When I think of the short story "The Lottery," by Shirley Jackson, I think of the people standing and waiting to hear their fate. It reminds me of The Hunger Games scene where all of the people gather to hear who will be chosen to fight to the death in the current year's games. Both sets of people are waiting with bated anxiety to hear what will happen to their families if they are chosen. I cannot imagine hearing my family's name as in "The Lottery," knowing that one of us will die. The worst part would be watching the people around me picking up stones, trying to find the best ones to throw and kill me or my child or my husband. Hearing that other villages had already dispensed with this tradition would make it even worse. Death is so final, and being stoned to death would be just plain awful, and yet we would have to wait to hear the name.
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