Letter from the Future
by Chloe Woodhouse
On 24th November, I went to The National Museum at Cardiff. A lilac haze overcast the lobby, shining through a high dome of oval stained windows. A huge Christmas tree lit up the front foyer and the museum’s glossy tiles. It was colder inside than outside; the marble statues and grand staircases were impassive. The coffee kiosk served people whiny and chatter-less drinks.
I visited because I wanted to see inside the ancient library at the top. It stored old encyclopaedias about the housewives who fed the fat dragons, kept at home like pets, the sea serpents wrecking Britannia’s ships, and anatomical monk-fishes with jewelled tentacles. I left them and took their silence with me and returned into the lilac haze, breathlessly, expanding— I fiddled with my gloves because I’d felt myself cease. I’d waited for noise to happen at lobby level. It didn’t. I pushed open the nearest pair of glassy double doors and walked into the ‘Evolution of Wales’.
A spotlight was affixed on a woodland forest scene; taxidermy animals decorated by what pretended to be soil and plants. A fox had been caught stalking, a brown owl in a nest before nightfall, and a robin in a moment of autumn sweetness. Glass display cases section by section framed this scene, showing the various plants in Wales.
I did not remember to take the names of those plants with me. You and I are unaware of all the plants that should exist. You and I are all too aware of the wars posted online and the sound of more falling.
To the right of the exhibit, a display cabinet of plants was glued onto a Gower-like coastline. Pretending to weather this cliff’s rock face were a few solid waves, posed on and over stair-like moulds. A cluster of various plants ‘grew’, huddled like lavender and golden samphire. The samphires had artichoke bodies and shy dandelion heads. A skinny plant, naked and long stemmed had a crop of pinky hair; petals smaller than a baby’s fingernail furled together. It was an imitation of thrift.
Looking at its flower, I imagined familiar waves freezing my young face gummy, numbness drawing out, revealing Horton’s mud flats. Swansea in the autumn of winter, wagtails bobbing their tails and my brother and I playing outside my aunties’ big house; seconds away from the beach and a set of not-so-secret secret stairs leading us down. I had found a mermaid's purse, but my mum did not let me keep the baby shark as a boon. My mum taught me to share.
When I left the National Museum and stepped outside, I smelt petrol. Our liquid leaching and poisoning the sea, diesel sick. I saw lots of rubbish tossed about on land, landing offshore and returning inland to fester underground. My phone got 5G signal again and I became all too aware of the wars paid for by the fat dragons, the men that make it rain rich blood, and Britain’s advertisement prospering somewhere distant.
I have never known peace so cruel and calm.
About the author:
Chloe Woodhouse
Chloe Jade Woodhouse is a graduate of English Literature and Creative Writing. She is 23 years old and excited to develop her career as a performer. She is currently using her creativity to help teach, write poetry, and volunteer with local communities.
Chloe's letter is addressed to our current future from a point in her past. Her letter hopes to capture the breadth of dystopia which daily life has become. Trying to trace “dystopias” evolution’, spot its history, sharing her honest reflections. The letter joins others in 'from the future' series which are reacting, feeling, and drawing attention to the forces behind our global crisis.