They fished in silence for an hour, standing close together on the beach. The sun set over the sea, flooding the sky with an orange glow. David looked up and down the coast in the fading light. They had the beach to themselves.
"You get any bites?"
Sam shook his head. "No, not yet."
In twenty minutes the sun had gone, and David and watched the white foam on the tops of the small waves shining in the moonlight as they came into the shore. He felt cold. "I'm going to make a fire," he said.
He reeled in his line and walked to their fishing bags and put down his rod. He went up to the high water mark, just below the dunes, to gather driftwood. He prepared a pile of wood on the sand to start a fire, but had nothing to light it with. He shivered, and walked back to Sam.
"Any bites?" he asked.
"I think I got one," said Sam, "just a minute ago."
"Maybe he stole your bait."
"Maybe."
"Hey, you got a light?" said David. "I don't have anything to start a fire." He knew Sam smoked, though he tried to keep it a secret from their mother. That meant he tried to hide it from David too.
"Yeah, I do. I thought we might want to make a fire."
David smiled. Sure you did.
Sam started winding in his line. "I'll come with you," he said. "I'm sick of standing here, catching nothing."
When he'd reeled his line in, he showed David the bare hook.
David nodded. They walked together to their fishing bags. Sam put his rod beside David's, and they walked over to the pile of driftwood nearby. Sam lit the dried-out seaweed and grass David had stuffed amongst the smaller pieces of wood. In a few minutes the fire was burning well. They sat as close as they could to the fire without burning the hairs on their legs. Neither of them spoke as they stared into the flames. The fire snapped and crackled. The waves dropping on the shoreline made a constant, beating sound.
Sam spoke first. "Do you have a problem?"
David smiled. Sam was always blunt; never the diplomat. "No, I'm just cold; and, I don't actually like fishing all that much."
Sam shrugged. "Me neither."
"I never fish, actually, except on these trips with you."
Sam nodded. "We used to love fishing, when we were boys, when Dad would take us. We had a lot of fun then, didn't we?"
David laughed at the memory. "Yeah."
Sam reached behind him for a piece of wood and placed it on the fire. Bright sparks jumped up into the smoke and then fizzled out high in the air. "I guess it was Dad who really liked to fish," he said.
"You really think so?" said David. He turned from the fire to study his younger brother's face. "Did you know he never went fishing by himself, after we'd both left home?"
Sam turned and looked David in the eye. "You sure? He used to talk about it."
"He talked a lot," said David, "but he never went. I asked Mum. She said he only ever fished with us. He never even went fishing before we were born. He only bought the gear when I was four or five."
"That's weird. Dad did do some weird things, didn't he?"
"Oh, yeah."
"Hey," said Sam, "how old's your little boy now?"
"Frank? He'll be five in a few months."
"You gonna take him fishing, like Dad took us?"
David thought for a moment, staring into the fire. "Yes," he said, turning back to Sam. "I think I will."
"That's good. If I had a kid, I'd take him fishing."
David didn't reply to that.
Sam spoke again. "Do you want to keep doing this; our once-a-year fishing trip?"
"We promised Dad."
"I know," said Sam. "Why did he make us promise, anyway? We don't even like fishing. We haven't caught a thing in years."
"Yeah, but we promised."
"You're right." Sam poked at the fire with a stick. "We'll keep doing it, then."
They drifted into silence again. They stared into the flames, poking at it with sticks, and throwing things into it. David said, "You wanna pack it in?"
"Sure, it's getting real cold now."
They put out the fire with sea water, fetched with the buckets that were meant to hold their catch. They walked slowly together up the beach to their cars. They packed away their gear, then shook hands. David reached forward and hugged his brother, awkwardly. "See you next year," he said.
"Yeah, sure; next year. Look, I'll try to call you, more often."
"Sure, that'd be great. Me too."
This story was first published in Issue 100 of Shift Miner Magazine.
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Sunday, June 6, 2010
A Good Book
The word for Sunday Scribblings No. 218 is "mess". This is my micro-sized story.
He went to his bedroom and made his bed. He made it very neatly, so that the blankets were tight across the mattress. He picked up all of his toys and clothes from the floor. Clean up your mess, he said to himself, over and over, as he worked. He said this in his head, not out loud. He was careful not to make much, but was very quiet as he tidied and sorted.
When the room was perfect, he sat on the floor in the corner and read his book. The book was good. He could imagine himself as one of the people in the book, in another place. When he was reading a good book like that, he couldn't hear the real-world sounds, like his parents yelling at each other.
