Extending Queensland Public Health Emergency (Again)

The Health Minister, Yvette D’Ath, tabled a new Bill last week that seeks to extend the Queensland’s Emergency laws a further six months. It is also important to note that the Government’s transitional regulation-making powers under Part 9 of the original Emergency Response Act 2020, will remain in place for a further two years after the “expiry date”.

We have until this Friday 4 March to do what can be done to prevent this, and that is to make a submission to the committee reviewing this Bill. I’ve never written to a committee like this before either, but these times call for all of us to step our civic responsibilities into overdrive. Follow this link for information on the Bill and how to make your submission.

Following is what I have submitted. You're welcome to use this as inspiration, but make sure you make your submission your own. The committee won't be impressed by cookie-cutter letters, I'm sure. 

 Finally, my offer to those that aren't confident with writing and know me, and can contact me via email or Messenger is this: write your draft, and send it to me as a Word document. I'll fix up the grammar and spelling with "track changes" turned on and get it back to you.

My submission:

Dear Committee,

Submission on the Public Health and Other Legislation (Extension of Expiring Provisions) Amendment Bill 2022

I write to express my strong disapproval of the above-mentioned bill (“the Bill”) on the following grounds: 

1. It is another step in a continuing cycle of extensions of emergency powers, that in the context of the original definition of a Public Health Emergency, is ridiculous.
2. There remain no grounds for a public health emergency.
3. The emergency powers continue to cause violations of human rights, with terrible consequences. 

On these bases, I beg the committee to make the strongest possible recommendations against this bill.

Continuing Cycle of Extensions of Emergency Powers 

Please consider this brief history of how rapidly the concept of the duration of a Public Health Emergency in Queensland, comprised of quotations from the explanatory notes for SL 2021 No. 169 (Public Health (Further Extension of Declared Public Health Emergency – COVID-19) Regulation (No. 4) 2021):

“On 29 January 2020, a public health emergency was declared under section 319 of the Public Health Act due to the outbreak of COVID-19 within China, its pandemic potential due to cases spreading to other countries and the public health implications within Queensland resulting from recently arrived travellers from the epicentre of the outbreak.”

“Prior to 7 February 2020, under sections 322 and 323 of the Public Health Act, a declared public health emergency ended seven days after the day it is declared, unless extended by a regulation.”

“On 7 February 2020, the Public Health (Declared Public Health Emergencies) Amendment Act 2020 amended the Public Health Act to allow a declared public health emergency to be extended by regulation for periods of up to 90 days. However, this amendment was subject to a sunset clause that took effect one year from assent of the Amendment Act. On 7 February 2021, the extension period reverted to a period of up to seven days.”

“However, on 8 March 2021, the Public Health and Other Legislation (Extension of Expiring Provisions) Amendment Act 2021 reinstated the amendments that provide the Governor in Council with powers to extend the declared public health emergency for up to 90 days. On 9 September 2021, the Public Health and Other Legislation (Further Extension of Expiring Provisions) Amendment Act 2021 extended the effect of this provision until 30 April 2022.”

“The declared public health emergency has been extended by regulation multiple times as set out in schedule 1 of the Regulation.”

In fact, here are the regulations that have extended the Public Health Emergency “multiple times”:

Regulation	Date
Public Health (Further Extension of Declared Public Health Emergency—Coronavirus (2019-nCoV)) Regulation 2020	6 February 2020
Public Health (Further Extension of Declared Public Health Emergency—Coronavirus (2019-nCoV)) Regulation (No. 2) 2020	18 February 2020
Public Health (Further Extension of Declared Public Health Emergency—COVID-19) Regulation (No. 3) 2020	18 May 2020
Public Health (Further Extension of Declared Public Health Emergency—COVID-19) Regulation (No. 4) 2020	13 August 2020
Public Health (Further Extension of Declared Public Health Emergency—COVID-19) Regulation (No. 5) 2020	2 October 2020
Public Health (Further Extension of Declared Public Health Emergency—COVID-19) Regulation (No. 6) 2020	17 December 2020
Public Health (Further Extension of Declared Public Health Emergency—COVID-19) Regulation 2021	25 March 2021
Public Health (Further Extension of Declared Public Health Emergency—COVID-19) Regulation (No. 2) 2021	29 June 2021
Public Health (Further Extension of Declared Public Health Emergency—COVID-19) Regulation (No. 3) 2021	23 September 2021

The original definition of a Public Health Emergency in the Public Health Act 2005 allowed for a duration of seven days. Furthermore, that Act obliged the minister to end the emergency even within those seven days, if the Minister was “satisfied it is no longer necessary to exercise powers” under Chapter 8 of the Act (s. 324 (1)). 

A duration of a week certainly fits within the boundaries of common sense, and the infamous “pub test”, of how long an “emergency” can last. But two years and seven months of “emergency”, with some powers extending a further two years? That, is ridiculous.

