I haven’t tried a Three Word Wednesday for a while. This week’s words are brutal, grope and transfer.
It was a fact of life that in the copy room, the corridors and the work functions he would come on to the women, and brush too close, and have a grope when he could. He was the boss.
The women in the office policed each other, preventing complaint or dissent. If one of the girls didn’t accept things, the results were brutal. Name-calling and isolation were immediate. Reports came to the boss of things she’d said about him, some of them true. Life became hell for the silly cow, until she left the company. She wouldn’t dare ask for a reference.
There was no way out. Tiffany tried; she was a single mum, and couldn’t afford too much dignity. She asked for a transfer within the company, and was offered a role in Mongolia. She shrugged and took it. Her career took off from there, and she eventually became the VP of Human Resources, global. Things started to change.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Lack of Attention to Detail
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.
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.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Free Enough to Deam
I’ve stopped writing fiction for about a year now. I want to start again; I am starting again. I’ve been thinking why I stopped and I what I want from the process.
Fundamentally, I got disillusioned by the publication rejection process. Who doesn’t, sometimes? There was one major turning point on this road. I’d felt I’d really nailed a particular story. It wasn’t accepted. I learned then that the force of rejection is proportional to the square of how great you think your story is. It’s about that gap between how good you think it is, and what the response is.
I’ve heard it said many time that you need to write fiction primarily for yourself, the writer. That’s never made a lot of sense to me, because I try to write for the audience. Now it does make sense. Writing for yourself is about why you write, not how. The how is about using words to communicate with your audience. After some time of focussing on the how, it becomes the why. What I mean is this: the response of your audience becomes your reason for writing, and that’s a very dangerous place to be.
So now the why is for me, the how is for you.
As I’ve started to write fiction again, I’m finding that the ideas don’t come as easily as they once did. Putting ideas into words still works well, because I never really stopped writing. In my work I’m always distilling my thoughts, arguments and concepts into reports, e-mails and graphs. But it’s always about something that’s happened, not something I’ve imagined. I know ideas are cheap, and they will come again.
I just need my imagination to feel free enough to dream again.
Fundamentally, I got disillusioned by the publication rejection process. Who doesn’t, sometimes? There was one major turning point on this road. I’d felt I’d really nailed a particular story. It wasn’t accepted. I learned then that the force of rejection is proportional to the square of how great you think your story is. It’s about that gap between how good you think it is, and what the response is.
I’ve heard it said many time that you need to write fiction primarily for yourself, the writer. That’s never made a lot of sense to me, because I try to write for the audience. Now it does make sense. Writing for yourself is about why you write, not how. The how is about using words to communicate with your audience. After some time of focussing on the how, it becomes the why. What I mean is this: the response of your audience becomes your reason for writing, and that’s a very dangerous place to be.
So now the why is for me, the how is for you.
As I’ve started to write fiction again, I’m finding that the ideas don’t come as easily as they once did. Putting ideas into words still works well, because I never really stopped writing. In my work I’m always distilling my thoughts, arguments and concepts into reports, e-mails and graphs. But it’s always about something that’s happened, not something I’ve imagined. I know ideas are cheap, and they will come again.
I just need my imagination to feel free enough to dream again.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Ten Minutes
“I'm really sorry,” said the girl behind the counter. “Your order will be ready in ten minutes.”
Cheryl took a deep breath, placed her hands on the counter, leaning on them, and then breathed out. “Let me just run through the facts here,” she said, and glanced at her watch. “I ordered fish and chips at seven, and you said it would take about ten minutes.”
“Yes, but we're really busy. I'm very sorry.”
Cheryl put her hand up. “Hear me out. You said ten minutes. Twenty minutes later, I came and checked on my order, and you told me I was up for another ten minutes.” Cheryl raised her eyebrows.
The girl nodded slowly.
Cheryl continued, “So I returned twenty minutes after that – at seven forty; forty minutes after the start of my ten-minute wait – and you told me the kitchen was really busy, and it would take ten minutes to complete my order. Any problems with the story so far?”
The girl shook her head, and looked around at the other customers.
“So I went back outside, again, and got into my car, again, to wait, again, with five children – five hungry children.” Cheryl could hear her voice, like it was in the distance. “And then I came back, twenty minutes after that, at eight o'clock, and you gave me the same spiel. Like a broken little record, you said, 'Sorry, the kitchen's busy, it'll be another ten minutes.'”
Cheryl took a deep breath, and looked around. Spectators had gathered around, and some of the customers were checking their watches and leaving. Good for them. “So here I am, twenty minutes after my last ten minute wait, having waited a total of one hour and twenty minutes for some lousy fish and chips, and you've got the gumption to tell me it'll be another ten minutes?”
