['Ginnis]

The light rain outside had been hammering upon the roof of Devin’s ‘68 Mustang for hours. It wasn’t until a wicked crack of lightning illuminated the sky and tremulous thunder shook the ground that the couple even realized how late it was.

Betty Jarvis jerked up, slamming her head on the hard top. “Ouch,” she whined, rubbing her blonde curls. “Jesum, Devin, what time is it?”

“Who cares baby?” he grunted, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her back down for another kiss.

“Devin,” she groaned through pursed lips. She broke away and sat back up. The sun had completely disappeared behind the looming brick dormitory. Steam clouded the windows, casting the dark, wet world outside into a blurred fog. Betty leaned over the driver’s seat from the back and wiped away the condensation covering the small analog clock in the dash. “Holy- it’s 6:52!”

“So?” he grabbed her waist and pulled her back onto his lap. Every time they decided to go driving he was forever thankful for his backseat. The car had been a gift from his father, a proud gesture for a seemingly brilliant son who had managed to get into Duke. Devin could read, write, and count. Apparently that was all it took these days. He was the second generation of Harmond’s to go to college, his father being the first. The swelling pride had managed to embody itself in the form of a candy apple red 428 Cobra Jet engine.

“The broadcast is at seven,” she pushed his hands off her waist and grabbed her blouse out of the front dash.

“Who cares?” Devin groaned, refusing to sit up from his reclined position. He liked watching Betty in a fluster, there was something adorable about the way her cheeks flushed and how her blue eyes contracted into a menacing stare. She was a senior at Wrigley High School, about two miles north of the Duke campus. He had seen that exact same malicious glare in the eyes of Mrs. Jarvis many a time, usually when he stopped by to pick Betty up for a date. Mrs. Jarvis didn’t think too highly of Devin, and for the most part, her conceptions were accurate.

“If I’m going, I’m going. It won’t matter if I hear them call my draft number or not. The slip will be in the mailbox tomorrow.”

Betty stopped buttoning her blouse and stared down at him. More anger flooded her face.

“Yes, stop putting on your clothes,” he smiled playfully and pushed her sleeve off of her shoulder. “Excellent.”

Betty reached down and smacked him.

“Jesus Christ! What was that for?”

“You’re not going,” she seethed. “Don’t you even think you’re going over there or I swear to God I’ll-”

“Take off the rest of your clothes?” he interjected. “Because, you know that would be a wonderful going away present.”

Betty didn’t reply, she merely grabbed her patent heels from the passenger seat and stepped out into the rain.

Devin stared at the roof of his car and exhaled heavily before he sat up and buttoned his own shirt. He understood Betty’s nerves and had a few unruly ones of his own. He’d gone to college to escape the draft, and now here he was, waiting to hear his number drawn to send him over to the middle of Hell. They told him years before that he’d never have to go, and now here he sat, wondering if they were going to keep their promise, and just who exactly ‘they’ were.

He caught up to Betty as she scurried across the parking lot, heavy drops of rain splashing down atop her head.

“Why are you so eager to go listen to this anyways?” he picked her up and carried her over a gigantic puddle.

“I want to be there for Susan and John.”

“Susan and John are already going, sweetie,” he set her down and opened the door. “That’s what happens when you go to college on an ROTC scholarship.”

Betty sent him a glare over her shoulder as they scampered up the stairs, their soaked shoes leaving puddles on the linoleum floor. “Not all of our Pa’s were successful doctors, Devin.”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with that!” he raised his hands in repentance. “All I’m saying is that your sister and John knew exactly what they were getting into-”

Betty stopped outside the closed door to the dormitory room that Devin and John shared. “Do me a favor and just shut up, okay?”

He pushed a damp wet curl away from her face and kissed her against the door. She opened the dorm door but he moved towards the other end of the hall.

“Where are you going?” she called as he jogged down the corridor.

“I’ll be right back,” he called over his shoulder. Betty nodded and ducked inside the room. He turned his head back to where he was going. Most of the doors along the way were open, lights off, empty as a waiting grave. Usually the dormitory was a riotous party; tonight it was quieter than a cemetery.

