Among the clutter of old faded books and papers, stood a simple plastic fruit bowl, lit by a dusty, glass kerosene lamp, on the scuffed wooden table. It wasn’t a fruit bowl in the traditional sense of the word, as fresh fruit was a luxury not afforded to ordinary residents. Such things as fresh fruit, were reserved for important officials and scavengers.
Instead, in an ironic sense of humour, several sealed tins were carefully arranged inside the bowl. Each bore a label denoting the contents; peaches, sliced apple, pineapple pieces. Scrawled on the scratched plastic were the words “here are the fruits of our labours”.
The room around it reflected the absurdity. It was barely even a room at all. It was merely a square cubicle partitioned off from the rest of the cavernous main living space, by corrugated tin sheeting, hastily erected to provide privacy.
The only other piece of furniture was a torn, grey lounge chair, abandoned and uninviting on the rear wall. Above, brightly coloured posters of sunny beaches, were nailed to the tin, describing a time long since passed, where people did not need to look over their shoulders in fear for their lives.
Author Notes: This is not a story, but a piece that will probably be included later, in my post-apocalyptic story I am currently working on. I will submit the full story in parts as I finish them. I would appreciate it if you could give me some feedback on what you think. Thanks!
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Australia • 33 years old