FUTURES

Creative Writing Contest 

Short Story Winner: Revenge of the Cat Ladies, by Lyndsey Smith

The last time I saw him, he was at the top of one of those mechanical stairways in Brussels Central. I was at the bottom, looking up at him. I’d said something humiliating to his back, something like, But you said I was the best you’d ever had. I was talking about sex, obviously, and not my domestic prowess, which was minimal, or my conversation skills, which were non-existent. I’m one of those women who’s quiet because I’ve got nothing to say for myself and not because I’m burdened by great intellect, which is what people think sometimes when you don’t talk much. 

I need a woman with more life in her, he’d said, right before he dumped me. He meant someone younger obviously, but he was far too evolved to say that, so instead he said, I don’t think you’d be any fun on a trip. It was hard not to say something reasonable then, something like But we can’t go on trips. We’re trapped here. 

We’d met right after I got to Brussels, in the middle of the eighteenth or nineteenth pandemic. I was only supposed to stay for six months, a year max, but then they built the wall and I got stuck here forever. We were both immigrants but he acted superior sometimes because he was from Liège and I’d come on the boat from Ireland. 

We’d never have gotten together if it wasn’t for the virus, he said. 

What’s the virus got to do with it? 

He scratched his head, as if trying to remember something important. He was nearly half bald at that point and a couple of brown-grey strands fell to his shoulder as he scratched. I don’t think I’m ready for commitment, he said. Maybe I just haven’t met the right girl yet. 

But you said you loved me, I said. 

It’s hard for me to say this, but your accent really pisses me off. Olivia’s French was way better than yours. Olivia was his ex. He was always going on about Olivia. 

But she’s from Liège, I said. Of course her French is better.

You know what I mean, he said, kind of mournfully, as if my inadequacies saddened him greatly. You’re too quiet. My friends think you’re weird. 

I couldn’t think of anything to say so I said nothing and he took the opportunity to run off up the stairs. 

Have a nice life, he shouted over his shoulder. About half way up, he started to bound, as if he couldn’t get away quickly enough. The stairs hadn’t moved since they’d turned off all non-essential electricity, and even with his long legs, he struggled going up. I watched him stumble as his foot slipped on the steel tread. I heard a high-pitched squeak then, a sort of nasally keening. My first thought was that he’d stubbed his toe and was feeling sorry for himself. Serves him right, I thought, but then I heard it again and realised it was me. I was crying. 

*

The first time I saw him he was ankle-deep in the detritus of an overflowing bin, licking ketchup off a burger wrapper. I’d stopped to ask for directions to Brussels Central and when he looked up at me, he said I love your accent. 

 He offered me a lick of his wrapper and I said No thanks. 

I hope you’re not one of those cat ladies, he said, offended.

No, I said. 

He spit out a glob of ketchup and said, I live there. I’ll show you the way. He walked off and I followed him. 

Cat ladies are the biggest cause of population decline, you know. 

I‘m not really into politics, I said. 

It’s unnatural, if you ask me. They think they’re free, but they’re just shills for the higher-ups. It’s 2074, for Chrissake, why should we be miserable just because they are? 

Inside the station, he pointed out the best doorways to sleep in and the bins most likely to have food in them. I was about to say goodbye when we heard footsteps and the low growl of a cat. He grabbed me and we scurried towards the nearest stairs, down onto an old platform. The trains hadn’t run since the fuel ran out in the sixties and the tracks were warped and disfigured from the heat. Flowers blossomed from the foamy gravel between the rails. When we got our breaths back, he leaned in and sniffed my hair and said I think I can be good for you. We made love then for several seconds. 

It’s been a while, he said, apologetically. 

Happens to everyone, I said. I reached out and stroked his cheek. His little pink nose twitched and his whiskers shivered. A moment later his tail swished as if he was getting excited again. 

You’re the prettiest rat I’ve ever seen, he said. We snuggled in the darkness and he explained that the higher-ups only used cats to kill us because their poison had run out. He didn’t know why they only used lady cats though. Probably something to do with the patriarchy. 

Why are humans called ‘higher-ups’? I asked. 

Because their heads are higher up than ours, he said, That’s why they’re in charge. 

I thought it was because they’re so much smarter than us. 

Nah, he said, That theory was debunked decades ago. 

*

He looked back when he heard me crying. That’s how it happened. He was distracted and didn’t notice her appear in the stairwell. 

Pascal, I shouted, because that was his name. 

Don’t be so clingy, he shouted back, exasperated. 

Behind you, I screamed, but it was too late. She pounced and he let out a little strangled sigh before his body went limp between her fangs. I ran as fast as I could into the tunnel. I ran towards the light and when I finally emerged from the underground, the world was bright and clear and filled with more colour than I’d ever seen.

Poetry Winner: Revolutionary Letter #1, after Diane Di Prima, by K.J. Lysne

A poem

is a bitter consolation prize,

a streak of light on night.

I lived hell on earth,

the impossible,

despair my only bread,

and here are the words it begot in me.

Here are the words that made it possible

to survive.

Who among us would not rather have our mother, brother, sister, father, daughter, son,

or husband?

Our home,

bricks, planks, and stones,

in a functioning arrangement

than these pages—

seductively bound though they be

full of lines and spaces—

a siren song. Then, silence.

I don’t know what a poem is for

if not to imagine beyond the pain. If not

to reach toward something else.

Something else is:

You and me

at ease,

moving toward touch

without a complex calculation of risk.

It is feeling well upon waking,

a new day and gratitude

for coffee—together—in the sun,

for being here—still—

though the girls are grown and gone.

It is a simple gesture becoming

an exchange of gestures.

It is this gift of giving and getting

and life begetting life begetting

itself.