One door at the very end of the hall was wide open, lights on and radio blaring the last few moments of the Grand Ole Opry. Devin knocked lightly on the frame. A pretty red head he had never seen before sat on one of the beds, her nose only inches away from the pages of her book. She jerked up, surprised by his intrusion.

“Hello,” Devin smiled, poking his head through the frame. “Bill here?”

Before she could answer there was a flushing noise from the floor bathroom behind Devin, and the door swung open. Marcus, Bill’s roommate, stepped out, wiping his thick glasses on the hem of his homemade cardigan. He caught sight of Devin and nodded curtly. “Devin.”

“Hey yah,” he stuck his hands deep into his pocket and whistled low. The dame must’ve been Marcus’ girlfriend. Devin hoped his shock wasn’t readily apparent on his sleeve. He didn’t think Marcus had it in him. “So, where is everyone?”

“They’re gathering at the Student Center,” Marcus told him, stepping into his room and sitting beside the girl on the bed. “They’re all planning on burning their draft registrations.”

“Ah,” Devin nodded. He had no idea why he hadn’t thought of that on his own. If anyone were to question authority and burn an effigy of President Johnson in the center of the campus it would be the students of Dormitory 301-D. Devin had actually bumped into a group of them buying tar and feathers at the Tractor Supply not three days before. The scarecrow figure of Lyndon was going to get it tonight.

“I figured you would have been down there as well,” Marcus added with a snide hint of hostility. Guys like Marcus didn’t associate with guys like Devin. It had something to do with a long standing grudge formed back in grades school when guys like Devin beat up guys like Marcus for pocket change. One would always have the bigger brain; the other, the bigger car.

Devin chuckled, “I’m left Marcus, but I ain’t that left.”

Marcus sent him a doubting look. Devin tried to compensate by offering casually, “Betty, John, and Susan are gonna listen down in our room. You’re more than welcome to come listen with us if you’d like.”

“No thanks,” the red head smiled, holding Marcus’ hand. “We’ll be alright on our own.”

Devin nodded politely and added before stepping out of the frame, “If you change your mind we’ll be the only other people here.”

He ran back to his dorm with two minutes left to spare. Susan and John had managed to pull themselves apart long enough for air and color to return to their cheeks. Of course, Susan’s rosy hue could be attributed to the fact that her little sister had probably just walked in on an intimate moment.

Given that Betty sat distantly on Devin’s bed across the room glaring at her sister, and the rumpled state of John’s hair and clothes, Devin would have been more than willing to bet that the red, white, and blue lovebirds had been enjoying themselves.

Susan closed her compact and lipstick then tossed them into her purse as Devin entered the room. Where Betty was waif-like and fair, her sister was more healthily rounded where it counted and dark. She kept her brunette curls long and cascading while Betty’s blonde hair hung in a hairsprayed bob. They were sisters in every possible extreme, the exact same when it mattered and polar opposites when it didn’t.

“Evening,” Devin greeted before hopping on to his bed. Betty leaned back against him, despite her sister’s disapproving look. It was the strong resemblance between Susan and Mrs. Jarvis that kept Devin from placing his hands on Betty’s hips. Instead, he clasped them innocently over her stomach.

“Anyone home?” John asked, running a hand through his short black hair and fixing his tie. He was still in uniform from his weekly inspection with his unit. Susan still wore her crisp white nursing dress. The two never seemed to stop working with their ROTC patrols.

“Just Marcus. He’s got a girl, you know.”

“Really?” John lifted his eyebrows.

Susan nodded. “Louise.”

“Go Marcus,” John laughed before sitting down beside her on the bed. Susan reclined against him and began to fiddle with her engagement ring as she did whenever she was bored or lost in thought.

Betty watched the two as John wrapped a strand of her long dark hair around his finger and twirled it playfully, humming along with the final song of the Grand Ole Opry. Susan pulled his arms tightly around her middle, using his chest as a pillow. They were graduating in eight months, their individual units scheduled to leave a week following the ceremony. John proposed the previous summer, much to the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Jarvis. John McClellan was everything they could have hoped for their precious Susan. His reckless best friend Devin Harmond was just an inconvenience they had struggled to keep away from their pretty little Betty. Struggled and failed. John and Susan planned on getting married when their patrols returned a year later. If their patrols returned.