I hope that I have demonstrated that the Bill represents simply another step in an indefinite cycle of extensions of emergency powers. It causes a reasonable person to wonder whether the Minister will ever be satisfied that it is no longer necessary to exercise these powers.

No Grounds for a Public Health Emergency

For various reasons, including our high vaccination rates and the demonstrably lower pathogenicity of the Omicron variant, COVID is spreading throughout Queensland with only the mildest adverse effects on human health, relative to other health concerns. Our hospitals have not been overwhelmed.

There are simply no serious adverse effects on human health that need to be prevented or minimised. In my opinion, this obliges the Minister for Health and Ambulance Services to end the Public Health Emergency immediately, given her obligations under s. 324 (1) of the Public Health Act 2005. It certainly provides no reasonable grounds for the Bill that is before you now. 

Violations of Human Rights 

It is important that Queenslanders be allowed to manage their own health risks with respect to COVID-19, and that our freedoms – currently curtailed by the various Chief Health Officer public health directions – be restored. Most importantly, this includes the removal of all vaccine mandates, which are a continuing flagrant breach of the right of Queenslanders’ to not be “subjected to medical […] treatment without [their] full, free and informed consent”, as provided for in the s. 17 (c) of the Human Rights Act 2019. 

Many Queenslanders have made a decision that they do not want to receive a COVID-19 vaccine. I suggest that this represents about 7% of Queenslanders, as the first dose vaccination rate is 92.8% at the time of writing. Given the levels of coercion that have been applied via the mandates, one can assume these people hold their positions with some determination. Some of these have lost their jobs, and the ability to operate their own small business, and are struggling to support their families. All of them are now members of an unvaccinated underclass of people who don’t have equal rights of movement or participation in society. 

Others, despite their strong personal objections to receiving the vaccine, have capitulated, in order to be able to continue to provide for their families. The mandates have pitted their consciences against their duty to work and provide for their families.

The Bill that you are considering would extend these human rights impacts until October at the very least, and for a further two years if the transitional regulation-making powers under Part 9 of the original Emergency Response Act 2020 can be used to extend vaccine mandates even longer. 

Please note that I am not against COVID vaccinations – I write as someone who has gratefully received three Pfizer COVID vaccination doses, and who has recently suffered from the disease. I support the vaccine, but even more than that, I support a restoration of fundamental civil liberties to Queenslanders: including full, free and informed consent. 

Thank you for your consideration of my submission.

Call to End the Current Health Emergency (COVID-19)

I just wrote the following letter, to Hon Yvette D'Ath, the Queensland Minister for Health and Ambulance Services.  I sent it to her ministerial email address. The text of the letter follows, with the greetings and sign-off removed, and with links to relevant legislation added:

I would like to draw to your attention to the fact that for various reasons, including our high vaccination rates, COVID is spreading throughout Queensland with only the mildest adverse effects on human health, relative to other health concerns.

Given this, and your obligations under s. 324 (1) of the Public Health Act 2005: I request that you immediately end the declared public health emergency. 

It is important that Queenslanders be allowed to manage their own health risks with respect to COVID-19, and that our freedoms – currently curtailed by the various Chief Health Officer public health directions – be restored. Most importantly, this includes the removal of all vaccine mandates, which are a continuing flagrant breach of the right of Queenslanders’ to not be “subjected to medical […] treatment without [their] full, free and informed consent”, as provided for in the s. 17 (c) of the Human Rights Act 2019. 

Please note that I am not against COVID vaccinations – I write as someone who has gratefully received three Pfizer COVID vaccination doses, and who has recently suffered from the disease. I support the vaccine, but even more than that, I support a restoration of fundamental civil liberties to Queenslanders: including full, free and informed consent. 

I thank you for your consideration of my submission.

Motivated

This year, I find myself doing the "Movember" thing, again. And, I could really do with a donation. I'm lagging, in a big way. Click here to donate to my Mo.

The rest of this post is copied from the Movember website, to give you an idea of what Movember is all about:

Campaign Strategy & Goals:
We will get men to grow moustaches and the community to support them by creating an innovative, fun and engaging annual Movember campaign that results in:
• Funds for men's health program investment
• Conversations about men's health that lead to:
- Greater awareness and understanding of the health risks men face
- Men taking action to remain well
- When men are sick they know what to do and take action

Program Goals:
Living with and Beyond Cancer
Men living with prostate or testicular cancer have the care needed to be physically and mentally well.

Staying Mentally Healthy, Living with and Beyond Mental Illness
• Men are mentally healthy and take action to remain well
• When men experience mental illness they take action early
• Men are not treated differently when they experience a mental illness

Men's Health Research
We will fund innovative research that builds powerful, collaborative teams that accelerate:
• Improved clinical tests and treatments for prostate and testicular cancer
• Improved physical and mental health outcomes for men            

Metaphor or Hyperbole?