He went to his bedroom and made his bed. He made it very neatly, so that the blankets were tight across the mattress. He picked up all of his toys and clothes from the floor. Clean up your mess, he said to himself, over and over, as he worked. He said this in his head, not out loud. He was careful not to make much, but was very quiet as he tidied and sorted.
When the room was perfect, he sat on the floor in the corner and read his book. The book was good. He could imagine himself as one of the people in the book, in another place. When he was reading a good book like that, he couldn't hear the real-world sounds, like his parents yelling at each other.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Days Off
This story recently appeared in Issue 85 of Shift Miner Magazine. I hope you get something out of it. Please, leave a comment.
Hal loved his family. He carried a photo of them with him, all the time. It was because he loved them that he agreed to his wife Jody's pleas to move them all to Mackay. Emerald had been a great place to live, as far as Hal was concerned. He'd made some great mates there. But Jody's friends and family were in Mackay, and she really wanted the kids to go to school there.
"Besides," said Jody, "with twelve hour shifts you're not really at home when you're working. You could just drive out from Mackay, work your tour, and then come home after your last shift."
It made a lot of sense. He really only did sleep and eat at home during his tour. Lots of others did the drive-in drive-out thing. Anyway, he liked the coast. So, they moved.
Hal found his tours to be more lonely then he'd thought he would. It was that hour or so when he got to the apartment and wound down before falling asleep. He missed the quick catch-ups with Jody, and looking in on the kids in their beds. He still fell asleep soon enough, and when Hal fell asleep, he was dead to the world. He missed them all when he woke up, too. It was like a dull ache; a longing to be somewhere else. It didn't really make much sense. When they were all in the same house he'd only ever got up and dressed in the dark anyway. Still, he'd known that they were there, at home.
On day-shifts, the drive out to the mine in the pre-dawn darkness always helped Hal to clear his head. It was his favourite time of the day. Sometimes he'd think about the work ahead, preparing himself for the day. Sometimes he'd think about his family. Sometimes, fishing.
The end of each tour ended with two or three night shifts, depending on where he was in the roster. He had a kind of feeling of expectation, driving out to the mine in the evenings for his night shifts. It was almost time for his days off; almost time to go back home.
It wasn't the night shifts themselves that Hal liked. In fact, Hal hated working nights. What he liked was knowing that he would soon be going home to his family. What he didn't like was the effort it took to stay awake. He loathed that time from about three to four in the morning, when his body craved a warm bed; but instead he was two hundred and fifty metres underground, putting up roof-bolts or driving a shuttle-car.
For Hal, the next hardest part of night shift was the drive home. The drives back to Emerald wasn't too bad. While some blokes felt better the more night shifts they did in a row, it only seemed to get worse for Hal. By the last shift of his tour, he seemed to be runing on adrenaline and willpower.
It was willpower that made Hal drive straight home to Mackay after his last shift. He didn't want to have another daytime sleep by himself in his Emerald apartment. He just wanted to get home. The mine was half an hour in the right direction anyway. As the great philosopher Meatloaf once said, "Like a bat out of hell, I'll be gone when the morning comes."
Hal worked out ways to stay awake and stay on the road on that long, tired trip home. He'd turn the radio on or played a CD, loud. He'd turn the air-conditioner onto freezing, or sometimes open a window. He would stop at the servo outside Moranbah, scratching his scalp and rubbing his face. He'd get an iced coffee from the fridge packed full of them, and then hit the road again. Next stop: Nebo. If he found himself drifting off, he'd pull over for a minute and run around the car. Hal had it worked out.
After six months, the car pretty much drove itself home. Hal cut out the Nebo stop, and sometimes Moranbah too. He got better at pushing himself through those sleepy moments. He'd focus. He'd talk to himself. He'd think about Jody and the kids. He'd keep going, going, going. Home.
An elderly couple towing their caravan with an old Landcruiser were the first on the scene where Hal's ute had been split in half by a huge gum tree about twenty metres from the road. The ambulance officers weren't able to revive him. There were no skid marks, and tests showed his brakes were working fine.
After six years, his family still miss him very much.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
High School 50 Years Ago
I've just tried out a blog called The One-Minute Writer. They give you a prompt, and you have just one minute to write about it. Believe me, it's not long. It was kind of fun though; I may try it again some time.
The prompt (from here), is:
Do you think high school is easier or harder today, than it was 50 years ago? Why?