Betty leaned back and whispered away from the couple into Devin’s ear. “I want a ring like that.”

“Whatever you say, toots,” he kissed her on the cheek.

John and Susan didn’t know it, but as soon as Devin graduated in two years, he and Betty were hightailing it out west. They didn’t know where, they didn’t know what they’d do, or how long they’d be gone, but it was going to be just the two of them, Devin’s mustang, and the radio. Coming home was optional.

The soft melodies of the show finally faded. A few merciless moments of static switched the broadcast over from the recording to a live segment at the campus radio station.

“Hello,” the heavy handed voice of the Dean crackled. Thunder rolled outside as the rain hammered harder upon the windowsill. His voice became lost in a sea of snaps and pops. John got up and played with the antenna.

“Damn storm,” he muttered, struggling for a better signal. Betty cast a look to Susan who shook her head sadly. Betty wasn’t quite sure just exactly why they were listening to the draft lottery. Most of John and Susan’s friends were already in the ROTC program, their fate was inevitable.

She supposed it was just the shock of the whole ordeal. No one thought that they would be drafted if they left for school. It was the reason Devin was here in the first place. It must have terrified them all to realize the only place they thought they were safe was as risky as the rest of the world.

John managed to pick up a better frequency and stepped away from the radio. The static subsided long enough for the Dean’s voice to come back through.

“Six-four-two-eight, Matthieson, I repeat, number one, six-four-two-eight, Matthieson.”

“Jesus, they already started!” Devin rolled his eyes “It’s 7:03. Sure don’t waste any time, do they?”

“Shush,” Susan snapped as she began to wring her hands nervously.

In silence they listened to the radio; nothing but the sound of rain drops on the lattice ruptured the tension. Monotonously, the Dean read the list of names, a list created completely at random by a committee known by none. He would call out their number in the draft, their student number, and finally their last name, repeating for the sake of clarity.

Thirty souls were randomly put into Limbo that night, rallied like cattle awaiting the slaughter house. Thirty mothers would cry themselves to sleep. Thirty fathers would spend the witching hours pacing their kitchen floors, their hands tightly clasped behind their backs, wondering what sin they had committed and if the Devil was willing to strike a deal. Thirty families would be put on standstill because of one single lottery.

The drawing went slowly, the Dean was careful in his reading, dignified and proud in how he said the names from the list in front of him. He himself was fifty-nine and walked with a cane. He had nothing to fear.

“Number twenty-nine, three-two-nine-seven, Davidson,” he read the next to last name. “Number twenty-nine, three-two-nine-seven, Davidson.”

Susan gave John a nervous glance. So far, no one they knew had been selected. He smiled down at her and squeezed her shoulder tightly. It was all going to be alright.

“Number thirty, four-seven-nine-six, Evans,” the Dean read the final name. “Number thirty, four-seven-nine-six, Evans.”

John and Devin exchanged looks. The girls bolted straight up, terrified by the soul-splicing shriek that erupted down the corridor. Betty hopped up to the door and looked towards Marcus’ dorm room. Devin stood and put his arm on her shoulder before she could hurry to see what happened. Louise’s sobs filled the hallway.

“Marcus Evans,” he whispered to her, his face sickeningly pale.

Betty’s eyes grew wide and quickly she turned into Devin’s comforting embrace.

For weeks she had been certain that nothing like this would ever happen. And it hadn’t, not to her. She was relieved that Devin wasn’t going anywhere, that he was staying right here at home in her arms. Yet Louise’s heartbroken sobs echoed through the empty dormitory, instilling Betty with a deep sense of pain and sorrow. She had done nothing wrong, and yet she felt horribly in the wrong.

“All selected students should report to the admission’s office some time Thursday between the hours of 10:00 a.m. and noon. You will receive a yellow notice in your mailbox by tomorrow, Wednesday, evening. Failure to report will result in expulsion from the University as well as possible arrest and prosecution in a federal court of law. A printed list will be posted outside of the library and inside the cafeteria for anyone who did not hear this broadcast. Thank you. God Bless, and good night.”

More static transmitted as the half hour drawing changed over to regular programming. The late night rock show came on in mid-song. Creedence Clearwater Revival echoed from both radios in the desolate dormitory.

