I should write more short stories. It feels good to finish something.
I'm not sure if I really mentioned that I'd submitted two stories to the Machine of Death short-fiction competition.
It turns out that I didn't get in.
Which is fine, I'd more or less assumed that if I hadn't heard by now I wasn't going to get in, and while it was super-annoying that the Gmail snippet read "Thanks very much for your submissions to Machine of Death! We were absolutely blown ..." (only to turn out that they were blown away by the quantity and quality in general, rather than mine in particular)... Well, it's an understandable, unintentional thingy.
I'm writing a bit today, off and on. I'd like to say I was getting better about it, but I'm honestly not sure.
Anyway. I'd submitted two stories. The second one was, honestly, a mistake: I liked the premise (Alister Crowley and Nikolai Tesla build The Machine, and maybe do something else) but the execution was lousy and rushed, and if I'd tried to really hone the story which actually worked, I might have gotten somewhere. But since at the moment I'm nowhere, I might as well share the thing which got me nowhere with you.
I actually like it, to tell the truth. It's... earnest, and not in an altogether bad way; the dialogue works well (although it works best when I remember how bad I am at setting the scene; I'm the opposite of every writer in the history of ever in that I cringe when characters close their mouths); I'm not sure, but I don't think that the story itself is as obvious a story to tell as a lot of other ones. And I'm sure six hundred and fifty people also liked their rejected non-selected stories.
But none of them are me.
Background Prompt Text Copyright Ryan North Et Al.
The machine had been invented a few years ago: a machine that could tell, from just a sample of your blood, how you were going to die. It didn’t give you the date and it didn’t give you specifics. It just spat out a sliver of paper upon which were printed, in careful block letters, the words “DROWNED” or “CANCER” or “OLD AGE” or “CHOKED ON A HANDFUL OF POPCORN.” It let people know how they were going to die.
The problem with the machine is that nobody really knew how it worked, which wouldn’t actually have been that much of a problem if the machine worked as well as we wished it would. But the machine was frustratingly vague in its predictions: dark, and seemingly delighting in the ambiguities of language. “OLD AGE,” it had already turned out, could mean either dying of natural causes, or shot by an bedridden man in a botched home invasion. The machine captured that old-world sense of irony in death - you can know how it’s going to happen, but you’ll still be surprised when it does.
The realization that we could now know how we were going to die had changed the world: people became at once less fearful and more afraid. There’s no reason not to go skydiving if you know your sliver of paper says “BURIED ALIVE.” The realization that these predictions seemed to revel in turnabout and surprise put a damper on things. It made the predictions more sinister - yes, if you were going to be buried alive you weren’t going to be electrocuted in the bathtub, but what if in skydiving you landed in a gravel pit? What if you were buried alive not in dirt but in something else? And would being caught in a collapsing building count as being buried alive? For every possibility the machine closed, it seemed to open several more, with varying degrees of plausibility.
By that time, of course, the machine had been reverse engineered and duplicated, its internal workings being rather simple to construct, given our example. And yes, we found out that its predictions weren’t as straightforward as they seemed upon initial discovery at about the same time as everyone else did. We tested it before announcing it to the world, but testing took time - too much, since we had to wait for people to die. After four years had gone by and three people died as the machine predicted, we shipped it out the door. There were now machines in every doctor’s office and in booths at the mall. You could pay someone or you could probably get it done for free, but the result was the same no matter what machine you went to. They were, at least, consistent.
A Jump Off A Bridge
"You're afraid of needles, aren't you?"
Without looking up from his desk at the open door, Tad threw a pencil at Simon with what would have been lethal accuracy, had Simon's slip of paper said "pencil death."
It had actually said "bees." Simon was looking into career opportunities in Alaska.
"I mean," Simon continued, stooping to pick up the pencil and pocket it, "You hear about people getting infections or tetanus or whatever from the needle, but I'm pretty sure that's just an urban leg…"
"I went to the blood drive, Simon. You were making 'sanguine' jokes, remember?"
Simon paused. "Well, damn. Scratch that one, then."
"Now, please let me get back to my lab report."
"Fine. But I'll figure out why you haven't taken your test yet, mark my words."
"I told you. I honestly just don't want to know how I die."
"But everyone else has. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were the only student here not to have taken it."
"Would you jump off a bridge, Simon?"
A hurt look flashed across his face. "Hey, I'm not saying you need to do it. I'm just trying to suss out what you're so scared of. No need to break out the clichés."
"Actually, I just want you to jump off a bridge so I can get some quiet."
"Wouldn't work. Bees, remember?" This time, Simon must have expected the pencil; he swatted it out of the air like…well, like a bee. "And by right of spoils, this pencil is also mine." He grinned and stuffed it into his pocket next to the first.
