Chosen by Chance

It was a rare winter morning in the town of Glasserton, Oregon where the sun was shining and not a trace of moisture was to be found in the air. Being mid-February, the weather was known to rarely fluctuate from anything but cold, wet, and dreary; then again, today was different. Today was something special.

As the sun rose over the looming pine trees encircling the small town, the song of birds could be heard filling the air, echoing through the woods in perfect harmony. The morning light saturated the surrounding world in beautiful arrays of orange and gold, illuminating the shops lining Main Street in an ethereal glow. Founded in 1860, this small town reflected an architectural style of the Victorian era mining town, with brick facades interspersed with different colours.

The morning sun continued to climb into the cloud spotted blue sky, the song of birds began to diminish and was replaced by noise of human activity. Cars began moving swiftly through each thoroughfare, and the quiet scene had already turned into that of a bustling one.

Today was a special day, and not simply because of the favourful weather entrancing this enchanted little township. Today was the day of Selection. Each year on February fourteenth while the rest of the world celebrated love with cards, quality time, and copious amounts of flowers and chocolate, Glasserton celebrated with the most unusual of traditions.

People began to make their way towards Main Street, dressed in their best formal clothing. Women wore dresses and heels to match, and the men in suits with expensive hats that hide their faces. Even the children looked neat; hair combed back for the boys or braided for the girls, and shirts tucked in with evident disapproval of having to maintain a perfect appearance. Yet despite everyone donning their Sunday best, there was an air of uncertainty resting amongst the arriving attendees. No bursts of colours were present among all the differing wardrobes, and not a single individual looked gaudy or tried to ‘outshine’ anyone else. All of the tones were dark colours, as if the town were in mourning. What was there to mourn on a beautiful day such as this?

As the crowd moved towards the end of street, a stage was set before the town hall which was adorned with Corinthian columns and a marble appearance. This was the one structure in the entire town that didn't match the same cadence of the rest of the buildings, yet here it was, at the end of the T street, and a meeting point for the locals. Some believed this to be the oldest building in the entire county. There was even a folk tale of it being so old that the Romans themselves built it as a monument to the Gods. It was rumoured that this building never seemed to age, and that it had an eerie semblance that felt…unnatural.

As the crowd began to settle in front of the building's facade, the chiming of a bell could be heard in the distance. Eleven gongs were heard before the noise faded as the silent citizens stood in front of the antiquated building. Eleven o’clock in the morning.

From out of the marble building strode a man in a suit, wearing a black fedora to keep the sun off of his face. As he walked down the front steps towards the wooden stage, the crowd began to mutter amongst themselves, nervously looking from the building to the man coming towards them. Based on the confidence in his walk, he was a man of importance. As he approached the base of the stage set before all of the people, he waved to the crowd as if a celebrity trying to elicit a positive reaction from everyone present.

The man began to climb the wooden stairs leading onto the stage, and with each step he took, a loud creak followed, as if intensified by the silence of the townspeople watching on. From his double-breasted charcoal grey suit, he pulled out a small black book, fraying at the spine and faded with age. He gently placed it on the wooden podium, where a small clear bowl of hundreds of pieces of paper sat, folded in half so delicately.

"Good morning ladies and gentlemen", he began, studying the melancholy faces looking up at him from the street. The townspeople starred back blankly, unmoved and unchanged as the man continued his address.

"As you know, today is the day of Selection. One of our own will be chosen as an integral part of this town's history, and allow for the coming of spring to commence". He paused once more, surveying the solemn crowd.

"The youth selected for this tremendous honour will be immortalized in our town's history, and their sacrifice will be the driving force that brings the spring and a good harvest to us once more". Someone in the crowd laughed, but was quickly silenced by the surrounding townspeople.

“This year the city council and I have agreed upon something else this year though for the lucky family chosen in today’s honour. The youth’s family will receive a twenty-thousand-dollar stipend for being selected in such a historical moment, and as a thank you from the town to you”.

Hoping for some kind of positive reaction from the crowd, the mayor paused one last time, hoping to win the crowd over in a desperate attempt. Instead, the crowd recoiled, and many of the faces reflected emotions of disgust and hate towards the man before them.

With that he sighed and opened the black, beaten book to a page bookmarked to a list of the entire town's children, whose age ranged from five to seventeen years old. Each name was assigned a number, and nothing more.

With one last glance at the crowd, the man moved his hand above the glass bowl, hesitating as if something may bite him once he placed his hand into it. He paused a moment, twisting his wrist before selecting one the pieces of paper with a swift motion.

With shaking hands, the man unfolded the note, and coughed into his hand, as if somehow that would ease the tension of the crowd.

“Forty-seven,” the man called out, placing the paper down on the podium next to the book. Adjusting his glasses, the man looked at the list of names on the worn paper before him, each name detailed in cursive. The mayor traced his right index finger over the list of names, scanning for the forty-seventh name on the page.

After finding it, he froze, as if having seen a ghost. The colour drained from his face, and sweat began to collect on his forehand. He looked up at the sun, and the beautiful day unfolding before him. What a beautiful, February day it was.

In a shaking voice, the mayor began, “The child, who has the magnificent honour of being chosen for this year's Selection is..."

The birds began to chirp once more, and a gentle breeze blew through the branches of the surrounding pines, causing them to gently sway in the wind. Spring would be arriving early this year indeed.