Poor Pity
Poor Pity pity stories
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missippi_hippietravelers dont dwell
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A short story about an Indian boy.

Poor Pity

He came up to his window sill and stared at his plant fern. How easy it must be to be a plant. If only he could be one too.

His mother called for him to come eat dinner. Off to the kitchen he went, the smell of home cooked food guiding him by the nose.

“Is that homemade curry chicken, Ma?” He asked upon his arrival to the table. “Yes it is, darling,” She spooned a decent helping onto his plate, “thank Him for this chance to have food on your plate and enjoy.”

After a lengthy, but silent prayer, he dug his wooden spoon into the steaming mound of pieces of stringy chicken breast, covered in curry sauce mixed with a variety of spices.

His belly was only half full when the plate was empty, but he could not complain when his mother’s plate had only half of the portion of which he was given. “I am sorry, Ma, I should have given you some of my plate. You are the one that works hard days.”

“No, no, Machuk, you are younger and your body need to grow and strengthen and your brain needs more food to grow when you learn at school.” Machuk nodded gratefully, “Alright, and Ma?” “Yes?” “I will work hard in school so when I become a doctor we will have all the food we ever could want.”

His mother kissed him on his head before collecting the plates for washing. “I am sure you will, Machuk.”

At school, the next day, he came in his freshly cleaned uniform and his full book bag. Full with book and pencils, everything he needed to do well in school.

Suddenly his book bag fell off of his shoulder, all of his books and folders tumbling out onto the school yard. Three boys rushed over to help when they saw Machuk desperately reaching for them on the ground.

“Are you alright, Machuk?” One of them asked. “You ought to be more careful, Machuk.” Another added. Soon, all of his book were back in their places in the bag. The other boy helped him adjust the strap back on his shoulder. “It must be hard carrying all these books when…”

“Do not pity me.” Machuk said through gritted teeth as he gripped the wheelchair’s handles. A tear glided down his cheek, taking some dust with it.

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