—after Elizabeth Crane and Kate Sullivan


First, the futurewives were born and of course, as with all futurewives, they were covered in blood and guts and expectations. They were born in hospitals, on streets, in bedrooms, on mountains, on beaches, in valleys, and in skies near and far. Some of the futurewives wailed, some didn't. Some of the futurewives were born prematurely, some baked a little longer than typical. Some futurewives were held lovingly while others were ripped from their parents and given to other parents.

The one thing all of the futurewives had in common was that they had questions but they didn't yet know how to ask them—many would never learn. From the moment the futurewives were born, they were judged for their human detail—say, the curve of their noses or the shape of their tiny mouths—despite resembling nothing more than screaming balls of light.

The futurewives populated both time and space. Good for them, one might say. No matter what anyone did, all they could think of were the futurewives and their very certain futures. I can't wait, I can't wait, they said, accidentally driving into oncoming traffic or chopping their thumbs instead of the big, orange carrots on the cutting board.

Everybody loved the futurewives.

How beautiful the futurewives are! they exclaimed. They googled photos of the futurewives, and they stored them in secret folders on their cell phones where their currentwives wouldn't find them. They marked the futurewives' birthdays on their calendars.

Time, they whispered, time is coming for you. The President of the United States tweeted that he couldn't wait until the futurewives were propelled into the future, that the futurewives would serve their future roles well, as futurewives should. It was as if time, which many people tended to reject, deeming it an illusion rather than a universal truth, had become the one and only thing that mattered in life. Once the futurewives were born, everyone began to treat time as if it were the only currency. Give me a minute, this will only take a second, can I steal you for a moment? they said. The futurewives are running out of time, they cried, mere moments after the futurewives burst into this world.

The futurewives cried and ate and slept and pooped and spit-up. They laughed and played, too. The futurewives ran naked until they were no longer allowed. No one told them why exactly. They simply said, Futurewives, it's time to cover up. And cover up they did. They saw the way men stared at them on the street, in stores, at school. It was disturbing, the futurewives thought, the way they felt further and further from themselves the more other people looked at them. People had plans for these futurewives, plans the futurewives couldn't quite understand, and they didn't want to, in fact, because understanding was one step closer to becoming.

They will look so good in white, said the people. They will make a man so, so happy one day, they said, grinning like the devil in heat. What of the futurewives? The futurewives had these gorgeous curious eyes, wouldn't you know. They wanted to ask questions like, Why? Where? How? But people were not interested in their questions, at least not the ones the futurewives were asking. With whom? was the only appropriate question, everyone decided. They showed the futurewives what they thought of their vexing questions by taking those questions and burying them in graveyards where no one would dare disturb them, let alone dig them up.

The futurewives grew tired.

The futurewives outgrew the word tired and sought something more visceral, something that bit at their ankles then took the whole body.

The futurewives wanted to know why, every time they left the house, their bodies felt like bait. The futurewives explored their bodies, examined the lies told by mirrors, and determined how best to tattoo those lies on their cheeks so they'd never go without. The futurewives grabbed their tits, spanked their asses. The futurewives drank beer by the sea. They smoked cigarettes in parking lots. They did drugs they'd never even heard of. Drugs with names that sounded vaguely futuristic, just like the futurewives.

What is it like to exist elsewhere? the futurewives asked the pills in their palms.

It feels good and it feels bad, said the pills.

The futurewives slept with boys, some they liked, some they didn't. The futurewives wanted to sleep with girls, too. They wanted to cut their hair and chop off their tits, some of them. Some of them liked the way the word they tasted. Some wanted to light every known label on fire and watch the smoke climb the sky.

What did time have to say then?

I could love you so much better than them, time said, swatting at the futurewives' desires like pesky flies. Time, after all, had been primed by the futurehusbands. Time knew its script. Time knew its role. And still, the futurewives wanted so much they weren't supposed to want.

Everyone was appalled when the futurewives began to starve themselves, when they did drugs then put more drugs on top of those drugs. They were surprised when the futurewives cut their arms and thighs. When the futurewives drank themselves to sleep. When the futurewives spent money they didn't have. When the futurewives threw up in bathrooms and basements and bars and alleys and living rooms and cars and drive-thrus and locker rooms.

They were surprised when the futurewives tried to kill themselves, the dark chase of the future finally catching up to them.

But you are so beautiful, everyone said. We don't understand.

Like I said, everyone loved the futurewives.



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Marisa Crane has work in or coming from Passages North, Berfrois, Queen Mobs, Gone Lawn and others. She lives in San Diego with her wife.

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