Pigeons of New York

 

Benny Benningfield

 

 

I feel like a pigeon.

A pigeon in New York,

not Boston,

because you are not allowed

to scare the pigeons in Boston.

 

My mother told me that

during our trip

up the East Coast

and she warned me—

don’t scare the pigeons,

it’s against the law.

 

In New York,

there’s nothing to save them.

The pigeons there are

mostly easygoing,

but there is an instinct.

They want to stay alive.

Bumbling apes stomping about,

rumbling monsters raging all day,

mumbling screens flashing in the night.

A cesspool of dangers.

 

The city that never sleeps,

not even for a pigeon,

because it isn’t illegal to scare

a pigeon in New York City.

New York City, after all,

doesn’t even care about their

people.

Why would they ever, then,

care about their pigeons?

 

Pigeons are domesticated—

we released them, no longer

needed in our eyes.

Labeled pests

to be slaughtered

and scared

in New York City

(but to note—

not in Boston,

which is not where I would live

if I were a pigeon).

 

Pigeons are rock doves,

so they nest on skyscrapers,

freeloaders till adults,

until they are confident

and ready

to live on their own

because it is not illegal to scare

the pigeons in New York City.

 

Maybe you’re also a pigeon,

roaming the streets,

dodging work shoes,

just struggling to survive

and wonder who will feed you

and who will poison the seed?

 

Please don’t scare the pigeons

who live in New York City.

They have enough to worry about,

as do you, probably.

 

I feel like a pigeon

in New York City

who desperately wants

to move to Boston

(where it’s illegal

to scare the pigeons),

but we all know how horrible

the housing market is.

Perhaps I should stay in the nest

just a little longer.

 

A little longer.

 

 

 

 

Three Lessons of Love from the Greeks

 

Allison Bush

 

 

The Greeks were never gentle with love;

their tales are littered with warnings

for those who look.

​

i.

I thought I knew not to fly too high,

but you were so lovely and perfect from afar.

So call me Icarus,

because when I fell into this love,

I fell recklessly

(your luminance was almost enough

to distract from the burn).

​

ii.

I thought you were brave for carrying

the world on your shoulders,

but Atlas never chose to hold up the skies.

You did.

You let your hands bleed against the stars

for so long that you didn’t even notice

when it became my blood, too

(you broke my heart because

you sought the world’s first).

​

iii.

I thought love was everything and nothing all at once,

the gentle crumble of empires and the gathering of light.

Instead, I gave you everything and you said I was nothing.

When you were done,

you threw all the torn-up pieces of me into the sea

and left me to die

(little did you know, I rose from the foam

as the Aphrodite you’ll never get to hold).

 

 

 

 

Dreams

 

Hadlee Carter

 

 

They approach out of the blue.

They snatch every hope and desire,

Forcing you to see

it, as if it’s in person, only for your eyes

to finally burst open.

 

You feel as if you can reach out and touch it.

Your brand new red Ferrari, the sun-kissed,

blue-eyed blonde, and the big promotion.

Just for you to awake to the actualities,

And be left in your true reality. 

 

You think they’re on your side,

That “if you dream it, you can

achieve it,” but it is all a deception

To mask all the overwhelming imperfections.

 

 

 

 

Brother

 

Hadlee Carter

 

 

You were my biggest bully.

First one to call me a “dumb blonde,”

To knock out my two front teeth,

To refuse to let me play basketball with you.

 

You were my protector.

First one to chew out the neighborhood boy,

To wipe my tears away with your thumb,

To look for the scary monsters in my closet.

 

You were my teacher.

First one to tell me boys are dumb,

To show me how to ride a bicycle,

To perfect my throwing form.

 

You were my best friend.

First one I told when I scratched mom’s car,

To make me laugh with your dad jokes,

To tell me switching schools would be fun.

 

Now, you are my hero.

I want your obnoxious laugh,

Helping hands,

Quick reflexes,

Musically inclined abilities.

I want to be just like you.

​

​

​

Maiden of the Tower

Lauryn Martin

 

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!”

But the golden trellises did not fall.

Prince Charming looked up in fear and despair,

At the tower above that was so tall.

 

He called out again, but all was silent.

So he was obliged to make up his mind.

He started his climb, intentions gallant,

Using the overgrown plants intertwined

 

In the eroding stones of the tower.

