Danger man
Troy is an unusual man and loves dangerous projects. His hobbies are endless and he will have a go at anything. He woke this morning just before the digital alarm went off; the dawn chorus cheered him on to get out of bed.
His normal start to the day was to skip breakfast and go for a jog. It was just getting light when he set out and there had been rain through the night. There was a chill in the air, but he warmed up quickly by running as fast as he could. Troy is a fire fighter by trade and so he needs to stay fit.
Last Tuesday he attended a really bad factory fire. The steps to the next level of the building were burning fiercely. He took a blanket and soaked it in water and he climbed up to reach two trapped office workers. He managed to get the firefighters to put a ladder up to the office window and get them both out. It was a close shave for Troy. Just as the last one had started down the ladder the flames were licking his ankles.
It was a good job he’d worn his webbed anklets he been given in the army or he would have had some nasty burns. He loves the job of being a fire fighter, but sometimes it’s heartbreaking. Last Christmas they had been called out to a family home that was engulfed by flames and the family were still inside. The family had left the fairy lights on when they went to bed and they must have short circuited. The parents suffered terrible burns unfortunately they lost their two children, a boy and a girl. Although Troy is a tough nut it took him a fair time to get over this loss. He needed to plump up enough courage to get back to work. The loss of adults is bad enough, however children and animals is quite another scenario.
Today is supposed to be his day off. Fate had different ideas about that. He is called out as a neighbour’s cat that lived three streets away had got itself stuck up a tree. It had been chasing a tennis ball being thrown by the children. The ball got trapped in the tree and the pet had gone up the tree to collect it. Troy got a ladder and went climbing trees; it brought back fond memories of when he was a kid.
The cat was obstinate and didn’t want rescuing and the cat decided to climb further up the tree. The branches were very flimsy where the cat had managed to reach. The cat went further up to dodge capture. The slim branch that Troy placed his feet on just broke away and the fire chief came down to earth with such a force. There was a loud splash, Troy luckily managed to drop into the family fish pond. He thought he was floating on the water. He was in fact sitting on top of a thick network of lily pads. Of course this gave the children a thrill and they brought out their Phones to capture this strange site and send selfies to their friends. Troy was wet through and he had a fear of frogs. He screamed as he leapt out of the pond. He’d suddenly caught sight of two frogs that sat staring at the strange sight of the Fire Chief sitting on their lily pads. This sent the children into fits of laughter and they told all of their friends about this big strong fire chief being afraid of little frogs. There was no help, or any question if he was hurt in the fall by the mother.
The cat finally came down when the mother of the family rattled the biscuit box. The fire fighter scowled, wondering why she hadn’t done that in the first place. Troy was a source of amusement for weeks after. He could take a joke and gave the team as good as he got.
The fire team were called out again to a garden centre and the owner was trying desperately to save his stock. As they got there he was carrying a massive flint. Troy asked him why he was bothering with a stone when there were so many perishables around. “These rocks are special,” he answered, “and I’ll have to sell these flints dead cheap if they get burned. They are very popular with our customers, and scorch marks will bring the profit down.” Troy frowned and then began collecting some of the other fragile products. This is when Troy saw the birds flapping around in their cages, and they were terrified with the smell of smoke. He grabbed some of the cages and began saving parrots, cockatiels and budgies. Troy screamed at the other men and told them to save other animals that were trapped in cages. The fire men were dealing with the fire and it was almost under control. Troy argued with the manager of the garden centre, “Why the hell didn’t you rescue the birds and other creatures instead of those flints? Animals feel fear and pain, stones don’t.”
The manager answered him saying, “I’ve already explained to you about those stones being expensive.” The manager was really angry with Troy and he dropped one of the stones that he’d been carrying. There was powder all over the floor and the other firemen witnessed it. “OMG,” one said. “That looks like drugs,” and he tasted a tiny bit. “Yeah right enough, that’s drugs, and that stuff is cocaine.”
The fire was out; however the fire had only just begun at the garden centre. The manager was taken to the police station and questioned.
It seems that the fire had been started by five men that had come in shouting at the manager that he owed them lots of money and that he had drugs belonging to them. And they searched and wrecked the place. Customers were asked to leave and many did when the trouble began and someone blew the whistle to the P
police. The stepping stones to the court case took a while. All five men were caught and charged, they were well known to the police.
The garden centre was sold on to a more caring person. And it is Troy that has purchased it. He still goes fire fighting when they need extra help; our Hero is quite settled into his new hobby of selling plants, fish and birds.
Josie Smith
AGAINST TIME
Something must have started it. Was it the whistle? Shrill. Commanding. With all those memories and associations. An authority figure. The PE Teacher. The referee. Maybe even the young officer who blew it to start the attack. All those poor beggars in khaki and mud, climbing out of the trench, one by one up the ladder, running into the smoke and the splashes and the shrapnel – maybe the enemy’s, maybe their own, it doesn’t really matter when it slices into you, severing flesh and what’s under the flesh, muscle, sinew, blood-vessels, lucky if it’s only a vein, tie something tight round it and keep on running. Against time, always against time.
