Playing with Fire

Mary – a parishioner – carried a Zippo lighter in her pocketbook. She didn’t smoke, and in fact had a moral aversion to it, like the inhalation was a communion between man and the temporal world. Oxygen was thin and hardly satisfactory, but her own personal subjugation was to subsist on the sub-par.
In August, the Catholic congregation finalized their lease on a new building with a contemporary youth room, so the Protestants snatched up the old venue and pocketed the history. In September, the church sheathed its new congregation officially, and by October, the renovations were complete.
Mary helped with the denominational overhaul and in particular directed the removal of the stained glass that was “contrary to doctrine”.
The church converted; it denounced the virgin mother and they physically expelled her. The saints wept, then packed their carpet bags and left with her, trailing behind like a tail, inching back towards the heavenly father and His new youth room.
She stood inside while they removed the glass, shouting superfluous instructions, and watched the light change. The dust lifted and as the colors brightened, so the capacity for noise seemed to grow. The slab of Virgin Mother bobbed away on the shoulders of her pallbearers.
Mary drew out her lighter. It had the Virgin Mary on it. She flipped the lid, severing Mary’s head so the fire could sprout.
Prometheus strove to bring man the gift of the gods, and there it was, burning in her palm, a testament to the pattern of technological modernity. This lighter that Jonah had given her as a parting blow – to ease the sting of separation – and what he hoped would bring her to smoking or vandalism or some manifestation of daring rebellion instead of the cold, fishy pacification she clung to.
“Be in heaven when you belong to it and be human while you are human!” he said, bending his knees in rhythm with his exclamation mark. And she laughed and went on living, until she watched Mary slip from the fingers of the workmen and shatter into rainbows on the concrete.
While a few minutes earlier, she had been looking through the medium of art, through the painted air of the stained glass, she then saw into the undiluted light of day, and watched the fire of Mary burn in the palm of her hand.
The gap between sanctity and desecration shrunk, eating away at its wafer lining, until all that remained was perception. At the fork, which road? Because there stood Mary, and the pastor speaking to her with his thumbs in his belt loops, proclaiming success, and she couldn’t answer him.
Wind, breathing through the whole in the stained glass, snuffed the flame of the Zippo, and Mary looked at the pastor of her church, searching his face for something unexpected, and met a confused vacancy.
It all felt predestined.
She had the idea that Jonah was wrong about what he said, but she knew she hadn’t grasped any sort of truth yet. It was as though her limbs and organs had come unattached.
So she pulled together what bodily organization she could, and left the church through the hole in the stained glass.

By Maria Lawson, '13