The Quiet After the Call

By @RWhiteAuthor

There’s a silence most people never hear.

It’s not the kind of silence that comes with a peaceful morning or a still night in the woods. No, the silence I’m talking about is the kind that comes after the sirens fade, after the adrenaline wears off, after the final call is cleared and the uniform is back on the hook. It’s the silence of the soul, raw and stripped bare. It’s the quiet after the call.

This silence doesn’t soothe. It haunts.

After years of running into burning buildings, of holding broken bodies, of looking into eyes that knew death was near, you start to carry the noise inside you. So when the outside world finally goes still, that’s when it gets loud inside your head.

The heart races even when the danger’s gone. The mind replays what you saw in slow, painful detail—over and over, like it’s trying to make sense of something that never will. The spirit? It feels scorched. Like something sacred burned away in the heat of too many tragedies.

People think you grow numb to it. That you build a wall and shut it all out. And maybe for a while, that’s true. You learn to laugh when it hurts. You learn to compartmentalize, to separate the trauma from the task. But walls crack. Jokes run out. And one night you find yourself sitting alone at 3AM, heart pounding, eyes wide open, the screams still echoing even though they stopped hours—or years—ago.

That’s the part they don’t show in the movies. That’s the part no amount of training prepares you for.

For me, crowded places are the hardest now. Something about being shoulder to shoulder with strangers, hearing children cry, feeling the noise of life around me—it’s too much. My nervous system has been conditioned to scan for threats, to predict outcomes, to anticipate the worst. Too many calls. Too many deaths. Too many moments when someone was fine one second, and gone the next.

It’s like I’ve seen too much life unravel, and now I can’t look away.

Even joy feels dangerous sometimes. Vulnerability makes my hands shake. And on the really bad days, I find myself searching for exits even in restaurants. Just in case.

This isn’t about weakness. It’s about weight.

The kind of weight you can’t put down. You just learn how to carry it better. And maybe, if you’re lucky, you find ways to let some of the light back in.

That’s what this memoir—The Quiet After the Sirens—is really about. It’s not just a story of trauma. It’s a story of endurance. Of learning to sit with the silence. Of trying to reclaim parts of myself that were swallowed by years of chaos, grief, and survival. It’s about facing the ghosts, not to fight them, but to finally make peace.

I’m still on that journey. Still figuring out how to breathe in a world that feels too loud, too fast, too fragile. But I’ve come far enough to know healing is possible—even if it’s not linear, or easy, or complete.

If you’ve ever felt hollow after the hardest days, if you’ve ever sat in the quiet and wondered if anyone else hears what you hear—you’re not alone. This book is for you, too.

Quick Note:

I know I’ve been a little behind on National Poetry Month. Life has been moving fast—beautifully, chaotically fast. Between prepping for my own commencement ceremony and visiting colleges with my daughter as she prepares to take her next big step this August, time has been tight.

But I promise—I’ll be sharing a few more poems in the coming days. Thank you for your patience, your support, and for walking this path with me.

Stay grounded. Keep breathing. And when the quiet comes, know that healing can begin there too.

— Richard White

Read my Short Story “Blaze” Here

🧠 Mental Health Resources

• Veterans Crisis Line – 988 then press 1

• Safe Call Now – 1-206-459-3020 (for public safety workers)

• National Alliance on Mental Illness

Blaze – Creative Writing Using Symbolism

Assignment:

This week in my LIT-450 Seminar in American Literature  course we had to write a short story.

Write a short story that does not exceed 1000 words where symbolism connected to identity is an important part of your narrative. You can go online and check out flash fiction for ways that complete stories can be fewer than 1000 words. First, think up a story idea and try to write it out (see the flash fiction optional resources for help). You might begin with a line such as “If they had only known. . .” or “When they opened the door they discovered. . .” or something else that gets you writing. A key place to create and polish symbolism is through using figurative language such as metaphor or simile. Maybe something is as soft as a childhood teddy bear, which is a special kind of texture that is symbolic of the safety and comfort of childhood.

We are analyzing the theme of Identity in the course and My thesis is on Katniss Everdeen’s Identity in the Hunger Games.

Here is my short story for this weeks assignment 5-2 Journal: Creative Writing Using Symbolism

“Blaze”

