u/Thin_Assumption_4974

I’ve got a new job and I’ll be flying in and out every two weeks from Perth to Darwin and return.

The option of moving full time is on the table, if I was single I’d just do it. But with a wife and 7 year old I need to put a bit more thought into it.

Is it similar to other major cities cost of living wise? I’d probably rent to start but I see houses are more affordable than Perth, so buying isn’t out of the question. What areas are the ‘Balga’s’ or ‘Rockingham’s’ of drawin to avoid?

My wife and son are Malaysian, is there a decent sized Malaysian community she could be apart of?

My wife would probably need to be full time stay at home mum. At the moment my parents look after our kid when we are both at work (two days and nights a week). She doesn’t earn enough to justify childcare so my parents are doing us a solid, but obviously up there it’ll change.

We are a quiet family. So the nightlife isn’t really a concern to us. A nice restaurant now and then is all we need. But we do enjoy camping and fishing etc. I possibly have an irrational fear of crocs. Is it as bad as I’m led to believe? Surely beach fishing is fine and just stay away from the rivers?

Any other info would be appreciated. It wouldn’t be straight away. I’ll do my fifo gig for awhile. Get the family up in a hotel for one of my breaks and explore first.

Also, always hear about it being “the rough” part of Australia. Had a few people tell me it’s basically Kalgoorlie on the beach. I can’t imagine this to be too accurate?

And I want to talk to everyone who will listen. Loved that ride.

I’m guessing (based on what I’ve seen), that I’m a minority that actually prefers this book. Annihilation was also amazing but I just really gelled with authority.

It’s confusing as hell but in the best way possible. The high right now. This series is amazing.

I was banned from r/writingfeedback after sharing a short story.

It was my horrible attempt to imitate McCarthy’s prose. How anyone could call it not my own work I have no clue.

The message they sent in the perma ban before muting me was usage of -insert evil computer brain- and “supportive comments for -insert evil computer brain-… but I’ve never made any supportive comments for the use of it? And like I said, it was me experimenting with my writing after reading blood meridian and loving how he wrote it. The writing was shit but it was mine.

I’m a bit dumbfounded by the entire thing. The closest I’ve been to a nice comment for it was “I’m forced to use it at work sometimes” and I’ve never had any writing flagged or removed until now.

This is the story in question. If it reads as ai. Please, be harsh and tell me. Do not hold back.

I fought beside a man called Robert Jordan when I volunteered in Ukraine.
I usually lead with that. I don’t tell them he died until later. First I give them the summer of twenty-twenty-four. Borscht in foxholes. Every now and then they need convincing so I tell them yes, they really serve borscht near the front.
I’ll show them the old bloodstained Australian flag patch in my wallet after I’ve told them about the International Legion. They want danger and adventure. To believe that exciting things happen when I’m around.
Why’d you go? is usually the next question. This is where I show them I’m a man of principle. Fascism is usually enough. I do tell them I felt sorry for the conscripts who didn’t want to be there. The true believers were a different story. I tell them I left Melbourne for Poland and crossed the border near Jarosław two days later. From there, I went straight to Lviv and was on the front a week later. Then I tell them about Robert.

It has been a year since I last brought a woman home. Her name was Tina and she must’ve been fifteen years younger than me. She seemed swept away by my stories. As any woman of substance would be. She appreciated my generosity and my taste in music, drink and literature. Not like the ungrateful types who usually frequented The Royal, with their heads glued to their phones rather than admiring the centuries-old beams above them.
She complimented my house and my garden and my bookshelf. She liked what she saw. Hemingway and McCarthy and Orwell and Bradbury and Dostoevsky. The sort of shelf an intellectual would appreciate. She seemed most interested in Orwell. “I’ve never read these ones,” she said, pulling Homage to Catalonia from the shelf. “I know Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-Four, but I’ve never read his other books.” I smiled without speaking, though inwardly I thought, Ach, süße Frau, was mache ich nur mit dir?
“The Road to Wigan Pier and Down and Out in Paris and London are superior to the famous ones,” I told her eventually.
She was like most people. Never bothered to get that far. To them he’s just the man who put pigs in suits.
I left her by the bookshelf while I went to the bathroom. When I came back, she was gone and For Whom the Bell Tolls was lying face down on the floor. Not that I cared. She probably realised she was out of her depth.

