1
The last unenriched food on Earth is a tin of dog meat. Like the chew toys that decay too slowly, this tin long outlasts its purpose. No more dogs in the world to call back to their dinner bowls. Few creatures survived the heat of those summers.
It is a rich man who buys the tin at auction. Now he might almost imagine a beagle padding into the kitchen — clean eyes, grass seed clinging to its coat.
2
At last, they declared the emergency.
Ali put her gum in the bin so she could speak into the radio without Kaya complaining about the chewing.
“Kaya, this is Ali. Over.”
“Ali, this is Kaya. Go ahead. Over.”
“Ah, shit—” Ali peered into the bin. The piece of gum was nestled in a bloody tissue. She hadn’t thought to hold onto it. “Kaya, if you’ve got something to eat over there, have it now and make it last. Enjoy it, babe. The time has finally come.”
Ali picked the tacky strings of gum off the tissue. Balling it back into her mouth, she smacked farewell into the receiver. Maybe it was too late, but it helped to say goodbye anyway.
“Over and out.”
3
Ed’s last finger will stay good in brine for as long as the eggs do. It looks like a scrap of hot dog, retiring at the bottom of the jar.
Em has got to move on. The journey will take weeks across the wasteland and the pack has got to be light.
But hard choices make decisive people.
The eggs are going bad, she admits.
4
The last thing served at dinner in my village was always a tray of the glazed buns that were the specialty there. They were the only food you ate with your fingers, soft and sticky, rebellious to a fork. That was the part of the meal where manners fell away and people licked their palms. Then came the wine and chaos until morning.
But never a bun before the end of the meal. We kept our fingers clean until the final dish.
The buns are gone but the saying still goes: it’s not until you’ve finished eating that you won’t need to shake your neighbour’s hand.
5
“‘The Last Supper tastes of linseed and rosemary,’ she whispered into her praying hands. ‘And egg yolks and fingerprints.’
She let God take that in for a moment. He was quiet, listening.
‘Bitter herbs and fish sauce. Lamb and olives and unleavened bread. Dates and bean stew.’ She recited what she had read, not what she had tasted in the mural.
The Heavenly Father seemed to hold His breath, waiting for an untruth. She had never held His attention in this way before. Her pulse raced with it.
‘Sorghum and locusts,’ she recounted from her own last supper, trying to hold His notice.
But feeling the nearness of a lie, God let the truth into her words.
Before she could eat one more supper, Donna Maria was struck with sickness. Unable to eat, after a month of agonies she wasted to nothing in her bed, tasting only the water her sister sponged onto her lips.
‘And this is why you shouldn’t have lied at prayer today, Sofia.’”
“I already know this story. And I didn’t lie at prayer today.” Sofia kicked dust onto Giulia’s school shoes.
Giulia frowned at her little sister. “I heard you tell Him The Last Supper tastes of ice-cream. You don’t even know what that is.”
“But it’s true! And it tastes just as sweet as I imagined.” She looked up at Giulia. Shrewd. “I told the lie last week.”
6
She last tasted strawberries when she was not herself. Not feeling herself. Not looking like herself. Not as she does these days.
The last time she ate strawberries, her jaw fell apart on the rocks twenty feet down from the picnic. Her flapping tongue tasted too well the sweet and the salt and the metal.
She has not touched a strawberry since.
Mike, wise man, spoons the other fruit into her bowl.
7
Every last witch on death row made it out.
It’s why they say that witch hunts only end with innocent victims.
It’s how we have any food at all these days, so eat your lunch and stop staring at the nice lady.
Oh yeah, it’ll be a good year for crops again. Just gotta rain that blood.
8
Her last words didn’t matter.
She breathed until she didn’t. She spoke and ate and cared until she didn’t.
Milk she had some days. Corn she had some days. Maybe the last thing she ate was sausage. Who knows. She made it herself.
“True,” she said sometimes. “False,” she said at others. She felt she knew the laws of the world.
She watered the resurrection plant once a year. She tended to her friends’ graves. She said, “I love you,” to no-one in particular. Just because there was nobody left in the world to hear it, didn’t mean she shouldn’t say it. Love was always a beautiful thing. “That’s true,” she would say.
“That’s true.”
There was her life: in the repetition. And she would keep going at all these things, if only she could. Wouldn’t anyone?
9
The last fortune cookie in that bag was empty.
It’s right, of course. The future isn’t ready yet. It’s still in the pot.
So, what’s cooking? When is it done?
10
Have some tea. This is an imaginary tea party.
You knew that.
This is not me having the last laugh. Things aren’t great for anyone. I’m really trying to speak to you.
Imagine I sent this message to your phone: I want the best for you. I want you to feel okay.
If I could hand you a cup of tea — or whatever you like — I swear I would.
Natalie Bradbeer writes short fiction and poetry. Her work has been shortlisted for the Bridport Flash Fiction Prize and has appeared in Tears in the Fence, Litmus, and other anthologies and publications. She currently works for a charity in Bedfordshire, UK.