Out of breath he reached the top but the room

Was vacant, naught but a note and flower,

With the lingering fragrance of perfume.

 

He opened the note: “Thanks for the ride.”

She stole the horse while he had climbed inside.

 

 

​

Someday

Katie Miller

 

Today you lay there, falling asleep.

Your breaths breeze out and back in deep,

your eyes lay shut, your lashes on your cheek

and my body yearns to lay by your side.

 

Your bed looks warm and inviting to me.

I'm stuck on the couch, waiting patiently 

for the moment we share intimacy.

I watch your chest rise with your breath and my homework lies forgotten.

 

You turn and open your tired eyes, gazing at me;

deep brown seeks hazel in the dark, our hearts beat in sync,

your gentle grin stirs in my soul

and again my body yearns to lay by your side.

 

Someday I’ll lay in your arms, and kiss your cheek.

I’ll hold your hand, and give it a squeeze,

I’ll run my fingers through your hair, messing up its curls,

I’ll cup your face, your neck, trace your jaw, your lips.

 

Someday I’ll nuzzle my nose beneath your beard.

I’ll warm your neck with my breath, my kiss,

I’ll hold you in my arms, secure in your embrace,

oh my heart yearns to lay by your side.

 

Someday we’ll gaze in flagrant emotion, our hearts at last free.

Our touch will meet where our feelings steep, our love will finally be.

I know that someday we’ll do all these things,

but today you lay there, gazing at me, and our future is a patient dream. 

​

​

​

Signs of Spring

 

Lydia Parker

 

 

Green buds decorate the Earth like ornaments

waiting patiently to burst into life.

The once empty and brown trees are now

adorned with dainty little flowers of

pink, purple, and white variety.

 

That's how you know that spring is here.

 

Snow rapidly melts away to reveal

small sprouts that poke through the ground

like tiny green fingers reaching towards the sunlight.

Crisp rain coats the surface as heavy clouds provide

the new foliage with a much needed drink of water.

 

That’s how you know that spring is here.

 

Orange flames paint the sky with warmth as the sun

makes its appearance over the hills of the vast horizon and

at night the moon floats like a silver balloon in the sky.

Stars that were once frozen in place now appear to be

warmly sewn onto a thick piece of black velvet.

 

That’s how you know that spring is here

 

Robins scavenge the ground in search of a meal,

while serenading the sun as its gracious rays shower

warmth over their newly hatched chicks.

Eyes of baby animals across the land open for

the first time to behold God’s green creation.

 

That’s how you know that spring is here.

 

Smiles paint the children's faces as

they run outside to play and the

Earth breathes in peace at the promise

of new fresh new beginnings.

 

Spring is here.

​

​

​

​

​

Anger Is Not My Enemy

 

Alice Steele

 

(Trigger Warning: childhood sexual abuse, incest)

 

Anger was not allowed honest expression in our home when I was growing up.  Passive aggression was.  Mom and Dad would argue, obviously angry with each other, but never seemed to resolve anything.  I remember wondering as a kid if they would divorce.

​

I convinced myself for a long time that I didn’t feel anger, avoiding conflict.  My facade matched the mindset of people around me who proclaimed that Christians should smile all the time, even when they didn’t feel bright and shiny.  Peers complimented me about my calm handling of situations that they said would have provoked their fury, so I played along with the game of pretend and took pride in my self-control.

​

Reading Andy Lester’s book Coping with Your Anger, and listening to him talk in my seminary class about “storehouse anger,” helped me recognize mine and begin to look at it.  He says “storehouse anger” is the backlog of anger and resentments you’ve held in, maybe for years, which get unleashed by a trigger event that may seem unrelated to what’s in the storehouse.  Because of a near-rape by a boyfriend, the top blew off of my anger reserves, and rage rose to life.

​

When my dynamite cache lit, it was still contained inside me, and I felt it toward myself but showed little to anyone else.  In seminary, peers in my Clinical Pastoral Education group said they were unconvinced when I said something made me angry, because I didn’t exhibit any of the signs of anger that males consider typical signs.  That’s because I was trying so hard to control and mask what I felt, afraid of unleashing my rage.  What would happen if I let it loose?

