The Death Machine by Jessica Rowshandel
For most of its young life, the Euthanasia Rollercoaster has slept. Today, it will wake up for just a few minutes to usher the living up and down its steel hills. The death machine will never know the thrills of the carnival that once lived here, nor witness ecstatic children race beneath hot sun after hot sun, to the next adventure machine and the next. The death machine is unlike all the other machines who were still as a caravan of slaughtered camels scattered throughout acres.
Today in that lot, however, most everyone stood still beneath the sun. Hundreds waited in line for their turn on the rollercoaster, each with stiff and glassy eyes aimed steadily at the back of the head in front of them. Ramona’s eyes, on the other hand, scanned the machines, the mountains, the humans. Ramona’s waiting knees swayed back and forth like a dying swing.
“Is everyone okay?” The Givers each asked through their megaphones. There were 12 of them, death disciples. When one spoke, the rest echoed. Their voices, even and melodic, cooed yet they never smiled. They wore identical white linens that flowed just beyond their feet.
“Has anyone changed their mind?” The Givers continued. “It’s not too late. But once you are on the rollercoaster, there is no turning back. I repeat. Once you are on the rollercoaster, there is no turning back.”
One man shrieked, his arms waving from side to side above his head as he ran away into the horizon leaving behind one of his blue cotton slippers. No one picked it up. No one ran after him. “Good! Good! Run! Run! It’s not your time! It’s not your time!” The Givers encouraged him.
Ramona hoped to find someone to hold hands with on the way up. Maybe they could look into their death partner’s strange eyes for the last 120 seconds of their lives, tighten their fingers around each other’s for each of the 1670 feet they will ascend until gravity pulls the oxygen out of their brains with the delicacy of a mother removing splinters from a child’s palm. They’d reach the peak and during their descent, the passengers would be overcome with bliss and gently fall into a dream. Finding no eyes to look into, Ramona looked up at the sky instead – at the height of the coaster, then at the white moon. Too bad we’re not sending people there. I’d go, they thought.
Desperate, they turned toward the person behind them, “Excuse me, are you sure you want to do this today? Die here with all these strangers?” Ramona waved their hands in the stranger's face. “I’d love to sit down with you for some coffee and find out more about what brought you here.” The stranger said nothing. His eyes only briefly glanced toward their voice.
Then suddenly, a new stranger yelled, “Oh my gosh, yes! I was thinking the same thing!” Ramona smiled, walked over to the stranger, and held out their hand. In return, the stranger placed their palm in Ramona’s. They looked to Ramona, then to the coaster, then to the weird waiting ants, and stepped out of line. Ramona and the stranger walked together, hands knotted, arms gently swaying. The dust from the yellow earth enveloped their feet, clouds carrying them off to a better place, still with the living.
*****
The Givers didn’t run after them as they walked away from the coaster and traversed the endless sand, away from the abandoned carnival lot.
“I’m sure this happens all the time, right?” the stranger asked, between mouthing numbers.
“It has to,” Ramona said as they noticed the stranger’s mouth. “What are you counting?”
“Oh… footsteps.”
“Oh.” Looking down at the ground, kicking sand, “So… what's your name?”
“Mars.”
“Mars. Like the planet. That’s funny because I was just thinking that this place is so strange. I almost feel like we're on Mars, but it’s too yellow for Mars, I guess.”
“Yep. Sure is.”
“What a cool name.”
“Thanks,” they said, pointing to their thick, red-mud hair.
“Oh yea, that makes total sens—” Ramona was interrupted by the awakening rollercoaster. The two turned around slowly toward the machine. The behemoth clanked and roared as its steel joints grinded; electric blood pumped through its bones and spine.
The passengers moved forward in line, silent. And were silent as they stepped into their seats, save for the sound of metal toboggans creaking. Ramona and Mars stared as the toboggans chugged along, accelerating. The passengers rode up to the top, silent. When was the last time any of these people uttered a sound? Ramona wondered. As the toboggans rolled back to the ground the passengers' heads quietly lolled, like slow marbles. A sudden, silent sprig of tears appeared on the face of Mars.
