Speed bumps and spot fires
3 random words: resource, combine, firefighter
Today’s 3 random words – resource, combine, firefighter – were interesting.
Somewhere along the way, ‘speed bump’ also joined the party. Not sure where that came from, but the title felt right when it was included.
These words gave me a title, some sentences, a piece of flash fiction, and a piece of personal thought non-fiction.
If this makes no sense to you, see this post:
Meanings
This is what these words mean (in my head).
Resource – something you use to do something, [resourceful] ability to deal with difficulties
Combine – mix one or more things together
Firefighter – [literal] someone who puts out actual fires, [metaphorical] someone who deals with small issues (spot fires) to make sure they don’t become big issues
Speed bump – an impediment designed to slow you down
Sentences
My meanings gave me these sentences. The words themselves feel solemn to me, so I couldn’t come up with any amusing sentences, just serious ones.
By combining resources, firefighters were able to deal with spot fires while still battling the major fire front.
The company firefighter was good at combining random resources and making connections no one else saw, dealing with spot fires and speed bumps in his stride.
Resourcefulness combined with creativity was what they were looking for in a [company] firefighter: someone who could keep their eye on the main blaze, navigate speed bumps, and deal with the myriad spot fires that sprang up around them.
Speed bumps and spot fires – flash fiction
My meanings and sentences gave me this piece of flash fiction. This has the potential to be the basis for a longer story, I think.
Jake Rogers calls himself a firefighter.
That’s what he says whenever anyone asks him what he does.
But he never says more than that. He never explains that he doesn’t fight literal fires. It’s easier to let people believe that Jake Rogers is out there on the front lines every day, fighting literal flames, putting his own life on the line to save theirs.
When they thank him for his service, he just smiles modestly, puts a gentle hand on their shoulder, and says, “Thank you, but someone has to do it.”
It’s not so far from the truth, he thinks as he looks at the man on the floor. The man on the floor is not thanking him for his service.
It’s not like Jake wants to do this. He doesn’t do this for fun. He’s not a bad person. Jake Rogers is resourceful, and he does what he needs to do to keep the world safe.
The carpet greedily soaks up the crimson liquid leaking from the man’s right temple, and his eyes stare up at Jake. The man’s limp right hand reaches out to him, asking why, even in death.
Jake meets the man’s cold gaze as he unhurriedly tucks his gun into the holster hidden under his jacket. He then explains, using his signature phrase, “You were a spot fire that needed to be put out before you became a blazing inferno.”
As he turns around, he’s thinking that maybe he should get some business cards with just his phrase printed on it. That way he can leave one every time he does this, so people will understand that there’s a reason he fights these spot fires, the fires ignited by embers that others turn a blind eye to or haven’t spotted yet.
Jake Rogers is on the front lines every day, battling blazes before they get too big. Jake Rogers is putting his own life on the line to save theirs.
He feels a sharp pang of loneliness just for an instant. It’s a shame, he thinks, that only one other living person has ever heard me say my catchphrase.
Except this time, he’s wrong. Now two living people have heard it.
A seven-year-old boy stands in the doorway, blinking rapidly, in shock. He looks at Jake; he looks at the dead man.
“Dad?” he whispers.
“I told you to wait in the car,” Jake says, striding towards the boy.
This is just a speed bump, Jake thinks, taking a deep breath as he takes the boy’s hand and turns him away from the scene. We’ll get over this, he thinks, moving quickly so the boy has to run to keep up and can’t glance behind.
Once in the car, Jake pulls out his pen and his list and crosses a name off.
“I’m a firefighter,” Jake says looking straight ahead. He stares out the windscreen at the two-hour parking sign. He’s been here for well under that. He feels his son’s eyes boring a hole in the back of his head. “I deal with small fires before they become big fires. One day, you’ll understand. Maybe one day, you’ll become a firefighter, too.”
Jake’s son says nothing, so Jake starts the car and backs out of the park.
All the way home, Jake keeps glancing in his rearview mirror, and he sees his son’s wide eyes still staring at the back of his head. Not a word is spoken by either of them.