"Fine. Just get outta here; I've only got one pencil left."
"Right. See you at breakfast tomorrow, then. With another guess, probably." Simon slowly closed the door.
"I should have just made up a death," Tad muttered, and turned back to his lab report.
* * *
It had been one of those stupid get-to-know-you rituals that the RA's always did at the start of the semester: Where are you from? What's your major? What kind of underwear are you wearing?
How are you going to die?
Sure, it did a fantastic job as an ice breaker (it turned out that three people on the floor were going to die "in a fire"; they'd agreed, to be on the safe side, not to hang out. Two of them hooked up an hour later), but for Tad, who'd been getting along with people pretty well up until now, it was six kinds of nuisance:
"I don't know how I'll die."
"Yes, of course I know about it."
"Because, that's why. Next person."
When did "Because" stop being a good enough answer?
* * *
Sam, as was typical, was the last one to make it to the dining hall. And, as was typical, her tray was almost empty as she sat down. Just a cup of coffee, a piece of dry toast, an apple, and a copy of the Post.
And a conversation.
"Did you see that story about the dead guy in NYC?"
"Oh, come on, Sam." Robert groaned. "We were already talking. Making plans for tonight."
"Fine. We're going dancing at Tito's; the plan is made. Now," she continued without pause. "Anyone read this story?"
"Yeah. I saw it online yesterday." Rachel wasn't really paying attention to the conversation; she was on her laptop, typing up a tempest. "But you go ahead."
"Right. Well, you should love this… well, maybe not you, Tad." She grinned that devil's grin of hers. "So, this guy, Ralph Henry. Lived out in Vegas. Some kind of banker; a real ladies man. Well, until a couple years ago."
"The Machine." Tad recognized this sort of story at once. Sometimes, it seemed like the only kind of story people told around here. Sam was right; he probably wouldn't love the punch-line.
Sam nodded, her look mockingly grim. "It warned him, 'wild women' would be his death. And, as you'd expect, as always, he did his best to survive; he straightened up, left all his friends behind, moved from Vegas to Queens, and threw himself into research." She paused, theatrically. The entire cafeteria grew quiet (one of those eerie quirks where an entire crowd seems to silence itself as one for no discernable reason), as though to accent her own silence.
Simon took the bait, as he always would: "So what happened?"
"Attacked by a ten-year-old girl who'd gone feral in Central Park."
To Tad's surprise, he laughed. "A feral… That's a new one."
Simon nodded. "You're making this one up, right? They don't really have feral ten-year-olds in Central Park."
Shrugging, Sam opened the paper to the article, already highlighted in yellow. "According to the EMT, Henry's last words were, 'I'd have preferred Chlamydia'"
"That's terrible."
Sam picked up her toast. "Won't argue."
* * *
Rachel's door, alone on the hallway by the look of things, was closed. Tad rapped out a quick knock.
"It's unlocked!"
She was sitting at her desk, her laptop the momentary center of her universe. Over her shoulder, Tad could see the familiar layout of DeathWiki; he briefly pondered what people like Rachel had done in their spare time before the Internet.
Taken up knitting, maybe. Or cats.
"Just a sec." The tattoo of typing doubled for a moment, before subsiding. "What's up?"
"Not much. What's the guerre d'jour?"
There was a grimace present in Rachel's voice as she reloaded the page. "Some guy keeps saying that his sister choked on a piece of Buffalo chicken, fulfilling the promise that she'd die of buffalo. No article to back him up, no scan of the Machine Receipt; there hadn't even been a 'Buffalo' article before this guy popped up." She sighed the sigh of the damned. "I swear, it's like they want DeathWiki to be one of those 'How They Died' emails that my great-aunt keeps sending."
She paused, then closed the laptop, in the same motion swiveling her chair to face Tad. "So, are you just one of those guys that don't want to have the ending spoiled?"
"Well, I was really pissed when my brother told me that Tyler Dur…"
"With the Machine, you idiot." Most people would have had some measure of affection built into that "idiot". Not Rachael. "You don't find out because you want to be surprised with how it all works out. That it?"
"Actually, I try not to pretend my life is building towards some kind of trick ending."
"So, bad guess?"
"Bad guess. What time are we heading out?"
"Nine. Meeting by the bus stop." Without any visible thought process, she grabbed a half-full water bottle off her desk, and drained it in one swallow.
"Thanks. Let you get back to your Wiki, then."
She wiped the water, a slight grimace off her face. "Thanks. See you then, then."
"You know, it won't fall apart if you leave it alone a week," Tad called over his shoulder.
"Yeah. That's what Chamberlin said."
