by Kirsty Logan

The bombs had fallen on a Sunday—the teashop’s busiest day. It had previously been an antiques shop specialising in militia: the owner had bomb-proofed the basement, sure that an attack was imminent. He died of a heart attack two years before he was proven right. His widow sold the military badges and tarnished guns, then started selling tea and cake instead: she perished quickly, having stepped outside for a cigarette a moment before the attack. The chef, who had been standing next to a window, had gone straight up in smoke. Three of the waitresses were in the basement, struggling with a particularly large order of scones; luckily, the scones saw them through the week of fallout.

When they finally climbed the stairs they discovered the dishwasher and one other waitress, who had survived by sheltering under the bodies of the customers, nibbling on the odd finger. The five staff members joined forces to put the bodies in the kitchen with the ashes of the chef.

Dust clouded the windows of the teashop, but the silence outside told them that it wouldn’t be a pretty sight, so they stayed inside.

The rubble hadn’t even been cleared when the first old lady knocked on the door of the teashop. There was dust on her hat and she was only wearing one shoe, but her radiation burns weren’t weeping, which was a relief to the staff. She’d come every lunchtime before the bombs fell, so as soon as she dug her way out of her house, she resumed her routine. There was no menu to offer her, of course. No sandwiches, no coffee. There were some crumbling teabags, and water could be warmed in the sun when it broke through the smeared windows. This was the closest they could get to tea, but it was enough for the ladies of Bessie Anne’s.

And there were ladies—plural. The bell hanging over the door was soon ringing a dozen times a day. Every regular customer, once they’d escaped from their homes, came straight to the teashop. Some were missing extremities – even a limb or two—but they were sure they’d feel better after a wee bit of cake. So the waitresses mixed brick dust and the clumpy out-of-date milk with the ashes of the chef. They fashioned them into lumps and baked them in the sunlight. Afternoon tea was served. The chat continued much as before: who was courting whom, which children were university-bound, whose dogs made the biggest mess on the neighbours’ lawns. The gossip was largely invented, as most of these people were now dust; but that didn’t matter. When the ladies left, they were careful to leave a coin or two on the broken boards they used as a table. No-one wants to be thought stingy, and the service was exceptional, considering.

One day the rubble would be cleared, but for now they had tea and cake. Sort of.

Kirsty Logan works in a tea room (pre-apocalyptic, for now). She is inspired by misheard song lyrics, fairytales, and her girlfriend. She currently working on a comic book collaboration, a short film script, and a novel. To learn more about her, visit her website.

Tea, top right, by Bangkok artist and photographer Chariya. Feel free to visit her Deviant Art page, or follow her on Twitter.