Here's an engineering term applied in a less convential way (I like to call that "original"):

In those moments after he first saw her he was overwhelmed by her beauty. His heart ran faster and faster until it began to cavitate. He was in love.

Is it a metaphor to apply a pumping term to what is in fact, a pump? Since hearts don't generally cavitate due to their ingenious design and the ample suction head available, I guess it's hyperbole.

Silly Cow

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Perspective

He swore as the light turned to orange a hundred metres ahead of him, and then red. He fumed as he waited, staring at the lights, wishing them green, even as cars streamed across the intersection. His thumbs drummed the steering wheel, until even that sound annoyed him. He hit the top of the steering wheel hard with his open palm and swore again. The world was full of people that were just trying to stop him from getting to where he wanted to get.

Stress, stress, always stress; but this was worse than normal. A train would arrive at site in less than an hour to be loaded. It was the last train needed to fill a ship that had apparently been ordered by a very important customer. And now the train load-out wouldn't work because one lousy electrical contactor had failed. And then after SAP said there was one in the store, the shelf said there wasn't.

The light went green, and he chirped the tyres as he accelerated.

A bright-spark planner had found the part in town, at an electrical wholesaler. Lucky, really. Now it all rested on his shoulders. He needed to get the part, and get to site. His chance to be the hero, for once.

He decided to skip the next lights by taking some back-streets, and then cut back onto Clermont Street again later.

On the way through the back-streets, he cursed a jogger, and an old man, and some fool crawling along the street at only 50 kilometres an hour. He made it to Clermont Street. He was close now. He checked his watch: 4:54. Another problem, to add to his day full of problems: he needed to get there by five.

Cars streamed by, evenly spaced – just close enough together that he couldn't get in. He nudged out a little into the street, but it only seemed to slow them down. He backed up again, and the driver of a car that had come up behind him leaned on the horn. He felt like crying now; he was almost shaking with rage, and frustration. It was a conspiracy: the slow cars were actually speeding up to close the gaps in front of them, and the fast cars were slowing down, to close the gaps behind them.

Then, he spotted the gap. A car had turned left at the last moment, without indicating, (Damn you!) and left a gap (Thank you!) He floored it, into the gap, and kept his foot flat to the floor. The car he'd cut in front of leaned on the horn, so he gave him the finger in the mirror.

He looked ahead, and then time froze.

There was a man, standing right in the middle of the street. He'd been running actually, running across the street, before time stopped him, and dangled him right there, in the way.

Instinctively, he moved his foot over to the brake, and pushed down with all his weight.

He stared at the man, and the man stared back. They both knew, so clearly, what was happening, as it happened. The both knew how this was going to end, even though they were both putting everything they had into avoiding it.

And then time slipped loose again, and his car was stopped, slightly crooked in the street. The smoke that had billowed up from his tyres and around the car drifted forward with the breeze, revealing the man, dead in the street.

He sat and stared at the man that he had killed. He wasn't thinking; he couldn't think. He sat, alone, and the world was empty.

---

This story was first published in Shift Miner Magazine.

Irish Coffee

“G'day,” said Jack to the short waitress standing behind the counter. “I'd like a coffee, thanks.”

The waitress looked up and said in an Irish accent, “Is that a collared shirt?”

Jack blinked. Talk about lost in translation. He'd thought he'd give the new Irish pub and coffee shop and whatever else was in this joint a try, but was already regretting it. “No,” he said, slower, more clearly. “I'd like a coffee, thank you. Black, no sugar.”

“Is that a collared shirt you're wearing under your coat?”

Jack looked down at his coat, which was zipped up to the top against the cold. “Why do you want to know?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“We have a dress code,” the girl said, still making no move to write down his order. “You need a collared shirt after six pm.”

Jack blinked again. “But you can't see my shirt.”

“I know, sir.” She seemed to be losing patience now. Waitresses were supposed to be more patient than this, he thought. Perhaps it as an Irish thing. “That's why I'm asking you now, if it's got a collar.”

“But it's like this,” said Jack. “A dress code can only logically apply to clothing that is visible. You can't mandate clothing that you can't see. Otherwise you might have a dress code that insists on brief-type jocks and not boxers.”

The girl looked puzzled.

“I hate boxers. I promise I'm not wearing them.”

She placed the order pad carefully down on the bench and sighed. Jack didn't think waitresses were supposed to sigh like that. Very unproffessional. “After six pm, you must wear a collared shirt. Even a t-shirt with a collar is fine.”

“Even if you can't actually see the shirt?”

“Yes sir.”

