Hands Free by Amy Laura Jackson

My handbag slaps my hip as I climb into the ambulance. It echoes the erratic beating of my heart, the laboured beating of hers.
My handbag catches on the stretcher’s metal frame when I swing my legs up. The strap squeezes my windpipe, making my breath hitch. Her breath comes fast and shallow, muffled by an oxygen mask. The paramedic asks me questions I should know the answers to.
My handbag weighs heavy on my shoulder after they take her from my arms and lay her on a hospital bed. Her eyes, half shut, never leave me. My hands, free from their burden, shake. I clench the strap between my fingers.

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Home Alone by Jeff Taylor

“111-What’s your emergency? Police, fire or ambulance?”
“Amblince. Please hurry.”
“What’s your name, love?”
“Sophie, I’m six. Mummy’s head’s all blooded and she won’t wake up. This is Mummy’s phone.”
“Is anyone with you Sophie?”
“No. Daddy’s in ‘stralia now. Mummy’s room’s all messy too. Wake up Mummy!”
“Where do you live Sophie?”
“Thirty Totara Street Howick.”
“Good, Sophie. Someone will come soon. Do you know the siren noise?”
“Yes.”
“Well, listen and tell me when you hear one outside.”
“We’re at Auntie’s place. Auntie’s away.”
“What! Do you know auntie’s address?”
“No… Oh, yay! Amblince man’s here. I can hear him coming up the stairs. Bye.”
“No Sophie! Sophie? Sophie!”

 

Waiting by Vivienne Bailey

Tyres crunch on gravel. She holds the mohair close. Warm folds of comfort, security.
Notices the soft shoots of spring. Soon they’ll turn to golden trumpets, blue flags of hope, scarlet-fringed joy. She’d planted them last autumn. Before.
Crunching is closer. An engine stops, doors bang. Then more crunching, feet this time. Closer and closer.
“Hello, love.” A gentle voice.
Caring arms lift her body. Another bed. She reaches for the mohair.
“Here you go, dear. Take it with you.”
Seth’s blanket, still fragrant with Imperial Leather. A remnant of love.
She’s wreathed in yellow and green, ensconced in clinical kindness. A gear engages, a siren screams, a light flashes ‘Ambulance.’

 

What Doesn’t Kill You… by Cathy Walmsley

He’s gone, they’ve taken him away, weaving through Taranaki Street the siren’s fading.
Today it’s Stan at the wheel and that cheerful lass that gets his cannula straight in.
The chemo’s ravaged his young body but he’s chatting her up like it’s a night club.
Can see the flashing lights as they round the Basin Reserve. Hold my breath as they run a red light… they’re through.
Closing the front door on his mouldy flat to a life long gone, tennis trophies, a push bike, remnants from when he was intact.
By now the drip will be pumping as they fly up Adelaide Road… and we get ready for another round.

 

7 a.m. by Tiff Stewart

7 a.m., January 1st, 2016.
Calm: “Are the neighbours still on holiday?”
Sleepy: “Ugh… what time is it… ugh. Yup, yup they are. Why?”
Calm: “I think their house is on fire. I’m heading over.” (Door slamming, footsteps thudding).
Sleepy-no-longer: “Uh. What? On fire fire? Uh… I’ll call, I’ll call…”
(Shoes, jersey, where the fuck’s the phone. Bugger that’s the 4 year old awake. Oh and now the baby. Quickly, shake awake the 10 year old…)
Wide-awake-now-panicking: “The neighbour’s house is on fire. Stay here. Look after the little kids. But it’s fine, don’t worry. Don’t panic”.
(Run down front steps, panicking. Smoke drifting across the sleepy valley. Dialling, running, panicking.)

 

Stuck! by Mags Ross

Thunder crashed above. Lightning lit up the sky. The rain battered down. Trees bending in the howling wind.
And she was stuck up there. My rescue kitten and already one of our family. A wee grey ball of fluff who had made her way into our house, and our hearts. Meowing and hissing. Windswept and weary. Holding on. I had tried so hard to get her, but the ladder was too short and then the branches were too slippery. Trying the chair and the ladder together was asking for trouble, but I tried it nonetheless! Her every howl tugged at my heart strings. It was no use.
Finally, I called 111.

 

A Spark by Sarah Nutbrown

It started with a spark. A solitary spark that was spat out, tumbling over the grate and landing on the carpet. A carpet that had been there for 30 years. Feet had trampled it, the sun had faded it but it had prevailed, a reminder of bygone days. The spark had no respect for the slow destruction accepted with the passage of time. It was impatient. It fed on the worn threads, its greed feeding its strength and its strength feeding its greed. It licked and danced and devoured, unleashing a roaring beast with an insatiable hunger. The house shivered. It creaked and groaned and crumbled. It started with a spark.

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Fire Starter by Mary Little

**Call received 9:43pm, Thursday 19 May 2016**
Dispatch Operator: 111 emergency. Fire, ambulance, or police?
Caller (muffled): I’m the trouble starter.
DO: I can’t hear—
Caller: Punking instigator.
DO: Ma’am, please don’t swear. Do you need fire, ambulance, or police?
Caller: I’m the fear addicted. Danger illustrated.
DO: You need an ambulance?
Caller: I’m a firestarter. Twisted firestarter.
DO: Ambulance or fire? Is someone injured?
Caller: You’re the firestarter, twisted firestarter.
DO: Hey! You don’t know me.
Caller: I’m the bitch you hated. Filth infatuated.
DO: Janine?
Caller: Yeah, I’m the pain you tasted, fell intoxicated.
DO: I’m hanging up, Janine. I told you not to call me at work.

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