The Carousel of Happiness

The Carousel of Happiness

Anne Wilkins

Some will die, just a little, and only for a short while. It’s always interesting who the carousel chooses. 

There’s quite a crowd gathered tonight. Midsummer air on a Friday evening has lured them from their homes. Tomorrow we’ll be moving to a new town with fresh fodder. 

“Come ride the Carousel of Happiness,” I call, one long arm outstretched, a well-manicured hand beckoning, my rubber-band smile stretched wide. The Entry of the Gladiators plays on a perpetual sound loop, pumping out of well-worn speakers.

Some stroll past, some stay for a while and look, and some form a small queue—a mix of children up too late, giggling teenagers, and oldies wanting to relive their youth. 

“I want to ride the unicorn,” says a girl with a down-turned smile. 

“I want the tiger!” says the younger boy beside her. 

Their parents aren’t listening. They’re checking mobile phones. Their screens illuminating blank, impassive faces as they try to work out what’s real and fake.

A teenager puffs a vape while she waits. The bubble gum flavoured scent drifts amongst the candyfloss, popcorn and roasted nuts, making itself at home. Her friends check their phones, scrolling, uploading, sharing and filtering photos. 

It’s a strange world these days. Not like how things used to be.

An old couple in the queue are holding hands. The carousel is one of the few rides they can enjoy. Not fast enough to trigger a heart attack, but offering just enough excitement to restore a glint to rheumy eyes and take a trip down deteriorating memory-lanes.  

“Good day,” I exclaim, and dip my top hat in courtesy. 

“Haven’t been on one of these since my twenties,” says the old man. 

His wife giggles like one of the teenagers. 

The music comes to an abrupt stop and the carousel grinds to a halt. A small crowd disembarks, most are smiling, but there’s always one who walks a little slower than the others, whose smile has slipped, and whose face is paler. They’re the ones who paid extra tonight. 

“Step right up, folks. Choose your ride.” I unlatch the chain and let the herd walk in. 

The girl is quick to claim the unicorn, but the boy’s too slow. His tiger is taken by one of the teenagers. 

“I wanted the tiger!” 

“Sorry love, it’s gone,” says the mother.

The boy heats up. “But I wanted!” 

Faces turn to see.

“Next time,” says the red-faced mother. “Next time, you can ride the tiger, but for now we’ll ride…” she looks around anxiously. “The wolf.” She leads him by the hand to the wolf and lifts him on. He squirms in the seat and pulls a face. She tries to climb behind him, but he pushes her away. 

“I want to ride by myself,” he demands. 

“Sure thing, sweetie.” She finds a chestnut horse to settle herself on. Her husband’s on a giraffe. He’s still on his phone.

“Smile everyone,” says the wife, and as if on cue the boy loses his sulk, the husband looks up from the phone, and the sad girl on her unicorn smiles. Click. Another image added for people to determine what is real and what is fake. 

The teenagers are taking their own photos on their phones. One is gyrating provocatively against the pole of their animal. 

The oldies are further away. The man helps his wife lift one leg over a rabbit while he finds an elephant. “I can’t remember them being this high, can you?” he asks as he climbs on. 

“No. I… I can’t remember at all.” 

“We must hold on.”

“Yes, we don’t want another trip to the hospital, do we?” They both laugh, but grip their poles tightly with arthritic hands. They don’t have phones, but their minds take a mental snapshot that will dissolve with age.

I sit back and savour each moment. 

It’s always so interesting, observing them. 

“Why’s he taking so long?

“I wanna do the rollercoaster next!”

“Did you take your heart pill this morning?”

“Welcome, to the Carousel of Happiness,” I begin. “Hold on tight to your pole. Please raise your hand if you do not feel well at any stage. Have fun and may happiness find its way into hearts.”

The music resumes. 

And round they go. 

Picking up speed, their animals bobbing up and down. 

It brings me joy to see the smiles on their faces, to see their legs wrapped around the animals, their hands clutching the poles. A firmer contact with the carousel provides better results. 

They’re all holding on. Some more tightly than others. 

No one sees this part, but perhaps they sense it. I like to call it the alighting. When the carousel becomes alive and chooses. 

I watch the faces flying past looking for the change. And there it is. 

The boy. 

His smile is stripped away, replaced by frozen eyes, a pale face, and a stopped heart. A moment is all it takes to snip a tablespoon of his life away. The carousel could take more, but we’re not greedy. 

When the ride comes to a stop the boy stumbles from his ride. He’ll never be quite the same—a little slower, more tired, less animated—like dimming the lights low.

“That was fun,” says the mother. “Should we head to the rollercoaster?”

“I’m… tired,” says the boy. He doesn’t understand, they never do. 

They might have him tested later. Glandular fever, long-covid, chronic fatigue. They’ll never know.

At the end of the night the carousel will have collected at least a litre of human life to be shared out between all the carnies. It’s what keeps us alive, healthy and young. 

A carousel for happiness. Our happiness, not anyone else’s. 

The boy was a little shit anyway.

“Come ride the Carousel of Happiness,” I call to the waiting herd, stretching my centuries old face into the greatest smile.

Anne Wilkins is a sleep-deprived New Zealand teacher who writes in her spare time. Her short fiction has appeared in Clarkesworld, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Apex Magazine, The Dark, and more. She has won the Fear 2025 Writing Battle, the June 2024 Elegant Literature Prize, the 2023 Autumn Writing Battle, and the 2023 Cambridge Autumn Festival Short Story Competition. Her love of writing is fuelled by copious amounts of coffee, reading and hope. Anne is supported in her writing journey by her ever-patient husband, two wonderful daughters, and two feline writing assistants. www.annewilkinsauthor.com

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