Jack looked intently at her. “I'm willing to open up my jacket and check, if you're willing to admit that your dress code makes no sense.” He looked around about him. It was a pub. A clean pub, granted, but still just a pub. “I mean, it's not even such a nice place.”

“I don't rightly care if it makes sense,” said the waitress. “I just have to check for shoes and collared shirts.”

Jack looked down and checked his feet. “Well, I do have shoes on,” he said.

“I know.” Her voice was icy now. Pity; she hadn't looked half bad before she'd got cranky.

Jack unzipped his jacket, grabbed the top of his shirt near his neck and had a look. “I'm afraid you're out of luck,” he said to her. “No collar.”

“I'm very sorry, sir.” she said. “But I'll have to ask you to leave.”

“When will you have to do that?”

“Now.”

Jack shrugged. “I guess you can all do what you like, whether it makes sense or not,” said Jack, zipping his jacket back up. “You'll just have to do it with somebody else's money.”

As he left, he saw that the bouncers on the front door had t-shirts on without collars. Perhaps that's why they have to stay outside, he thought.

---

This story was first published in Shift Miner Magazine.

Creative Interview

The idea came suddenly to Joel, as he sat contentedly on the toilet seat. In that moment he knew it was a winner. Ten seconds later, some unsuspecting soul wondered into the Gents', and let out a moaning, retching type of sound. Whoever it was, left in a hurry. Joel smiled to himself, and finished up.


He looked at his face in the mirror as he carefully washed his hands, and decided that there would be no problem. He felt confidence flow into him as he headed to the waiting area again.

Joel's trouble was that he never did well in job interviews. He was a solid worker, he felt, but he just couldn't think of the examples and stories they wanted in interviews these days. And even if could drag up a story, he'd always down-play his own role in the drama, or the significance of the solution; mostly because he pretty much always was a minor player, and generally very modest. Modest and mediocre: that was Joel.

That was all about to change, as Joel strode down the hallway. Why not take the skills from his hobby of creative writing and apply them to job interviews? The writing itself hadn't yielded the blockbuster novel or critical acclaim he'd dreamed of – for he'd come to realise he was mediocre at writing too; but, it was a hobby that he enjoyed.

Eventually he was called into the interview room. It had white painted walls and ceiling and glaring fluro lights. The HR lady shuffled her papers and kicked things off. “We're going to ask you some behavioural questions,” she said. “We're looking for specific examples, where you can tell us about a situation, what you did, and then what the outcome was. Is that okay?”

Joel smiled; that was going to be perfect. “Sure.”

The lady smiled back. Even the grizzled old manager beside her seemed to soften a bit.

“Can you tell us about a time you came across a situation or a practice that was unsafe; what you did about it, and what the outcome was?”

Joel took a deep breath. “Sure,” he said. “When I arrived at the place I currently work, I found that people had to walk across the roads on site a lot, which involved lots of interactions with light and heavy vehicles.”

Which was true; but of course, he'd gotten used to it, like everyone else. Grizzly and HR lady both nodded, starting to scrawl notes. Joel smiled; he was about to get his creative writing written by dictation. He continued, “So I conducted a traffic study, and based on my analysis and my research into Australian Standards and the Coal Mining Health and Safety Act and Regulations, I wrote a draft Traffic Management Plan for the site, which included quite a few changes.”

They'd stopped writing now, and were watching him, awestruck. Joel didn't miss a beat. “I costed all the changes, and then facilitated a semi-quantitative risk assessment around the major changes I'd identified; using a cross-section of the work force. I then presented my findings and recommendations to the Senior Management Team. They approved the plan, and further approved nine-hundred-thousand dollars in out-of-plan capital to make all the proposed changes.”

Joel smiled, as if at the memory. “I project-managed all the changes, though I was given a few resources to help out, of course. We now have a system of well-lit and signed pedestrian crossings, as well as segregated traffic flows and hard barriers in the higher risk areas.”

HR lady was back to scribbling notes now. The manager looked stunned.

“Was that the sort of answer you were looking for?” asked Joel, trying to sound as innocent as he could.

“Perfect,” they both said together, then laughed.

He nailed the rest of the interview, of course, and heard promising noises at the end about “progressing things to the next stage”. The job was his – he knew it – his first senior engineering role. It was his, until that grizzly fool had to talk to his boss for the reference check, and started to blubber on about how impressed he was with the traffic changes, and the increases in plant yield and the reduction in site costs.

---

This was first published in Shift Miner Magazine.

Retribution

I used to live next door to drug dealers. I should say they used to live next door to me. To be even more precise, when they used to live, they lived next door to me.


They weren’t just dealers; they were cooking up what they were selling. Everybody knew, but nobody called the cops. There wasn’t much point, because it made life very uncomfortable if you did. They had friends in low places, clearly.