“It ain’t me! It ain’t me! I ain’t no fortunate one!”

John quickly stood and turned off the noise. Louise’s wails subsided to stifled cries. John looked to Susan and motioned towards the door. She nodded and pushed to her feet. Quietly, hand in hand, the two walked down toward Marcus’ dorm.

Betty stood to follow but Devin held her back.

“Let them handle this one, Bets,” he told her, squeezing her hand tightly. “There are some things we just aren’t equipped to do.”

She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. She sat back down on the bed and silently cried to herself. Devin wrapped his arms around her comfortingly. He knew that she was too young to really understand everything that “going over there” implied. He was thankful for her naivety but still commiserated with her fear.

Perhaps it had finally sunk in for little Betty that war was real, that the images on the nightly news of soldiers hiding in the jungle brush and raiding Vietcong caches was true and not Hollywood glamour. Perhaps it now made sense as to why Susan and John were rarely out of one another’s sight, and why they held on to each other whenever they could. Perhaps she had known all along and pretended it never existed.

Betty managed to softly cry herself to sleep and Devin soon followed suit. The hour hand on the alarm clock atop Devin’s night stand hovered past the nine when he pried open his eyes. He shook Betty lightly.

Over her exhausted whimper he whispered, “We’ve got to get you home or your father is going to kill me.”

Groggily, they shuffled out of the room. Devin took a walk down towards Marcus’ dorm. The door was closed but the soft light from within filtered out through the crack at the bottom. He could hear the low voices of John and Marcus, the forced laughs of Susan and Louise as they tried to hold a lighter conversation.

Devin should have knocked to say goodbye, to be a friend, to tell Susan he was taking her sister home and not to worry. Something so trivial and normal seemed like an overbearing mockery in the wake of the night’s events.

He felt an awkward pang of survivor’s guilt as he turned away from the door. Something ridiculous inside him made him feel as if he should be the one with the yellow call slip in his mailbox tomorrow morning, that he should be going to enlist and fight with his best friend, not nerdy Marcus Evans. Devin thought ahead to a few years when he would be driving his Mustang across the country with a beautiful woman beside him in the passenger’s seat. Would Marcus be driving? Would Marcus be breathing?

Devin painfully shook his head as he grabbed Betty’s hand and led her down the stairs.

Guys like Marcus Evans didn’t drive tanks or play with guns. Guys like Marcus Evans read math textbooks under their covers at night with a flashlight. No, guys like Devin played soldier in the fields, pretended to drop bombs on their best friends as they jumped around the school yard in their youth. Guys like Devin were bigger and stronger. Guys like Devin pulled triggers and killed people. Guys like Devin and Marcus died every day in Vietnam. It was just by the hand of chance that some guys, like Devin, were allowed to live.

[Vorcla]

Wow. Kara, sometimes I swear you're reincarnated! I don't know how you do it; it's almost spooky. The way you capture the tenor and flavor of the times in different eras. First, Hollywood in the '30's in "Tinseltown," and now a college campus in the '60's. You always manage to make us feel like we're there. Things like putting in a line from Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Fortunate Son" - which is what Devin is. That was a stroke of inspiration. References like "the candy apple red 428 Cobra Jet engine" (which burned a gallon of gas every time it turned over! ), the ROTC lovers ("rotsee!"), the terrifying radio broadcast. They call your number, you go off to die. As always, the dialogue is flawless, and your characters are so well drawn, which is incredibly hard to do in a short piece.

My Dad talked about this from time to time - the draft lottery. He was a "Fortunate Son," too. His number was 303 out of 365 - pretty far down the list. Funny; something as trivial as when your birthday comes up in a lottery was a matter of life and death. Kinda like gambling. That war affected an entire generation, and still does to this day.

And the scream down the hallway is just chilling.

It amazes me that you were able to create this out of that quote we were talking about. This is a brilliant piece of work.

A couple of nitpickys:

It wasn’t until a wicked crack of lightening illuminated the sky and tremulous thunder shook the ground that the couple even realize how late it was.

lightning

“Jesus Chris! What was that for?”

Christ

That's about it on a quick glance. There may be a couple of comma "judgment calls," but I don't worry about stuff like that. As I've always said, the story's more important. And this is a wonderful story.