​

Where I ended up going with the anger and rage was scary to me, but therapeutic.  I admitted to myself that I hated my brother for the incest he perpetrated against me as a young girl, for what he caused me to be battling through as an adult.  The day I got in touch with that feeling I was newly-married, lying alone in our seminary apartment beside our bed on cold tile floor.  There I re-envisioned those first experiences of sexual abuse in the back bedroom of our house and in his bedroom just off the living room . . . me seven years old, him seventeen.  That day I quietly screamed at him about the hurt he’d caused me.  I hate you!

​

If Christians assume they aren’t supposed to be angry, they’re surely not supposed to hate.  Admitting my fury at Jerry was helpful though, since that’s what I felt. (His name has been changed for the sake of privacy.)  And admitting it started my process of directing anger at my perpetrator instead of myself, at my perpetrator whom I felt was mocking me. That internal sense of his mockery held power and shame.

​

Ten years further into recovering from incest, I was ready to focus on letting go of my anger toward Jerry.  I was very aware that the bitterness I held toward him hurt me, not him, and kept me bound to him.  What could I do about “letting go?”

​

I chose a daily Lenten exercise (40 days) that year to pray for him, no strings attached, that God connect with him somehow.  As I prayed for him I also prayed for myself . . . that God would help me find release from my torment and the freedom to move beyond it.

​

I yearned to let go of others’ perspectives about this story, to quit worrying what other people think of me, and to let go of Jerry’s response or lack of response. 

The timing of these developments in me came prior to a trip to visit my family, located 500 miles away.  I resolved to concentrate on relaxing, to release the tension I’d felt for so long.  I prayed to be calm and able to enjoy the time.

​

Jerry showed up unannounced at Mom’s house the Saturday morning we were there.  I’d told him in a letter six years earlier that I didn’t want to see him until he was ready to face the truth of the incest—and I hadn’t seen him.  But I’d also spent the past season of Lent praying for him

.

Here goes, I thought, heart pounding yet a sense of calm about me.  Jerry was in the garage, talking with my husband and Mom. I was in the house.  I stalled by heading to the bathroom first.  Then I did it: I opened the door and stepped into the garage to see him.

​

It was a big moment.  I took a step down and stopped.  “Hello, Jerry.” 

​

He turned toward me and said, “Hello.” 

​

I walked closer and stood a few feet from him, still calm.  He ventured to initiate a hug, which I accepted.  We chit-chatted about family.  Mom pointed out that Jerry had never met our daughter and son, five and three by then.  That struck me as so sad.

​

A breather came in the exchange. I headed into the house to find the kids.  I think Jerry caught a glimpse of our daughter before she darted back from the door.  Our son did come along, giving me someone to hold.

​

Mom asked Jerry, “Can you stay for lunch?” 

​

According to my husband, who was observing this exchange, Jerry looked at me and said, “I don’t know if I’m allowed.” 

​

I don’t recall hearing that question.  More family members were arriving by then, and I took the escape greeting them in the driveway, a natural thing for me to do with visitors.

​

Jerry did stay.  I felt awkward around him but made myself not avoid him while he was there.  I mostly listened as he and two sisters talked at the dining room table.  When he readied to leave before the rest of us ate lunch, I was standing in the foyer.  He hugged me again, and it was okay for me somehow. 

​

I’m not sure what all transpired that day.  I credit it to answered prayer; somehow God did connect with Jerry. Granted, he did not express remorse, he said nothing of the past, of the incest, but something happened.

​

Part of what happened was that I experienced freedom, not feeling under the control or power of Jerry or of the past.  I took control for myself, and Jerry was the one feeling cautious, tentative.  The inner sense of him mocking me was finally disarmed.

​

Privately reflecting on the encounter later that day, I realized what had changed.  I had felt a paralyzing sense of dread for years, nightmares included, about facing Jerry—it was now dissolving.  A mighty sigh of relief washed through my body and emotions, unspoken to anyone at the time, a quiet, incredible portion of healing that I needed to savor alone.

​

Something that eases me even further away from anger and hatred for Jerry is finding out secondhand that Dad perpetrated humiliating sexual abuse toward him (and me, in various settings), very likely around the same time Jerry was perpetrating sexual abuse of me.  That revelation doesn’t excuse anything done to me, but it does explain some of what distorted Jerry’s reality.

​

God works empathy in me through that revelation.  It doesn’t make everything right nor change what happened.  Yet knowing that my brother was subjected to the traumas of incest, I feel sorrow for his suffering, too.