I left them alone though, until a kid died, shooting up on some of their speed. His mother was pretty upset about it, I heard. I’d had enough of living in such close proximity to that scum. It was time for retribution. It was for the kid, I suppose, and a little bit for his grieving mother, but I was sick of the smell.

Friday night I could smell that they were have a cook-up. I put on some gloves, jumped the fence and turned off their gas bottle. After a few seconds I turned it back on. I could hear the gas rushing through the valve. I smiled, and scurried home. I sat on the toilet, immobile, with earplugs in my ears and my hands over my head until the house shook with the force of the explosion. All my windows on the eastern side of the house shattered.

The police called around later asking why nobody on the street had called the police or the fire brigade. Everyone said they thought someone else would have.

---

This is my response to Three Word Wednesday (3WW) number CCL

This week's words:
Immobile; adjective: Not moving; motionless; incapable of moving or being moved.
Proximity; noun: Nearness in space, time, or relationship.
Retribution; noun: Punishment that is considered to be morally right and fully deserved

It's Futile

“It's futile.”

“What is?”

“Everything.”

Bill rubbed his eyes and shook his head. “Whatta ya mean, everything?”

“Life, stuff,” said Graham. “Work, especially. Here we are, a thousand k's from anywhere, in Woop-Woop, working ourselves to the bone, twelve hours a day. Why? What's it for?”

“Don't know about you, but I do it for the money.”

“And what's the money for? Nothing lasts.”

Bill shrugged. “Food, a home for the family, cars, schooling, a boat, holidays. You need money for everything.”

“But none of that lasts. You can't take it with you when you go, can you?”

“I can't?” said Bill. “Well if that's the case, I'm not goin'.” He laughed at his own joke; it was his favourite kind.

Graham swore. “Can't you keep up a serious conversation for once?”

“Sorry mate,” said Bill, trying to look sorry. “You're very correct. You can't take your gear with you when you kark it.”

Graham sighed. He went to the wet-mess bar and got two more beers. He came back and handed one to Bob. They sat in silence for a few minutes, and watched the sun flood the sky with red and orange as it began to set. The brigalow and a few gum tree stood out against the brightness in black silhouette. The clouds looked like they were on fire.

Bob said, “Might be the middle of nowhere, but I like it out here. More than Brisbane.”

Graham said, “I hate Brisbane, actually.”

“You hate everything today. You sound like you're in a hurry to curl up and die.”

“No, but we all die, and then nothing's left.”

“You really think that? You die, and then that's the end of everything?”

Graham shrugged. “It's futile.”

“You mentioned that.”

Graham grunted.

After a minute Bob smiled. “Ah!” he said, to himself.

“What's up?”

Bob said, “Your girlfriend called it off, didn't she?”

Graham turned suddenly to face him. His surprise was obvious. “She wasn't my girlfriend,” he said. “She was my fiancée.”

Bob said nothing, but shook his head.

Graham mumbled, “Yeah, she called it off.”

“Even though it's futile, would you like another beer?”

“I hate you,” said Graham. “But: yes, I would.”

---

This story was first published in Shift Miner Magazine.

Apology Accepted

He looked out the kitchen window and saw her hanging washing on the line. The breeze tugged at the towels and shirts, and the line danced as it fought to hold them back. The breeze pulled her skirt up around her legs and made her hair a long, blonde banner. She was so beautiful; but, so stubborn. He sipped the cold water in his glass, then sighed. He put down the glass, and went out to her.

“Hello,” he said as he approached. She didn't react, except that she may have flinched, slightly. She kept hanging up the clothes.

He reached into the basket, took out a towel and put it on the line. He took one of his high-vis work-shirts from the basket. He started to peg the collar to the line.

“Upside down,” she said, startling him. He turned toward her. She stood, her hands on her hips, looking at him.

“Sorry?” he said.

“You hang shirts upside down,” she said, pointing to two, already on the line.

“Oh,” he said. He took off the peg and hung the shirt the other way around, checking his work against the two templates. He glanced at her. She hadn't moved. Her hair was flicking around her face. He saw the curve of her body under her clothes and the trace of a smile on her face. Maybe a smile, anyway.

“Why don't you go upstairs?” he said. “I'll finish this off.”

She didn't move as he awkwardly hung a bra beside the shirt.

“Go on,” he said. “Put you feet up. I'll be up in a few minutes.” He leaned over and, holding the back of her head with both hands, kissed her forehead. The smell and feel of her hair reminded him of better times. He fished a lone sock from the basket and hung it beside the bra.

She stepped toward him and kissed him on the cheek. “Come find me inside,” she said softly. Her words were almost stolen by the breeze. It seemed right then that her eyes were shining wet. He said nothing. She turned and walked toward the stairs. He watched her as she walked, until she was in the house.

