One Last Rain Dance
A Micro Fiction by Madeleine Armstrong
It’s been 72 days since it last rained.
Esther’s been counting, scratching a tally on her porch each evening with peeling nails, her rocking chair creaking in time with the cicadas. She’s the first to notice, in the turquoise sky, candyfloss wisps becoming cotton wool clumps, then stippled swathes of grey.
Neighbours emerge, licking cracked lips. The Fraser twins wrestle in the dust, bellies rounded but limbs stick thin, while the adults gather every bowl and bucket they own.
The sun is dipping when the first drop hits: a sprinkle, a shower, then a deluge, drumming into tin baths, sheeting off the parched earth. Adults run into front yards, whooping as loudly as the twins.
Esther hobbles to join them, the force of the downpour nearly knocking her off her feet. Her hips will only allow a slow shuffle, but in her head she’s salsa dancing in an open-air club in Havana, her favourite emerald dress plastered to her skin.
She tips back her head and opens her mouth, letting the rain run in, knowing this might be her last taste. Tomorrow, her count will start again, but tonight she’ll relish every drop.
Author: Madeleine is a journalist covering the pharma industry. She won the Hammond House international short story prize in 2023, and has had stories published in Flash Fiction Magazine and LISP. She lives in south-east London with her husband, son and two cats.
Captures the layered longings