The wheels of the Landcruiser ute spun in the dirt for just a second as Tim left the light vehicle go-line. He knew he shouldn’t have done it, but it gave him at least some satisfaction. He’d just had what his boss George had called a “Performance coaching discussion”. It had felt to Tim more like a good old-fashioned chewing out.
Unfair. That was the best word to describe it. There were other, harsher, cruder words that came to his mind, and to his lips, but “unfair” was what stuck with him. What was the exact phrase? Carelessness – that was it, no – “lack of attention to detail”. How many details were there to pay attention to when you pushed dirt and rock and coal around with a D11 bulldozer?
Tim felt the back-end go sideways – just a little – as he turned left onto the haul road. He realised as he did it that he hadn’t looked right, at all. He checked his mirror quickly, and saw no vehicles. Lucky. He slammed it into second.
“At least something’s going my way today,” he said aloud, to himself. He shook his head at his own stupidity. Any one of the rear-dump trucks driving along the haul road could easily have squashed him and his ute to just a few inches thick, if it’d been there to run him over.
Soon enough, Tim was complaining to himself about his boss again. “Inattention to detail,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. “Where does she get this stuff from?”
Suddenly Tim grabbed the two-way radio, and called up the OCE, and told him he was entering the pit area. White lie, of course. Entering – entered – it was a grey area.
He tried to relax as he drove down the haul road. It was hard to relax. With things the way they were at home: first with the kids, and now with the wife talking about “taking some time to re-evaluate things,” – Tim muttered that phrase to himself again. Yeah, he thought, it’s bad enough at home, without George making a mountain out of a molehill. She was normally okay, but then, nobody’s perfect. What a way to come back onto shift from his days off.
Tim was looking forward to the solitude of working on the dozer. He’d probably even have crib on the machine today, he thought, the way he was feeling about people in general.
He pulled up behind his dozer, grabbed his crib bag and went up onto the machine. He snatched up the pre-start book, hoping it’d been done for the shift already, which it hadn’t. He got out of the cab, checked the oil and coolant in the engine bay and then glanced at the tracks. He got back into the machine and ticked off the rest of the prestart. If it was okay last shift, it’ll be okay now. He copied some comment about a problem with the mirror from the last prestart sheet. He tossed the pre-start book aside and then started up the engine. The throbbing of the diesel engine made him feel better almost immediately. After a minute to warm up the beast, he opened up the throttle, and smiled for the first time that day.
He looked out at the job in front of him: just a whole lot of cleaning up of the coal seam, really. Good, solitary work – no-one to mess things up for him. Tim lifted the blade, and then checked his mirrors before backing up. Once he’d gone back about as far as he thought he needed, he looked back in front of him and saw something that he didn’t recognise at first; not for about five seconds. Then he realised that the odd-shaped little thing was what used to be a Landcruiser ute. The ute he’d parked there himself.
“So that,” he said to himself, as he shook his head, “Is what she meant by ‘lack of attention to detail’.”
This story first appeared in Shift Miner Magazine.
Showing posts with label flash fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label flash fiction. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Real Threats
Tim sat in the crowded departure lounge, flipping through a magazine, bored. He looked around every so often to see others also waiting, also bored. There was a TV mounted high on the wall showing an American soapie, with the sound muted, thankfully.
A young Indian-looking man came in, wearing a CIO Mining shirt like Tim's. He saw Tim, and made his way over. CIO was a multinational mining company; it was common for it's employees to meet each other randomly at airports.
"Hello," said the newcomer. "I'm Saleem. I'm an electrical grad up at Western Creek Coal." He sat down across from Tim, and put his laptop bag beside him. He had just the slightest trace of an accent.
"I'm Tim." He leaned forward and they shook hands across the aisle. "I do SAP support for all the Queensland and New South Wales coal sites."
Saleem smiled. "You must fly a lot, then."
Tim grinned. "Platinum frequent flyer, most years."
"That would drive me crazy," said Saleem. "No matter how much I fly, the security just frustrates me. I get the random explosive check every time I come through. I just had my carry-on searched, after the x-ray check."
"Really?" said Tim. "I've never had them go through my carry-on."
Saleem shrugged. "It's one of the hazards of looking like me, rather than you," he said, matter-of-factly. He added, "And having Muhammad as my first name doesn't help."
"Saleem's not your first name?"
"Where my family's from in Pakistan, Muhammad is every man's first name. Saleem is my second name; it's what I've always been called by."
"Well, I'm sorry if they give you a hard time just for that. I think security is important, but they shouldn't be targeting you just because of what you look like, or for your religion. That's just prejudice. Security should be focussed on real threats."
Tim realised he was starting to rant. He changed the subject, and asked Saleem if he'd been with CIO for long. Eighteen months, he said.
Suddenly Saleem asked, "Hey, are you Tim Murdoch?"
"Yeah, that's right."
Saleem smiled. "I've actually been meaning to give you a call – everyone says I should talk to you. I need your expertise on a project I'm working on."
Tim smiled back. He liked helping people with SAP problems, and he loved being seen as the go-to man. "What can I do you for?"
"I need your help to make a bomb," said Saleem.
Tim blinked. The people around fell silent. No one looked directly at them, but Tim could feel their eyes, and he wasn't good at feeling that type of thing. He coughed, then said softly, "You need my help for what?"
Saleem looked around, then back at Tim. "To make a bomb. Everyone says you're the one to talk to."
"Everyone?"
"Sure: my boss, other grads, lots of people. They say you've made more bombs than anyone else in CIO. That you make them quickly, and, most importantly as far as I'm concerned, you get them right, the first time."
The circle of quiet, nervous people had expanded now, like a ripple in a pond. The entire departure lounge was hanging on their every word, though everyone kept looking at their magazines and laptops, or at the TV, or out the window.
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."
Saleem looked bemused. "You're are the SAP guru, Tim Murdoch?"
Tim smiled, self-consciously. He liked being called a guru, though he'd never admit it, and he sometimes even pretended to complain about it. "Hardly a guru," he said, "but I know a thing or two about SAP."
"Then why don't you know about how to make bombs? I'm quite new to SAP myself, but I thought that building a Bill of Materials would be child's play for someone like you."
Tim almost choked. Of course: Bill of Materials. He always referred to Bills of Materials as "BOM's", for short. Everyone did. Saleem had been after his expertise, so why on earth had Tim thought he was talking about building a bomb?
"Oh," he said, after a few moments. "You mean you want my help to build a BOM!"
Saleem's mouth dropped open. "Isn't this what I've been saying for five minutes?" he said. He spoke quickly now, and louder, and his accent was becoming stronger. "I have all the parts and components. I just need you to help me build my BOM!"
Tim looked up then, and saw the security guards. There seemed to be a dozen, or more, coming at them from every direction.
This story was published this week in Issue 95 of Shift Miner Magazine This is also my #fridayflash for 17 September.
What's SAP? Almost all the readers of Shift Miner will know what SAP is; but you may not. SAP is one of the major "Business Management Software Applications". Among many other things, this type of software is used by mining companies (and other major corporations) to organise and track maintenance and other aspects of asset management. In industry, one of the steps of procuring a new piece of equipment is to set up the "BOMs" (Bills of Materials), so that the "system" has a record of all the parts, how many are stocked, and where to buy them. People in this part of the industry talk about BOMs ("bombs") all the time.
I'm sorry if the humour in this piece is too much of an "in-joke" ; however, I hope the underlying message still comes through.
A young Indian-looking man came in, wearing a CIO Mining shirt like Tim's. He saw Tim, and made his way over. CIO was a multinational mining company; it was common for it's employees to meet each other randomly at airports.