​

God loves, and that love is unconditional, for me the victim and survivor of incest, and for my perpetrators.  Whether or not I ever am completely at peace with how God can simultaneously love both, I do believe God loves that way.  I’m challenged to comprehend how God can love those who abuse, but I'll keep mulling over that stretch of my theological imagination for the rest of my days.

​

​

​

The Ghost

Benny Benningfield

 

(Trigger Warning: Brief mentions of death)

 

            A ghost was sighted on Fourth Street, one block over from my residence. The calls came in shortly after.

            Normally, I wouldn’t take on such a request. I’d instead pass it on to my good friend Sarah— after all, she loved the concept of spirits and specters and would be more than willing to take the load off of me. She had saved my hide a few too many times with this, but she never called back about returning any favors.

            No, ghosts were not something Dr. Ashton Wade worked with. I had tried to make that apparent anytime someone asked me about dealing with such trivial matters, but the fact I was the first thought within the minds of those in Keter, Ohio showed that I was at least a household name when it came to the paranormal. That was with stuff like Bigfoot, or werewolves, or even werebats, as one resident claimed to have a problem with.

            “Do you really not believe in ghosts?” Old Bethel, who ran the local bookstore, had asked me one day as I set down a report for him.

            “What?” I had turned my attention fully to him. Was he really questioning me about this?

            “You seem awfully afraid of something that you don’t believe in,” he had stated matter-of-factly before turning and leaving me at the counter, his words still hanging in the air.

            Ghosts weren’t something I was afraid of. You can’t be afraid of something you don’t believe in, after all. I vowed to prove that, once and for all, as I dialed back the first of the callers in my voicemail.

 

***

 

            Broken windows. A door on its hinges. Lightbulbs that hadn’t known the touch of a human in years.

            These were qualities that certainly made my own house more “haunted” to Hollywood than what I was looking at.

            The allegedly “haunted” building was a small store wedged between an old yogurt shop (having closed its doors back in 2004, with no takers on the vacancy since) and a jewelry store (judging by the graffiti on the walls of the yogurt shop, this one saw less traffic). It was a pawn shop, having closed early for the day following the “unfortunate incident” of “a ghostly specter” appearing, even though “specter” meant “ghost” in the first place.

            I rubbed my face, allowing my fingers to tease the sleep from my closed eyes under my glasses, feeling the creases of the scars on my face. I was already growing tired of entertaining the ideas of ghosts in these people’s heads, but I still had a job to do. Using the key handed off to me, I unlocked the door and stepped inside as I turned on the lights.

            The pawn shop always saw a lot of foot traffic, but never a lot of business. I sometimes wondered if older residents bought things from Mr. Foster’s shop simply to keep it running as a staple to the community, though why it was considered one, I’d never know. I spotted dusty shelves, porcelain animals, and a variety of mirrors.

            Mirrors. I had gotten rid of any in my house, save for any nailed down. Those were ones I had to throw an old towel over, snuffing out any remnants of my own reflection from my residence. I didn’t get that luxury here. The haunted man that looked back at me hardly looked like me anymore. A tattered lab coat barely clung to his body, covering rumpled clothing that didn’t even properly match. Messy, unbrushed hair covered half his face, a majority of it tied back in a ponytail. Scars decorated the visible side of his face. I traced my fingers over them. The man on the other side mimicked me.

            The hunt was forgotten until an icy chill ran through my core, pulsating from my shoulder. As I tore my gaze away from the mirror, the lights flickered before dying completely.

            So much for visibility. I’d have to be sure to remind Mr. Foster to make sure his lighting fixtures were functional.

            That was the only explanation my brain would accept as I went further into the pawn shop, my phone illuminating the path before me.

 

***

 

            For some reason, Mr. Foster had set up his humble store akin to an IKEA. I had seen the same floral-printed kettle at least five times now.

            I halted in the middle of one of the sections, running a hand through the hair that fell naturally into my face. Where was the exit again? Maybe this just called for a statement that this was nothing but a false alarm. There was no ghost here—there never would have been a ghost here, and I knew that from the start. Yes, this was just me proving my point.

            I took only one more step forward before the apparition appeared.

            A trick of the light, it could’ve been, at first. I halted in my tracks to admire the distorted light, seemingly from an antique lamp that was still on in the corner of the room. A few moments later, however, the rays started to converge until I could clearly make out a shape of the individual in place of the abstract rays.

            I didn’t scream. I didn’t scream because what I saw was not a ghost, and ghosts simply do not exist.

