His “angelic voice,” as his church choirmaster, Mr. What a fool Georgie had been, coming to New York with stars in his eyes, hoping his voice would land him on Broadway. And as long as he didn’t try to cheat Derek-or fail to sell what Derek gave him, Derek was okay. Peddling stuff on the street beat the hell out of sleeping under a bridge. Not that he went to many of them anymore. The flexibility left Georgie free to go to auditions.

And for only twenty-dollars a night, he could crash at Derek’s place along with Derek’s other “sales associates”. It was a shit job, but Derek paid him cash, split everything fifty-fifty. Not since he’d started working for Derek as a street seller of what were probably stolen goods-Georgie didn’t ask. He hadn’t had to do that since October, though. He’d even slept here at times, joining others-silent and grubby-in hidey holes like under the small bridge at the carousel or in the thicker stands of bushes. He’d been in the City for over a year, and he walked through the park almost daily. He passed several forks and let instinct lead the way. Even at night, people moved through Central Park. He was in the middle of New York City, for crap’s sake. Of course, the snow was coming down hard, so it didn’t take long for unsullied white to coat everything. There weren’t even many footprints to be seen in the blanket of white. Georgie dropped the lighter in his pocket and forced his feet to shuffle forward in the virgin snow. Need to sell what Derek gave you, and hopefully get a little extra cash for a subway ride back to Harlem and a bite to eat. You can’t stand here all night playing with the damn lighters, idjit. He started to thumb the lighter again, the warmth addictive. I was cutting through it to get to Time Square. Soft, new snow covered everything, including a nearby bench. He looked around, trying to get his hazy brain to focus. Where was he? He was so cold and tired he wasn’t thinking straight. The wind whipped past him, causing a mini hurricane of snow to swirl up. The warmth was wonderful but fragmentary, like his thoughts, a heat that promised salvation only to vanish a second later, leaving his fingers colder than before. He held the lighter as steady as he could with his left hand and ran the fingers of his right over the flame. But after a half-dozen tries, the flame burst up, golden and orange and mesmerizing. Georgie’s thumbs were so cold, he could barely flip the wheel. You can check out the other authors free fiction at the group Facebook page here. This free short story is provided as part of the Rainbow Advent Calendar.

The Little Matchboy by Jackie North