Least Of These

• Josiah Murray, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2018

Your mouth waters as you peruse the various toppings. Once a month you get to treat yourself to a handcrafted, artisan sandwich. They’re expensive but definitely worth it. The salads crisp, cheeses pungent, sauces toothsome. You stride up to the glass cased counter and smile as the attendant greets you by name; you’re a regular. You place your order and watch, bated breath, as their hands dance across the various toppings, plucking out only the finest specimens, with which to construct your treasure. Five gruelling minutes later you step out the door with your prize, the warmth radiating into your hand and delicate crust crackling beneath your fingers.
The wholesome fragrance wafts in the air as you take long strides along the pavement. Your house is merely a block away, then it’s simply a few short steps to your table. You move quickly, eager to close the distance between you and your future meal. The moments grow long, the numerous tiles of concrete expand into vast continents. Moments turn to hours, hours to years, years to eons.
Then… All of a sudden. You’re broken from your spell. Your journey interrupted. Knocked from your feet. Something small had hit your legs. Sitting up, you see it. Lying on the ground. Next to it, your prized meal. A young boy, in the impetuous foolishness of youth, had collided with you and your lunch; knocking you both to the ground.
You steam up. Fire red. Fists burning. Ears buzzing. Mind racing. You are furious. Absolutely furious. Rightly so, this urchin’s recklessness has caused you significant loss. Better people than you would have given him what-for or just stormed off sullenly. You want to. But you don’t. You sit a moment and cool off. In a fleeting moment of calm collection, you subdue your anger.
You look again at the young imp. He is small and pitiable. His arms and legs attenuated. Void of muscle, fat or flesh. His face, smeared with grime, is beaten and bruised. Eyes streaked with pink, girt with sangria, are rubbed by calloused hands. Where once there was blinding rage now there is overwhelming pity and compassion. You pick up the sorrowful youth, siting him down upon a nearby bench, and hand him the remains of your sandwich. Tentatively he bites at the artisan bread. Instantly a hint of healthy colour, peaking between patches of dirt, returns to his cheeks. He finishes his meal and flashes a momentary smile before scampering away, down the street, without a word. A sadness wells in your soul, at how little you could do. Yet there is an unerring sense that your little kindness did more than you realise. You look around at the empty street, hued pink and orange with the afternoon light, and lament how even in the presence of such a wondrous luminescence the shadows, still, could be so long.