"Hello," said the newcomer. "I'm Saleem. I'm an electrical grad up at Western Creek Coal." He sat down across from Tim, and put his laptop bag beside him. He had just the slightest trace of an accent.
"I'm Tim." He leaned forward and they shook hands across the aisle. "I do SAP support for all the Queensland and New South Wales coal sites."
Saleem smiled. "You must fly a lot, then."
Tim grinned. "Platinum frequent flyer, most years."
"That would drive me crazy," said Saleem. "No matter how much I fly, the security just frustrates me. I get the random explosive check every time I come through. I just had my carry-on searched, after the x-ray check."
"Really?" said Tim. "I've never had them go through my carry-on."
Saleem shrugged. "It's one of the hazards of looking like me, rather than you," he said, matter-of-factly. He added, "And having Muhammad as my first name doesn't help."
"Saleem's not your first name?"
"Where my family's from in Pakistan, Muhammad is every man's first name. Saleem is my second name; it's what I've always been called by."
"Well, I'm sorry if they give you a hard time just for that. I think security is important, but they shouldn't be targeting you just because of what you look like, or for your religion. That's just prejudice. Security should be focussed on real threats."
Tim realised he was starting to rant. He changed the subject, and asked Saleem if he'd been with CIO for long. Eighteen months, he said.
Suddenly Saleem asked, "Hey, are you Tim Murdoch?"
"Yeah, that's right."
Saleem smiled. "I've actually been meaning to give you a call – everyone says I should talk to you. I need your expertise on a project I'm working on."
Tim smiled back. He liked helping people with SAP problems, and he loved being seen as the go-to man. "What can I do you for?"
"I need your help to make a bomb," said Saleem.
Tim blinked. The people around fell silent. No one looked directly at them, but Tim could feel their eyes, and he wasn't good at feeling that type of thing. He coughed, then said softly, "You need my help for what?"
Saleem looked around, then back at Tim. "To make a bomb. Everyone says you're the one to talk to."
"Everyone?"
"Sure: my boss, other grads, lots of people. They say you've made more bombs than anyone else in CIO. That you make them quickly, and, most importantly as far as I'm concerned, you get them right, the first time."
The circle of quiet, nervous people had expanded now, like a ripple in a pond. The entire departure lounge was hanging on their every word, though everyone kept looking at their magazines and laptops, or at the TV, or out the window.
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."
Saleem looked bemused. "You're are the SAP guru, Tim Murdoch?"
Tim smiled, self-consciously. He liked being called a guru, though he'd never admit it, and he sometimes even pretended to complain about it. "Hardly a guru," he said, "but I know a thing or two about SAP."
"Then why don't you know about how to make bombs? I'm quite new to SAP myself, but I thought that building a Bill of Materials would be child's play for someone like you."
Tim almost choked. Of course: Bill of Materials. He always referred to Bills of Materials as "BOM's", for short. Everyone did. Saleem had been after his expertise, so why on earth had Tim thought he was talking about building a bomb?
"Oh," he said, after a few moments. "You mean you want my help to build a BOM!"
Saleem's mouth dropped open. "Isn't this what I've been saying for five minutes?" he said. He spoke quickly now, and louder, and his accent was becoming stronger. "I have all the parts and components. I just need you to help me build my BOM!"
Tim looked up then, and saw the security guards. There seemed to be a dozen, or more, coming at them from every direction.
This story was published this week in Issue 95 of Shift Miner Magazine This is also my #fridayflash for 17 September.
What's SAP? Almost all the readers of Shift Miner will know what SAP is; but you may not. SAP is one of the major "Business Management Software Applications". Among many other things, this type of software is used by mining companies (and other major corporations) to organise and track maintenance and other aspects of asset management. In industry, one of the steps of procuring a new piece of equipment is to set up the "BOMs" (Bills of Materials), so that the "system" has a record of all the parts, how many are stocked, and where to buy them. People in this part of the industry talk about BOMs ("bombs") all the time.
I'm sorry if the humour in this piece is too much of an "in-joke" ; however, I hope the underlying message still comes through.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Visiting Esme
“Good morning Esme, how are you today?” said Jim, his voice bright and cheery. He looked into her face for a glimmer of recognition, but saw only cold mistrust.
“I'm fine, thank you very much,” said Esme loudly, peering up at him. “But, who are you? And what do you want?”
There were six patients at Whitman Park Aged Care Home, including Esme, whose religious affiliation was listed as “Presbyterian”. It was Jim’s right, and duty, as the local Presbyterian minister, to visit them each week. Jim did his visiting on Thursday mornings. It suited him as well as any other time. The old fogies that kept track of days and times appreciated the routine, and it made no difference to the others.
And then there was Esme. She had her good days and her bad days, but overall, Esme's dementia was a case of steady decline. On a good day she showed a vague sense of having met Jim before. It didn't help for him to insist that he had known her his whole life. Her responses to such notions were belligerent, and often violent.
After introducing himself as the minister, Jim won her affection with some licorice all-sorts. It was a cheap trick, but he always used it, because it worked.
“These are lovely,” she said. “I can’t say I’ve had them before, but they are just lovely.”
Esme told Jim she’d had a terrible night's sleep. “Those young people in the flat downstairs had their music on so loud, the whole night long,” she said. Her hands trembled as she spoke. “Not that I call it music. Bang, bang, bang! That's all it is. Noise. That's what it is: just noise. Something should be done about it. Someone should do something.” She dabbed at the edge of her mouth with a handkerchief.
Jim blinked. He was still not immune to the things that she could say. Whitman Park was a single-story complex, flat on the ground; there was no ‘downstairs’. He bit his lip and swallowed and prayed, quietly in his mind, for strength.
“I'm sorry to hear that Esme,” he said. “Tell you what: I'll have a good stern talk with them about it on my way home. I’ll make sure that it doesn't happen again. How does that sound?”
Esme smiled. Her glasses glinted as she sat up in her chair. “Oh, would you? Would you really?”
“Sure,” said Jim as he got up. He felt claustrophobic.
Esme asked him to stay a while longer. “You've only just got here.”
But Jim had to leave. He couldn’t make himself stay. He retreated, shuffling backwards through the door, and waved as he left. Esme stayed in her armchair, watching him go, looking bewildered.
Jim marched quickly through the corridors of Whitman Park, out into the fresh air, and towards his car. He leaned against the car and took deep breaths to calm himself down. He took a tissue from his pocket and wiped the tears from his face.
He still wasn’t sure if he had the faith or the strength it took to be a minister. They hadn't trained him for this sort of thing at the college, and God felt farther away than ever.
Visiting Esme was killing him. He did it because it was what he had promised to do, and to be, but he wished he was someone else. He wished that Esme would hurry up and die. Take her soon, Lord, please, he prayed, She doesn’t know me. She doesn’t even know her own son.
“I'm fine, thank you very much,” said Esme loudly, peering up at him. “But, who are you? And what do you want?”
There were six patients at Whitman Park Aged Care Home, including Esme, whose religious affiliation was listed as “Presbyterian”. It was Jim’s right, and duty, as the local Presbyterian minister, to visit them each week. Jim did his visiting on Thursday mornings. It suited him as well as any other time. The old fogies that kept track of days and times appreciated the routine, and it made no difference to the others.
And then there was Esme. She had her good days and her bad days, but overall, Esme's dementia was a case of steady decline. On a good day she showed a vague sense of having met Jim before. It didn't help for him to insist that he had known her his whole life. Her responses to such notions were belligerent, and often violent.
After introducing himself as the minister, Jim won her affection with some licorice all-sorts. It was a cheap trick, but he always used it, because it worked.
