Opening Night at The Pestaurant, June 2054
by Madeleine Armstrong
The waiter deposits our plates with a flourish. My mealworm taco stares back at me. It smells like cooked wood.
Until then, surrounded by candlelight and laughter, I could pretend this was an ordinary night, from before. Before the droughts and wars and finally, for those left, the rebuilding. Before meat bans and belt-tightening.
Tonight’s meant to be a celebration of things going back to normal. Because what’s more normal than eating transgenic fucking grasshoppers?
You smile, grab your fork. Always trying to make the best of things.
– Tastes like chicken, you say.
I imagine biting into a roast bird, skin crackling, rosemary oil dribbling.
You laugh but I’ve seen your scars: criss-crossing your back; airplane trails in a long-ago sky, faded as our dreams.
I force a bite. If I pretend really hard, it could be minced beef sticking between my teeth, filling the yawning gap inside.
Madeleine won the Hammond House international short story prize in 2023, and has been published by Flash Fiction Magazine, The Hooghly Review, LISP and WestWord. By day she’s a journalist covering the pharma industry, and lives in South-East London with her husband, son and two cats. Twitter/X: @Madeleine_write
This story was shortlisted in the November 24 Monthly Micro Competition.