* * *
Tito's was dead. There was no reason for it: usually the club was packed. Not the awful, sardine-can sort of packed, where there was barely enough room to breath, much less dance. But there were usually enough people to feel like you were out. Tonight, there were perhaps fifteen people; the dance floor was barren.
On the bright side, the guy who always "forgot" to check ID's was working.
"This sucks." Simon groaned over his sprite. "Whadya say we head over to Temple?"
"I'm up for it," Rachel said over a margarita.
Tad shook his head. "There's like, a twenty dollar cover tonight, and no chance they'll let us drink. I say, we stick it out."
"What? The night is young, man!"
"And the drinks are here."
"I'm with Tad, mostly cause I'm just getting comfortable, and I can't stand fucking techno." Sam paused for a sip of rum. "You two can go if you want."
"Fine then, we will. And won't you feel boring while we're on the dance floor!" Rachel rose, somewhat unsteady, to her feet. "You coming, Simon?"
"Uh... sure. See you two tomorrow, 'less you change your mind."
"Oh; while you're up." Sam pulled a fifty out of her pocket. "Can you send us some more rum?"
"No problemo. Peace out." Simon awkwardly snatched the bill from Sam's grasp, and meandered towards the bar. Rachel was already halfway to the exit.
"Thanks for hanging around." Tad drained the last glass of rum, feeling it burn its way down.
"Hey, I've got a good thing going here." Sam paused, a half-drunk, half-thoughtful look on her face.
It was like seeing the gunman just as he put you in his sights.
"So, Tad. I'd thought maybe you just didn't want to do it, because you thought you'd be doing it to be 'trendy'. But now, it's clear that it's not that, so…"
"Jesus, you too?" Tad groaned. "Well, you waited longer than everyone else, but…"
"I'm sorry!" And the thing was, she really looked it.
"No, it's all right. I'd just kinda hoped you'd never get around to it."
"Why?"
"Because trying to explain gets me as far as beating my head against concrete."
"C'mon. Try me."
"Well…" Maybe it was the alcohol… Actually, almost certainly it was the alcohol. But Tad suddenly felt that he almost had the words to explain. "Well, have you noticed how obsessed people get about it?"
"Well, yeah, some people, but…"
"Not 'some people.'" Suddenly anxious, Tad rose, and started pacing in front of the table; after knocking into it the first pass, he kept a bit of a distance. "Rachel spends all her free time editing that DeathWiki, trying to find out how thirst could kill her besides the obvious. Simon's trying to find the coldest job opening he can get his hands on; hell, he's even sworn off honey. And my brother … God, don't get me started on how much this fucked Robert up. He switched majors from pre-med to accountancy to keep from getting his fatal infection. He's miserable. But, hey, at least he won't die on the job, right"
"Little loud, Tad…"
This only made him louder. "And I can't stand it. They're trying to put out a forest fire by blowing on it. And…" He paused, realizing that Sam might actually understand what he was saying. Realizing that this was actually more frightening than not being understood. Realizing that he was talking over the music. He took a breath, and brought his voice down a notch. "And I can't help thinking… Well, I don't want to do that. But that's all you can do. No one is actually happier knowing 'I'm going to be killed by a truck'; no one is going to live any longer for knowing it. You find out how you're going to die, all you can do with it is brood over it."
Sam made a murmur of agreement. "Go on," she said, her voice as concerned and kindly as an aging priest's.
"And, to be honest…" Tad slid back into his seat. "I think part of it is, once there's paper in my hand saying 'This Is How You Die'… Well, that's pretty fucking final. I know I'm going to die, one day, one way or another. But there's all sorts of ways to know something, and I'd rather not know it know it. I'm not brave enough to not be scared whenever I just think about death too hard. Think about not being able to think anymore. So…" He trailed off, slowly, realizing as he did so that his gaze had gotten tangled with his sneakers. "Anyway… I don't know how much sense any of that made." He looked up; Sam was looking intently, thoughtfully, at him. She didn't look as confused as he felt.
It was about now that, mercifully, the rum arrived. Sam barely acknowledged it's coming; Tad poured himself another glass. This time, straight.
"I never told you how I'm dying, did I?"
"Sure you…" Tad shuffled through his memories. "Huh. Missed it somehow."
She gave her head a firm shake. "No, you didn't. I don't tell people."
"Really? Then how come you never get any grief over it?"
"I just say that it's a private matter." Sam grinned. "Some people can refuse to answer a question without making a spectacle of themselves, you know."
"How come you don't…" He stopped. "Sorry. Kind of hypocritical to ask, isn't it?"
She shrugged. "I'm a fan of hypocrites. Ask."
"Ok. How come you never…"
"No. The other question."