“These are lovely,” she said. “I can’t say I’ve had them before, but they are just lovely.”
Esme told Jim she’d had a terrible night's sleep. “Those young people in the flat downstairs had their music on so loud, the whole night long,” she said. Her hands trembled as she spoke. “Not that I call it music. Bang, bang, bang! That's all it is. Noise. That's what it is: just noise. Something should be done about it. Someone should do something.” She dabbed at the edge of her mouth with a handkerchief.
Jim blinked. He was still not immune to the things that she could say. Whitman Park was a single-story complex, flat on the ground; there was no ‘downstairs’. He bit his lip and swallowed and prayed, quietly in his mind, for strength.
“I'm sorry to hear that Esme,” he said. “Tell you what: I'll have a good stern talk with them about it on my way home. I’ll make sure that it doesn't happen again. How does that sound?”
Esme smiled. Her glasses glinted as she sat up in her chair. “Oh, would you? Would you really?”
“Sure,” said Jim as he got up. He felt claustrophobic.
Esme asked him to stay a while longer. “You've only just got here.”
But Jim had to leave. He couldn’t make himself stay. He retreated, shuffling backwards through the door, and waved as he left. Esme stayed in her armchair, watching him go, looking bewildered.
Jim marched quickly through the corridors of Whitman Park, out into the fresh air, and towards his car. He leaned against the car and took deep breaths to calm himself down. He took a tissue from his pocket and wiped the tears from his face.
He still wasn’t sure if he had the faith or the strength it took to be a minister. They hadn't trained him for this sort of thing at the college, and God felt farther away than ever.
Visiting Esme was killing him. He did it because it was what he had promised to do, and to be, but he wished he was someone else. He wished that Esme would hurry up and die. Take her soon, Lord, please, he prayed, She doesn’t know me. She doesn’t even know her own son.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
The Realist
The following scene is inspired by Three Word Wednesday number CCIV. The words are break, negative and surface, and are shown in bold below.
Piet didn't consider himself to be a negative person; a pessimist. He was a realist. He could objectively assess any situation. He looked below the surface of a problem, identifying the root causes, and therefore the cures. Yes, a realist.
But, as Piet thought about his marriage, and what it had become, and his prospects of making it once again what it once had been, there was little he could do except break down and cry; again.
After a few minutes, he could control his breathing better. He wiped his face and blew his nose and dropped the tissue alongside a pile of rubbish on the lounge-room floor. He looked around for his wallet and keys, then left for the bottle-shop. He'd be spending the evening with a bottle of Johnny Walker, again.
Piet didn't consider himself to be a negative person; a pessimist. He was a realist. He could objectively assess any situation. He looked below the surface of a problem, identifying the root causes, and therefore the cures. Yes, a realist.
But, as Piet thought about his marriage, and what it had become, and his prospects of making it once again what it once had been, there was little he could do except break down and cry; again.
After a few minutes, he could control his breathing better. He wiped his face and blew his nose and dropped the tissue alongside a pile of rubbish on the lounge-room floor. He looked around for his wallet and keys, then left for the bottle-shop. He'd be spending the evening with a bottle of Johnny Walker, again.
Monday, August 30, 2010
The Legend of Larry
Have you ever told a ghost story to scare the wits out of the gullible? Who hasn't? Perhaps you pass on the legends of the spirits that roam a place you've lived or worked. In any case, I hope you get a buzz out of this piece. The Legend of Larry was published yesterday in Issue 94 of Shift Miner Magazine.
The Legend of Larry
It was Damon's first tour on the crew when, at smoko on the first night-shift, Wazza began to tell him the Legend of Larry.
"Who's Larry?" asked Damon as he took his crib from the microwave, wincing at the heat.
"Larry was a rigger," said Wazza, then took a sip of his tea. "He worked on the construction project for this plant, back in the eighties. He died on the job." Wazza took a bite of his toast.
Damon's eyebrows shot up, and he sat down eagerly across the table. "How'd he die?"
Wazza kept his face looking serious. The young bloke was taking the bait nicely. "He fell, from the top, to the bottom."
"No harness?"
"Not in those days, kid. No harnesses, lanyards, EWPs. Too expensive, and slowed the job down. Riggers walked straight out on the I-beams, 30 metres in the air, no problems."
"But he fell?"
"Yeah. They pushed poor Larry."
Damon's mouth opened. "They pushed him off a beam?"
Wazza chuckled. "No, they worked him too hard. The project was behind schedule and over budget. So, they started a night-shift, and gave everyone the hurry-up. Larry had already worked the whole day-shift, but they were short on blokes, and offered him double time. On top of that, the lighting on the job was terrible, because they hadn't planned for night-shift."
Wazza took another sip from his tea, drawing the story out, and shook his head slowly. "They found where Larry slipped. A patch of grease had been spilled on the beam. It was left there, because of all the rush."
"Wow," said Damon, who'd been so rapt in the story, he hadn't touched his crib. He took a mouthful, and swallowed. "I'd hate to be the one that left that grease!"
Wazza stared hard back at Damon.
Damon's eyes opened wide. "It wasn't … you, was it?"
Wazza shook his head. "No, but I knew him. He fell apart; became a real mess. Still in jail, I think."
Damon went back to eating his meal. Wazza studiously ignored him while he finished his toast and tried to finish a sudoku in the newspaper someone had left on the table.
"Thanks for telling me about all that," said Damon. "I've always been real careful with working at heights, but that's a real good safety share."
Wazza shook his head slowly. "It's not a work-at-heights safety share, kid. You need to respect Larry, and look out for him. You need to let him get to know you."
Damon looked confused.
Wazza said, "He knows the rest of us, but he'll come visit you soon. New blood."
"Didn't you say he's dead?"
"His body is dead; saw that myself. But, his spirit will never rest. Can't be sure why, but I think he stays around to look after us."
Damon laughed. "You're telling me Larry's a ghost? That this is a haunted wash-plant?"
"I don't use those words," said Wazza, keeping his tone serious. "But yes, Larry's spirit wanders around this plant – especially on night-shifts. There's no other way to explain some of the things that have happened here, over the years."
Wazza rinsed off his cup and plant and went back out into the plant.
At about three in the morning, when Damon was hosing in on the ground floor, Wazza set up Larry on the floor above, beside the reject conveyor. He could barely keep from laughing as he tied lengths of thin rope through holes in the shoulders of an old high-vis raincoat.
He got in position where he could see Damon, his head down, watching the spray of water from the hose. Wazza dangled the raincoat over the edge and lowered it on the ropes so it came up just behind Damon. He reached out and swung the rope so the raincoat brushed against Damon's back.
Damon turned slowly, and faced the raincoat. He stood dead still. Then he looked straight up at Wazza; but Wazza didn't see Damon's face. Instead, of Damon's face there was a ghostly-white skull.
Wazza dropped the ropes and ran.
Damon took the mask off and stuffed it in his jacket. He smiled contentedly as he went back to hosing.
Edit: Typos as per John Wiswell's comments. Thanks, John.
The Legend of Larry
It was Damon's first tour on the crew when, at smoko on the first night-shift, Wazza began to tell him the Legend of Larry.
"Who's Larry?" asked Damon as he took his crib from the microwave, wincing at the heat.
"Larry was a rigger," said Wazza, then took a sip of his tea. "He worked on the construction project for this plant, back in the eighties. He died on the job." Wazza took a bite of his toast.
Damon's eyebrows shot up, and he sat down eagerly across the table. "How'd he die?"
Wazza kept his face looking serious. The young bloke was taking the bait nicely. "He fell, from the top, to the bottom."
