The Last Loaf
by Taria Karillion
Two shoppers reach for the last stickered loaf.
One hand, pale and rough with fingernails glossed in Final Reminder Red. The other, rubble-brown and campfire-ash, save for a paler band of skin on one finger where last month's shopping came from.
Both women pause. The packet’s colours are the same as the graduation gown of one ... and the flag from which the other fled.
Lips are pursed - showdown in Aisle One as compassion and need go head-to-head.
Red-nails grabs and turns on worn-down heels (lunchbox oranges matter more).
Then, in the queue, one bottle of formula behind one prize loaf, the other woman's too-big coat reveals a delicate body, a knitted baby sling, and a tiny hand reaching from within, fingers toying with a basket of date-up hot cross buns. Red chews her lip as the doughy crosses fill her gaze.
Looking back, she tears the loaf in two, and holds out half beneath a semi-smile.
And for a moment, in that small corner of the world, humanity comes up for air.
Taria Karillion grew up amongst more books than is healthy for one person. Her stories have appeared in a Hagrid-sized handful of anthologies and have won enough lawards to fill his other hand. Despite this, she has no need as yet for larger millinery.
This story won the People’s Prize in the July 24 Monthly Micro Competition.