            Yet before me, I knew was none other than Everett Little, who had been murdered in a facility far away one year prior. Though he had left our world, I had still seen his figure, his face, his eyes. They were in every corner of my house, which was every bit more haunted than this pawn shop, especially in the eyes of Hollywood.

            I watched in shock as the specter reached out one of his hands in offering to me. An invitation, along with that distressingly sweet smile of his. An invitation to what, though? His mouth was moving, but no words greeted me.

            I don’t remember running, but I must have started at some point. How I found my way out of the maze of the pawn shop, I’ll never know. I quickly dialed up my client, Mr. Foster, as I forced my breath to even out.

            “Hello? Dr. Wade?” I heard the man speak up on the other end. “Did you take care of the ghost?”

            I looked back at the pawn shop. The windows were dark, and the only thing that stared back at me was the man that was nothing but a husk of who he once was.

            Tearing my gaze away from the building, I started walking back towards my house on Fifth Street. “There was nothing to take care of, Mr. Foster. There is no such thing as ghosts.”

            The words felt hollow even as I spoke them, hanging in the empty air as I hung up the phone. Certainly they’d have the same issues later, but it wouldn’t be my problem at all. I had done my job, and I had given my input.

            I carefully opened the rickety door to the worn-down house I lived in, taking in a breath of the dusty air. Once more, I thought I heard a voice, and I forced my eyes downward as I went up the stairs that could barely hold my weight. The couch, though worn down with springs revealed, was a welcome sight after that day. I didn’t have the energy to make a fuss over my own sleeping arrangements.

            As I laid down on the creaking couch, I was aware of the blackness that started to overcome my vision. From that, I saw the face yet again. I could see the glint of wetness on his cheeks.

            As it had been every other day that year, I mourned for the loss of my dear friend. In return, he seemed to mourn what I had become, stuck in the same realm that I walked.

​

​

​

The Man in the Fire

 

Sophia Wright

 

“Why did you do it?”

I think of all the things I’ve done in the past twenty-four hours alone, and for a moment, I wonder what he’s talking about. It’s obvious, of course, but I don’t want to think about it, so I tell myself I don’t know.

“Do what?” I ask. It’s dark, but by the light of the tiny electric lantern that the rescue team sent down I can see the pensive look on my companion’s face as he studies me. His bright orange jumpsuit almost glows in the yellow light, and I shift positions uncomfortably.

“Why did you come back? Did you want to die?”

“No,” I say. “Of course not. But we’re not going to die. They’re gonna get us out.”

“But you couldn’t have known that. You still took the risk. So why?”

I stare at him. He’s clean shaven, about forty years old, with light hair and ghostly pale eyes. If he wasn’t wearing orange, he wouldn’t really look like an inmate. He just looks like someone’s mailman or next-door neighbor, not like he’s been in prison fifteen years.

“What’s your name, Kid?” he asks.

“Josh,” I say. “Josh Marten.”

“Do you know who I am, Mr. Marten?”

Yes, I think. I know who you are. I swallow and shift positions again and nod. His name is Scott Malone. He is prisoner number 4091, and he was moved from a State Prison in Wisconsin to a Federal one in Texas eight years ago.

“Did you know when you came in?”

“Most of it,” I say.

“And do you know what I did to end up here?”

I don’t. They didn’t tell me that much, so all I knew was that it was bad—life sentence worthy, anyway.

“Does it matter?” I ask.

Malone laughs. “Doesn’t it?”

I shrug. “If it did, they would’ve told me.”

“You didn’t ask?”

I shake my head.

“You didn’t want to know first, what it was you were running into a burning building to save?”

I want to say something noble. I want to say something about how no matter what his crime was, he was still human, or something about how the only thought crossing my mind in the moment was that a life was in the balance, but it all would have been a lie. If I’m honest, the only thought on my mind as I ran, and the only thought I’d had since then, really, was exactly the question he was asking. Why did you do it?

“Right,” Malone says, when I don’t answer. “I guess not.”

I fidget with one of the straps on my firefighter’s coat, which lies in a heap beside me. It’s only been a couple of hours since the floor gave out beneath us and Malone and I got trapped in the smoky remains of the prison basement, but now that the initial chaos of being trapped and making contact with the rescue team has died down, there is nothing left to do but wait, and I’m restless. Somewhere deep in the dark, a busted pipe drips against tile, methodical, steady. Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Why did you do it?” he asks again, almost to himself this time, musing.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Why did you?”