"No harness?"
"Not in those days, kid. No harnesses, lanyards, EWPs. Too expensive, and slowed the job down. Riggers walked straight out on the I-beams, 30 metres in the air, no problems."
"But he fell?"
"Yeah. They pushed poor Larry."
Damon's mouth opened. "They pushed him off a beam?"
Wazza chuckled. "No, they worked him too hard. The project was behind schedule and over budget. So, they started a night-shift, and gave everyone the hurry-up. Larry had already worked the whole day-shift, but they were short on blokes, and offered him double time. On top of that, the lighting on the job was terrible, because they hadn't planned for night-shift."
Wazza took another sip from his tea, drawing the story out, and shook his head slowly. "They found where Larry slipped. A patch of grease had been spilled on the beam. It was left there, because of all the rush."
"Wow," said Damon, who'd been so rapt in the story, he hadn't touched his crib. He took a mouthful, and swallowed. "I'd hate to be the one that left that grease!"
Wazza stared hard back at Damon.
Damon's eyes opened wide. "It wasn't … you, was it?"
Wazza shook his head. "No, but I knew him. He fell apart; became a real mess. Still in jail, I think."
Damon went back to eating his meal. Wazza studiously ignored him while he finished his toast and tried to finish a sudoku in the newspaper someone had left on the table.
"Thanks for telling me about all that," said Damon. "I've always been real careful with working at heights, but that's a real good safety share."
Wazza shook his head slowly. "It's not a work-at-heights safety share, kid. You need to respect Larry, and look out for him. You need to let him get to know you."
Damon looked confused.
Wazza said, "He knows the rest of us, but he'll come visit you soon. New blood."
"Didn't you say he's dead?"
"His body is dead; saw that myself. But, his spirit will never rest. Can't be sure why, but I think he stays around to look after us."
Damon laughed. "You're telling me Larry's a ghost? That this is a haunted wash-plant?"
"I don't use those words," said Wazza, keeping his tone serious. "But yes, Larry's spirit wanders around this plant – especially on night-shifts. There's no other way to explain some of the things that have happened here, over the years."
Wazza rinsed off his cup and plant and went back out into the plant.
At about three in the morning, when Damon was hosing in on the ground floor, Wazza set up Larry on the floor above, beside the reject conveyor. He could barely keep from laughing as he tied lengths of thin rope through holes in the shoulders of an old high-vis raincoat.
He got in position where he could see Damon, his head down, watching the spray of water from the hose. Wazza dangled the raincoat over the edge and lowered it on the ropes so it came up just behind Damon. He reached out and swung the rope so the raincoat brushed against Damon's back.
Damon turned slowly, and faced the raincoat. He stood dead still. Then he looked straight up at Wazza; but Wazza didn't see Damon's face. Instead, of Damon's face there was a ghostly-white skull.
Wazza dropped the ropes and ran.
Damon took the mask off and stuffed it in his jacket. He smiled contentedly as he went back to hosing.
Edit: Typos as per John Wiswell's comments. Thanks, John.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
People Need to Know
My flash fiction story People Need to Know has been published by Every Day Fiction. Click here to read the story. Please take the time to rate the story out of five, and leave a comment at the Every Day Fiction site. This story is relatively controversial; I'm interested to know what you think.
Many thanks to the Every Day Fiction editor, Camille Gooderham Campbell, for taking this story on.
Many thanks to the Every Day Fiction editor, Camille Gooderham Campbell, for taking this story on.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Farewell Speech
No matter what industry or field you work in, you'll be familiar with the typical farewell morning tea. It's an interesting little ritual; a tradition that has caused me bemusement, amusement and weight-gain during my career so far. So, this got me thinking…
This story was published today in Issue 93 of Shift Miner Magazine.
Brad smiled politely and stood with his hands behind his back while Jim, the General Manger, spoke glowingly of Brad's achievements, his wonderful example, and the hole he would leave in the organisation when he left.
Inside, Brad was laughing; and he struggled to keep the laughing on the inside. It was all so beautifully ridiculous: Jim had been hunting Brad out of the mine for months. Their arguments were the stuff of legend. They had disagreed – often publicly – on almost everything: safety, production, costs. Despite all this, this little ceremony of Brad's farewell morning tea was a time of fond farewells, mutual admiration and back-slapping.
It was a bit like funerals, thought Brad. If you went to every funeral in the country for a whole year, you'd think that no bad people ever died. In life, people are hated, vilified, bashed, even killed; and yet, there's never a bad word said at a funeral. Maybe, sometimes, the deceased was "rough around the edges", "misunderstood", "unconventional", or a "larakin"; but few eulogies ever described someone as a completely useless, lazy prick who would rob his own mother if he could, and won't our lives all be better now that we're rid of him. Maybe at the wake – but never at the funeral.
Farewell speeches at work were like eulogies, thought Brad, except for a few added benefits. First: you're not dead – which is always a good thing – and you get to witness the whole farce. Better yet, the person forced to stand in front of anyone interested in you leaving – or at least interested in the free cakes – and talk about how wonderful you are in your boss. And Brad's boss was the one who despised him more than anyone. Watching Jim humiliate himself like this was pure joy.
"Now Brad and I haven't seen eye to eye on every issue," said Jim. Brad didn't snort, though someone up the back did, which cause a ripple of nervous laughter through the group. They had to stay and work for Jim; they hadn't found other jobs, yet.
Jim continued, his face a little redder. "But that doesn't mean I didn't respect a man like Bad who has the integrity and the passion to stand for what he truly believes in."
Wow, thought Brad, that man should got into politics. He's wasted running a coal mine. The coal mine's wasted with him running it, in any case.
Brad looked around the group while Jim rambled on. He had few friends left here:he'd had few to start with. Then those he'd liked, respected and enjoyed working with had moved on to greener pastures.
For many, greener pastures didn't mean bigger numbers on payslips, but more satisfying roles, or less stress, or living near a university for the kids to attend.
Now, it was Brad's turn. Greener pastures for him meant going back to the Hunter Valley, were he'd come from. He'd only come up here because his wife had wanted more money. The divorce had been quick – surgical – and now there was nothing left to keep him up here in this hot, dry, hell, working for that thick-headed egomaniac.
"Brad?" It was Jim.
Brad realised he'd been day-dreaming, and it was time for his response speech.
"Sorry," he said. "I was lost in thought."
And suddenly, he didn't have the strength for all this crap. So he smiled, took a piece of carrot cake, and walked away.
This story was published today in Issue 93 of Shift Miner Magazine.
Brad smiled politely and stood with his hands behind his back while Jim, the General Manger, spoke glowingly of Brad's achievements, his wonderful example, and the hole he would leave in the organisation when he left.
Inside, Brad was laughing; and he struggled to keep the laughing on the inside. It was all so beautifully ridiculous: Jim had been hunting Brad out of the mine for months. Their arguments were the stuff of legend. They had disagreed – often publicly – on almost everything: safety, production, costs. Despite all this, this little ceremony of Brad's farewell morning tea was a time of fond farewells, mutual admiration and back-slapping.
It was a bit like funerals, thought Brad. If you went to every funeral in the country for a whole year, you'd think that no bad people ever died. In life, people are hated, vilified, bashed, even killed; and yet, there's never a bad word said at a funeral. Maybe, sometimes, the deceased was "rough around the edges", "misunderstood", "unconventional", or a "larakin"; but few eulogies ever described someone as a completely useless, lazy prick who would rob his own mother if he could, and won't our lives all be better now that we're rid of him. Maybe at the wake – but never at the funeral.
