CAULIFLOWER SPIRIT

Flash fiction from wartime Co-op

Stockpiling for imaginary food shortages. Let’s play war time. Generation on-demand, confronted by restriction. Playing hell. This older bloke queues outside the shop, lazering a hole through neighbour Mary’s two carrier bags with his slit-eyes as she emerges from inside, smiling; 40 years of iron-clad community spirit laid to rest over a cauliflower.

This isn’t wartime. Not even close. Don’t dare call it the apocalypse. It’s in everyone’s faces. Smiles as we pass and hold our breaths; Are they infected? Why are they outdoors and will they think I’m a dick for stepping off the pavement when we pass?

Only when the internet goes down can we truly tell our Grandkids we tasted struggle.

We donated dented cans of Guinness into a hamper the locals put together for Ron, who struggles to get out on his own. I have to believe he liked that. I worried the survival kit may have lacked naughtiness, so the chick peas went back in the cupboard. Maybe I’ll throw in a porno next time.