You don’t choose to be a firefighter. You don’t choose to be a hero.
It’s a fire that burns inside you. Like an ember lodged in your chest that never dies, no matter how hard you try to smother it. For Chase Bowdry, that fire had always been there. It flared to life every time he strapped on his gear, every time he felt the weight of his father’s old helmet, every time he sealed his mask and heard the hiss of air. Being a firefighter was never a choice, it was a part of him.
His father called it the calling. Uncle Joe called it the curse. Chase never had a name for it. He just called it his.
The night of the Baxter Street fire started like any other. Rain lashed against the roof of the station, the wind howling like a warning. The team sat around, half-heartedly eating burnt coffee and subs, the low hum of tired chatter filling the air.
Then the call came in: Warehouse. Possible squatters. Flames were visible through the windows. The truck roared to life, its engines growling like an animal waking from a deep sleep.
When Chase arrived, he heard the fire before he saw it — the groan of bending steel, the pop and crackle of glass surrendering to heat. Inside, the building was alive, orange waves dancing and flickering across the rafters, devouring everything within its reach. It was beautiful and terrifying, like staring into the eyes of a god made of rage.
And Chase, like always, went in first. He always did.
“Basement’s clear!”
His voice crackled through the radio, the sound breaking the surrounding chaos. The weight of his father’s helmet pressed down on his head like a promise, a relic of the man who had fallen through a floor and walked out laughing, a blackened stripe across his helmet. A damn phoenix, they’d called him. Chase was just trying to be something more than the ashes left behind.
He found her on the second floor, a girl of maybe sixteen, curled up in the corner, her hoodie pulled tightly around her shoulders, her eyes wide with fear. Her body trembled like a leaf caught in the wind.
“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered, voice barely audible above the crackling fire.
Chase scanned the room, his heart sinking when he saw it—the overturned candle, its wax dripping like spilled blood across the floor. The trail led to a pile of rags soaked in something flammable. She hadn’t meant to start a fire. She’d just been trying to stay warm. One flame. That’s all it took.
Chase slung her over his shoulder. “I’ve got you,” he muttered, his heart pounding in his ears.
He was halfway down the stairs when the floor gave way beneath them.
Everything went dark.
It was as though the world collapsed in on itself. The fire roared around him, its heat whispering against his skin like the ghost of every choice that led him here. He heard the girl scream, felt her weight shift against him as they tumbled through the flames.
When Chase came to, the world was a blur of choking smoke and jagged splinters. Pain pulsed through his skull, every breath scraped like glass, and the air stank of ash and burning dreams. But beneath the rubble, her weight pressed lightly against his side—warm, trembling, alive.
Outside, the rain fell, soft and constant, as if untouched by the destruction beneath it. The chief clapped Chase on the back. “You did good, Bowdry.”
It wasn’t the gear. It wasn’t the name stitched on the jacket. It wasn’t the title of firefighter or hero that defined him.
It was the fire. The one outside, the one that destroyed. And the one inside, the one that wouldn’t let him rest.
Before the ambulance doors closed, the girl looked up at him, voice barely a whisper. “Why’d you come back for me?”
Chase met her gaze, throat tight. “Because it’s what I do.”
The doors slammed shut, and she was gone.
Chase stood there for a long time, staring at the empty street. The echoes of the night still rang in his ears. He hadn’t known what to say to her, not in that moment. But he understood now.
Fire doesn’t just burn. It reveals.
They called him a hero.
But Chase felt nothing. All he felt was the ember inside him, burning hotter.
Later, alone in the locker room, Chase stared at his reflection. Ash streaked across his face like war paint, a mask of survival. His father’s helmet sat beside him, its scorch mark gleaming like an old scar. He used to think the helmet made him who he was.
But now, he knew the truth. And in that warehouse, beneath the smoke and shattered beams, Chase saw himself—not just as a son, not just as a firefighter, and certainly not as a hero.
He saw himself as a flame.
Not the kind that consumes.
The kind that carries light.

Reflection:

In Blaze, I used the symbolism of fire to explore the identity of the main character, Chase Bowdry. Fire represents both destruction and purpose, reflecting the dual nature of Chase’s calling as a firefighter. The fire that rages around him mirrors the fire within, driving him to act and save lives, but also constantly threatening to consume him. This symbolism is deeply tied to his inner identity and the legacy of his family, especially through the scorched helmet he inherits from his father. The helmet, with its blackened stripe, serves as a powerful reminder of the dangerous yet vital role that firefighting has played in Chase’s family for generations.
I also employed metaphors and similes to enhance the connection between Chase and fire. The ember inside him, which “never dies,” reflects both his unrelenting drive and his connection to the past. His face, streaked with ash like “war paint,” symbolizes not only his survival but his transformation, the way he has been shaped by the fire’s trials and tribulations. These elements build a portrait of a man who doesn’t just fight fires—he is, in many ways, shaped by them.
The central metaphor of Chase as a flame—not one that consumes, but one that carries light—serves as the heart of the story. It illustrates how his identity isn’t forged by heroism or glory, but by his compassion, selflessness, and willingness to serve others. In the end, his sense of self isn’t defined by the fire’s destructive power, but by his ability to endure, to rise again, and to bring light where darkness once reigned. This narrative ultimately shows that identity is not shaped by what is destroyed, but by what endures—what is salvaged and carried forward through the flames.

Monologue: The Fire Within

There is a fire that burns within each of us—a blaze that flickers through the darkest nights, a flame that refuses to be extinguished by the winds of doubt or the torrents of fear. This fire, it is your resolve, your determination, your unyielding spirit. And it is this fire that will carry you through when the path ahead is treacherous, when the mountains before you loom large and shadowy, threatening to eclipse the very light of your soul.

You stand at the edge of the abyss, staring into the void that whispers lies of failure, of inadequacy, of impossibility. But hear this: defeat is not an option. The word itself is a fallacy, a mere figment of those too afraid to fight, too weary to push forward. You are not one of them. You are a warrior of the mind and heart, forged in the crucible of every battle you’ve ever fought. The scars you bear are not signs of weakness; they are the marks of your strength, the proof that you have stood your ground, that you have faced down every storm and emerged still standing.

Remember this—every challenge is a test, every setback a lesson. When the world tries to break you, when it casts shadows over your dreams, you do not shrink back. You do not yield. Instead, you stand tall, you push back with the force of a thousand storms, with the strength of a heart that knows no surrender. The flames within you grow hotter, fiercer, until they are an inferno that consumes every doubt, every fear, every obstacle in your path.

Do not let the voices of despair drown out the roar of your inner fire. For that fire is your will, your passion, your purpose. It is what drives you to rise again and again, no matter how many times you fall. It is what fuels your journey, your relentless pursuit of victory—not for the sake of others, but for the soul-deep satisfaction of knowing that you have faced the darkness and refused to let it consume you.

So when you are faced with the impossible, when the world tells you that you cannot go on, look within. Find the fire. Stoke it until it blazes with the fury of a thousand suns. And then, with the fire of your spirit lighting the way, march forward. For you are not just fighting for victory; you are fighting for the very essence of who you are. And in that battle, defeat can never be an option