Malone laughs again, but I can tell the question makes him as uncomfortable as it makes me. “Do you wish I didn’t?”

I remember the crack of the rafters and the scrape of falling iron, and I say, without hesitation, “No. If you hadn’t been there, I might have died.”

“If I hadn’t been there, you would’ve still been safe outside. You came in because of me, remember?”

“Still, you saved my life. It’s a little ironic, I guess.”

“Life is ironic.”

I take a deep breath, inhale smoky air and dank, dry dust. It’s like breathing in a desert, except it smells like sweat and burned tile, but I know we’re lucky to even have oxygen.

“Where are you from?” Malone asks.

“What?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to understand you.”

“Austin,” I answer. “Or just outside, anyway.”

“Small town?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s it called?”

“Chelsea,” I say.

He nods. “And you’re a fireman?”

“Yes.” It’s an obvious question, given the circumstances, but it doesn’t bother me. It’s an easy answer.

“Why?”

Why? The question stings a little, like hot iron, and it rings in my ears the same way it has since I filled out the papers to join, and the Captain asked me the same thing. I was small, not particularly driven, and I barely made it out of training. I wasn’t their first choice. No one would have blamed me for giving up.

“I don’t know,” I say at last. “It was what I always figured I’d do.”

“Since you were a kid?”

“Yeah. Six years old, I think.”

“You have a parent in the department or something?”

I stare up at the pinhole of sunlight, sparkling high above us. “No. I think I just saw on TV and wanted to join.”

“Huh.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Malone starts up again. It’s a long list of questions, but I tell myself it’s just to pass the time, and I answer them all quickly, like clockwork, as if I’ve rehearsed a thousand times.

Mom’s a receptionist.

Dad does pharmaceutical sales.

Three sisters, all older, all smarter, all way more driven.

Dad’s religious, Mom isn’t.

Catholic.

They divorced when I was ten, neither remarried.

Public Elementary School.

Public Middle School.

Public High School.

No college, just fire academy.

Grades were decent.

Baseball.

Was I popular? I don’t know. I had enough friends, I guess.

Jess. He’s an accountant now.

Couple of girlfriends, but they never lasted long.

Steph, Chloe, Monica.

Yeah, Border Collie.

Blue.

            They’re easy questions, but they all pull back to the same source, and the same endpoint, the same resounding question, lingers inches from my face.

Why?

Why did I run into a burning building to save a man I’d never met? A man I could have died for?

I was protecting innocent life.

But he wasn’t innocent. I didn’t know what he’d done, but whatever it was, twelve of his peers and a judge had decided the best thing to do with him was to lock him away for the rest of his days. He was anything but innocent.

He would have died.

Not necessarily. Afterall, it was him who ended up saving me, when the rafters gave out. Besides, I hadn’t really saved him, just gotten trapped in a hole with him.

It’s my job.

But why? I didn’t have to do it. No one would have blamed me if I’d left him like everyone else did. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I don’t know why, but the man in the fire, the man with at least one life sentence, who had fifteen years of prison life under his belt, and who had been abandoned by everyone else on the force as unsavable, was suddenly the one person I knew I had to go after. And I can’t for the life of me understand why. Why it bothered me they could shrug him off, why I couldn’t quite stomach the decision to leave him. Why as I watched that nearly-empty building smolder and crack with heat, the promises that they’d send a team when the flame cooled wasn’t enough. I could have left him. Let the whole thing keep moving on like the wheels in an old watch. Unbothered, steady. Like clockwork. No one would have blamed me.

We sit in silence, Scott Malone and I, the firefighter and the convict, and we drink in the burned remains of the prison air.

“You could have died, rushing in here like that,” Scott Malone says at last.

“I know.” I don’t look at him while I say it.

“It was brave. You should be proud.”

I don’t answer. Instead, I look at him, at his pale eyes and his orange jumpsuit and his calloused hands, and I wonder what he would have done if the roles had been reversed, or if the fact that I’m still alive to wonder is proof enough of what he would do.

“You’re wondering if it was worth it,” he guesses. He’s wrong, but I guess it makes sense under the circumstances.

“What will happen to you, when they get us out of here?”

Malone shrugs. “I don’t know. Guess they’ll move me again. Somewhere that isn’t burned down yet.”