Wow. You have quickly become one of the best prose writers on this site, if not the best, and I'm having a blast watching it all.

Great job, Kara!

[Venomous Vixen]

It wasn’t until a wicked crack of lightening illuminated the sky and tremulous thunder shook the ground that the couple even realize how late it was.

realized

The car had been a gift from his father, a proud gesture for a seemingly brilliant soon who had managed to get into Duke.

son

He liked watching Betty is a fluster, there was something adorable about the way her cheeks flushed and how her blue eyes contracted into a menacing stare.

in

He’s gone to college to escape the draft, and now here he was, waiting to hear his number drawn to send him over to the middle of Hell.

He'd

Failure to report will result in expulsion from the University as well as possible arrest and prosecution a federal court of law.

you missed 'in' between prosecution and a

Devin painfully shook his head as he grabbed Betty’s hand and lead her down the stairs.

led

Intriguing story here and a great start. I can see so many different directions this can go in and I love that... there is no telling exactly what is in store for the characters or where they are headed in the following parts.

You never cease to amaze me, the way you word things. I especially liked the description of the clock when it was just past nine, the way you described the static over the intercom and so many other little bits that make this a refreshing read. Talent young lady, and you are just oozing it out all over

['Ginnis]

Thanks guys. I appreciate the nit picks and thoughts. Always a pleasure!

[Jimbalaya]

Ooooo. This is going to be good. I only saw a couple of nits, but I think they've been covered already.

I'm excited about this story, I think it is one that NEEDS to be told, fiction or no, you've added enough fact in with it that it puts you in the moment. I feel what your characters feel. My dad was a part of this war as well and he continued to have falshbacks until the day I moved out, may still have them.

I'm looking forward to which direction you take this and what will happen to the people here. Great start!

['Ginnis]

No direction dears...one time deal. It's an actual short story!

[Jimbalaya]

Originally Posted by 'Ginnis

No direction dears...one time deal. It's an actual short story!

Seriously? Holy crap. I guess I got used to you doing series that I just automatically figured...Are you sure?

Ok, well then I'll just say this...this short story is screaming for more. Screaming I say. Still, Great job!

[jackconure]

This story is very well written. I could feel the tension and even caught myself clenching my fists.
The only things I was going to comment on were the typos that have already been pointed out.
Good job!

[Gurdit]

The hour hand on alarm clock atop Devin’s night stand hovered past the nine when he pried open his eyes.

Misplaced "the".

C'est tres bien.
I think that's about as much of a compliment as you really need, but not nearly as much as this short story deserves.

[Nupur]

Kara, wow. Firstly, I love the theme of this story. While most of the writers highlight the actual action, you have accentuated on the events leading to the action, and that's where the real drama lies. I adore your dialogues. Characterization, despite the short length is flawless. Your descriptions paint the entire picture beautifully. You're definitely one of the best prose writers I have ever come across.

One little nitpick:

Mrs. Jarvis didn't think to highly of Devin, and for the most part, her conceptions were accurate.

too

And my favourite lines:

Most of the doors along the way were open, lights off, empty as a waiting grave. Usually the dormitory was a riotous party; tonight it was quieter than a cemetery.

I love how you carried this comparison. Overall, very well done. Great work.

[Rakkasan]

Well, Kara, you've just touched on another of my favorite periods of U.S. history. And at the risk of sounding like an echo, you have done a phenominal job. (BTW, where is this 1930's story that was mentioned?) I won't go into all the praises I had planned to deliver because it really will be quite repetitive, but please understand how completely drawn in I was. I had several interuptions throughout the reading, but I was always able to jump right back in with the same sense of enthusiasm, and intensity of interest.

I am saddened to the very core when I think about what you said, and question within myself how someone could write a short story this well, and then turn and walk away. This story is screaming out in agony to be lengthened. The characters are prepared to rip themselves from the confines of the text in which you've imprisoned them, just wanting a chance for the world to know more of their lives. This is a most captivating way to begin and end Chapter One. Please, for our sake, for Devin's sake, reconsider those sobering words you uttered.

On to the critique...