He smiled as he reached into the basket for a pair of shorts. He kept smiling as he felt the wind jostling around him as he hung the rest of the washing. A line, a quote from sometime in the past, kept echoing through his head. “The wind bloweth where it listeth.” Must be Shakespeare, he thought.

He noticed there were only two pegs left when he was finished. He put the two pegs in his pocket and walked towards the stairs, carrying the empty washing basket over his shoulder, thinking again of happier times. As the screen-door flapped and slammed behind him, he decided those times were now.

---

This story, like almost everything I post lately, was first published in Shift Miner Magazine. Incidentally, it was first not published in one or two other publications. I think I learned to love this piece more than it deserved. I hope you get something from it.

---

The Least I Could Do

What people noticed first and remembered longest about Bernadette when they met her was her scowl. The everyday look on that woman's face could peel the paint off walls. She looked like she was angry and in pain, at the same time, all of the time. It wasn't unusual for kids to come away crying. Behind her back, Bernadette came to be nicknamed The Scowl. I had nothing to do with that, of course. Well, very little.

The other thing people noticed about The Scowl was the constant criticism and put-downs that she aimed at her dear husband – and my best mate – Stan. It made people cringe. Stan put up with all this with the patience of Job. I don't think he ever complained or told her off. That's how Poor Stan got his nickname.

But every man has his breaking point.

I was having a drink with Poor Stan at the Mount Morgan Arms Hotel one Saturday afternoon when The Scowl filled the doorway with her whole self, and screamed above the noise of the rowdy crowd, "Stan, you've had enough to drink; come home!"

Poor Stan went as red as Karl Marx. The pub went quiet. People looked at their shoes and fidgeted with their coasters.

I expected Stan to put down his glass and shuffle off after her, like he usually did.

Instead, he took a long drink from his beer.

He said to me, "If I'd of killed her when I first wanted to, I'd be out of jail by now."

That's an old and tired joke; but I was pretty sure that Stan wasn't joking. He never joked.

"I suppose it's better late than never," he said.

I could see he was close to his breaking point, and that cut me up inside. Poor Stan was a bit spineless, but he was still my mate.

I said, "Don't go back to your house. Why don't you buy a carton and go round to my place? I've got to take care of something here in town, and then we'll get on the grog. How's that sound?"

Stan put his hand on my shoulder, said that sounded good, and went to the takeaway window. I said goodbye to Bob behind the bar, and left.

In half an hour, we were at my place, drinking.

We were still throwing them back, watching the sun set, when Sergeant Ted, the local police force, came around. He broke Stan the news that his wife's body had been found only an hour ago. She'd been found behind one of those big steel rubbish bins in the narrow lane behind the shops, on the top side of the main street. Sue from the fish and chip shop got a real fright, apparently.

Stan took the news of his wife's sudden passing really well. He looked a little stunned, but more like a man who'd won lotto, than a man who'd lost his soul mate.

Sergeant Ted started his investigation right there by asking Stan if he'd killed Bernadette. Motive, the man had.

Stan didn't reply straight up, then said it was obvious that it wasn't him. Ted asked why that was.

Stan asked, "You said she were stabbed once in the back?"

Ted nodded. "That is correct."

"Well," said Stan, "I always dreamed o' stabbin' her right here in the front." He pointed to his own chest. "And never, ever, just the once. Maybe a dozen times. That's what I always dreamed of doin', and I reckon that's the way I'd of done it, if I'd of done it, which I didn't."

It didn't seem that this was the kind of evidence Ted was looking for, because he had a few words to say about that.

I butted in. "He was with me, Sergeant."

Ted didn't like being interrupted either, apparently. I never really liked Ted, so I got over it, and told my story.

"We left the pub not long after The Scowl showed up, about three..."

Stan interrupted, holding up his hand. "Don't call her that," he said, "please."

"Sorry." I shrugged. "We left the pub, with a carton, and came back here. We've been drinking since then. We haven't seen her since. Have we Stan?"

Stan shook his head. "Not since she was at the pub."

Sergeant Ted scowled, reminding me a bit of the late Bernadette. I shivered. Ted said good night, told us both to stay in town, and left.

Stan went inside and then came back with two beers. He handed one to me. "There's only two left now," he said, "and we'll have finished the carton."

"Then we'll go for a walk and get another one."

"Good idea."

We drank, and I listened to the cicadas out in the scrub. We didn't say a word until our beers were empty.

Stan said, "Thanks for covering for me mate. I didn't kill her; but thanks for covering for me. Makes things easier."

I slapped him on the back. "No worries, mate," I said. "I know you didn't kill her. It was the least I could do."

---

This story was first published in Shift Miner Magazine.

A Lift Home

Bruce wasn't used to having passengers in his car. It took him a minute to gather up the fast-food wrappers, coffee cups and CDs from the front seat so that Danny could get in. Danny had some sort of job with the prep plant, though Bruce wasn't sure what they did over there. Bruce threw it all on the back seat and mumbled, “Sorry about that.”

