The Last One You'd Expect

I smell citrus. Oranges splash past, and I tilt my umbrella to see where they’ve come from.

An ancient woman struggles to rise from the cracked pavement.

‘Are you hurt?’ There’s a graze on her face. Not new, she's fallen before.

She whispers, ‘I just need to get home.’

I flag down a taxi for her, re-tie her headscarf, brush off mud and gather up the shopping. Except for the oranges: disappeared down the drain.

Drenched, I wave at the departing cab then continue shopping, mentally editing my Samaritan tale, adding drama.

I reach the till. My purse is missing.

4th Place, Globe Soup Micro Competition
February 2026