The Most Anthologized Short Stories of All Time | Literary Hub
Everything you ever wanted to know about the characters in The Lottery, written by experts just for you. Meet the Cast In a story this sparse, it's pretty striking how much the boys of the village tell us, not only about the Summers may act like he's the BMIV (that's Big Man In Village, for all you city-dwellers), but he still has. Most people are familiar with the horrifying twist-ending short story “The We first meet James Harris in “The Daemon Lover,” in which a Harris, The Daemon Lover,” about a man, presumed to be the Devil, who It shouldn't come as any surprise that the stories in the collection share this theme—the. To figure it out, I looked at 20 short fiction anthologies published between and Shirley Jackson, “The Lottery” James Baldwin, “Going to Meet the Man” .. Frank O'Connor, “A Set of Variations on a Borrowed Theme”.
I had felt for years that a more traditionally illustrated version would be an effective way to adapt the story, but something about that direction felt too static.
What approach did you take to make use of the visual element to provide new insight to the story? This was no small task. In the original story much of the information shared with the reader about the ritual practice of the lottery itself is communicated with the help an omniscient narrator. However with graphic fiction you generally want to avoid over-using blocks of narrative text if at all possible. Action and dialogue tend to be much more effective storytelling tools when adapting a text in graphic form.
Miles Hyman, courtesy of Hill and Wang, a division of Farrar Straus and Giroux For instance, the opening scene of the graphic novel introduces us to Mr. Graves, who meet in the dead of night to prepare the ceremony in the store-room of Mr. As a result we have important visual elements in mind from the get-go: We meet two of the key characters and see them preparing the black box that has been sitting on a dusty storeroom shelf for the last days.
And above all, we watch the men marking one of those pieces of paper with a mysterious black dot. And, of course, it does. I have to admit that I very much enjoyed making that scene work as a graphic experience for the reader. Working with this part of the story was a challenge but also great fun to do. The decor, however, convinced her that the trendy interior designer must have been weaned on bleach.
She unlocked it and began to remove the suits and dresses. Baroness von Schreiber was always pleading with her not to go shopping on her own. You come to the spa several times a year. Her arms filled with clothing, she opened the door of the closet, glanced down and let out a shriek.
The one Brian is so crazy about. As he dialedshe forced her head to clear. She was so nasty to Brian. Had they had a fight? Willy crossed the room, sat beside her and reached for her hand. The theater had been crowded. Brian had arranged for them to have front-row-center seats, and Alvirah wore her new silver-and-black sequin dress. The play, Falling Bridges, was set in Nebraska and was about a family reunion.
Fiona Winters played the socialite who is bored with her unsophisticated in-laws, and Alvirah had to admit she was very believable, though she liked the girl who played the second lead much better—Emmy Laker had bright-red hair, blue eyes and portrayed a funny but wistful character to perfection. When he was handed a bouquet and leaned over the footlights to give it to Alvirah, she started to cry. Brian kept the seats on either side of him for Alvirah and Fiona Winters.
Willy and Emmy Laker sat opposite. Personally, she never ate meat, she said. She took potshots at all of us, Alvirah recalled. She asked me if I missed cleaning houses. And she had really jumped on that sweet Emmy Laker when Emmy said Brian had better things to think about than his wardrobe. And that Fiona has been around a lot. She must have eight years on Brian. Mother-in-heaven, she thought, that must be the police.
As her head cleared a bit, Alvirah was able to separate the different kinds of law enforcement people who invaded the apartment. The first were the policemen in uniform. They were followed by detectives, photographers, the medical examiner.
She and Willy sat together silently observing them all. Officials from the Central Park South Towers office came too. But Alvirah could not keep her eyes away from the stretcher that two somber-faced attendants wheeled out.
At least the body of Fiona Winters was covered. God rest her, Alvirah prayed, picturing again the tousled blond hair and the pouty lips. Someone sat down opposite them, a long-legged fortyish man who introduced himself as Detective Rooney. She knew Detective Rooney was buttering her up to make her confide in him.The Lottery by Shirley Jackson (Summary) - Minute Book Report
Her mind was racing, trying to figure out ways to protect Brian. Automatically she reached up and switched on the recorder in her sunburst pin. She wanted to be able to go over everything that was said later. Detective Rooney consulted his notes. You found the victim, Fiona Winters, a short time later? She noticed that Willy was about to speak and laid a warning hand on his arm.
This time Alvirah pinched his arm. The One-Two-Three Cleaning service has a key. They pick one up at the desk and leave it there when they finish. My friend Maude has a key. Alvirah bit her lip. That detective is going to find out that Brian was crazy about Fiona Winters and decide it was a crime of passion. Detective Rooney closed his notebook.
Fifteen minutes later, Alvirah was in bed, gratefully hunched against an already dozing Willy. Tired as she was, it was hard to relax in a strange bed, plus her mind was reviewing all that had transpired tonight. She knew that all this could look very bad for Brian.
