The lamps on the helmets pick up the crayon markings on the rock face. There is the reef, there is the ore, there is the gold. Drills are hefted forward, positioned, activated. Water and sand spew over the floor of the stope. Metal bites deep into the wall. The holes are charged with dynamite and detonators, fuses fed to safe places.
The miners retreat, make their way towards the shaft, towards the cages that will lift them back into the world.
As they surface they look at the sky, breath in fresh air, make thanks for no accidents this day.
Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. Read more 100 worders here.