I nod. I don’t really know why I asked.

“What about you?”

I don’t have an answer. I’ll go back to the force, because it’s all I know. They’ll probably put me through an evaluation to make sure I’m not too traumatized, and then I’ll be back in burning buildings by the end of the year. I watch the light in the pinhole above us fade as the day burns into night. It’s slow.

“Why do you think I did it?” I ask him.

“Why you ran in after me?”

I nod, and Malone sighs.

“Kid, I can’t understand you, especially if you can’t yourself.”
           I’m silent.

“I think you’re a whole lot more noble than you think. Or else just desperate to do something right.”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Though I can’t imagine who it is you’re trying to prove yourself to.”

“Maybe I’m not.”

“Or maybe you are. Who knows? I guess I’m really the last person you should go to with your moral questions. I don’t know you and I don’t know what it’s like to be noble.”

“You saved my life,” I say. “That ought to count for something.”

“I saved the person laying themselves on the line to help me. That’s just basic decency.”

“So maybe that’s what this is. Just decency.”

“Basic decency?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe,” he agrees. He leans back against the wall and tilts his pale eyes toward the pinhole, same as me. And we sit in silence, waiting. Convict and First-Responder.

In approximately four hours, the rescue team will lift away the rubble and extract two battered men from the ruins of the Texas Federal Penitentiary. They’ll be delirious with exhaustion, with lungs full of smoke and ash, and heads full of a single question---that all-encompassing, resounding “why”. I’ll wake up in a hospital bed, with white sunlight streaming through an open window and my family leaning over me, tears in their eyes. I’ll never see Scott Malone again, and I’ll never look up what his crime was. They’ll call me a hero, but I don’t know if I’ll ever believe it, and they’ll ask why I did it, and I’ll come up with a thousand different reasons. It just seemed right. I couldn’t live with his blood on my hands. It’s what he would have done.

I don’t know if I’ll ever answer it myself. I’m not sure there is an answer. But I think, in the end, it will all come down to a few crucial details. A ticking clock. A burning question.

I was just a man in a fire.

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Slice of Pie

 

Written by

Anna Webb

 

INT. INSIDE OF CAR - DAY

A young couple sits in silence as they bounce along on a

thin country road. The driver, MITCH (25), turns the radio

on and flips it to some upbeat music. JAIME (20) sighs and

leans closer to the window. She twists her mouth, looks

over to Mitch, and then back out towards the passing trees.

 

Mitch’s phone dings with a new message. Jaime closes her

eyes and lays her head back on her seat. Mitch struggles to

get the phone out of his pocket. He glances at it before

putting it under his leg. Jaime looks at Mitch expectedly.

Mitch remains clueless as he continues to look ahead. Jaime

reaches and turns off the radio.

 

                               MITCH

             Something wrong?

 

Jaime doesn’t answer and instead keeps her head against

the window.

 

Mitch shakes his head and turns the radio back on.

 

Jaime turns it off again.

 

                               MITCH

             Okay. What is it?

 

Jaime looks at Mitch with a blank expression.

 

                               JAIME

             You honestly don’t know?

 

                               MITCH

             It’s always guessing with you.

 

Jaime looks down as soon as Mitch looks over to her. He

looks back at the road, annoyed.

 

                               MITCH (CONT’D)

                             (mockingly)

             Guess what I did. Guess what she said.

             Guess what I got. Guess. Guess. Guess. Guess!

 

 

Silence falls between the two. Trees’ shadows ripple across

the dashboard.

 

Mitch takes a deep breath.

 

                               MITCH (CONT’D)

             I talked to my mom last night.

 

He looks over to Jaime who has gone back to looking out the

window. He looks ahead with a gentle smile on his face.

 

                               MITCH (CONT’D)

             She asked if you were going to spend

             New Years with us this year. Mom’s really

             eager to meet you.

 

                               JAIME

             Why didn’t she come to my brother’s

             funeral then?

 

She looks at Mitch.

 

                               MITCH

             You know Mom doesn’t work well with

             crowds of people.

 

                               JAIME

             She can still have get-togethers every year?

 

                               MITCH

             That’s different. That’s family.

 

                               JAIME

             I guess she doesn’t intend for me to be

             family.

 

Mitch attempts to loosen his grip on the steering wheel.

 

                               MITCH

             That’s not true.

