Inspiration Instigation: Fireman Fiasco

    This flash fiction was inspired by Katja's prompt. Thanks, Katja! Enjoy!

   Thick, searing smoke fills my lungs and causes tears to well up in my blue eyes. How on earth did I get myself into this situation? Letting out a strangled gasp, I leap away from the scorched, charcoaled mass of what was once my dinner and yank open the nearest window. The only edible part of the casserole is the very middle, it looks like. My eyes water afresh, this time not as a result of the acrid fumes. All that work for nothing!

   Cooking has never been my forte. I'm more of a draw-beautiful-pictures-on-the-sidewalk-with-my-nephew person. One who gets absorbed in her artistry and doesn't come up for air until her stomach begins eating her alive. But that doesn't do me much good. You can't eat chalk . . . it's not recommended, anyway. And it doesn't taste remotely appetizing. Trust me, I've tried it.

   As I stare helplessly at my newest culinary flop, a sinking feeling settles in the pit of my stomach and I glance at the time. 7 o'clock. No time to redo the casserole. And no way of salvaging my pathetic attempt at a delicious but healthful dinner.

   Supper of chalk paste spread on cement-bread for sure.

   Grumbling under my breath, I snatch up a nearby hot pad and scoop the pan out of the oven. For a brief moment of intense frustration, I waver between scraping the food into the garbage can like a normal person or pitching the entire thing out the window, pan and all. But the mental image of my mom stops me.

   Hesitating a moment to rationally evaluate a situation just may save you a lot of future regret.

   I squeak out a weary laugh and force myself to begin calmly scraping the blackened mass into the trash. Good ol' Mum. She was always getting after me for being so impulsive and reckless. I had a real issue with not stopping to think about the consequences until right as soon as they held me at gunpoint.

   "Thanks, Mum. I needed that," I murmur under my breath, smiling. A section of my heart constricts painfully in my chest at the thought of her. Oh, how I miss her. What would she say if she could see me now? She probably would be throwing back her head and laughing her unique, infectious laugh. I can almost hear her.

   My goodness, child, over a casserole? I've burnt worse than that before, and you know it. 

   Do I know it?! She hadn't been much better at cooking than I am now, but she tried so hard. And she was rewarded. The delectable chicken wings I'd eaten for my last birthday were more superb than QFC, for sure. That was a month before she passed on.

   "Well, Mum," I say, getting a better grip on both my emotions and the heavy casserole pan, "I'll try. At least so that I won't starve." I set the dish down on the counter next to the kitchen window and lean my elbows on the edge, deep in thought. A refreshing breeze filters through the mesh screen, sending my loose hairs into a wild dance around my head. What am I to do now?

   My brain has less than two seconds to consider this before a shockingly cold deluge of water sprays me square in the face. For the second time in a few minutes, I gasp and give a violent shake of my head. What on earth?

   I wipe away the water from my eyes and thrust myself forward. Standing on my tiptoes, I can just make out the shape of a little boy hanging onto something and staring in the window. I takes me a moment to realize the thing he's clutching is my garden hose.

   "Brandon Wilson Meyers!" I race through the kitchen and out the back door. The sight of my nephew standing on my ten-foot step ladder knocks the breath out of my lungs, and I have to take twenty seconds before scolding him. "What in the world are you doing? I told you to play in the sprinkler, not give my entire kitchen a dunking."

   "Look, Auntie, I'm doing like a fireman."

   The anger I felt slowly leaks out of me. But it is replaced with confusion and shame at having forgotten to take down the ladder in the first place. I keep my voice calm and controlled. "Yes, dear, but you're hardly a fireman yet, so get down."

   Brandon nods submissively and begins the ascent, clutching the hose nozzle in one hand.

   I hurry over to give him a helping hand. "Why did you spray me? And you know you are not allowed on any ladders unless I am right beside you."

   "I'm sorry, Auntie," the seven-year-old says, immediately contrite. "I saw a bunch of smoke coming out the window. I was sticking the fire out. And you looked real mad, like you wanted to throw something through the window at me."

   A smile twitches my lips. "It's putting it out, Brandon. And it was the casserole I was mad at." I bite my lower lip. "Sorry, kiddo, I wrecked our dinner."

   Brandon flashes his winning grin, revealed a gap in his front teeth. "That's okay. I wasn't s'posed to tell you this, cause it's a surprise, but Mommy is bringing some food over for you when she comes to get me. I think it's going to be extras from Mommy and Daddy's date." He looks around quickly and then drops his tone to a confidential whisper. "Don't tell. It's a secret."

   Laughter bubbles up. It appears I won't have to starve after all. "It's safe with me. Just so long as you don't let on to your mother that I felt like chucking her wedding gift to me out the window."

   The little boy giggles and thrusts out a small hand. "Deal."

*This story is mine and protected by copyright*

Signed,

Martha