English Week 2 Work from Home

Dystopia:
An imaginated society that is most undesirable/(post-)apocalyptic; opposite of utopia.

Jovial:
Jolly; cheerful.

Profusely:
In excess; abundantly.

Paraphanelia:
A group of tools or apparatus required for a specific activity; equipment.

Interminably:
Endless; unable to be terminated.

Petulantly:
Ill-tempered; sulky.

Describe the setting of "The Lottery" by Shirley Jackson using specific details from the story.
"The Lottery" is set in a small-scale farm-village in New England with a population of ~300 people.

Explain the feelings that most people in town have toward the lottery.
The citizens in The Lottery's nameless town feel anxious toward the tradition of the lottery, but, out of fear, take part in the gruesome event.

What evidence is there that the lottery has been going on for a long time? 
At the start of paragraph four, a passage reads:
"The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now  resting on the stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in  town, was born."

What is Old Man Warner’s attitude about those who would like to change things? 
As evident at the end of page 4, Old Man Warner is unimpressed at those who think about change, quoting: "Pack of crazy fools, listening to the young folks, nothing's good enough for them. Next thing you know, they'll be wanting to go back to living in caves, nobody work any more, live that way for a while. Used to be a saying  about 'Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon.' First thing you know, we'd all be eating  stewed chickweed and acorns. There's always been a lottery."

Explain how the lottery works.
The lottery is a brutal tradition in which villagers are chosen at random, and are presented each with a piece of paper. The unlucky villager who draws the piece of paper with a dot on it must bring their family on stage, to repeat the process of drawing sheets of paper at random. The villager with the dotted piece of paper is then stoned to death.

Creative Writing Final Piece

Disguised by the cloak of its surrounding vegetation, a stone city lays

inside the hollow cliff face. The green of the jungle’s overgrown

leaves is tinted yellow by the evening sun’s all-seeing light.

Connected only by a series of rotting wood bridges, the village is

other-worldy. I clench the rope handrails, and make the perilous

journey across. 

The buildings look completely different up close. A door is opened, a

deafening creak bounces off the walls of the abandoned dwelling.

I let my gaze wander out one of the few windows. A waterfall, sent by

the heavens, hides the next set of bridges. 

A maze of pitch-black, furnitureless buildings, I have trouble making

my way down. 

I heave my lantern from my backpack. The match resting against my

temple finds its hot rod red edge running against the outsole of my

boot.

The lantern’s pet flame crackles, illuminating the walls and floor.

The colour of fallow, and the texture of old, battle-hardened concrete.
Small rooms, dead ends, window-less dwellings. 

A small wooden door blocks the way forward. A push and a pull, it

doesn't budge. My problem solved by a swift kick, I grumble, and

continue.

I use my bag to shelter my head, and drag my feet through the wall

of water. Wet and miserable, I heaved myself across the next rotting

wood bridge. 

I didn’t even notice the plank break under me.