Farewell speeches at work were like eulogies, thought Brad, except for a few added benefits. First: you're not dead – which is always a good thing – and you get to witness the whole farce. Better yet, the person forced to stand in front of anyone interested in you leaving – or at least interested in the free cakes – and talk about how wonderful you are in your boss. And Brad's boss was the one who despised him more than anyone. Watching Jim humiliate himself like this was pure joy.
"Now Brad and I haven't seen eye to eye on every issue," said Jim. Brad didn't snort, though someone up the back did, which cause a ripple of nervous laughter through the group. They had to stay and work for Jim; they hadn't found other jobs, yet.
Jim continued, his face a little redder. "But that doesn't mean I didn't respect a man like Bad who has the integrity and the passion to stand for what he truly believes in."
Wow, thought Brad, that man should got into politics. He's wasted running a coal mine. The coal mine's wasted with him running it, in any case.
Brad looked around the group while Jim rambled on. He had few friends left here:he'd had few to start with. Then those he'd liked, respected and enjoyed working with had moved on to greener pastures.
For many, greener pastures didn't mean bigger numbers on payslips, but more satisfying roles, or less stress, or living near a university for the kids to attend.
Now, it was Brad's turn. Greener pastures for him meant going back to the Hunter Valley, were he'd come from. He'd only come up here because his wife had wanted more money. The divorce had been quick – surgical – and now there was nothing left to keep him up here in this hot, dry, hell, working for that thick-headed egomaniac.
"Brad?" It was Jim.
Brad realised he'd been day-dreaming, and it was time for his response speech.
"Sorry," he said. "I was lost in thought."
And suddenly, he didn't have the strength for all this crap. So he smiled, took a piece of carrot cake, and walked away.
Monday, August 9, 2010
A Part of This Australian Society
This is my latest story in edition 92 of Shift Miner Magazine. The online version of this edition is here. Enjoy!
"Have you been in Australia long, Dr Ramji?"
"Please Mark, just be calling me Ramji. I have been here twelve years. I came first to study medicine at UQ."
"Wow." Mark was lying face down on the examination bench, waiting for Ramji to remove a mole from the back of his leg.
"Can you feel that?" said Ramji.
"Feel what?"
"Good, the anaesthetic is working just fine. I was poking your leg with the point of my scalpel."
"Well, I didn't feel a thing. You can start now, I suppose."
"I am already starting, Mark. Please be lying very still."
Mark lay very still. The pulling and tugging as Ramji cut into his leg felt weird. "Can I ask you a personal question, Ramji?"
"Sure. Normally it is I that is asking the personal questions."
Mark laughed, and relaxed a little. "Are you a Muslim; is that why you have that … your head covered?"
"No, Mark," said Ramji, "I am not a Muslim. This is a turban I have on my head. I am Sikh."
"You're sick?"
"No, I am not ill. I am a Sikh. It is a religion, from my native India."
"Fair dinkum?" said Mark. "I though it was mainly Muslims in India."
"Actually, Hindus are by far making up the biggest Indian religion. Then there are many others, like Muslims, and Christians, and us Sikhs, and many, many others. I am ready to start your suturing now."
"My what?"
"Your sutures. Stitches."
"Cool. I suppose you have a lot of people ask about your turban?"
"Actually, no. You are the first in about one year. I am thinking people are scared they will be offending me."
"Have I offended you?"
"
Good gracious, no."
"That good."
Ramji laughed. "Yes," he said. "Especially as it is I that is having the scalpel."
Mark laughed too.
Ramji said, "May I ask what are your religious beliefs, Mark?"
"I've got to say, I don't like religions, myself."
"Oh?"
"It causes so much conflict."
"That is true; there is much religious conflict. But then, people are always finding some things to be fighting about. Stopping the religions is not enough to be stopping all the wars. Your leg is all finished now Mark."
Mark sat up on the bench and looked at the dressing on his leg and poiked at the skin around it, feeling where the anaesthetic had deadened his leg. "So what's your answer?"
"To make world peace?"
"To stopping religious violence, and conflict."
"Respect, and freedom, and not taking revenge. I have the freedom to be a Sikh without fear; and my neighbour, a Christian, and my other neighbour, perhaps like you, with having no religion at all."
"But aren't people always killing each other about religion in India?"
"True, it is happening sometimes," said Ramji, his head rocking from side to side. "That is one very big reason for why I am loving Australia. I did not stay here for the taste of the food."
Mark laughed, but he wasn't convinced. "But doesn't people coming here, and keeping their own religions, stop them from being part of Australian society?"
Ramji made a tut-tut sound. "Mark, my friend, I am a doctor, here in Emerald, removing a mole and maybe cancer from your leg. Am I not right now being a part of this Australian society?"
"Have you been in Australia long, Dr Ramji?"
"Please Mark, just be calling me Ramji. I have been here twelve years. I came first to study medicine at UQ."
"Wow." Mark was lying face down on the examination bench, waiting for Ramji to remove a mole from the back of his leg.
"Can you feel that?" said Ramji.
"Feel what?"
"Good, the anaesthetic is working just fine. I was poking your leg with the point of my scalpel."
"Well, I didn't feel a thing. You can start now, I suppose."
"I am already starting, Mark. Please be lying very still."
Mark lay very still. The pulling and tugging as Ramji cut into his leg felt weird. "Can I ask you a personal question, Ramji?"
"Sure. Normally it is I that is asking the personal questions."
Mark laughed, and relaxed a little. "Are you a Muslim; is that why you have that … your head covered?"
"No, Mark," said Ramji, "I am not a Muslim. This is a turban I have on my head. I am Sikh."
"You're sick?"
"No, I am not ill. I am a Sikh. It is a religion, from my native India."
"Fair dinkum?" said Mark. "I though it was mainly Muslims in India."
"Actually, Hindus are by far making up the biggest Indian religion. Then there are many others, like Muslims, and Christians, and us Sikhs, and many, many others. I am ready to start your suturing now."
"My what?"
"Your sutures. Stitches."
"Cool. I suppose you have a lot of people ask about your turban?"
"Actually, no. You are the first in about one year. I am thinking people are scared they will be offending me."
"Have I offended you?"
"
Good gracious, no."
"That good."
Ramji laughed. "Yes," he said. "Especially as it is I that is having the scalpel."
Mark laughed too.
Ramji said, "May I ask what are your religious beliefs, Mark?"
"I've got to say, I don't like religions, myself."
"Oh?"
"It causes so much conflict."
"That is true; there is much religious conflict. But then, people are always finding some things to be fighting about. Stopping the religions is not enough to be stopping all the wars. Your leg is all finished now Mark."
Mark sat up on the bench and looked at the dressing on his leg and poiked at the skin around it, feeling where the anaesthetic had deadened his leg. "So what's your answer?"
"To make world peace?"
"To stopping religious violence, and conflict."
"Respect, and freedom, and not taking revenge. I have the freedom to be a Sikh without fear; and my neighbour, a Christian, and my other neighbour, perhaps like you, with having no religion at all."
"But aren't people always killing each other about religion in India?"
"True, it is happening sometimes," said Ramji, his head rocking from side to side. "That is one very big reason for why I am loving Australia. I did not stay here for the taste of the food."
Mark laughed, but he wasn't convinced. "But doesn't people coming here, and keeping their own religions, stop them from being part of Australian society?"
Ramji made a tut-tut sound. "Mark, my friend, I am a doctor, here in Emerald, removing a mole and maybe cancer from your leg. Am I not right now being a part of this Australian society?"
