed in around him and his last scream echoed in the town for decades.
The next day Gerard recovered his baby brother's trodden, snapped, cracked and twisted glasses from the deserted town square.
He has them to this day.