The Lottery Ticket

A fool and his money will soon depart,
but a fool and his thoughts will lose more than that!

Stateless Writing by Anton Chekhov
Stateless Translation by Constance Garnett
Stateful Writing by Dorian Passer
Artistic Engineering by Dorian Passer

Beta Reading by
Mike  Russo, Christopher  Merriner, Amanda  Walker, Andrew  Schultz

Stateless story published March 1887. Stateful story published September 2022.

The Lottery Ticket

Introduction

Before we start, let me tell you a little bit about this experience, since most people have not read a short story like this before. While you are reading, you will come across a blank spot in a passage. When you see this blank spot, this means the story has stopped moving forward. To keep reading, you need to fill in this blank spot with a word. But not just any word! Pick a word with pleasant or unpleasant connections for you, such as “happy” or “sad”. After you do that, the story will start moving forward again and you can continue reading.

Now that you know what to expect of the reading experience, let me tell you what to expect of the prose’s style. I’ve experimented with an “additive” style of connecting clauses into long sentences. Two examples of this style are Laurence Sterne’s Tristram Shandy (1759–1766) and J. D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye (1951).

And that’s all you need to know to get started. Thank you and I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed creating this!

TORIA swipes away a notification her Drive-LS™ ride home is fifteen minutes away from work, and then continues to scroll her phone through an archive of a defunct meme-sharing site, to then exude another sigh while wading through more content and comments. Toria is trying to distract herself from what she’s really waiting for — in twenty-five minutes, her biggest dreams will bubble up to the surface for her and her friends to claim.

sheer_PUuRfect
(commented)

@macross92 Ha! I read a short story in my creative writing class that makes me feel like this.

PlatinumGurly
(commented)

@sheer_PUuRfect Was it that short story by Anton Chekhov? The Lottery Ticket?

Here’s an english version🔗 with an “american”-ized translation (spelling, money, etc.) in case anyone else wants to read something pretty good and pretty short.

Her curiosity overcomes her reluctance, and Toria presses the link in the comment, opening the short story in a new tab. A quick scroll up-and-down the story has her suppose she can read half now and the rest during her ride home, and so she begins:

Ivan Dmitritch, a middle-class man who lived with his family on an income of one hundred eighty-five thousand a year and was very well satisfied with his lot, sat down on the sofa after supper and began reading the newspaper.

“I forgot to look at the newspaper today,” his wife said to him as she cleared the table. “Look and see whether the list of drawings is there.”

“Yes, it is,” said Ivan Dmitritch; “but hasn’t your ticket lapsed?”

“No; I took the interest on Tuesday.”

“What is the number?”

“Series 9,499, number 26.”

“All right … we will look … 9,499 and 26.”

Ivan Dmitritch had no faith in lottery luck, and would not, as a rule, have consented to look at the lists of winning numbers, but now, as he had nothing else to do and as the newspaper was before his eyes, he passed his finger downwards along the column of numbers. And immediately, as though in mockery of his skepticism, no further than the second line from the top, his eye was caught by the figure 9,499! Unable to believe his eyes, he hurriedly dropped the paper on his knees without looking to see the number of the ticket, and, just as though some one had given him a douche of cold water, he felt an agreeable chill in the pit of the stomach; tingling and terrible and sweet!

“Masha, 9,499 is there!” he said in a hollow voice.

His wife looked at his astonished and panic-stricken face, and realized that he was not joking.

“9,499?” she asked, turning pale and dropping the folded tablecloth on the table.

“Yes, yes … it really is there!”

“And the number of the ticket?”

“Oh, yes! There’s the number of the ticket too. But stay … wait! No, I say! Anyway, the number of our series is there! Anyway, you understand….”

Looking at his wife, Ivan Dmitritch gave a broad, senseless smile, like a baby when a bright object is shown it. His wife smiled too; it was as pleasant to her as to him that he only mentioned the series, and did not try to find out the number of the winning ticket. To torment and tantalize oneself with hopes of possible fortune is so sweet, so thrilling!

“It is our series,” said Ivan Dmitritch, after a long silence. “So there is a probability that we have won. It’s only a probability, but there it is!”

“Well, now look!”

“Wait a little. We have plenty of time to be disappointed. It’s on the second line from the top, so the prize is two million two hundred fifty thousand. That’s not money, but power, capital! And in a minute I shall look at the list, and there — 26! Eh? I say, what if we really have won?”