"Which… Oh." Tad swallowed; his stomach felt slightly contracted. "How are you going to die, Sam?"
Her voice was calm, almost emotionless. Which seemed the antithesis of the Sam he knew. "Pregnancy."
The music suddenly grew deafening.
"Well…" Tad stammered. "That's… I mean… Jesus, how…"
"I was pretty shocked when I first read it. But I did some thinking. And, do you know what I've decided to do about it?"
Tad just stared, dumbly. Somehow, he didn't think "Surgery" was the right answer here.
"Nothing. And that's exactly what I'm going to do about it. I'm still going have sex, get married, give birth to my own children. I mean, I'd thought about adoption, but all that paperwork…"
"Paperwork? Sam, be reasonable. If you don't have…"
"Then I'll live a few years longer, maybe, and get hit by a man driving his wife to the delivery room. Or maybe he'll hit me before I even meet the guy I end up with. Come on, Tad, there's no escaping it. It is written, Tad. In block letters on cheap paper, but written all the same. I'm just not going to be the one who pretends otherwise."
"And you're really all right with that? You really believe that you're going to die, no matter what, and you're okay with just letting it happen?"
Sam gave a rueful sigh. "No. Not yet, at least. But it's like that Nazi said: You've just got to keep telling yourself something is true. Eventually, you'll believe it. In the meantime, I'm trying to live life like I didn't know."
"Then… if you don't do anything differently, what does knowing get you?"
"Hard to say, really. Certainty, I guess. And I know that sounds crazy, but it is sort of comforting to know that…"
"That what? That if you're dying, at least you'll die for a worthwhile reason?" Depressed, and thirsty, he raised his glass of rum.
"No. To know I can handle knowing."
Tad stopped, the drink barely touching his lips. Slowly, almost through gravity, his arm bent down, returning the glass to the table.
"I think you're being too hard on yourself, Tad. I bet, if you did it, if you leave right now, and found out how you're going to die, you could handle it."
He caught himself nodding, and stopped. "But what if I'm right? What if I end up like that New York guy, throwing away a good life in order to live a few years of a bad one?"
"Tad? I'm saying this as a friend: you need to fucking grow a pair."
Tad chuckled, not quite meaning it. "I think you may be right."
"Good. If you want to do it while you've still got some liquid courage in you, I think there's a Machine by the post office, a few buildings down the street. You up for it?"
"Yeah." Tad rose to standing, then stopped. "After one more drink." He reached for the rum.
Sam snatched it away from his grasp. "No." She paused, thinking for a moment. "Get some Scotch. Rum is for parties. Scotch is a pondering-mortality drink."
* * *
The post office was closed, of course. But standing right in front, next to the mailbox for out-of-state letters, an early model of The Machine was still functional. It had an industrial look to it, as though there was a fear people would try to break into it and steal the quarters, or perhaps replace the roll of receipt paper with a roll whose predictions came pre-printed. Feeling somewhat ill at ease-because, who uses a post-office Machine at eleven at night?-Tad dug into his pocket, fumbled for a quarter, and dropped it into the slot.
The screen lit up: Place hand on outline, insert finger into aperture, and press "OK".
Tad took a short breath. There really was no going back. He could just walk away, of course. But he felt, somehow, that putting the quarter into The Machine had been… Irrevocable.
Maybe he didn't like just throwing money away.
As he pressed the button, something clamped down around the second knuckle. An acute pain flashed and receded at his fingertip. Something damp hit his skin-probably an antibiotic spray-and the clamp loosened. Remove your finger, and wait thirty seconds, the screen directed.
It was the longest thirty seconds Tad could recall. But at last, the Receipt slowly slid out. Have a nice day, The Machine directed, and then fell silent.
Well, this was as much of an "It" as he was going to get. His hands trembling ever-so-slightly, Tad walked towards the streetlight. It glowed down a dirty orange, almost too dim to read by.
But not dim enough. Tad held the receipt up to the light, took a deep breath, and looked.
And, quietly, laughed.
"Sam!" He called.
She stepped into the street light. Sometimes, the best thing a friend can do is give you unasked privacy. "You're okay?"
"I know how I’m going to die, Sam."
"How?"
Tad shook his head, and tore the receipt in two. "I'm not telling."
She smiled. "Fine, Mr. Smarty-Pants. Is there anything you can tell me?"
"Well, it's odd. I was standing there, terrified, waiting for the receipt to print. When I was taking it to the light? Still terrified. And then…" Tad looked at the scraps of paper in his hand. "When I read it, the first thought I had was…
"Well, 'I can live with that.'"
Sam stared at him for a moment. And then chuckled, the laugh of a lifting burden.
"Well, you know what I mean."
The ambiguous-happy ending. Can't beat the classics.