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.