Fish today? - Dystopian flash fiction by Russ Cavanagh
She answered to Margaret. But who knows these things nowadays? Translucent skin pulled tight across her tiny frame, she weighed no more than a young child. Despite deep-set eyes and a straggle of grey hair, Margaret was impossible to age accurately.
'Fish today?' she asked as she ran her fingernail along a scratch on the counter. As with every morning, the hope in her voice was tempered by experience.
'No, Margaret, I'm sorry.'
'Are the rivers still too dirty?'
'Yes, the rivers,' I said, 'and pretty much the seas as well.'
Her face fell. She held out the same handful of coins as she always did. 'What else you got? I can pay you with this.'
'No, Margaret. You know coins don't buy anything any more.'
'But I have nothing else ...'
'Should have taken the chip like the rest of us, Margaret.'
Her eyebrows raised. 'And would that mean I could buy fish?'
'No, Margaret. There are no more fish. Nor will there ever be again.'
'Oh, well. You got anything else?'
I reached behind a cut-out fibreboard display on the back wall to find two eggs and a small loaf of rough bread. 'You can have this,' I said. Margaret accepted the contraband, holding open her frayed hessian bag. 'Remember, you must never tell anyone about this, or where you got them.'
Looking lost, she whispered, 'Better get home now. The weather ...'
'OK, Margaret.'
'Yes ...'
'Goodbye, Margaret. See you again tomorrow.'
As she opened the door I noticed the sky had darkened. It was on its way again, the alkali rain.
Copyright © Russell Cavanagh