Jake stops the car in front of the garage and, while waiting for the door to judder and clank its way upwards, the boy quickly unbuckles his seatbelt, gets out of the car, and runs inside. He still hasn’t said a word and Jake feels confident that the speed bump has been successfully negotiated and is now behind them.
That night, Jake lies next to Jessica, listening to her rhythmic breathing. In, out, in, out, in, out. She sleeps the sleep of the pure for now but, he knows, later she’ll start to twitch and shift restlessly as whoever sends her her dreams connects and shows her the embers flying in the vortex and where they land.
He looks at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the edges of the shadows that dance above them, and wonders what name will have been added to the list tomorrow.
Speed bumps and spot fires – non-fiction
My title gave me this piece of internal thought.
I had a home and then I didn’t.
Sharp, blinding flashes and instantaneous thunder announced just how close this storm was as I drove across the open plain. Mythbusters said being in a car in lightning was OK, I told myself, trying to loosen my death grip on the steering wheel as the rain pounded rivers down the windscreen, and the wipers tried to keep up.
The wind wasn’t too bad as we passed through the hills. A few leaves scattered about, but no trees or branches blocked our way.
It was about 11:30pm by the time we arrived home. I parked the car in the garage, and we hurried inside, out of the storm. Into the only home my kids had ever known. Our small cosy home on our own piece of land. We were safe inside, relaxed and secure in our shelter, never doubting for a minute its protection.
Not long after, in fact minutes before midnight, there was a sudden ROAR, a deafening BANG, and all the lights went out. No warning, no heads up. In a matter of seconds, we were no longer safe, no longer sheltered.
Scrambling around in pitch black, we tried to work out what just happened. The lightning caught up to the storm and rapid flares started to illuminate our missing and very broken roof, the collapsed front wall of our home, the shattered windows. The inside was now open to the outside.
The devastation was devastating. In mere seconds, safety and comfort became vulnerability and chaos.
My mind went into overdrive and stayed that way for months afterwards.
Everything became a speed bump or a spot fire: something getting in my way and trying to slow me down, or a million little things vying for my attention that had to be dealt with before they became big things.
I became a manic firefighter. I could only do, not think. I could only act, as fast as possible, to get over the speed bumps and put out the spot fires.
Every little thing needed to be done fast and immediately, right now. I drove fast, I thought fast, I walked fast, I talked fast. I couldn’t slow down because I had people depending on me and, if I did, I’d have to think about what had happened and that would make it real.
The continuing rain and the broken trees and branches on the only road out were speed bumps. They held me up and slowed me down.
Where to go, what to do: spot fires. Resources to allocate, decisions to be made quickly and acted upon straight away.
The people in my way, on the roads, in shopping centres, at work, at the council: speed bumps. In my way and things I needed to get over or around.
Long-term accommodation, demolition of our old house: spot fires. Springing up around me while I was looking the other way.
Looking for lost items and cleaning up the surrounding paddocks: speed bumps. Slowing me down, making me work out what I had to buy afresh, what to toss out, and what could be salvaged.
Building a new house: a combination of speed bump and spot fire. Lots of hold ups, slowing me down; lots of decisions, needing an answer on the spot.
Looking back, the positivity in my mind says we got the chance for a new start, and we negotiated the speed bumps and spot fires as best we could at the time.
The negativity says we didn’t ask for a new start, and the new house feels just like a house, not yet a home. Will it ever? I can’t answer that.
When I think about it, life itself is a series of speed bumps and spot fires that we have to continuously negotiate and deal with.
I did eventually slow down. I couldn’t keep up that pace and remain healthy. For myself, for my family, for people who relied on me.
I think I’m doing OK, for now.
Have a great day.
Let me know what these words might have meant to you and where they might have led you.
Feel free to suggest 3 random words for a future newsletter, if you like.
PS: If you like bittersweet fiction, I have a book of short stories you might like: Saving the Scarlet Macaw & Other Stories. Available in paperback or ebook.