My Response: High School 50 Years Ago
There's no doubt that high school was a lot harder fifty years ago. Just ask my grandfather. He had to walk five miles to school, sometimes in the snow. He was caned for frowning or not doing his homework. At the end of a gruelling day, he had to walk seven miles home again, in the blistering heat.
Monday, March 8, 2010
The Motivator
This story was originally published in the 5 minute fiction column of Issue 76 of Shift Miner Magazine. I previously blogged about this story here.
This is a deviation from my usual stories and has a sadder theme. I got some varied feedback on this story. This included a someone telling me that they felt that I was judging people who chose to do fly-in-fly-out type of work. He seemed to take it personally; perhaps I hit a nerve.
What do you think?
The Motivator
Trent left the job he loved to chase the pay packets that the coal mines were offering. He found a job as a boilermaker for a contracting company; though, he didn't like the work at all. He loathed the early morning starts, getting up in the dark. Welding, cutting and gouging steel in the Central Queensland heat sapped his strength and his will. In a way, the work was always changing: a dragline bucket, a stacker-reclaimer, a construction job. Really though, the work never changed.
From the very start, Trent's only reason for working in the mines was to give his family the financial security and opportunities they deserved. He kept himself going through the weeks, months and years because this motivation was so close to his heart, literally. In his left shirt pocket, Trent kept his first payslip, with a photo of his wife Alison, and their two little girls, Caitlin and Emily, glued to the back. He called it his Motivator. He had plasticised his Motivator with a laminator to protect it from the dirt, sweat and coal dust. Over time it had become covered in creases and folds, and the plastic was peeling apart at the corners. During crib times, or the lonely nights in the camp, Trent would take out his motivator to remind himself of the reasons he was sweating in the heat and the dust, and to muster the strength to get up and get back to work.
He'd done all this for them; they knew that. They must know that. Their new life had its costs, of course. Trent hadn't been there when Caitlin lost her first tooth. He was on site when Emily fell down the stairs and cut her head open. He'd offered to come home on the next plane, but no, she said, we managed okay. She didn't add, “without you”, but he'd felt it.
They'd talked about it, after he'd finished that tour: if he should leave the mines and come back. It wouldn't work, she said, with the mortgage on the home, and the car repayments, and the private school fees. He said fine, and that he was only doing it for them anyway; he was willing to pay the price.
They seemed to manage okay, on the whole; but Trent was rarely around for the little things. He could book leave and twist his boss's arm to make time for the big occasions, but the little things slipped by; one at a time, over the years.
One day he arrived home for his days off, exhausted, to an empty house. “We've grown apart,” she said when he found her, eventually, at her mother's place. “You're not the same person any more, and neither am I.”
“I did all this for you,” said Trent.
“I know, I know; but it's not going to work. Don't worry about us, we'll manage okay.”
There were a lot of things Trent wanted to say then, but he didn't. He couldn't find the words, so he stood there like an idiot, with his mouth open. He thought of things he could have said, later.
Trent keeps working in the mines on the roster he still hates. He still does it for the girls, the two little ones mostly. He hopes that one day soon they won't despise him like they do now; that they'll grow out of it. He hopes that Alison will come back to him. A stupid hope, he knows, but it's still his hope. He can forget the pain and the past with the hard work and the hot sun and the scorching steel. He can forget until crib time, when he pulls out his motivator, and clenches his jaw to hold back the tears.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Crossing the Tarmac
This a response to a writing challenge. Mez told me to write a story about "the person you'd least expect to see in an airport terminal". I hope this very short story meets with her (and your) approval. Please rate this story below, and leave comments.
David walked in line with the other passengers from the plane towards the terminal. He adjusted his tie with his free right hand: he always felt like he was on show, walking on the tarmac. He remembered how, as a boy, his parents would take him and his brother Adrian to the observation deck to look at the planes. Adrian had been obsessed with planes, but David had been intrigued by the people walking between the planes and the terminal. Now he looked up to the observation deck and wondered if some other young boy was up there, dreaming about the destinations and motivations of the passengers below, as he once did.
David didn't know who was going to pick him up from the airport. Things were hectic at the family home, with the whole family converging on the town for his grandfather's funeral. In any case, he'd been assured that someone would be sent to fetch him. That could be awkward. There was a handful of people in David's extended family that he would loathe getting into a car with, and about the same number that felt the same way about David. Eventually, David decided that his sister May would get the job. Though they only talked on the phone a few times a year – life was just so busy – they didn't hate each other. How many kids did May have now?, he wondered. Four? Yes four, definitely; or five. David didn't mind his sister, and he could get on with May's husband (what was his name?), but he really couldn't stand his nephews and nieces. He hoped she didn't bring any to the airport. The small ones were screaming poo factories. The big ones had been hitting puberty pretty hard last time David had had the misfortune of crossing paths with them. That was about two years ago; maybe three.