The husband and wife began laughing and staring at one another in silence. The possibility of winning bewildered them; they could not have said, could not have dreamed, what they both needed that two million two hundred fifty thousand for, what they would buy, where they would go. They thought only of the figures 9,499 and 2,250,000 and pictured them in their imagination, while somehow they could not think of the happiness itself which was so possible.

Ivan Dmitritch, holding the paper in his hand, walked several times from corner to corner, and only when he had recovered from the first impression began dreaming a little.

“And if we have won,” he said — “why, it will be a new life, it will be a transformation! The ticket is yours, but if it were mine I should, first of all, of course, spend seven hundred fifty thousand on real property in the shape of an estate; two hundred fifty thousand on immediate expenses, new furnishing … traveling … paying debts, and so on…. The other one million two hundred fifty thousand I would put in the bank and get interest on it.”

“Yes, an estate, that would be nice,” said his wife, sitting down and dropping her hands in her lap.

“Somewhere in the Tula or Oryol provinces…. In the first place we shouldn’t need a summer villa, and besides, it would always bring in an income.”

And pictures came crowding on his imagination, each more gracious and poetical than the last. And in all these pictures he saw himself well-fed, serene, healthy, felt warm, even hot! Here, after eating a summer soup, cold as ice, he lay on his back on the burning sand close to a stream or in the garden under a lime-tree…. It is hot…. His little boy and girl are crawling about near him, digging in the sand or catching ladybirds in the grass. He dozes sweetly, thinking of nothing, and feeling all over that he need not go to the office today, tomorrow, or the day after. Or, tired of lying still, he goes to the hayfield, or to the forest for mushrooms, or watches the peasants catching fish with a net. When the sun sets he takes a towel and soap and saunters to the bathing-shed, where he undresses at his leisure, slowly rubs his bare chest with his hands, and goes into the water. And in the water, near the opaque soapy circles, little fish flit to and fro and green water-weeds nod their heads. After bathing there is tea with cream and milk rolls…. In the evening a walk or vint with the neighbors.

Toria
(stomach growls)

Well, the first thing I’ll do when I win the lotto is order takeout from our favorite place up the street and– and, like– no! Yeah, even better! I’m not ordering takeout, I’m taking us out — to like — to all the restaurants around here, and we’re going to order whatever we want off the menu; our own restaurant tour!

Tender unhurried circles do not help Toria rub away a grumble and pang at the top of her stomach. Her imagination floats to picturing herself burst through her apartment front door, declaiming to her roommates an immediate start of a restaurant tour, jolting Jaslyn to shriek and let slip a pasta plate with homemade red sauce that splatters over vintage LCD TVs, infuriating Francene, pulling her attention away from archives of long gone cyber spaces and the nostalgic graphics of classic consoles.

Toria
(blushes)

I feel so bad even thinking that! Fran and I love Jas’s cooking, but– but she makes that sauce for us every other night.

Toria
(imitates Jaslyn)

“Put 2 tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil in a pan with 4 lightly smashed garlic cloves.”

“And then heat it on mid low for 20 minutes but don’t brown the garlic.”

“And then add 1 large can of barely blended San Marzanos with 1 teaspoon of fine sea salt.”

“And then bring it all to a boil then take it off heat to cool for 5 minutes.”

“Finally, add plenty of torn up fresh basil and enjoy!”

Toria grasps the bottom of her stomach, frailly trying to hold back a gurgle and churn, at the possibility of eating yet more homemade red sauce.

Toria

I can tell that Jas is getting a bit down whenever we complain about that sauce.

For the past week, Fran has been protesting with these dramatic gagging noises, even though she still devours it. I still pretend like I’m happy to chow down on it.

I wonder if Jas is to eat that sauce again herself?

“Yes, it would be nice to buy an estate,” said his wife, also dreaming, and from her face it was evident that she was enchanted by her thoughts.

Ivan Dmitritch pictured to himself autumn with its rains, its cold evenings, and its St. Martin’s summer. At that season he would have to take longer walks about the garden and beside the river, so as to get thoroughly chilled, and then drink a big glass of vodka and eat a salted mushroom or a soused cucumber, and then — drink another…. The children would come running from the kitchen-garden, bringing a carrot and a radish smelling of fresh earth…. And then, he would lie stretched full length on the sofa, and in leisurely fashion turn over the pages of some illustrated magazine, or, covering his face with it and unbuttoning his waistcoat, give himself up to slumber.

