My grandfather was a frail old man who did not have much words. He died at 74, what most would deem a ripe old age. He never was close with anyone, even his own son —my father. Our family and the whole town considered him a man who has fallen behind from the era. In his mind, he lived with deities and gods from obscure times; and he told tales that no one could understand. Everyone, in and out of the family, has learned to disregard him, including my four-year-old sister Margaret. Thus, when he died, everyone was actually a little relieved to be saved from his blabbering. And Margaret, not yet knowing what grievance is, jumped in excitement to the arrival of another funeral.
On the second day of his death, my grandfather’s remains were placed on a wooden raft and flowed down with the water of Mother Elga, the great river that encircled our small town set on the riverbank. Every single one of the deceased’s remains has been sent down this river since the beginning of my memory and Mother Elga is known in our legend to take people to what we call the Hall of Eternity. It is a place where it is said to be the season of harvest forever and Mother Elga flows not of water but of the sweetest wine. Where people could devour on meat for every meal of the day.
Well, at least that’s what people would hope the Hall of Eternity to be like, because here in the town meat is very meager. A horrible plague, almost like a deliberate curse when grandfather was only a boy wiped out almost all of our meat sources. Since then, meat is only offered on the day of grievance —a person’s funeral. My father calls it “honoring the deceased properly.“ Only on these days we allow ourselves to be a little bit extravagant. Thus, knowing a lot of people in the town is considered to be a “survival skill”, because then you could go around and attend more funerals than a normal person would and therefore get extra shares of meat. My great-aunt Dorothy was one of such people and actually managed to be a fairly rotund woman when she died. My grandfather, in contrast, claims that he never had a preference for meat even before the plague happened, and does not usually attend funerals, and even at funerals would not even take one bite of the meat dish.
When there’s not a funeral, the days were usually a lot harder and less merry. The whole town’s food comes from a field a thirty-minute walk away from our house. Since the whole town depends on it, families take turns taking care of it and the rotation changes once a month. The field is carefully separated into different sections planting different crops and vegetables by the math teacher of the town, who happens to have an old book on nutrition that determines the proportions of different kinds of food a person should have every day. Of course, we could almost never fill in the meat section, and the teacher suggested that we’d plant more crops than the book says to substitute. When this was announced, most people were disgruntled because this would mean more work. But the math teacher was a good friend of the mayor’s and people had faith in the mayor, so they obliged.
The season of harvest always brought more hope, at least during a good year. In good years everything is harvested and then distributed to families by the number of people and their respective ages (the rules also determined by the math teacher). And the extras, if there were any, would be locked up in the communal barn and for relief food during ill-lucked years. But that food was never enough and during those years my mother would have to go to the field with Mrs. Henderson and Mrs. Dubois to pick up the leftover wheat straws. And the next morning we would have straw stew, a disgusting brown mess. Because whether we have food or not completely depended on god’s will, most people still try to make friends with households that have the elderly or the weak, hoping to get a share of meat when the funeral was held.
We try to be civilized during funerals, not revealing our excitement for the meal as we watch the remains flow down the river. And even as we eat, we try to act as if it was an obligation, an honoring of the dead rather than a celebration. There are always those like Margaret who are too innocent to understand being solemn, and we usually just ignore that, because all of us know it’s what we are also thinking inside.
The day of my grandfather’s funeral was gray, with a few strands of wispy clouds hanging in the sky. We silently watched his remains float down the river and then continuing the silence, returned to the house. The guests and us settled down around the dining table and my mother and Mrs. Henderson-our neighbor-brought out the meat they had prepared last night. They gave an equal share to everyone’s plate, and just when we were about to raise our forks, Margaret began to whine.
“This is much less compared to when aunt Dorothy passed away!”
The guests pretended to take no notice while my mother shushed her. My father put on an embarrassing smile.
But Margaret continued to whine. My father looked at her straight in the eye and told her to be quiet because we were all honoring my grandfather’s loss.
“No! We are just doing this because we could have meat!” She looked around at all the guests, who were darting their glances away. “I know this is what you are all thinking, just admit it!”
That was it, Margaret was taken to her room to speculate on her wrongdoing.
Evening, the twilight shimmered on the distant mountains like an orange pall. When all the guests bided their farewells, my father sat on the porch looking into the distance. I approached him and told him that what Margaret did was indeed very unacceptable and he should not be troubled about it. But his reply surprised me.
“No, she’s right. We really are just here for the meat. I’m even doubting myself if it really is honoring the deceased.”
“I really wish that we could hold funerals like your grandfather once described. Sacred place, lots of people, and formal farewells.”
“But then his meat would go bad.”
Then night falls.
Author 作者
Name: Peter Luo Grade: 10
School: Northfield Mount Hermon
姓名：罗潇岳
年级：10
就读学校：北野山高中
About the Author 作者简介
Peter Luo is a writer who continues to be amazed by the flexibility of the written language and believes that it is the best media to document his thoughts. His writing style is largely influenced by one of his favorite poets-Pablo Neruda. Neruda’s poetry was the reason for Peter’s attention to detail in writing, which he uses to weave atmospheres of his characters and settings. Peter doesn’t like to create symbolic characters that are either right or wrong, or black or white. He believes that relatability is the key to allow readers to visualize his stories as a single leaf on a tree or a fingertip of a character. Peter goes to Northfield Mount Hermon School in Massachusetts. 作者Peter Luo就读于马萨诸塞州的北野山高中。惊艳于语言的灵活性，他很喜欢以写作的方式记录生活。他的写作风格在很大程度上受到了他最喜欢的诗人之一——巴勃罗·聂鲁达的影响。Peter从聂鲁达的诗歌中深受启发，使得他十分注重细节和人物与环境的刻画渲染。Peter不喜欢让每个人物都有明确的两面性；他认为“感同身受”是将读者带入故事的关键——是树上的一片叶子也好，又或是书中角色的手指末梢。
About the Story 作品简介
The story draws inspiration from the short horror story “The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson. I really liked Shirley’s exploration of the extent to which human beings can go to ensure survival. However, I thought that the characters’ reasonings and urges in the original story weren’t as relevant if the story took place in a modern setting, so I played around with the elements a bit and created this world viewed as post-apocalyptic that sets in the future. The format inherits Jackson’s clever twist ending. The title, “To-morrow,” could be viewed as a reference to Macbeth, but honestly is just a fancier way of saying tomorrow.
这个故事的灵感来自雪莉·杰克逊的恐怖短篇小说《彩票》。我很喜欢雪莉探究人类生存的极限。然而，如果把故事的场景和人物设定改为现代，我认为它可能就没有那么吸引人了，所以我尝试着把我的故事刻画在了遥远的未来，一个世界末日即将来临的时代。这篇文章的结尾借鉴了杰克逊式巧妙的转折。文章标题“To-morrow”可以看作是在内涵麦克白，但实际上这只是一种更好表达“明天”方式。
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