“Sorry, but the kitchen's really busy. Ten minutes, tops.”
“No. No, no, no, no, no. I don't believe you. You are a liar. I want my money back, now.” She reached out her right hand, palm up, shaking.
A few people started to clap. The girl behind the counter looked stunned.
A bell rang behind her, a package was dropped into the hot box from the window into the kitchen, and a voice called out cheerfully, “Order up! Seventeen!”
Without taking her eyes off Cheryl, the girl took the packet and handed it to over.
“Thank you,” she mumbled. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
This story, like most I post lately, was first published in Shift Miner Magazine.
Cheryl took a deep breath, placed her hands on the counter, leaning on them, and then breathed out. “Let me just run through the facts here,” she said, and glanced at her watch. “I ordered fish and chips at seven, and you said it would take about ten minutes.”
“Yes, but we're really busy. I'm very sorry.”
Cheryl put her hand up. “Hear me out. You said ten minutes. Twenty minutes later, I came and checked on my order, and you told me I was up for another ten minutes.” Cheryl raised her eyebrows.
The girl nodded slowly.
Cheryl continued, “So I returned twenty minutes after that – at seven forty; forty minutes after the start of my ten-minute wait – and you told me the kitchen was really busy, and it would take ten minutes to complete my order. Any problems with the story so far?”
The girl shook her head, and looked around at the other customers.
“So I went back outside, again, and got into my car, again, to wait, again, with five children – five hungry children.” Cheryl could hear her voice, like it was in the distance. “And then I came back, twenty minutes after that, at eight o'clock, and you gave me the same spiel. Like a broken little record, you said, 'Sorry, the kitchen's busy, it'll be another ten minutes.'”
Cheryl took a deep breath, and looked around. Spectators had gathered around, and some of the customers were checking their watches and leaving. Good for them. “So here I am, twenty minutes after my last ten minute wait, having waited a total of one hour and twenty minutes for some lousy fish and chips, and you've got the gumption to tell me it'll be another ten minutes?”
“Sorry, but the kitchen's really busy. Ten minutes, tops.”
“No. No, no, no, no, no. I don't believe you. You are a liar. I want my money back, now.” She reached out her right hand, palm up, shaking.
A few people started to clap. The girl behind the counter looked stunned.
A bell rang behind her, a package was dropped into the hot box from the window into the kitchen, and a voice called out cheerfully, “Order up! Seventeen!”
Without taking her eyes off Cheryl, the girl took the packet and handed it to over.
“Thank you,” she mumbled. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
This story, like most I post lately, was first published in Shift Miner Magazine.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Clearing Books
This is a Three Word Wednesday (CCLXV) contribution, using the words fragrant, jostle and remnant.
He watched the big men, small old women and fussing mothers in the crowd jostle for position in front of the huge glass doors. Above the door, a banner advertised the Mega Book Clearance Sale with a start time that was now twelve minutes ago. He shrugged, and sat down on a bench, well back from the crazy people, and returned to the last chapter of a Thomas Keneally novel he’d picked up the day before at a suburban thrift shop.
Eventually the doors were opened. Four bulky, obese men in pseudo-official-looking white shirts that featured plastic badges tried to look intimidating.
After ten minutes, he’d finished the book. He put it back in his bag and sighed deeply, satisfied, as if he’d finished a great meal. He walked past the guards, who now looked bored, and into the warehouse. A small remnant of the piles of books he’d seen before remained. The air was fragrant with a thousand rifled and hastily-purchased paperbacks. He smiled. The pulp had been removed. He moved slowly through the aisles, and selected four books that he knew he wanted to read. The total was $12.50, including GST.
He watched the big men, small old women and fussing mothers in the crowd jostle for position in front of the huge glass doors. Above the door, a banner advertised the Mega Book Clearance Sale with a start time that was now twelve minutes ago. He shrugged, and sat down on a bench, well back from the crazy people, and returned to the last chapter of a Thomas Keneally novel he’d picked up the day before at a suburban thrift shop.
Eventually the doors were opened. Four bulky, obese men in pseudo-official-looking white shirts that featured plastic badges tried to look intimidating.
After ten minutes, he’d finished the book. He put it back in his bag and sighed deeply, satisfied, as if he’d finished a great meal. He walked past the guards, who now looked bored, and into the warehouse. A small remnant of the piles of books he’d seen before remained. The air was fragrant with a thousand rifled and hastily-purchased paperbacks. He smiled. The pulp had been removed. He moved slowly through the aisles, and selected four books that he knew he wanted to read. The total was $12.50, including GST.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