 

They ride along in silence again.

 

Jaime turns the radio on but turns the volume down.

Mitch’s eyebrows go up at her action.

 

He goes wrestling with his lips before he throws his head

back with a hand in his hair.

 

                               MITCH (CONT’D)

             I want us to be happy, Jaime. I do. Look,

             I’m sorry for whatever is bothering you.

 

Mitch turns to catch Jaime’s gaze. Mitch smiles

playfully while looking between the road and Jaime.

 

                               MITCH (CONT’D)

             Come on. Smile. Smile for me.

 

Jaime’s blank expression starts to look more forced before

a little half-smile appears on her lips.

 

                               MITCH (CONT’D)

             There’s my pretty girl. I better keep an eye

             on such a pretty smile at the party or

             someone may want to steal it.

 

Jaime shakes her head.

 

                               JAIME

             It’s the girls who’s always on you. And I

             remember it was Kirk’s sister that used to

             have a crush on you. And you liked her

             curly hair.

 

Mitch gives a nervous laugh.

 

                               MITCH

             She may not be there.

 

                               JAIME

             Not for her brother’s holiday party?

 

                               MITCH

             I bet she’s over me by now.

 

                               JAIME

             That’s not easily done.

 

Mitch turns the radio louder.

 

INT. INSIDE OF CAR - NIGHT

 

Mitch and Jaime’s arguing voices are muffled outside as

they get to the car’s door. Jaime gets in, slamming the

door and shoving some brightly colored gift bags to the

back seat.

 

Mitch gets in soon after and slams the door harder and

starts shoving the keys into the ignition. Jaime puts her

head in her hand and looks down at her door. He twists the

key  haphazardly. The radio comes back on, and Jaime

abruptly turns it off. He starts backing up sharply, making

them both bounce.

 

                               JAIME

             Can you not drive so crazy?

 

                               MITCH

             Can you not make a big deal out of nothing?

             Everyone could see-

 

                               JAIME

             So? Everyone could see you and your actions.

 

Mitch speeds up once he gets turned around.

 

                               MITCH

             I didn’t do anything. You’re reading way

             too much into that.

 

Jaime looks out the window into the darkening scenery as

the sun is almost gone.

 

                               MITCH (CONT’D)

             I can’t believe you think I cheated cause I

             didn’t give you the first slice of that pie.

 

                               JAIME

             That’s not the only time you forgot about me,

             and you gave it to Kirk’s sister.

             Am I nothing?

 

                               MITCH

             I guess what I do is nothing! Why do I have

             to keep proving my love to you?

                               JAIME

             Why can’t you show it in front of other

             people? When I met your Uncle in Indiana,

             you left me the whole time to-

 

                               MITCH

             When will you stop saying that? I’m tired

             of you saying the same old stories about how

             bad you’re being treated.

 

They ride in silence for a long time. The clock shows it’s

been almost 20 minutes.

 

Jaime finally breaks the silence.

 

                               JAIME

             I don’t think this is going to work, Mitch.

 

Mitch looks surprised.

 

                               MITCH

             You’re not serious.

 

Jaime keeps her head towards the window.

 

                               MITCH (CONT’D)

             Jaime, I’m sorry for yelling. It’s okay.

             We’re okay. All couples get into fights.

 

The car slows as Mitch turns into a driveway.

 

                               MITCH (CONT’D)

             I’ll call you tomorrow. Maybe we can do

             something. Just me and you.

 

Jaime gets out without the bags.

 

                               MITCH (CONT’D)

             Jaime? I’ll call you, okay?

 

Jaime pauses outside.

 

                               JAIME

             Whatever.

 

She shuts the door and starts heading towards the house.

 

Mitch is left alone in the car. When he sees Jaime turn

around, he waves. She doesn’t wave.

 

He sighs. The silence lingers until he turns the radio

back on and starts to back out.

 

FADE OUT.

 

FADE IN:

 

INT. INSIDE OF CAR - DAY

 

Mitch is sitting in the driver seat. He smiles over

at KIRK’S SISTER (20s) who is looking down at her phone.

 

He turns the radio on and turns the volume up.

 

Kirk’s sister turns it off. She looks back at her phone.

 

                               MITCH

             What’s up? Something wrong?

 

She says nothing as she stares blankly at her phone.

 

He pushes the radio on again, and they drive on in silence.

 

FADE OUT.

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