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Story submitted in May 2036 by Clara Verrier-Beauchesne

Women screaming in the night wake me, a common occurrence nowadays. I repeatedly rub my ink-stained hands with dirt-clogged nails, a soothing habit—not like I could ever rub them clean—until I fall back asleep.

I scratch my scruffy-gray beard, defeated by a typewriter I have no inspiration to use. I notice a thin layer of mist settled on the study’s window, glistening under the light of dawn. Through it, I glance at yesterday’s dirt mound—one of ten. Proof I’ve failed to heal the world. My heart pounds as I remember my decreasing plant inventory. So very few tries left. With newfound urgency, I type up the recipe for an eleventh potion.

The potion simmers over the hearth still, reminiscent of mulled wine. At sundown, the daily knock comes; an oily man barges in, musket swinging.
“Never make a constable wait, old man!”

I stand silently as he rummages through my belongings, takes what he wants, destroys the rest, hopes for a woman, doesn’t find one—but it’s policy, for safety.
“Slim pickings. Ain’t surprising, you withered, worthless fool.”
“Apologies. Here is your customary drink, Sir.”
He downs it.

I let myself hope when, this time, the constable survives the seizures from boiling, blackening veins. When his blood settles again, I hold my breath.
“Wow, this was very good mulled wine! We need more generous souls like yours.”
I breathe.
“Thank you. Please take the rest to your colleagues.”

For the first time in a while, that night was scream-less.