“No worries at all,” said Danny as he got in. Once Bruce was in his seat, Danny added, “It's your car. I'm just glad for the ride.

Bruce drove carefully out of the car park. Soon they were on the open road. Danny tried to start a conversation a few times, and Bruce tried hard to keep his end up, but without much joy. Bruce wasn't good at talking to people he didn't know. He almost never started a conversation. He hated that about himself, but found it hard to change.

Danny said, “You mind if we turn the radio on?”

“Sorry,” said Bruce. “No aerial.”

Danny shrugged. “You got CDs?”

Bruce coughed. “They're not really what you probably want to listen to.”

“I've got pretty broad tastes.”

“My stuff is a whole new level.”

“Wow,” said Danny. “You got me curious now. Is it very offensive?”

Bruce thought for a moment. “Not to me,” he said. “But it is to a lot of people.”

“Try me.”

Bruce tried to laugh, but it came out as a kind of squeak. He reached down turn on the car stereo.

After a moment, a man's voice began to speak. “Whoever believes in the Son has eternal life; whoever does not obey the Son shall not see life, but the wrath of God remains on him.” Then, after a pause, the voice said, “Chapter four.”

“What the -?” said Danny, turning in his seat to face Bruce. “What is that?”

Bruce reached over, and pressed the power button again. He sighed. “That,” he said, “is a man reading the Bible. I'm up to the gospel of John.”

“Why?”

“It comes after Luke.”

Danny shook his head and scratched his hair. It looked to Bruce like he was considering jumping out of the car. Bruce wondered if he should slow down a bit.

Danny said “I meant, why do you listen to that stuff?”

“I can read a lot more by listening when I'm driving then I can find time for at home.”

“You listen to a man read the bible over and over?”

“Well, not exactly. I sometimes skip to different bits. And, I've got one version of a woman reading too. She's got a nice voice.”

Danny didn't say anything.

“I listen to a lot of other things too,” said Bruce. “I've got a stack of audio-books, and I download a lot of talks, lectures and sermons from the internet.”

“You don't like music?”

“I love music, but I listen to my music at home. And at my desk at work. Car-time is my daily bible-study time.”

“It doesn't make you fall asleep?”

“You kidding?” Bruce laughed. “Nothing is more interesting, or important.”

Danny was quiet a moment. Then he said, “You know what I think's the biggest problem with you Christians?”

Bruce glanced over at Danny. He looked tense. “Not at all.”

“You're always trying to ram it down everyone's throat. All the time.”

They drove in silence until they got to town.

---

This story was first published in Issue 105 of Shift Miner Magazine.

Let's Go

Tony walked up toward the open garage door. A Harley Davidson motorcyle had been wheeled back out of the garage onto the driveway. The water mark was up over the headlight.

Inside the garage stood a man, looking dazed.

Tony said, “G'day. We heard you could do with a hand.”

The man nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I'm Keith.”

“Tony.” Tony introduced the others. “So Keith, do you have a plan?”

“Not really.” Keith shrugged. “Never done this before.”

“Well, we have. A couple of times.”

A few of the blokes chuckled. They'd been working together four days straight now, eleven hours a day, cleaning the mud and muck out of people's homes. Any people: young families and old ladies, the well-to-do and the dirt poor. The flood had put the normal social distinctions on hold for a while, and replaced them with new ones. Now there were those whose homes were flooded, and those whose weren't; those who helped others, and those who didn't; those with insurance, and those without.

Keith raised his hands. “Look Tony, if you're gonna help, you're in charge.”

Tony nodded. “Good. Let's have a look.”

The water had come up waist high through the house. That meant any stuff up on the benches was borderline, and that cupboards and fridges may have floated around. There was a step up from the garage into the house, with no lip on the threshold; good for hosing out.

Inside, the house stank, badly. There was the usual flood smell of mud and rotting carpets, but this had a little something extra: sewage. Every house stank, but these were the worst, and there was no getting used to it. They all had to work to hold back the urge to vomit.

Out the back was a covered patio, beyond that was a muddy lawn.

Tony made some quick decisions, then spoke up loudly so that everyone could here. “All right, here's the plan. We'll get the patio hosed out and clean first. Give it a good scrub. That'll be for the clean and dry stuff.” He turned to Keith. “Have you taken photos of everything for insurance.”

“Don't have any.”

“Right. That makes it simple. Everything that's destroyed, goes out on the footpath. If something may be salvageable, out on the back lawn. Let's go.”

Keith took Tony aside for a moment. “Why not put the clean stuff in the garage?”

“It's lower than the house, and is the best place to push all the water out with squidgees.”

“Never thought of that.”

“Neither did we, the first time.” Tim smiled. “Come on mate, let's start.”

