It was hard to climb to the top with the terrain rolling away from underneath her with every step, but she persisted. From the top she could see car bodies stretching away until they grew sparse and turned into paddocks. The seagulls circled and swooped in the sky – waiting for the mountain to rot down enough that they could eat it. Even on the top she was struggling – her ankles turning with the rolling apples, any minute she could slide down on her arse. The banana mountain and the pineapple mountain gave the air a festering tropical tang. She took photographs with her phone because no one would believe her, forgetting that no one believes photographs any more anyway. There was nothing she could do to stop the decay of the fruit heap. She filled her back pack and her army jacket pockets.
‘Get down off apple mountain’ said the seagulls. ‘You don’t get to have an opinion. Go back to your electric cave.’ They made it clear they thought she was foolish. She slid down the apples to the ground-rubble of stinking plastic packaging and disposable nappies. Every step she picked up a lucky beer cap. She liked the tui ones best and after that the green ones with the red star. She got to the edge and climbed over the stile, dragged her boots through the long grass until they were clean. It was about half an hour through the gorse and sheep poo to home and the hum of the city, she had plans for the tribe, she had plans for pie.