Teagan Matthews

A Locket of Time

I stop to rest in the shadow of a few charred beams, what probably used to be a small family home, but is now little more than a pile of rubble. Sitting down on a larger piece of broken concrete, I take a gulp of the rancid water; the only thing there is to stifle this relentless thirst. Looking down at the filthy plastic bottle in my hand, I smirk at the thought that this battered vessel with the faded letters, C-a -ola, will long outlive me. But that’s nothing unique, everywhere there are mountains upon mountains of deathless plastic, half buried in the soil, waste from peoples who were alive long before The Event finished the work that they started. I pull back the hood that protects my face from the incessant radiation, and wipe the torrent of sweat off my brow. Why does it have to get so hot here? Even in the dead of winter, the relentless heat singes my feet through the half melted soles of my boots.