As the glass door to the terminal opened, covering David with a gust of cold air-conditioning, he decided that starting now, he'd keep in better contact with his family gain. He knew it was guilt that drove him to make this secret commitment, but he didn't care. It was a promise he'd made, and broken, plenty of times before. It made him feel better, for a while.
Inside the terminal, David looked around for his sister. He couldn't see her. Instead, a tall, blonde bombshell that looked no more than sixteen or seventeen years old bounded up to him, gave him a big hug, and kissed him on the cheek. "Hello Uncle David," she said. "I'm here to pick you up. Did you check any baggage, or do you just have the carry-on?"
David walked in line with the other passengers from the plane towards the terminal. He adjusted his tie with his free right hand: he always felt like he was on show, walking on the tarmac. He remembered how, as a boy, his parents would take him and his brother Adrian to the observation deck to look at the planes. Adrian had been obsessed with planes, but David had been intrigued by the people walking between the planes and the terminal. Now he looked up to the observation deck and wondered if some other young boy was up there, dreaming about the destinations and motivations of the passengers below, as he once did.
David didn't know who was going to pick him up from the airport. Things were hectic at the family home, with the whole family converging on the town for his grandfather's funeral. In any case, he'd been assured that someone would be sent to fetch him. That could be awkward. There was a handful of people in David's extended family that he would loathe getting into a car with, and about the same number that felt the same way about David. Eventually, David decided that his sister May would get the job. Though they only talked on the phone a few times a year – life was just so busy – they didn't hate each other. How many kids did May have now?, he wondered. Four? Yes four, definitely; or five. David didn't mind his sister, and he could get on with May's husband (what was his name?), but he really couldn't stand his nephews and nieces. He hoped she didn't bring any to the airport. The small ones were screaming poo factories. The big ones had been hitting puberty pretty hard last time David had had the misfortune of crossing paths with them. That was about two years ago; maybe three.
As the glass door to the terminal opened, covering David with a gust of cold air-conditioning, he decided that starting now, he'd keep in better contact with his family gain. He knew it was guilt that drove him to make this secret commitment, but he didn't care. It was a promise he'd made, and broken, plenty of times before. It made him feel better, for a while.
Inside the terminal, David looked around for his sister. He couldn't see her. Instead, a tall, blonde bombshell that looked no more than sixteen or seventeen years old bounded up to him, gave him a big hug, and kissed him on the cheek. "Hello Uncle David," she said. "I'm here to pick you up. Did you check any baggage, or do you just have the carry-on?"
Friday, November 20, 2009
Inconsiderate
A piercing shriek reverberates throughout the train carriage. It stings my ears, and I cover them with my hands. The muscles in my neck clench up and spasms shoot down past my shoulders. I stop breathing momentarily. The hubbub of conversation and laughter within the carriage stops cold, and an elderly man across the aisle clutches desperately at his hearing aid.
The apocalyptic cry came from a young boy, a toddler really, sitting two rows in front of me. I seethe as I fix my eyes on him. He's sitting next to a woman who I assume is his mother. She looks ghastly, though she would not yet be thirty years old. The woman doesn't react to the child, but continues to stare out of the window.
How inconsiderate! She should do something about that child.
The child hits the woman's arm and shouts at her, "Mummy!"
The woman turns slowly from the window, focuses on the boy, gives him a weak smile. "Yes, Danny?"
The boy says nothing, but turns around and wriggles backwards into his mothers side. She puts her arm around him, kisses the top of his head, and then turns back to the window.
The other passengers in the train return to their own books, newspapers and conversations. Minutes pass; we stop at Indooroopily Station, and then continue towards Ipswich.
As we are leaving Oxley Station, the boy screams again. My nerves are still frayed from the first outburst. The noise invades my flesh like some demonic force. I feel a stabbing pain in behind my eyes, and my neck clenches up again. A tic starts in my right cheek. I glare at the mother with freshly kindled wrath, yet she continues to stare into the window.
It is just unacceptable to allow that sort of behaviour. How inconsiderate!
I continue to stare, hoping she will glance my way, so that my scowling scrutiny might communicate my intense disapproval. I see that she truly is a loathsome creature. Her hair is a mess. Her eyes are bloodshot, and there are dark orbs beneath them on her cheeks.