I have several items to point out, but they are all minor, so don't let the list seem like I'm really ripping it apart. Shoot, I wish I would have been the one to write it.

Originally Posted by 'Ginnis

“The broadcast is at seven,” she pushed his hands off her waist and grabbed her blouse out of the front dash.

Was the blouse in the dash? If not, maybe it should read off the dash.

Originally Posted by 'Ginnis

Mrs. Jarvis didn’t think to highly of Devin, and for the most part, her conceptions were accurate.

It was already stated, but just in case, "to" should be "too".

Originally Posted by 'Ginnis

“You’re not going,” she seethed. “Don’t you even think you’re going over there or I swear to God I’ll-”

Is there a reason to use the dash at the end, as opposed to an ellipsis? Usually a dash indicates a single word that is missing, whereas an ellipsis indicates one or more words (text, in general) has been omitted.

Originally Posted by 'Ginnis

They told him years before that he’d never have to go, and now here he sat, wondering if they were going to keep their promise, and just who exactly ‘they’ were.

Would it lose the impact to say "...and now he sat here..."? Also, I have been looking high and low for an explanation or reason to use single quotes around "they", but I can't find anything that would indicate the use of single rather than double quotes in this circumstance. Help?

Originally Posted by 'Ginnis

“Susan and John are already going, sweetie,” he set her down and opened the door.

"Sweetie" should be capitalized since it is being used as a proper noun.

Originally Posted by 'Ginnis

“Ain’t nothing wrong with that!” he raised his hands in repentance. “All I’m saying is that your sister and John knew exactly what they were getting into-”

Again, the dash seems to be out of place. If it is to represent the conversation getting cut off, then maybe ending it a bit sooner (after "were", for example) would work better.

Originally Posted by 'Ginnis

One door at the very end of the hall was wide open, lights on and radio blaring the last few moments of the Grand Ole Opry.

You already stated that many doors were open. This door is the only one described as wide open; however, I'm not sure that this fact merits stating it again so soon. Perhaps it would sound tighter if the focus was placed on the differing aspects of lights and a radio. The other doors didn't have that. They were empty, like tombs.

Originally Posted by 'Ginnis

Before she could answer there was a flushing noise from the floor bathroom behind Devin, and the door swung open.

There ought to be a comma after "answer". Also, "floor" may be excessive wording here.

Originally Posted by 'Ginnis

Devin chuckled, “I’m left Marcus, but I ain’t that left.”

There should be a comma before "Marcus" as well as the one you placed after.

Originally Posted by 'Ginnis

“Evening,” Devin greeted before hopping on to his bed.

"on to" should be "onto".

Originally Posted by 'Ginnis

John McClellan was everything they could have hopped for their precious Susan.

"hopped" should be "hoped".

Originally Posted by 'Ginnis

Struggled and failed.

Needs a comma after "Struggled".

Originally Posted by 'Ginnis

John and Susan planned on getting married when their patrols returned a year later. If their patrols returned.

In all my military experience and research studies I have never seen "patrols" used like this. I am perplexed. Typically, patrols are short, specific missions that involve a limited number of people, not a year-long event. Are you thinking of a tour? A tour is a rotation to a specific mission zone that typically lasts a year. During this period of time, service members were drafted for one year terms, after which they were able to be discharged from active duty service. Officers receiving comissions via ROTC usually had to commit to four or more years of service, of which any or all of it could be served in a combat zone. Like I say, I am just not familiar with how this term is being used here, and I would like to see this story maintain the highest level of authenticity.

Originally Posted by 'Ginnis

“Whatever you say, toots,” he kissed her on the cheek.

Again, "toots" should be capitalized as a proper noun.

Originally Posted by 'Ginnis

John got up and played with the antennae.

You could very well mean antennae, but maybe you meant antenna. The former being the plural form of the latter. Keep in mind that on an older television set, the "rabbit ears", though there were two branches to position, were still part of a single antenna. Yes, I know this is a radio. Of course, that amplifies the question of there being more than one antenna.

Originally Posted by 'Ginnis

John managed to pick up a better frequency and stepped away from the radio.

"Pick up a better frequency" (in radios, that would equate to a different station), or "get better reception"?

Originally Posted by 'Ginnis

Monotonously the Dean read the list of nam