Welcome to Fire

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Welcome to Fire, we hope you don't burn!

Submitted: August 02, 2015

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 02, 2015



Nurse my coffee,
warm the seat.
Laptop open, hit the screen.
Out of outlets again? Well shit.
That mechanical hum—
Where’re my lights?
Conference call begins at eight.

 “What’s caught?.. Injuries..? Anything lit..?”

There’re my lights.
Tap on the shoulder, nod to me:
“1400, meeting with Battalion three.”
Add to list an extra line down.

“End report.”

Call: off.

“Hey, type these, would you?”

Laptop growls but complies.

“Copy these, too.”

Beautiful staples litter the packet.
What a sharp fold to

"I need a thumb drive to print from here."

"Oh! Have a geek-whistle!"

It dives through the air.
Sometime later, fifteen copies.
Return to projects A, B, D.
My coffee’s cold.

“What’s blown up?”

“Forks made a run.”

“Some 8000 acres?”

“Well, more like 20.”

“Anything threatened?”


“I brought doughnuts!”

Pause the thinking to grab the snack.

“Hey, run Hal, would you?”

Shut my screen, grab my coffee.
Promotion to projector? Complete.

“Where’s the Mad?”

3-D mouse, zoom in and out.

"Find charlie papa five three."

 “What’s that dot?”

Twist and zoom to bordered red.

“Isn’t that a lookout?”

Lightning strike.”

“And just it burned...”

Tired chuckles around the table.
Three trees and the lookout.

"Someone needs to make a statement."

 "About the lookout?"

"The pooper scooper."

"Tanker took a dump."

"Sewage pond."

"You're shitting me."

"They had an incident."

A statement later, recorded well.
Spare a glance at the time.
“Oh shit! Briefing in two!”
Rolling chairs hit the walls.
Staplers fly across the hall.

The staplers’re broke!
Damn machines!”

Paperclips are used in their stead.

“Fix those, would you?”

“Come on—we’re late!”

Green shirts buttoned, boots neatly tied.
Bright pink laces tucked inside.
Bosses one, two, and three dash out the door.
Find the staples, put them in.
Leave a sticky on the tin.
Is that a stapler in the bin?
Why am I not surprised?
Turn back to Hal
To watch the show.
Which infrared?
Pick and go.
Is that my coffee by the scorpion?
It’s kind of cute, in a way.
I hope it’s dead like its friend
Ned, the camel spider.
Radio fizzles and cracks to life.
Dispatch understood, how, I don’t know.
Maybe cutout boss-four knows.

Do you know?”

No response from firefighter four.
I should sit, enjoy the quiet.
There’ll be thirteen heads in just a moment.
My coffee’s cold.
The baby’s back; I hear him coo.
Mother prints, waves, and runs.
Where’d my computer go?
I’d rather have Hal, I suppose.
My coffee’s cold.

© Copyright 2020 phantomhill. All rights reserved.

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