About the author
Helen Sparrow is a sixth-grader at Bishop Leibold School. Her hobbies include reading and making rosaries.
“No Future”
I still have memories of how it used to be, when people lived in homes where they could do much of what they pleased. I can recall images — the most miraculous, colorful pictures — flitting across the screen of what was referred to as a television set.
But the last one was destroyed eight years ago, two years after the Great Ban.
And the food… it was wonderful. Heavenly. We still had vegetables and fruits and whole wheat bread, but there was so much more. Hershey’s Bars, Doritos, Campbell’s Soup (so many different kinds…), caramels, half-moon cookies, butter… and the list goes on.
But they were all eradicated in the same ban that did away with television.
In the Old Days, what we called gym class was sometimes thought to be a trial.
But our children will not think that. Because nowadays, those two words are a codename for “playtime.” Those forty-five minutes are something of a break from the seven hours a day they — we all — are required to be active.
There is not a day I don’t nostalgically long for the days of my youth, when there seemed to be some kind of sanity to the world, some reason to live other than to perform an hour’s worth of jumping jacks in the morning or eat papaya and spinach for lunch.
And one must wonder: will those days ever return?
###
I look down at the contents of my plate disdainfully; a chickpea and lima bean burger on an oatmeal bun along with a side of mashed eggplant topped with cilantro. My dessert (calcium and protein enriched mango) lies in a small bowl sitting adjacent to my drinking glass; the kale and squash smoothie contained within is just as, if not more revolting than the rest of my meal.
I suppose I shouldn’t complain; ugly as it is, this sight is worlds better than the cruel glare of my laptop boring into my eyes.
The Dinner Hour, as it is called now, would normally occur at exactly six o’clock, not a minute later, but apparently there was a bit of a problem in the kitchen today, so now, at a quarter of seven, my food is still warm. A true mercy if one plans to eat; the only thing worse than hot mashed eggplant is its cold equivalent.
But I don’t plan to eat.
The tines of my fork are buried in eggplant so that they appear ready to scoop it up at any time I wish.
And that shan’t be anytime soon.
I bring my hand to the top of my shirt; for a moment my resolve falters and I wonder if there is another way.
But no. There isn’t. I unbutton my blouse partway and pull the vial out from my cleavage. It’s a pretty little bottle that shows an intricately carved image of a rising sun.
Or is it the setting sun?
The liquid inside appears to be violet but when held up to the light is a shade of aquamarine. I can smell it even without opening the vial. It’s a heady, intoxicating scent, woody, with notes of musk, vanilla, and maple. Surely my mother’s greatest creation, as well as her most deadly.
The label on it clearly reads “Nulum Futurum.”
After rebuttoning my blouse, I pull the stopper and cast it away. Despite myself I give the room a quick once-over. I feel as if I am being watched.
But it’s empty. The only ones there are the metal walls, glimmering as they reflect the rays of the sun shining brightly through my window. I turn back to the bottle in my hand.
My mother made perfume for a living back in the Old Days and she gave me this vial immediately after the Great Ban, when we knew things would never be the same again. She told me not to hesitate, to use it whenever I felt I must.
She died that night, just peacefully slipped away, apparently, before Michaela, our new ruler, the one responsible for the Great Ban, could take us away. There was an empty bottle of “Nulum Futurum,” identical to mine, in her hand.
At the time I did not understand. I was only eighteen and inexperienced in the ways of the world. But I have treasured that vial for these past ten years, and now I realize what my mother meant.
The bottle is open; there is nothing to stop me. I tilt my head back, and then tip the bottle.
A drop lingers on the edge. It comes closer
I hear a key turning in the lock and my hand snaps back upright, taking the bottle with it.
The one at the door must be my trainer and immediate superior, Khloe Lewis. She’s the only other person who has a key.
But what am I to do with the bottle? The stopper’s on the floor somewhere, so I can’t put it back in my cleavage for fear of getting my shirt stained and questions being asked. And the scent is so strong…
The door opens, and without a thought I drop the entire bottle into my smoothie.
“Hi, Jane.” Khloe greets me in her sing-song voice. Then, as is the custom after the initial greeting of one’s choice, she goes all solemn, raises her left hand, puts her thumb and ring finger together in a circle and says, “Heil Michaela.”
“Hello.” I reciprocate evenly, hoping she’s just dropping in to say hello like it seems she does too often. And then, out of sheer obligation, I mimic her gesture and say, “Heil Michaela.” We both lower our hands.
“So, how many hours have you gotten in today?” she asks eagerly, bouncing back to cheerfulness.
She annoys the heck out of me, but upon being moved here following the Great Ban we were all assigned a trainer, one of Michaela’s viziers, two classes up from us commoners—the scribes, they call us—and second only to Michaela herself. I had the misfortune to be stuck with this one. So far as I can tell she has no redeeming qualities.
And if she were anyone else I’d lie, but she has some uncanny knack to know exactly how many hours I’ve actually done, so I just roll my eyes and do the calculations. “Um… six and a half. I was going to do my other half tonight at the gym, a little later.”
“You can’t. Remember, it’s Tuesday. Lights out early.”
“Oh, yes, that’s right.” How on earth had I forgotten that?
“I was going to go down now. Would you like to join me?” she asks sort of shyly.
I think about saying I just need one more sip of my smoothie, but I decide against that. I have no idea how quickly the perfume works. And how would it look if I just keeled over immediately? Foul play would surely be suspected. Besides, the maids — one class above the commoners — make a point of not taking away your dishes unless they’re clean, so it’s not as if I won’t have a chance later.
“Sure.” I reply.
###
Half an hour later, I stumble back into my room, exhausted. Somehow, even after all these years, I’ve never gotten used to the vigorous exercise routines Khloe plans for me.
Well, no more.
I remove the glass from my desk. I take a sip…
Epilogue:
“You did very well, Miss Lewis. As did you, Miss Wales. You have proven yourselves competent.” Michaela smiled at the two women, one brunette, one titian, approvingly.
“Thank you, Madam.” They replied in unison.
The older woman looked at the brunette’s face. “You look a bit troubled, Miss Lewis. Is something wrong?”
“When we were given this mission, we were just told what we were to do, how I would lure her out so Penny could switch out the glass she got with dinner for the poisoned one. But, what they never told us was…why did we have to kill her?”
Michaela’s face did not change. “We implant every new citizen with a device that reads his or her thoughts. This Jane Marshall had many wicked, nostalgic thoughts that could have potentially threatened our society had they ever escaped the confines of her mind. Last week I stopped listening to the readings coming in from her mind. I decided our only option was to do away with her. It was an act of mercy on our part. She was going insane. Besides, the loss of one scribe means nothing. There are still many left to transcribe the words. That is their sole purpose, and I have no compunctions about weeding out those who may mean trouble. You know this.”
“She was a perfectly nice person.” The brunette murmured.
“That is as may be. However, there is no room for such emotion when our great civilization could be endangered.”
“Yes, Madam.” The two girls answered in unison once again.
“And you do know where the lives of people like Jane Marshall go, don’t you girls?”
“Yes Madam.”
“And where is that?”
“Into you, so that you might live forever.”
“Yes, my pets. You may go now.”
“Yes Madam.” In complete conjunction, almost as if they were just one, they raised their left hands and put their thumbs and ring fingers together in circles.
“Heil, Michaela.”
About the Author