Sunday, July 18, 2010
A Fool
"Oh, Cynthia," he said, his voice soft and crooning, as he drew her to his side. "You are the source of all my hope, my joy. You are my inspiration!"
She pushed her hand hard against his chest. "Gerald," she said. "You are a fool."
"Just a fool for you, my love."
"No Gerald," she said. "You are a fool in your own right. Go to your wife now, or else I shall."
This little scene was inspired by Sunday Scribblings number 224. The word was source.
She pushed her hand hard against his chest. "Gerald," she said. "You are a fool."
"Just a fool for you, my love."
"No Gerald," she said. "You are a fool in your own right. Go to your wife now, or else I shall."
This little scene was inspired by Sunday Scribblings number 224. The word was source.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
No Big Deal
No Big Deal appears in Issue 90 of Shift Miner Magazine. This is the first of my Shift Miner stories that isn't directly mining-related. I think most people who have travelled long-distance with their family should be able to relate to this. This especially includes those of us working in residential remote-area mining jobs.
"It's not such a big deal to drive to Brisbane," said Susie.
Bruce wasn't so sure. They'd done long distances before, but never with the two kids. "Okay," he agreed. They had to go to Susie's father's seventieth birthday part. Susie thought flying was too expensive, so they took the people-mover. Bruce decided to take the inland road. "Less cars, cops and other problems," he said.
Bruce had bought a portable DVD player with two screens. "That'll keep 'em busy," he said. It kept Bruce busy for a about an hour while he worked out how to set it up. Once they were out of town, Susie told the kids they could play their movie.
Dylan said, "Mum, it doesn't work."
"What do you mean?"
"The DVD player doesn't work."
"What's it doing?"
"It's not playing."
Discussion became yelling as Susie tried to diagnose the problem from the front-seat. Bruce pulled over. "Let's see what the matter is."
Bruce took out the DVD and looked at it. It had some kind of muck on the shiny side. "What's all this on the DVD?" he asked the kids. Dylan and Peter put on their confused faces and shrugged their shoulders. Susie found Bruce a tissue and he used some spit and polish to clean up the disc.
The DVD player kept the kids quiet, as planned. The movie itself wasn't so quiet. Yelling, laughter, crying and music poured out off from the two screens. "Turn it down," they called out from the front, a few times.
"Good little speakers," said Bruce, quietly.
Susie said, "Maybe we can get some headphones in Brisbane."
"Good idea."
After an hour on the road, they came to some road-works. The speed limit dropped to 80, then 60, then 40. "We'll be parked up soon, if this keeps up," said Bruce. He saw a lollipop-man sign saying "Prepare to Stop" and swore very quietly to himself.
"Settle down, dear," said Susie.
"I'm settled." Bruce looked in the rear-view. A few cars were banking up, then a new blue ute came around the outside. "What's this idiot doing? There's a truck coming the other way."
The ute overtook the cars behind Bruce. The driver must have seen the truck, his brake lights flashed on. The cars ahead were bunched close together now. There wasn't any space for the blue ute. Bruce hit his own brakes, hard. Peter shouted from the back seat. The truck driver flashed his lights. The ute pulled in front of Bruce. Bruce muttered to himself.
"What was that dear?"
"I said, 'Tanker'. The truck that almost took out that idiot is a fuel tanker."
Amazing, thought Bruce. We stare death in the face, and she ups me about my language.
It wasn't long after the road-works that Dylan said he felt sick. Bruce asked how sick, and did he need to throw up? Before he could answer, Dylan threw up.
Bruce and Susie used an old pack of baby-wipes to clean the worst of it. Susie did most of the cleaning, while Bruce tried to stop their children from suiciding on the highway, or throwing rocks at each other or passing cars. "Throw them out there at a tree, or something," he said. Evidently, trees were boring.
They hit the roo about half-way to Brisbane. "I didn't think roos came out in the middle of the day," said Bruce as he pulled over and turned off the engine.
"It would seem that they do," said Susie.
Very helpful dear, thank you, thought Bruce.
The roo had only glanced off the bumper. Bruce took his small axe out of the back of the car and went hunting for the roo to give it some euthanasia. He gave up looking after ten minutes. Susie didn't ask why he kept an axe in the car, which was a pity because he'd thought of a great come-back for that.
Bruce tried to make up some time. He got a speeding ticket just outside of Miles. Susie didn't say anything, which was good, thought Bruce.
Not far from Toowoomba it started raining. The window-wipers worked, but only just. The Central Highlands sun had toasted the wiper blades. Bruce thought that Susie might want to criticise his lack of maintenance and preparation, so he said, "Wiper blades are pretty expensive. And I checked the weather, and it said it'd be all fine."
"I didn't say anything," said Susie.
They arrived, finally, at Susie's parent's place. Susie's dad gave Bruce a hearty handshake. "I'm glad you guys could come," he said. "Susie said you might fly, but I suppose it's no big deal to just jump in the car and drive, is it?"
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Lone Rider
Recently I put a story called Lone Rider up at the Six Sentences social site. The theme is something different for me, but does it work?
Monday, June 14, 2010
It's Got to That Stage
The two old ladies carried their coffees to the only table in the crowded airport café with spare seats. A young man was already at the table, hammering away at the keys to his laptop computer, drinking a beer. He tried to ignore them.
One of the ladies was clearly younger than the other, and plumper. She said, "I've got a perfectly good computer at home, but I don't use it."
The older, skinny lady said, "I'll have to get lessons, to use mine."
"It's only just for emailing all my children."
"I've got a perfectly good computer, but I don't need all the other jazz. I can't be bothered; too many other things on my mind."
The younger lady nodded. "Too much else to do."
"I'm going down to…," said the older lady, then hesitated.
"Urangan."
"Yes, Urangan. My youngest daughter is there, and all her little ones."
The plumper lady looked at the lunch board. "They have special lunches for seven dollars ninety."
"That's good. Sophie has a little boy at school there. I don't think Felix has started school yet."
"Do you know what street she's in?" asked the younger lady, still eying the menu.
The older lady reached down for her purse.
"No, no, don't get it."
"I've no idea," said the older lady, going through the purse.
"Don't worry. I just wondered if she lived near me."
"I stay with my son and his wife. I have so much fun with my great-grandchildren." She continued looking through the purse.
The younger lady admitted, "I don't have any greats yet. Just grandchildren."
"I've got six grand and six great," said the older lady. She was distracted now. "I haven't got her address. I know its Urangan."
"Please, don't worry."
"I thought I had it." She continued looking through her purse for a few moments, then put it away.
The plump lady said, "It might be one of the new estates."
"No, they bought a two-storey house."
"Townhouse. They're popping up everywhere."
"No, I don't think it's new."
The younger lady said, "My son in law runs the sky diving place."
"There used to be a young chap in the unit next to me. His daughter used to sky-dive. He was working for this flying school attached to the air port. It was a tiny little airport."
"Is Melbourne home for you?"
"Ah," said the older lady. She paused, and groaned. "I live there, yes"
"What part of Melbourne are you in?"
"Albion."
"My daughter is in Hillside."
"Oh yes?" said the older lady.
"That's not far from Albion. She's a manager at Coles there."
"Oh, I don’t go to Coles, as it is. I go to Safeway."
"I go to Woolies. Which is Safeway up here."
The older lady didn't respond, so the younger one added. "It's got to that stage, I only see her once a year."
"Well, I haven't seen Sofie and the children since Easter."
"Oh."
One of the ladies was clearly younger than the other, and plumper. She said, "I've got a perfectly good computer at home, but I don't use it."
The older, skinny lady said, "I'll have to get lessons, to use mine."
"It's only just for emailing all my children."