Probably on drugs. Calls herself a mother? Where is the boy's father? Perhaps she doesn't even know who the father is! Some people in this world are just trash; it makes me sick.
I look around the carriage. Some of the other passengers are also trying to stare the woman down. A few of them share a knowing look with me. The mother is unperturbed, however. She sits, vacantly drawn to the world outside her window, her head rocking slightly with the sway of the carriage.
Someone needs to tell that woman to bring her child into line. It's upsetting not just me, but everyone else on the train. She may be inconsiderate of others, but I'm not. I'm going to do something about it, for everyone's sake.
I walk over to the woman and take the seat opposite. I say, "Excuse me", but there is no reaction. I cough, and again say, "Excuse me".
She is completely ignoring me.
I reach out and tap her on the shoulder, and quite loudly now, say, "Excuse me!"
She turns her head from the window and focuses her bleary eyes on mine. "Sorry," she says, "can I help you?"
"Yes, I think you can," I reply, pointing at the child. "Your boy really is very loud, and is causing quite a disturbance to the good people on this carriage. I'd just like to ask you to show some consideration, and keep him a little more under control."
There: I said it.
The woman looks around the carriage, and seems to notice for the first time that every eye and ear in the place is on her.
The automated public address system announces to the hushed carriage, "The next station is Darra."
Tears form in the woman's eyes as she says, "I'm so sorry. Danny's having a lot of trouble coping; we both are, really. My husband – his father – we just had the funeral yesterday. This our station coming up right now. We won't bother you much longer."
The apocalyptic cry came from a young boy, a toddler really, sitting two rows in front of me. I seethe as I fix my eyes on him. He's sitting next to a woman who I assume is his mother. She looks ghastly, though she would not yet be thirty years old. The woman doesn't react to the child, but continues to stare out of the window.
How inconsiderate! She should do something about that child.
The child hits the woman's arm and shouts at her, "Mummy!"
The woman turns slowly from the window, focuses on the boy, gives him a weak smile. "Yes, Danny?"
The boy says nothing, but turns around and wriggles backwards into his mothers side. She puts her arm around him, kisses the top of his head, and then turns back to the window.
The other passengers in the train return to their own books, newspapers and conversations. Minutes pass; we stop at Indooroopily Station, and then continue towards Ipswich.
As we are leaving Oxley Station, the boy screams again. My nerves are still frayed from the first outburst. The noise invades my flesh like some demonic force. I feel a stabbing pain in behind my eyes, and my neck clenches up again. A tic starts in my right cheek. I glare at the mother with freshly kindled wrath, yet she continues to stare into the window.
It is just unacceptable to allow that sort of behaviour. How inconsiderate!
I continue to stare, hoping she will glance my way, so that my scowling scrutiny might communicate my intense disapproval. I see that she truly is a loathsome creature. Her hair is a mess. Her eyes are bloodshot, and there are dark orbs beneath them on her cheeks.
Probably on drugs. Calls herself a mother? Where is the boy's father? Perhaps she doesn't even know who the father is! Some people in this world are just trash; it makes me sick.
I look around the carriage. Some of the other passengers are also trying to stare the woman down. A few of them share a knowing look with me. The mother is unperturbed, however. She sits, vacantly drawn to the world outside her window, her head rocking slightly with the sway of the carriage.
Someone needs to tell that woman to bring her child into line. It's upsetting not just me, but everyone else on the train. She may be inconsiderate of others, but I'm not. I'm going to do something about it, for everyone's sake.
I walk over to the woman and take the seat opposite. I say, "Excuse me", but there is no reaction. I cough, and again say, "Excuse me".
She is completely ignoring me.
I reach out and tap her on the shoulder, and quite loudly now, say, "Excuse me!"
She turns her head from the window and focuses her bleary eyes on mine. "Sorry," she says, "can I help you?"
"Yes, I think you can," I reply, pointing at the child. "Your boy really is very loud, and is causing quite a disturbance to the good people on this carriage. I'd just like to ask you to show some consideration, and keep him a little more under control."
There: I said it.
The woman looks around the carriage, and seems to notice for the first time that every eye and ear in the place is on her.
The automated public address system announces to the hushed carriage, "The next station is Darra."
Tears form in the woman's eyes as she says, "I'm so sorry. Danny's having a lot of trouble coping; we both are, really. My husband – his father – we just had the funeral yesterday. This our station coming up right now. We won't bother you much longer."
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