The Lottery by Shirley Jackson

On a bright June morning, the village gathered for the lottery, a tradition that hovered like a skibidi vibe over the community. The flowers bloomed, and the grass was rich, but the air was thick with anticipation. Children, lowkey excited yet anxious, assembled first, echoing the restlessness of the goons ready to play. Bobby Martin stuffed his pockets with stones, a sigma move to secure his chance in the game. Laughter mingled with whispers about teachers and summer freedom, but the edge of tradition loomed over them. The whole event unfolded in just two hours, a dank reminder that even in a sunny village, darkness could lurk behind the cheerful facade, waiting to strike like an unseen ship sailing through turbulent waters.