"I've got a perfectly good computer, but I don't need all the other jazz. I can't be bothered; too many other things on my mind."
The younger lady nodded. "Too much else to do."
"I'm going down to…," said the older lady, then hesitated.
"Urangan."
"Yes, Urangan. My youngest daughter is there, and all her little ones."
The plumper lady looked at the lunch board. "They have special lunches for seven dollars ninety."
"That's good. Sophie has a little boy at school there. I don't think Felix has started school yet."
"Do you know what street she's in?" asked the younger lady, still eying the menu.
The older lady reached down for her purse.
"No, no, don't get it."
"I've no idea," said the older lady, going through the purse.
"Don't worry. I just wondered if she lived near me."
"I stay with my son and his wife. I have so much fun with my great-grandchildren." She continued looking through the purse.
The younger lady admitted, "I don't have any greats yet. Just grandchildren."
"I've got six grand and six great," said the older lady. She was distracted now. "I haven't got her address. I know its Urangan."
"Please, don't worry."
"I thought I had it." She continued looking through her purse for a few moments, then put it away.
The plump lady said, "It might be one of the new estates."
"No, they bought a two-storey house."
"Townhouse. They're popping up everywhere."
"No, I don't think it's new."
The younger lady said, "My son in law runs the sky diving place."
"There used to be a young chap in the unit next to me. His daughter used to sky-dive. He was working for this flying school attached to the air port. It was a tiny little airport."
"Is Melbourne home for you?"
"Ah," said the older lady. She paused, and groaned. "I live there, yes"
"What part of Melbourne are you in?"
"Albion."
"My daughter is in Hillside."
"Oh yes?" said the older lady.
"That's not far from Albion. She's a manager at Coles there."
"Oh, I don’t go to Coles, as it is. I go to Safeway."
"I go to Woolies. Which is Safeway up here."
The older lady didn't respond, so the younger one added. "It's got to that stage, I only see her once a year."
"Well, I haven't seen Sofie and the children since Easter."
"Oh."
Friday, June 11, 2010
Published at Full of Crow!
Standing Up For Peace is a very short flash fiction piece of mine that has just been published in the July 2010 Quarterly Issue of Full of Crow Fiction. Many thanks to Lynn Alexander, the editor, for including this piece. Best wishes also to Paul Corman-Roberts, who is now taking on the role of editor of the Full of Crow Fiction Section.
Please have a read of the July 2010 Issue. I hope you enjoy Standing Up For Peace, and I look forward to your comments.
Please have a read of the July 2010 Issue. I hope you enjoy Standing Up For Peace, and I look forward to your comments.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
His Job
He walked into the office, to his cubicle. His cubicle was immaculate, his desk clear and clean. He put his bag down and went to the kitchenette to put his lunch in the fridge and make a cup of coffee. He carefully measured out the coffee, filled the cup with boiling water, and then added the milk and sugar. He smiled as he added the milk. He'd started adding the milk after the water when he'd heard Glenda the receptionist loudly insist that the milk should always be added first.
"Otherwise, you'll burn the coffee," she'd say.
He went to his cubicle and started his computer and began to look busy. After an hour he picked up a clipboard and some envelopes and made his face look stern and marched down the corridor
When he was in the elevator by himself, he smiled. He loved his job. It gave him the time he needed to work on his novel, and he knew he was next in line for an opening in middle-management created by complications with Nick's triple-bypass.
The number four lit on the elevator and it stopped and the doors opened. He put on his serious face and marched down towards Tracy's cubicle to ask her out to dinner Friday night.
"Otherwise, you'll burn the coffee," she'd say.
He went to his cubicle and started his computer and began to look busy. After an hour he picked up a clipboard and some envelopes and made his face look stern and marched down the corridor
When he was in the elevator by himself, he smiled. He loved his job. It gave him the time he needed to work on his novel, and he knew he was next in line for an opening in middle-management created by complications with Nick's triple-bypass.
The number four lit on the elevator and it stopped and the doors opened. He put on his serious face and marched down towards Tracy's cubicle to ask her out to dinner Friday night.
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.
Monday, May 31, 2010
The Mantra
"Do you have a mantra, Alf?" asked Jim.
"A flamin' what?" said Alf. He turned from looking at the girls playing pool in the corner of the bar, to face his mate.
"A mantra. Something you repeat, to give you strength. To direct your life, and concentrate your energy."
Alf thought about this for a moment, then held up his glass. "Beer," he said, then drained the glass.
"Flamin' what?"
"Beer," said Alf wiping his mouth. "That's what I say, when I'm tired, and need to concentrate, to get through the day."
"Beer isn't a mantra, Alf."
"Why not?"
"It's just a word. It's a drink. It's a beautiful thing, for sure, but it ain't a mantra. A mantra is a phrase that you repeat again, and again. And again."
"But I do."
"You do what?"
"I repeat it," said Alf. "again, and again. I say to myself, 'Beer, beer, beer, beer.' Just quietly, right, but it's fantastic. It really helps me... concentrate my energy."
"You're a Philistine, Alf."
"Thanks Jim. You're a good bloke too. Now, I think it's your shout."
This has been a Sunday Scribblings response to No. 217 (Mantra).
"A flamin' what?" said Alf. He turned from looking at the girls playing pool in the corner of the bar, to face his mate.
"A mantra. Something you repeat, to give you strength. To direct your life, and concentrate your energy."
Alf thought about this for a moment, then held up his glass. "Beer," he said, then drained the glass.
"Flamin' what?"
"Beer," said Alf wiping his mouth. "That's what I say, when I'm tired, and need to concentrate, to get through the day."
"Beer isn't a mantra, Alf."
"Why not?"
"It's just a word. It's a drink. It's a beautiful thing, for sure, but it ain't a mantra. A mantra is a phrase that you repeat again, and again. And again."
"But I do."
"You do what?"
"I repeat it," said Alf. "again, and again. I say to myself, 'Beer, beer, beer, beer.' Just quietly, right, but it's fantastic. It really helps me... concentrate my energy."
"You're a Philistine, Alf."
"Thanks Jim. You're a good bloke too. Now, I think it's your shout."
This has been a Sunday Scribblings response to No. 217 (Mantra).
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Big Weekend
My contribution to Edition 87 of Shift Miner Magazine was called Big Weekend. I hope you enjoy it.
Big Weekend
Pete stood alone in the soft glow of the dawn at the bus-stop, waiting for the shift-bus. He had a jacket on, but even that wasn't enough to keep out the cold. Winter was coming quick.
Someone came round the corner, walking towards Pete, smoking a cigarette. It was Will. He stopped a few metres from Pete and said G'day quietly as he looked down the street for the bus.
Pete said, "You look shattered."
"Yeah, big weekend."
"What'd you get up to?"
Will drew hard on his smoke. "Friday was a few quiet ones at Smithy's place. Followed by a few more. Didn't get home till about three."
"Good time?"
Yeah, not too bad. Slept through Saturday, though." Will threw his cigarette butt on the ground, then quickly lit another. He liked to get as much nicotine into himself as he could before the forty-minute bus-ride to site.
"And Saturday?" said Pete. "You get up to much?"
Will managed a grin. "Oh yeah. We went hard on Saturday night. Starting drinking at our place, for a while, to get limbered up. Then we went up the Tavern."
"Drinking before drinking?"
Will gave Pete a dirty look. "Too expensive to get completely rat-faced at pub prices. Can't smoke out, either. There was a band at the Tav, too. They sounded pretty good; I think."
Pete thought an iPod would have sounded good to Will when he was that well lubricated, but he said nothing.