The two stood silently and watched as The Givers floated to the machine and carried away body after body. Mars wiped away tears, took a few deep breaths, noticed Ramona’s hung head and revived their own limp hands to pull Ramona by the fingertip as they both walked away.
“How many steps have we walked?” Ramona finally asked, breaking the silence.
Mars looked up at Ramona, “Ohhh, about five hundred and thr–”
“Oh thank goodness! Civilization, c’mon!” Ramona exclaimed as they caught a glimpse of the metallic waves of cars in the distance. They grabbed Mars’s hand and ran several yards toward the end of the lot. Mars’s mouth moved feverishly as they continued counting. At the edge of the lot, they both stopped to catch their breath, leaning with their hands on their thighs.
“Well! How many steps was that?”
“Two….hundred...and twelve… sorry… I am out… of... breath… I have… really… bad... lungs.”
“Oh my gosh, I am so stupid! I wasn’t thinking. I just got so excited for civilization that–”
“No, please, it's okay. It's okay. It was fun.”
“Well, okay. Yea, okay. Okay…”
Once Mars caught their breath the pair walked to the diner across the street. They sat in a booth, facing each other. Ramona ordered a large glass of orange juice and a slice of chocolate cake. Mars had a cup of Earl Grey tea and toast with raspberry jam.
“Well… Nice to meet you” they said, gulping down cake.
“Cheers,” Mars raised their teacup. “You saved my life, today. So…. thank you. Just… thank you. That’s all I wanted to say.”
Ramona looked at Mars, then down at the floor. “Thank you, too.” Looking back up at Mars they asked, “Do you know what thoughts went through my head just before I saw you?”
Mars shook their head, “I felt lonely.”
“Lonely. Yea… Lonely…. So you understand.”
“I felt…” Mars leaned their head into their hands. “Those people, Ramona. They all died sadder than they already were, don't you think?”
Ramona gasped and jolted back a little, startled at The Giver who stood, sudden and silent, at the table. “Here’s your wallet, Ramona. You must have dropped it when you left the line.”
“Thanks.....Thank you. But–”
“There's nowhere else you would have gone. You were exhausted and parched from walking in the sun. It's only logical that I would find you here. Would you like us to call anyone to tell them that you changed your minds?”
Mars and Ramona glanced at each other. “No, but thank you. We’ll take care of it,” Mars said.
“Alright. I’ll be off then. But before I go, I want you to please make note that there are other options. Death is inevitable, and if you so happen to choose your own ending, please do give us a call.” They sat in silence, both staring out the window, following The Giver until he faded into the distance.
“Mars, where do you plan on going after we finish eating?”
“Mmmm, I’m not too sure, but I don’t want to go home. What about you?”
“Dunno, but how about we get out of here?” Arm in arm, they walked away from the diner, the old park, and the death machine. Together, they walked away from the moon.
“This has been submitted to a few fellowship and mentorship programs to which I was not accepted. It was rejected by a lit mag who said “It's an interesting story, and we enjoyed the vivid imagery, but it didn't quite come together for us.” And I agree, it doesn’t. After the rollercoaster does its thing, the story kind of peters out. That’s maybe because it started out as the first chapter of a novel, and after being edited into different versions, I lost sight of why I included certain parts of the chapter; there are remnants that don’t make as much sense anymore. Then I tried using it as a standalone short story. Either way, I feel that at the very least it needs more momentum toward the end. I’m not sure if it will, one day, end up in that novel, and if it does, it will likely be re-worked.”
Jessica Rowshandel (they/them) is a nonbinary Afro-Taíno Puerto Rican + Persian writer, visual artist, and musician living on Chumash, Tongva, and Fernandeño Tataviam land in California. For more information please visit jessicarowshandel.com. Twitter: @JRowshandel