If you turned round, you’d probably see that the officer had copped it while he was still blowing his bloody whistle, bubbles of blood coming out of the slit of it, instead of sound. Standing still on the edge of the trench, not a good idea. Running’s what you have to do, always running. Those that stand still stay still because they can’t move any more. That’s the secret. Don’t hang around.
Where are you running to? Anywhere where you don’t have to run any more. Where you don’t have to pretend to be dead in order to be safe. Maybe there isn’t anywhere like that, and you just have to keep on running…
Not a modern idea, of course. The Greeks had it. As a punishment, naturally, The Endless Task, the boulder you had to push up the hill, and when you got to the top, and took your eye off it for a moment, it rolled back down to the bottom, and you had to start all over again…
But that wasn’t against time. You could do it as slowly as you wanted. They didn’t really have a way to tell time, back then, just the sun, which was nice and gradual… And Sisyphus only had to shove the rock, not carry it on his back… Don’t believe anyone who tells you there isn’t such a thing as progress – only it’s progress in the wrong things, that’s the trouble.
Somewhere around me, I sense progress – well, I sense machinery, shiny things moving up and down, to and fro, and somehow I’m in among them, and they’re helping me. And the rock I was thinking about, turns out it isn’t on my back, it’s on my front, it’s on my chest, and I have to keep on pushing it up and pushing it up, to take in a breath, and the bloody thing keeps on falling back down again, pushing the air out, and I can’t stop, I mustn’t stop, like the poor beggars running through the barrage, there isn’t a nice cosy shell-hole for me to drop down into, and find it’s so full of water I’m going to drown in it, no, the water’s in me, and I’m going to drown in it where I lie, unless I keep on breathing, jumping from one breath to the next, like stepping-stones, don’t stop, don’t ever stop…
And all these things I’m thinking about, and think I see because I’m thinking about them, I know they’re not really there, but what’s really there is a great emptiness filled with effort, constant effort, and a constant repeated noise that I know is really important, and I wish it would stop, but at the same time I know it mustn’t stop, because if it did then I’d stop, and neither of us would ever start again.
I sense that I’m passing through stages, over thresholds, maybe I’m just getting more used to things, maybe everything’s getting easier, it’s like opening a door, it’s like lifting your head out of water.
Then I’m aware that the noise has stopped. That really worries me. I hold very, very still. Before, I was scared of stillness. Now, I’m scared of movement. Then, suddenly, I can’t help myself, I wrench my mouth open and bite in a huge breath, a gulp of air, as if I were tearing a lump of meat off a bone and swallowing it whole – only it isn’t meat, it’s plain, simple, soft air, and it goes down the right hole inside me, and it doesn’t make me choke, and only makes me cough slightly, and before I can think anything about it, my mouth’s open again for another lungful, and another and another, and then I calm down and slow down and begin to enjoy the process, like you do when you’ve been very thirsty, and your first drink doesn’t touch the sides, but then you sip, and savour each sip, and find different flavours in every single one of them.
I’m noticing how I breathe. I’m relishing it. Sometimes, the breaths are so shallow, they’re barely perceptible – it’s like watching a bouncing ball, each bounce gets smaller and smaller, and you try to count them, but you know you can’t, because it’s an infinite series that has a finite end.
Counting, counting – and then I see a clock. I’d almost forgotten they existed. It’s a digital one, and after a little while I can work out what time it is, when I manage to make the flickering seconds slow down. And then I notice the date – because it shows that as well. Three months gone by, since the last time I noticed it.
That really does make me take a deep breath again, and enjoy it. But I’m not going to bother counting my breaths. I’ll just pretend they’re an infinite series, like the bouncing ball, even though I know they’ll have a finite end. But not (thank goodness, and thank all the progress and people around me) just yet...
Mike Rogers
Challenges Met!
It’s time for our morning walk. My faithful dog, Willoughby, leads me out the door. Tennis ball and dog whistle in hand, pocket camera in my back pack, I head to our favourite pond. He loves chasing a tennis ball, especially when I toss it high in the air and he watches it fall into the water with a splash. Whoosh! In he plunges, swimming towards the ball at such a great speed he reminds of a stone skipping over the water, but not quite touching it.
As we return to the hiking trail we encounter one of my heroes: a park volunteer carrying on his back a huge plastic bag full of the trash people thoughtlessly toss during their walks. We exchange greetings as we pass and I say to him, “Well done you!” As I carry on past, I form the vision of him surrounded by the halo of sainthood. Need more like him and fewer of the spoilers. He’s the goal keeper who prevents the polluters from scoring against nature by blocking their dark challenge.
We return home and Willoughby places his soggy ball into my hand for future use.
Chuck Wallace
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