Women come and go, but my stories stay the same.

Last Thursday I was on my lunch break and passed a table with Chad and Sarah and a few others. They were talking about their recent fishing trip. Chad was the loudest of course.
“Yeah, mate. The Dhuey went eight-twenty and we picked up a bag of tailor trolling back in.”
Sarah was sitting at the table. She seemed very impressed with what they had to say. Smiling and laughing and looking at Chad’s arms. When did women like fishing stories? If she liked fishing stories I had one that Chad couldn’t beat.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” I interjected. I walked over and sat down and winked at Sarah. Confidence is everything. Women notice men who dominate the conversation.
“Back when I was running charters in the Whitsundays, I took a dinghy out one evening. Just me. I wanted a bit of alone time. Couple hours in I hooked into a blue marlin so bloody big that when I got it up alongside I had to lash it to the side,” I told them.
“How big was the fish?” Chad asked.
“Must’ve been eighteen feet,” I said. “That’s five and a half metres.” I had to clarify it for the Neanderthals. They wouldn’t have grasped the scale otherwise.
“A storm rolled in on the way back. Sharks took advantage. They tore strips off it and I had to cut the ropes before they turned me over. Amazed I made it back to be honest, but I handled it.”
The table went quiet after that. I decided to leave as I’d upstaged Chad enough. The smile he was faking didn’t fool me. He looked at Sarah and she was just looking at the table biting the inside of her cheek. Almost felt sorry for him. Fuck him.

What Chad will never understand is that fishing stories only work on certain women, but love stories work on them all. Mine involved this girl called Daisy. We met one summer years ago in the middle of the city. Sometimes you spend your whole life trying to recreate one perfect summer. I’m no different. Sarah thought she wanted Chad. Women confuse excitement with substance.
Yes I have had my share of flings here and there, but they were all part of the plan. My betterment for her. She came from money, I could tell. She carried herself like someone who never had to check her bank balance. She was well spoken and polite when we first met and I was not yet at her level. Still she let me buy her a coffee and we talked and laughed and became friends. I watched her reject men over the years as I stood in warmth by her side. I watched her take others home as I was left out alone in the cold. It always ended the same. None of them mattered, none of them lasted. Men like Chad never do.
I worked and saved and became someone worthy of her. It took years but I got there. I bought the house next to hers just to knock it down and build a bigger one. My bedroom faced hers and it was worth every cent.
But she didn’t wait for me.
By then she had a new man. He was tall and handsome. He was at her house frequently. A monstrous man, next to her he looked seven feet. From my bedroom I saw him in her. Afterwards he would stand naked at the window and look across at me. When Daisy pulled the covers from herself he told her no one could see.
I see everything.

Yesterday I spoke to Sarah. It was just the two of us. I saw her in the cafe and I asked to sit with her. She said yes.
We got to talking and I told her about my time in Ukraine and Robert Jordan. I even opened up about Daisy. She kept asking me questions and for the first time in a year I thought somebody had finally understood me. She asked me about the fish I caught in the Whitsundays that the sharks tore apart. So I retold the story. She smiled and we drank coffee in the quiet a while. Soft jazz played low around us before she parted her lips and set down her cup:
“Robert Jordan? The marlin? Daisy?” She gave a small laugh and I nodded and smiled.
“How stupid do you think I am?”
My smile had a seizure and I said nothing.
“Do you really think I don’t read?” She pushed her chair back. “Tell me one story that’s yours.”
She stood there for fifteen seconds, then she walked out leaving a half-finished flat white behind.

I’ve learnt through the years that great men don’t live ordinary lives. If none of it happened to me, then there was never anything worth telling.
Hemingway had his war. Orwell had the truth. Fitzgerald had Daisy. I have shelves of their books. Now it’s McCarthy’s turn.

Today, I reach for Blood Meridian.

I’ve finished the first book and halfway through authority (this time Spotify audiobook)

I want desperately this Illumicrate Evernight Series as it looks stunning.

It seems to be available to ship to Australia, but it says minimum two weeks with possible delays. And all in all cost nearly $300 with shipping.

Has anyone had issues with illumicrate deliveries overseas? Or is this a simple go for it scenario?

What are your thoughts on these contests? Worth participating? Not worth it? Winning is worth a little pride? Winning means nothing?

I’m about halfway through and this one I’m finding a bit of a slog. I jumped into it after reading Crime and punishment, which I couldn’t put down. But this one, I’m struggling. I’m more excited for my next book than this.

I’m at about page 150 when Humbert and Lo are on the road. Is it worth finishing or is it one of those “if you don’t enjoy it, don’t finish” books?

https://www.reddit.com/r/DestructiveReaders/s/dHOJbWinYg

Crit (1438)

Hi. First time sharing here.

Chapter 1 of a novella I’ve been working on. Kalgara Deep.

What issues stand out? Is it enough to get you to want to keep reading?

Thanks.

I’m a miner. I dig holes for a living.

Well… nah. I blow shit up so we can keep going deeper.

Drill, charge, blast, bog. Repeat. After a while you stop thinking about it. It’s just the same crap on a different day. And I love it, always have, even if the air always tastes like ammonia. But every time I hear my little girl’s voice through the phone, I wonder how much deeper I can go before something down here takes more than time.

A man does what he’s good at, that's what dad always told me. I’m good at this. The holes pay the mortgage. They pay for the dentist, Daphne’s school, and her shoes. All of it.

That doesn’t mean this place doesn’t take its cut.

####

My mind’s blank this morning, it feels like someone's flicked off a switch. I just sit here, and stare out at the tarmac as my thumb taps the lid of my coffee. I didn't even want it really, but it’s freezing outside, and a warm cup in my hands was all the excuse I needed.

I can feel the cold seeping through the glass as I take a slow sip. Last night's storm is still hanging around, grounding half the flights. Mine’s already half an hour late. But there‘s something different about the place today, the windows look darker. Nothing extreme, but it’s enough for me to notice.

I push the thought aside and text Jo. My hand fumbles as I type: Love you, babe. Tell Daphne we’ll go to the zoo when I’m back. Proper day out. The three of us. After I hit send I stare at the phone, at my girls.

My leave was booked and signed off two months ago, though a few of the crew got sick. The manager called me yesterday, “all hands on deck,” The prick didn’t give me a fucking choice.

So I’m here waiting for a plane, missing my baby girl's birthday. She’s six tomorrow. They grow up fast, faster when you’re just a photo on the fridge.

The mine manager still got his week off, taking his kid to the Gold Coast. Dreamworld or some shit. The little cunt’s birthday is the same day as Daphne’s. ‘Course he gets to go. Blokes like that always do.

“So what d’you do onsite, mate?”

I look up at an old fella with a tired face, his lips buried in a long white beard. A scar dents his temple, half lost in the wrinkles. He rasps the question again, pointing just above my breast pocket.

“Your shirt, mate. Barrowcorp. You working at Kalgara? What d’you do onsite?”

“Charge Up,” I say, flat. No smile and no small talk. He doesn’t flinch and I don’t explain.

“Ah, Powder Monkey. Good money in that, mate. Hard work though,” he says grinning. His gruff voice drags my eyes up to his. “I used to work there. Down in The Deep. Long time back now. That place’s been open for yonks.” He laughs.

Powder Monkey. Haven't heard someone say that in a long time. This guy must be ancient, probably worked down there before half our gear even existed.

The rain drums harder on the tin roof above. I nod, more focused on the noise than what he’s saying. Outside, a baggage cart clatters through the carpark. A distorted voice crackles over the PA: “Final boarding call for Flight 247 to Jindalee.”

I drag my attention back to him. He’s still speaking, I don’t catch all of it, but I manage to hear something about old decline call points and stope names, shit you only know if you’ve eaten dust down there. “The Deep”, I hear him say again.

That’s what we call it. Just another hole in the desert eating its way through the state. Yeah. He’s been there.

“Oh yeah,” I say. “What were you doing down there?”

“Bogger operator back in the day. Swear half my time was spent complaining about those bloody fans when I should’ve been filling trucks up with dirt. Never had no aircon in the loader back then either, I’d sweat my ring-hole off every shift. Fitters never treated a busted aircon as a priority back in the day. Them vents still playin’ up?”

“They work fine as far as I can tell,” I say, glancing toward the front desk where a woman is arguing with the clerk — something about her hand luggage being heavier than the seven kilos we’re allowed.

He just nods, mumbling under his breath. “That's good, that’s good. They were always a bit weird back in the day. Nah, it’s about time. Ah yeah so that old place is still breathing then,” he says, laughing again.

My skin prickles, there's something about the way he laughs, how he sits smiling at me with those bright green eyes. I try to ignore him, but he won’t shut up.

“I always thought that place felt… real quiet, when I went down the hole. Like someone was always watching every move I made, listening,” he says, eyes narrowing as he taps the bench once, twice, three times. The taps sound wrong… way too deep, like it’s coming up through the bench, not bouncing off it.

“It was a funny place, that mine." He mumbles, staring at his boots as the grin stretches wider across his face. “You’d be a kilometer underground, it’d be the middle of the night, in the middle of the outback. But never feel alone.” He looks up and cackles. My eyebrows lift more than I intended as I nod, turning my head to look outside at the planes rolling over the runway under a sky the colour of wet cement. More planes groan overhead, loud and complaining like they don’t want to take off into the greyish black either.

I don’t want to go back today. I just want to be in bed with my arm round Jo’s waist, listening to the rain on the roof tiles. Instead I’m here in this dingy terminal, getting ready for another week of bullshit.

“Used to be a crew of twenty-seven,” the old fella says, interrupting my thoughts. “Still a small crew. Bit of this, bit of that. Some truckies, four from memory. A couple drills. Some boggers. Can’t imagine it’s too different now?” he asks.

“Uh huh,” I mumble as that same plane taxis toward the terminal, “yeah pretty much the same now,” I say, keeping my eyes on the NJE prop-plane rolling forward.

“Well… twenty-six. Never found the last one.”

I turn my head but he doesn’t blink, doesn't explain. Simply looks out the window, like it’s normal. Like miners just go missing every other Tuesday. Then he lifts his cup, takes another sip, and continues staring at the rain-soaked tarmac like nothing happened.

I look back down to my coffee. The cardboard that somehow doesn’t get soggy and fall apart, a white lid stained brown by each sip. It smells cheap and stale, tastes like it too — burnt and bitter, but warm. Inside the terminal it’s no better. I’ve waited here and walked through this building for years. Same ugly carpet with that outdated mix of teal and rust, and whatever those patterns are meant to be. The hard plastic chairs with that thin, scratchy fabric.

Suddenly the speaker crackles overhead. “Attention travellers. Flight KB227 is now open to all passengers travelling to Kalgara. Please make your way to Gate 2 with your boarding pass ready.” The voice is distorted, drawling across the terminal like it’s underwater.

Flight’s in, back to the rhythm.

I look over at him again. Still nothing. No wink or smirk. Just slow sips of coffee, eyes glued to the rain like he’s seeing something I’m not.

I stand and pick up my bag, give the old bloke a polite nod. He doesn’t return it, just raises his cup again like he never saw me. Still staring, still sipping, gaze fixed on something past the glass.

I take a step back then hesitate.

His boots.

Caked in black dirt, the kind you only get deep underground. I hadn’t seen it earlier. Hadn’t noticed the way his hands don’t shake despite the cold.

I turn away, heart ticking faster as I head toward the gate. I tell myself it’s just the rain, the early-morning shakes and the cold weather. I keep my eyes forward, and for the first time in a long while, it’s not just that I don’t want to go to work — I don’t want to go down.

Not down there.

Not into the Deep.