Will continued. "We started doing shots there, which was fun, until it got a little out of hand. We stayed at the Tavern till we got kicked out."
"Too drunk?"
"No, closing time. Funny thing, I was sure I went home after that. At least I think I was going to."
"So what happened?"
"I can't rightly remember, but it looks like we went down to The Arms after that."
Pete grimaced. The only attractive feature of The Arms was that it had the latest closing time in town, and 1980s prices. A rough joint, but you could stay later, and get drunker.. "You can't remember what you did?"
Will smirked. "It was too big a night to remember. I saw the pictures on Facebook though; it was The Arms alright. We got hammered. A really good night. Very big night."
"You get sick?"
"At least a few times. Smithy seemed to think that was the best thing to take photos of."
Pete shook his head. Smithy had developed a talent for drinking photography over the last few years. It was kind of like wildlife and action photography combined. Tired of not remembering what he did the night before, Smithy had started taking pictures along the way with his phone camera. He could still take good pictures when he was so drunk he couldn't walk. Facebook had made Smithy's photos of his escapades accessible to the world. A lot of people logged in to see what they and their friends had been up to, but couldn't remember.
Will looked down the street. "Bus's coming," he said, as he lit his last smoke.
Pete said, "You have such big weekends. You must hate Mondays."
"Not at all, mate. I need a week at work to get away from it all and recover. A man needs some rest in life."
Sunday, May 16, 2010
The Swallows Came Back Today
The swallows came back today. I saw them as soon as I left my front door. I love to watch the swallows. They dive and whirl and seem to have so much fun. They don't care if you stand and watch them. Their colours are beautiful, if you can track one with your eyes for long enough to really see them. You might think they're a bit bland at first - just black and white - but they're not. Their feathers are black and white but also grey and silver in every shade.
I wonder what made them come back? Years ago, when they first appeared, I thought perhaps they migrated for the winter, but it's not that simple. There's no pattern to when they'll come or go. They might come three times in one year, or take three years between visits. Suddenly they are here, just a dozen or so at first. Over the next days and weeks their numbers will double again and again. Then their numbers will keep halving in the same way. One day - and I know it's coming even as I see the first of them flitting in the morning sun - they'll all be gone.
I can never be certain, once they've gone, that they'll ever come back. How can I? I don't know what brought them here, what will make them leave. It saddens me that their departure is so certain, while their return is so tentative. Even after twenty years, I still can't be sure.
While I walk, one of the swallows chases a small moth closely like a fighter plane. It banks left and right, up and down, intent on its prey. It almost brushes my face. I shout in surprise, and then laugh at the joy of it, and my own reaction. I look around, but everyone else on the street ignores me. They seem to be ignoring the swallows too.
I'm glad the swallows came back today. I'd like to tell Julie, my wife; she'd like to know. She loved the swallows, too. I don't know what made Julie come into my life either. I don't know why the cancer came to take her. But while I had her, I knew from the lesson of the swallows that, despite the joy we shared, her departure, one day, would be certain. It was sooner than I'd hoped, but later than it could have been.
I wonder what made them come back? Years ago, when they first appeared, I thought perhaps they migrated for the winter, but it's not that simple. There's no pattern to when they'll come or go. They might come three times in one year, or take three years between visits. Suddenly they are here, just a dozen or so at first. Over the next days and weeks their numbers will double again and again. Then their numbers will keep halving in the same way. One day - and I know it's coming even as I see the first of them flitting in the morning sun - they'll all be gone.
I can never be certain, once they've gone, that they'll ever come back. How can I? I don't know what brought them here, what will make them leave. It saddens me that their departure is so certain, while their return is so tentative. Even after twenty years, I still can't be sure.
While I walk, one of the swallows chases a small moth closely like a fighter plane. It banks left and right, up and down, intent on its prey. It almost brushes my face. I shout in surprise, and then laugh at the joy of it, and my own reaction. I look around, but everyone else on the street ignores me. They seem to be ignoring the swallows too.
I'm glad the swallows came back today. I'd like to tell Julie, my wife; she'd like to know. She loved the swallows, too. I don't know what made Julie come into my life either. I don't know why the cancer came to take her. But while I had her, I knew from the lesson of the swallows that, despite the joy we shared, her departure, one day, would be certain. It was sooner than I'd hoped, but later than it could have been.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Early Starts
Following is a piece of flash fiction called Early Starts, recently published in Issue 84 of Shift Miner Magazine. The idea is based on two eerily similar stories I've heard from fellow mine workers. Anyone who has to get to work for early starts in the morning should be able to relate to this.
Harry woke to the sound of a bump and a scream, and sat straight up in bed. In a moment he was staggering down the hall to his daughter's room. He wondered how his wife Judy had slept through it; but then, it had been a rough night for both of them. He found their daughter lying on the ground beside her bed, crying, still half asleep. He picked her up, rubbed her back and made hushing sounds. After a minute it started to work, and before too long he had her tucked back into bed.
Harry wandered back down the hall and went to the toilet. He was about to go back to bed when he decided that it wasn't worth it. He'd have to be up again soon to go to work anyway. The only thing worse than waking up this early was just getting back to sleep and doing it all over again. If there was a single thing that Harry hated about working in the mining industry, it was the early starts. He liked small towns; he preferred them to cities, and enjoyed the fact that despite this he got paid a remote area living allowance. He liked the work, and he liked the people. At least, he didn't dislike the people any more than those in other industries. But Harry was not a morning person. He would set his alarm for the latest possible time he could, without being late for the shift bus. He had his lunch packed the night before; Judy did that for him, mostly. He would lay his clothes, wallet, keys and phone in the bathroom the night before. Harry did his mornings sleepwalking in remote control.
He would usually just throw his clothes on in the dark and leave, but with a bit of extra time today, he treated himself to a shower. The hot water felt good on his neck and back, and he felt his mind clearing as he prepared to face the day. He still ranted in his mind about the ridiculously early start time. He did this almost every day, slowly building up enough anger to get himself moving. Why does the shift have to start at six? he asked himself. Why not eight? Once he got over that, he thought about what he might do with the rest of this extra time. He ruled TV out as a waste. I hardly ever read he thought, as he towelled himself down. I'll start one of those novels I bought, getting dusty on the shelf.
With years of practice he slipped into his clothes, and loaded up his pockets. He turned off the bathroom light and began to sneak down the hall.
Judy appeared in the doorway of their bedroom, scaring him silly. He said one of those words he'd promised to stop saying now that he was a father.
"What on earth are you doing?" said Judy. She said the words slowly, with little pauses between them. It was like she was talking to a child, and he hated it.
Harry kept up the slow talking thing and said, "I'm going to work."
"Harry," said Judy, "It's one o'clock in the morning."
He paused. "Oh," he said. "Well, I thought I might sit down and read one of my novels first."
Monday, March 29, 2010
Legend in His Own Lunchbox
After a break, I have started writing for Shift Miner Magazine again. My latest contribution appears on page 19 of Issue 83, and is called Legend in His Own Lunchbox.
I wrote this story in response to a challenge from Tristan, who wrote:
Your comments are appreciated. Unless you're posting spam links; in which case please go away.
Update: The full text of this story is posted here.
I wrote this story in response to a challenge from Tristan, who wrote:
Bernard, this question has been asked of me in the past and my answer has never been an easy decision. Try using it as a challenge for a story:I hope that my story is up to the challenge. This story is also less technical in nature than some of the previous ones; I hope that those of you not in the mining industry can enjoy it.
"Do you want to be a big part of something small, or a small part of something big?"
Your comments are appreciated. Unless you're posting spam links; in which case please go away.
Update: The full text of this story is posted here.
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