But she also knew there had to be an explanation. But how did she end up in the closet? AS their mutual shock over finding the body in the closet wore off, they began to worry. Once again Carlton Rumson was standing at the elevator. His pink complexion was sallow. Dark pouches under his eyes added ten years to his appearance. Automatically, Alvirah reached up and switched on the microphone in her pin.
Friends in the building phoned us. Terrible for the young lady, terrible for you. A policeman was on guard at the door of their apartment. Inside, every surface was smeared because the investigators had dusted for fingerprints. And seated across from Detective Rooney, looking bewildered and forlorn, was Brian. This is awful for you. His T-shirt and khaki slacks were rumpled; had he dressed to escape a burning building he could not have looked more disheveled. Brian managed a troubled smile.
He read Brian his Miranda rights, then handed the paper to Brian. You can stay in the apartment now. Brian shook his head. The messy condition of the apartment gave her something to do. She dispatched Willy with a long shopping list, warning him to take the service elevator to avoid reporters.
The most difficult part of her task was to vacuum the closet. It was as though she could see again the wide-open eyes of Fiona Winters staring up at her. That thought led her to another one: Alvirah dropped the handle of the vacuum. She thought about those fingerprints on the cocktail table. Min had just heard the news. The cops are questioning Brian right now. They think he killed her. She came here another week, with someone, and they spent the weekend in the cottage. They even had their meals served there.
It was that hotshot producer she was trying to snare. You remember him, Alvirah. You met him another time when he was here alone. The only thing to be careful about is leaning on the railing. The humidity was near saturation point. Not a leaf in the park stirred. Even so, Alvirah sighed with pleasure. How can anyone who was born in New York stay away from it for long?
Willy brought in the newspapers with the groceries. Alvirah carefully read the lurid accounts. The only expensive thing I bought was that orange-and-pink plaid suit—and I know Min is going to make me give it away. The break with her socialite family when she went into acting. Her break with playwright Brian McCormack when she accepted a film role and abruptly walked out of his play Falling Bridges, forcing it to close. Alvirah took one look at his ashen face and ordered him to sit down.
Brian managed a wan smile. She fiddled with the sunburst pin, touching the microphone switch. I was sick of her lousy disposition and I was falling in love with Emmy. I told them that when Fiona quit the play it was the last straw. I knew you were coming back yesterday, so I cleared my stuff out the day before. Then yesterday morning Fiona phoned and said she was back in New York and would be right over to see me.
When I arrived, I found her parked downstairs in the lobby, and rather than make a scene I let her come up. Just the lead in Nebraska Nights. Begged me to forgive her. Her role in the film was ending up on the cutting-room floor, and the bad publicity about dumping the play had hurt her. Wanted to know if Nebraska Nights was finished yet. I bragged about it. Told her it might take time to find the right producer, but when I did it was going to be a big hit.
Brian studied the tea leaves in his cup. She asked me to make a deal. She said she had access to one of the biggest producers on Broadway.
The Lottery Winner
If she could get it to him and he took it, she wanted to play Diane—I mean Beth. I changed it on the final draft last night. I told Fiona she had to be kidding, but if she could pull that off I might consider it. Then I got my notes and tried to get her out of here. The last time I saw her was just about noon, and she was sitting on that couch.
I took it out of the drawer of the table when I was getting the notes. As she suspected, it was empty. Had he been arrested? Oh God, not Brian, she thought. What should I do? Despairingly she looked at the luggage in the corner of the room. Her bell had rung yesterday morning at 8: When she opened the door, Fiona had swept in. What a mistake to take that film job. I told the director off and he fired me. Do you know where he is? Fiona was so sure that even after the way she treated Brian she could still walk back into his life, Emmy thought, remembering all the months when she had agonized at the sight of Brian with her.
Would that have happened again? Yesterday she had thought it possible. Fiona had kept phoning Brian until she finally reached him. I must say from what I heard about Nebraska Nights it has all the earmarks of a hit—and I intend to play the lead. Her body felt stiff and achy. The old window-unit air conditioner was rattling and wheezing, but the room was still hot and humid. A cool shower and a cup of coffee, she decided. Maybe that would clear her head.
She wanted to see Brian. She wanted to put her arms around him.
The Lottery Winner | Book by Mary Higgins Clark | Official Publisher Page | Simon & Schuster
She had just dressed in a T-shirt and cotton skirt and twisted her long bright-red hair in a chignon when the buzzer downstairs rang. When she answered, it was to hear Detective Rooney announce that he was on the way up. For instance, did you put the bottle of that fit-for-a-queen champagne in the silver bucket yesterday?
She gave him the script and then, who knows why, they got into a fight. But how do I prove it? Alvirah paused for a moment, thinking. Then she turned to Brian. I talked to Carlton Rumson about it; he wants to see it today. You must be a magician! She certainly must have heard about Fiona by now. Detective Rooney was sitting across from her and had just asked her to describe in detail what she had done the previous day.
Now he raised his eyebrows. Then she paused for a moment, choosing her words carefully. I got back about 1: