Three Minutes

The flow of cars has been pulsing to the colours of the traffic lights; hypnotising me as I watch and sip my coffee and daydream. The lights turn to red again, and the cars slow, then stop. They'll need to wait exactly three minutes; I've timed it. The man in the first car turns towards me, and I look straight into his eyes. He is alone in the car. There is unflinching anger in his eyes. It breaks the spell of the traffic, and casts a new one over me.

I don't recognise the man, though he obviously remembers me, and has rekindled his grudge in an instant. His face is vaguely familiar. I should know him, but time has been severe to both his face and my memory. He looks to be about my own age: mid fifties. He wears his grey hair long at the back, almost to his shoulders. His sideburns come down well below his ears, and flare forwards onto his cheeks. His black-banded white panama hat, his long-sleeved black shirt and his hair are the style of a man lingering in the seventies.

He continues to stare into my eyes. He has one hand flopped on top of the steering wheel, and his other arm poking out of the open window, resting on the door frame.

It is the car that triggers my memory. In an instant I remember both car and man. Neil was driving the same tan Kingswood when I last saw him, about fifteen years ago. He had had that same look of loathing on his face then too. I don't know why I didn't recognise him sooner.

I feel guilt return with the memories. Neil was devastated when his wife Sarah left him. What made him angry, was that she and I became an item. He and Sarah had been divorced long enough before that happened. Long enough, I thought. He didn't see it that way.

I tried to reason with him at the time, and begged him to accept us, and what we had: for Sarah's sake. Instead, he chose to keep his grudge and lose two friends. I think he was just too proud to let Sarah find happiness with someone else; especially his mate. It was the usual love triangle story, I suppose. Things were said in the heat of the moment, threats were made, and eventually restraining orders kept us apart.

I keep looking into those sad green eyes. I hope that my own eyes show that I'm sorry for the hurt I caused him.

The light turns to green. Neil nods at me, once, then turns forwards, and drives away. I shake my head, and feel goose bumps down my neck. Maybe next time I'll get him a cup of coffee, and we'll talk; maybe.

A Promise is a Promise

Johann checked his bait and cast his line back in. He leaned against the rail of the jetty, looked over the deep, dark water, and sighed. He really did not want to be fishing today. His two boys, Nico and Pete, had blackmailed him at breakfast.

"But Dad, you promised," Nico had said, with tears in his eyes. Nico was the older of the pair. At twelve years old, he didn't cry easily any more. "You said you were going to take us out last Saturday; but then you went to work. Then you promised that you'd take us fishing next Saturday, which is today. A promise is a promise, Dad."

"That's all true," said Johann. "But do you still want to go fishing, after everything that's happened this week?"

The boys nodded in unison: slowly, but firmly.

They had gone to the jetty: their usual spot. The sky was overcast and small drops of rain were beginning to spit down on them. The wind bit through their jackets. The tide was all wrong, and none of them had had so much as a bite after a full hour; but, a promise is a promise.

Johann looked over at the boys. Nico was helping Pete thread a prawn onto his hook; explaining again the finer points to attaching the bait to make it attractive to the fish, whilst ensuring the hook protruded enough so it was able to do its job. Both boys had tears running down their cheeks and were constantly sniffling. They ignored their tears; however, and fished on. Johann smiled slightly, and shook his head again. While Johann watched, Pete cast his line into the water. It was a bad shot, and crossed over Nico's line. Without a word, they swapped places to fix the crossover and kept fishing.

An old man braved the weather and came out to the end of the jetty. His hair, combed over from the edges of his mostly bald head, folded over in the wind and flapped like a loose tarpaulin. With his voice raised against the wind, he asked, "Catch anything?"

"Not a bite," said Johann, shaking his head. He began to wind his line in.

The man turned to leave, one hand holding his comb-over down. He stopped and turned back to Johann. "None of my business, of course," he said, "but why are the two lads crying like that?"

Johann glanced at the boys and then back at the man. "We buried their mother yesterday."

The old man's eyebrows flicked up into his forehead, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned and walked briskly back down the jetty.

Johann checked his bait and cast his line back in.

Dying Young

"Look at your wedding photo," said Thomas, "there on the wall."

Alan looked at the picture and smiled. Two days back from their honeymoon, he and Wendy had picked up the picture from the photographers earlier in the day. He turned back to Thomas. "Do you like it?" he said, then added, awkwardly, "Dad?"

"You sure look a lot like the boy in that picture," said Thomas. He took a tentative sip of his coffee, then eased back into the armchair.

Alan felt his face flush. He knew he looked young, but he didn't need the old-timer to rub it in. He wondered whether Judy would mind if he grew a goatee. Of course she would, he thought. Maybe I'll try in a year or two.

"Have I lost you?" said Thomas.

"Sorry, I was daydreaming."

"I said, 'You sure look a lot like the ...'"

"Yeah," said Alan, "I heard. Look, it's our wedding photo; of course I look like myself."

"Of course you do," said Thomas. He took another sip of his coffee. The temperature seemed more to his liking now, and he took a longer drink.

"Sorry," said Allan. "I just don't know what you're driving at."

Thomas nodded. His eyes showed something like patience, or pity. "Look at that photo over there," he said, pointing to a smaller picture on the bookcase, taken on his own wedding day. It was a studio photograph, with Thomas standing rigidly behind his wife, who was sitting on a straight backed chair. The colours had faded over the years, and insects had left dubious deposits behind the glass. "I don't look much like the boy in that photo now, do I?"

Allan stopped the sarcastic reply that came to his mind before it got to his mouth. Thomas was right, of course; it was a boy in the photograph. Allan looked back and forward between the two pictures to compare them. "You've come a long way," he said at last.

Thomas laughed. His laugh was loud and hard, and shook him all over. He spilled coffee into his lap, but he either didn't notice or didn't care. "That," he said, wiping a tear from his eye, "is a very kind way of saying that I'm an old coot now; and that I really look the part."

Allan smiled.

Thirty seconds of silence passed. Thomas sighed. "It creeps away from you, you know," he said. "Time. Days, weeks, months, years. Decades. Soon you'll have one of those small, trendy beards – though not quite as grey as mine – and then your belly will bulge out from too much food and beer – though not quite as big as mine. And every day you'll look a bit less like that boy." He pointed up to the picture again as he spoke.

Allan recalled how his own father had often said, "It's better to learn something about life from somebody else's experience. It's quicker, cheaper and less painful."

Allan smiled at the memory. The smile seemed to encourage Thomas to go on.

"Getting old is a strange feeling, because you don't feel it. Sure, when you run up stairs you feel it; but when you're sitting down, drinking a cup of coffee, it doesn't matter if your eighteen or eighty-one. On the inside you're the same."

Allan was sceptical, but kept this to himself.

"I always thought they were mad," said Thomas, "when old men said that." He shook his head. "But it's true; it's so true."

Well, I still think you're a little bit mad, old-timer, thought Allan. Aloud, he said, "I thought getting old was all about aches and pains?"

"Oh," said Thomas, "that's true. Getting old is not for sissies: it really hurts. But the aches and pains are in your body, not in your mind. It is a pain to grow old; but consider the alternative."

Allan looked into his father-in-law's eyes. "What's that?"

"Dying young."

Fancy an Espresso?

I've had a few more Espresso Stories published. I don't seem to rate very high in the popularity stakes over there, but I can't seem to stop myself trying to write a twenty-five word story that wins hearts and minds. It's a big ask.

The new stories:

• Together, in Bed


• Roughing It


• Night Shift


• Why Would I Have Suspected Something

My full Espresso Stories catalogue can be found here.

So, do you think I'm wasting my time? Be honest, I can take it.

You Miners Get Paid Too Much

My latest contribution to the Shift Miner Magazine is "You Miners Get Paid Too Much". I reckon that'll get people's attention. It appears under the "5 minute fiction" heading on page 21 of edition 74, downloadable as pdf for the next two weeks at the Shift Miner Magazine website.

The purpose of "5 minute fiction" is to publish flash fiction stories that appeal to coal miners working on shift in Queensland. This is my second story to appear since Alex Graham, the editor of Shift Miner Magazine (SMM), agreed to trial this new column.

I'm keen to hear what people think, especially the men and women working in the industry that have stumbled across my stories in SMM. What did you like? What didn't you like? What issues, themes and situations would you like to hear about in future "5 minute fiction" stories.