The St. Martin’s summer is followed by cloudy, gloomy weather. It rains day and night, the bare trees weep, the wind is damp and cold. The dogs, the horses, the fowls — all are wet, depressed, downcast. There is nowhere to walk; one can’t go out for days together; one has to pace up and down the room, looking despondently at the grey window. It is dreary!

Ivan Dmitritch stopped and looked at his wife.

“I should go abroad, you know, Masha,” he said.

And he began thinking how nice it would be in late autumn to go abroad somewhere to the South of France … to Italy …. to India!

“I should certainly go abroad too,” his wife said. “But look at the number of the ticket!”

“Wait, wait! …”

He walked about the room and went on thinking. It occurred to him: what if his wife really did go abroad? It is pleasant to travel alone, or in the society of light, careless women who live in the present, and not such as think and talk all the journey about nothing but their children, sigh, and tremble with dismay over every dollar . Ivan Dmitritch imagined his wife in the train with a multitude of parcels, baskets, and bags; she would be sighing over something, complaining that the train made her head ache, that she had spent so much money…. At the stations he would continually be having to run for boiling water, bread and butter…. She wouldn’t have dinner because of its being too dear….

“She would begrudge me every dollar ,” he thought, with a glance at his wife. “The lottery ticket is hers, not mine! Besides, what is the use of her going abroad? What does she want there? She would shut herself up in the hotel, and not let me out of her sight…. I know!”

And for the first time in his life his mind dwelt on the fact that his wife had grown elderly and plain, and that she was saturated through and through with the smell of cooking, while he was still young, fresh, and healthy, and might well have got married again.

“Of course, all that is silly nonsense,” he thought; “but … why should she go abroad? What would she make of it? And yet she would go, of course…. I can fancy … In reality it is all one to her, whether it is Naples or Klin. She would only be in my way. I should be dependent upon her. I can fancy how, like a regular woman, she will lock the money up as soon as she gets it…. She will hide it from me…. She will look after her relations and grudge me every dollar .”

Ivan Dmitritch thought of her relations. All those wretched brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles would come crawling about as soon as they heard of the winning ticket, would begin whining like beggars, and fawning upon them with oily, hypocritical smiles. Wretched, detestable people! If they were given anything, they would ask for more; while if they were refused, they would swear at them, slander them, and wish them every kind of misfortune.

Ivan Dmitritch remembered his own relations, and their faces, at which he had looked impartially in the past, struck him now as repulsive and hateful.

“They are such reptiles!” he thought.

And his wife’s face, too, struck him as repulsive and hateful. Anger surged up in his heart against her, and he thought malignantly:

“She knows nothing about money, and so she is stingy. If she won it she would give me twenty-five thousand dollars , and put the rest away under lock and key.”

And he looked at his wife, not with a smile now, but with hatred. She glanced at him too, and also with hatred and anger. She had her own daydreams, her own plans, her own reflections; she understood perfectly well what her husband’s dreams were. She knew who would be the first to try and grab her winnings.

“It’s very nice making daydreams at other people’s expense!” is what her eyes expressed. “No, don’t you dare!”

Her husband understood her look; hatred began stirring again in his breast, and in order to annoy his wife he glanced quickly, to spite her at the fourth page on the newspaper and read out triumphantly:

“Series 9,499, number 46! Not 26!”

Hatred and hope both disappeared at once, and it began immediately to seem to Ivan Dmitritch and his wife that their rooms were dark and small and low-pitched, that the supper they had been eating was not doing them good, but lying heavy on their stomachs, that the evenings were long and wearisome….

“What the devil’s the meaning of it?” said Ivan Dmitritch, beginning to be ill-humoured. “Wherever one steps there are bits of paper under one’s feet, crumbs, husks. The rooms are never swept! One is simply forced to go out. Damnation take my soul entirely! I shall go and hang myself on the first aspen-tree!”

The Lottery Ticket

A fool and his money will soon depart, but a fool and his thoughts will lose more than that!

Introduction

A fool and his money will soon depart,
but a fool and his thoughts will lose more than that!