by Maureen Jivani
All around the square, the pilgrims were naked and hurrying towards the sacred fountain. There was a long queue, and they were allowed to dip the fingers of one hand only. There had been talk about rainfall but it was only talk. Nobody believed it, the same way as they hadn’t believed in global warming. When the ice-caps had melted there was water everywhere but soon the planet had dried to a scab, and now rain fell briefly only every few years, and it never snowed, anywhere, although snowdrops had suddenly become available, at a price, from the bag-lady in the square: little blue-pills that would melt on your tongue leaving a cold metallic taste, making you tingle. They were illegal, and potentially fatal, although the authorities had promised faithfully to turn a blind eye.
Maureen Jivani writes poetry and short fiction. She has an Mphil in Writing from The University of Glamorgan and has published online at Nthposition, Qarrtsiluni, and Retort. Her work has appeared in print in many UK literary magazines and journals including The Wolf, The Rialto, and Magma.