The Writer's E-Zine Home

Writers' Village University - F2K: Free Fiction Writing Course - ePress-online
Writers' Village University Membership Information

Signs of Life

Nancy L. Horner

No Smoking in the House

My entire home reeked as I sat at the computer with the windows thrown open, typing a letter to friends to remind them to check their smoke detector batteries. Earlier in the afternoon, as I rested with the bedroom door closed to block out the sound of cartoons, 10-year-old William decided to warm up a leftover hamburger.

Unfortunately, he set the microwave to cook for five minutes rather than the usual 20 seconds. By the time he came to knock on the closed bedroom door, the entire house was filled with smoke—with the exception of my bedroom—and the former hamburger had an East Coast, all-black look that gave new meaning to the word "char-broiled."

We rushed around, throwing open windows and turning on fans, then I sent William outside to keep him from breathing the smoke into his tender pink lungs. I followed to take a breath of fresh air and then returned to open a few more windows.

I had a fleeting thought when all that smoke was filling the house and I was dashing around, coughing and throwing open windows: "Where's Squad 51 with the oxygen when you need them?" That night, I dreamed about Johnny and Roy. Unfortunately, they were not giving me oxygen... they were buying groceries and then Kevin Tighe collapsed with a heart attack in the parking lot and I had to give him CPR. So much for dreams.

While we dashed around, the cats were freaking out. Here were their humans, running around like lunatics, throwing open windows and turning on ceiling fans while this nasty smell invaded their little nostrils. They were leaping around looking like, "What the hell do the felines do?" But, they didn't follow us out the door, which is really kind of horrible when you think about it. Poor little kitty lungs. Good thing cats are low to the ground.

The frightening part of this dead cow fiasco, as it turned out, was that not a single smoke detector sounded during the time the house was filled with smoke. We have four of them, scattered from just outside the kitchen to the end of the hallway outside our bedroom door. I was a little baffled as to why none of our smoke detectors went off.

Later that evening, my husband made a confession as we stood talking to a friend. "I may have borrowed a few 9-volt batteries," he said. He cringed, as if he was afraid I'd hit him. "It's the one place I know I can always find them."

Good grief. I sent the evil battery-snatcher out to get new smoke detectors to replace the nonfunctioning ones and the next day I bought a serious supply of 9-volts.

Meanwhile, messages from friends began to pour in, stories of flaming cheese toast and closed fireplace dampers. "No smoking in the house, Nancy!" My friend Greg joked.

"Ha, ha, ha, very funny," I replied. But it was nice knowing we weren't the only family who had carelessly filled a house with smoke.

A week after our smoke disaster, William was digging in the refrigerator an hour before suppertime. "Put that biscuit back and wait for your supper!" I insisted. Ignoring me, he rustled around and extracted a cold biscuit after I left the room. He peered around the corner with a goofy grin on his face. "Um, how long should I cook this biscuit?" he asked.

I looked at William and sighed. "Try 15 seconds," I said. I figured I'd rather let the child spoil his supper than have him fill the house with smoke, again. Of course, he already knew that. The giggles sort of gave him away.