Three guys started cleaning down the patio. Everyone else started carrying wrecked stuff out to the front of the house. There was a lot of wrecked stuff.

“Maybe we could wash the mud out of the sofas,” said Keith, hesitantly.

“Don't think of it as mud,” said Tim. “Think of it as poo.”

“Why's that?”

“Because there's plenty in all this.”
“Hey?”

“Did you sand-bag every drain and every toilet bowl?”

“Well, no.”

“Well, your toilets flush both ways mate.”

Keith went pale, then vomited were he stood, onto the lounge-room floor. Two other blokes went out in sympathy. Tim could feel it in the back of his throat but managed to keep it together. He took a hose and washed the spew out into the garage, and down the driveway.

After an hour of hot, sweaty work, everything that was clean and dry had been removed to the patio. The lounge and dining room were empty of everything, including carpet and underlay. One man remained, lifting up the timber strips around the room that the carpet had once been nailed to. Everyone else had moved onto the bedrooms.

In another hour, they'd finished hosing out the mud.

Tim called his team together. “Time for lunch,” he said. “Let's go.”

---

This story was first published in Issue 104 of Shift Miner Magazine. It was inspired by my experiences in the clean-ups of both the 2008 and 2010 floods in Emerald; though the 2010 flood was most vivid in my mind. The 2010 floods happened (mostly) between Christmas and New Year, with most of the clean-up in the first weeks of January, before the Brisbane floods hit.

Feel free to share your flood experiences by posting a comment.

Happy Christmas

Chris wasn't sure what had gone wrong with his Christmas.

He'd made all the right preparations, sparing no expense. There was plenty of grog, and he was into it at a very reasonable pace. There'd been lots of good food: ham, chicken and prawns, and all kinds of salads. He was still feeding himself as much White Christmas and nuts as he could handle without making himself sick. There'd been presents for everyone under the tree; he'd made sure everyone got what they wanted.

Now, with the presents opened and the Christmas lunch consumed, Chris sat back with his rum and coke, trying to make himself feel happy. He knew he should; and he couldn't rightly think of anything else that he wanted, that he could have or get, that might be missing.

His son Jack was playing with his new iPhone, in his room. He'd seemed happy with it.

Chris got up, and went to the kitchen where his wife was trying to work out how to use the whiz-bang fully automatic coffee machine he'd bought her. He shook his head; a thousand bucks for a machine, when a teaspoon did the same job, quicker. But, it was what she wanted. She'd seemed happy enough, when she'd unwrapped it, though not very surprised. Now her head looked like it was shaking, as she turned from looking at the manual to the machine, back and forward.

Seeing the machine made Chris think he'd like a cup of coffee, so he put the kettle on.

"Are you right?" Helen snapped at him.

Chris got such a fright he almost spilled his drink. He looked at her slightly dazed, confused. "What?"

"Don't you think I can get this to work?"

Chris thought about that for a moment; he knew a trick question when he heard one. Actually, almost all of Helen's questions were trick questions. She didn't often ask him for his opinion or his advice. "Of course you will," he said.

"Well wait five minutes and you can have a real coffee."

Chris shrugged, and turned off the kettle. As he left the kitchen the machine started to make a terrible high-pitched grinding noise.

Well, in any case, thought Chris, if he couldn't feel happy on Christmas Day, he could certainly get drunk. He made himself another rum and coke, going very easy on the coke. He used only as much as was absolutely necessary to make the concoction look black.

He went and sat on the back steps, wishing he wasn't already looking forward to his next tour. Over the fence, his neighbour was playing frisbee with one of his boys, who was about ten. They really did look like they were having a lot of fun, and for a minute he envied them, which was ridiculous. That man didn't earn half what he did: he drove a piece of junk, and their house was tiny – especially for the four or five kids they had. They might be happy for a few minutes, but it couldn't last.

The neighbour's kid laughed as he jumped to catch the frisbee. He called out, "Thanks for the frisbee dad, its fantastic."

Chris sipped his drink and frowned, and tried to think. Had Jack actually said thanks when he'd got his phone? He'd certainly said, "Cool." That didn't mean thanks though, did it?

Chris went inside to Jack's room and knocked on the door. No answer. He opened the door. Jack wasn't there. The iPhone box and manuals and cables were on his bed.

He went into the kitchen. "Helen," he said. "Jack's not in his room."

Helen handed him a cup of coffee. "He went out with his friends. I said he could go. It's not a happy Christmas if you can't have fun, is it?"

"No, I suppose not." He sipped at the coffee. It wasn't hot enough, and it tasted like dirt. He smiled. "Lovely. Happy Christmas." He took a long sip of his rum and coke.

---

This story was originally published in Issue 102 of Shift Miner Magazine.

Promise to Fish

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.