Distracting

This is a short story I wrote some time ago. I came across it and thought I should share.

Sam sits in front of his computer. He knows he has work to do, but there isn’t much effort

at his disposal at the moment. Writer’s block for him is like an unemployed roommate that’s

always willing to give financial advice. The fluorescent light from the screen clashes with the

soft yellow coming from the ceiling fixture. He imagines wavelengths in an eternal struggle for

the right to illuminate his masterwork. Who wouldn’t want a chance at history? He feels bad for

letting them down. He has to think of something. He has to focus.


A fire truck passes by on the street outside, its sirens wailing. Sam cocks his head

towards the sound without taking his eyes off the blank white screen. The sound outside is

tempting but he must remain vigilant. He wonders how many people could possibly be in a 10

mile radius. Probably a lot. Probably more than he is considering. That would up the chances

for the occasional emergency. A toaster accidentally dropped in the shower. An egg beater gets

stuck in a toaster. A toaster is left outside unattended in a pile of woodchips. Sam wonders at the

math necessary to calculate the number of toaster related deaths each year when he realizes that

the sirens didn’t completely fade. The truck stopped right outside.


Rising from his seat, he steps towards the front window and looks out at the street. Holy

shit. There is a building on fire at the end of the block. It’s actually burning. Look at it. Flames

actually showing a column of thick black smoke, maybe a block away. For a moment Sam

doesn’t know what to do. His mouth is open. He nervously spins around and looks at the back of

his laptop monitor and then back out into the street. The word “deadline” floats across his mind

giving a tinge of panic. He closes his mouth and swallows dryly. In less than a few seconds Sam

has his shoes on and is jogging down the street.


He slows his pace as he nears the end of the street. The flashing lights from the truck

are lighting everything up red, white and blue. It’s like the freaking Fourth of July out here.

Visions of corndogs and fried Oreos dance through his head. Sam puts his hands on his hips

and takes a few deep breaths as he tries to take in the scene. This is exciting. His heart is racing.

How long has it been since he had to run anywhere? Wow. There are actual flames coming

out of the second story window, like in the movies. Sam sees fire marshals coming around the

corner the corner of their trucks. They are probably going to make him leave. Before they get

the chance, he walks around to the other side of the fire engine. He must be out of sight; he can

see them standing by their Range Rovers pointing at the house as firemen enter the front door.

One of them calls to him to stay where he is; out of the way. No worries; it’s not my house. How

did they see him? Is there some sort of equipment on the scene that the public hasn’t been told

about? Maybe they need it find victims inside a towering inferno. Sam can’t help but picture his

computer on the desk at home, all alone. He wonders if there are any people inside this two story

fire as he leans his back against a tree.


The fire fighters have been running in and out of the house for a few minutes now. When

they are going to turn on those hoses? He read somewhere that the water that comes out of fire

hydrants is from drainage systems and can stink like raw sewage. That just seems cruel. He

would rather let the house burn than be left with charred cinders smelling of hot Port-A-Potty.

What is that? He thought he just saw something move along the roof. There! By the

window that’s spewing flames everywhere. What is that? Is that a cat? It looks small, like a

kitten. A kitten? God damn it. Sam pulls his back off the tree and looks over at the fire marshals

working a small group of onlookers back onto the sidewalk. Shit. Should he tell them? How the

hell did a kitten get on the damn roof? How does this happen? It seems so clichéd. He glances

up for a few seconds and then back to the kitten. Maybe he could. Sam traces the tree branches

on the side of the house with his eyes. Without even thinking he is up the tree. His heart starts

to race again. What the hell is he doing, there is work to do at home? Whatever it is it has to be

quick; the file must be sent tonight or else he’ll lose his grant money. He shimmies his way onto

a branch that has grown towards the roof. Look out, here comes Spiderman.


A fire marshal is at the bottom of the tree yelling up at him. Sam is sweating now. It’s

hot up here. Yes, Mr. Fire Marshal he knows he should get down, but he’s almost there; it sees

him. Sam clamps his legs around the branch and reaches out. His arm is a good 3 feet from the

gutter. He wonders if they’re hot. The kitten makes a go for it. Damn. It’s not declawed. Tiny

little needles scurry down his arm and bury themselves into his shoulder. He tucks it under his

arm and swings around the branch and hangs his legs underneath him. He lands on his feet,

wondering if this kitten would be proud.


A person wrapped in a blanket runs over in tears. Yeah, yeah you’re welcome. No it’s

nothing. What’s its name? Frank. He likes that, but isn’t sure why. The fire marshal takes a

moment to explain why what he did was stupid, but still shakes his hand anyway, asking for his

name and address. Sam obliges, scratches the little puff ball’s head and turns around on his heels.

Putting his hands in his pockets he begins to stroll back towards his house. Did he leave the

lights on?


He did. That and the back door is open. Sam glances up at the clock on the wall. His

little endeavor cost him a half hour. Smart. The laptop is dead; great. Grabbing the charger, he

plugs the computer in and sits back down at his desk. While the computer boots up, Sam notices

a scratch on his hand. His shirt is dirty and smells like a campfire too. The computer screen

reboots and blinds him for a moment, breaking his concentration. Damn; there’s work to be


done. Now where was he?