The Bakery: A post-apocalyptic flash fiction story

My imagination painted a view of the street as it had once been. Never quiet, always bustling. Kids running on cobblestones and weaving in between the delivery boys on their bikes. Right here, where I stood, was the bakery. You couldn’t walk this street without smelling it; no wonder any other baker who set up shop was always gone in a month. With the bakery’s spot on the corner right beside the lake, they had the advantage of the wind blowing the smell of fresh loaves up the entire street. 

Now, I only smelled rot and ruin. 

“You said it was bad, mate, but not this bad.” 

Ron’s voice pulled me from my dream. I blinked, and the street was rubble—brightly coloured roofs and walls reduced to grey stone. I suppressed the feeling of loss but held onto the determination. That was what would get me through this. 

“Max?” Ron asked, waving a hand in front of my face. “You with me?” 

I nodded. “Just thinking. We should start with the bakery.” 

Ron scoffed and kicked a stone across the street. “You seriously still think we can rebuild?”

“I know we can.” For a brief moment, the view of the street—how it should be, not how it currently was—came back to me again. I smiled. “Time to grab a shovel.”

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When you write as much as I do, you have to take frequent breaks from sitting. A standing desk (not a whole desk, but a mini desk that will sit on top of my current desk with my laptop, keyboard, and mouse and extend upward) will allow me to continue working while maintaining that good blood flow to my brain. Thank you so much for your support that allows me to keep producing free content. God bless you! ♥️ E.J.


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