By Michael Lee
I work at a bakery in Brooklyn. Everyday, I bake bread, watching it rise in the stone oven. I don’t get paid very much, and I barely get by on rent. But seeing the bread rise in the oven, I, too, can see myself rising from all my problems. And sometimes that means doing things you don’t want to do. I resort to trading – not trading stocks. I mean trading company information, as a middleman. Yes, it’s not legal. But it wasn’t me. It was my desperation.
Everyday, I bake bread, watching it rise in the stone oven. I see myself rising above my problems. I see myself with enough money to pay rent. I see myself happy.
Can you smell smoke in the air? Something’s burning.
I return home, a small apartment above the bakery. The front door closes behind me, and all of a sudden, there’s a knock. Opening it, I see badges and uniforms. Cops.
I didn’t mean to do it, I say. I needed the money, I cry out.
The cops ignore my pleas, placing cuffs on my wrists. They walk me out the door. And that’s when I realized. I left the oven on.
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Birds whistle sweet harmonies from their nests. Cars honk in the rush hour traffic. Smoke fills the thick air. Flames roar from what was the bakery. And a few blocks away, a little girl says to her mom, “Something’s burning.”
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