By Evie Wyld
After the departure of the lady he loves, Frank struggles to rebuild his existence one of the sugarcane and sand dunes that encompass his oceanside shack. 40 years prior, Leon is drafted to serve in Vietnam and reveals himself without notice confronting an analogous stories that hang-out his war-veteran father. As those tales weave round each one other—each narrated in a voice as delicate because it is fierce—we examine what binds Frank and Leon jointly, and what can result retaining them apart.
Set within the unforgiving panorama of japanese Australia, Evie Wyld’s comprehensive debut tackles the inescapability of the earlier, the ineffable ties of family members, and the wars fought via fathers and sons.
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Additional resources for After the Fire, A Still Small Voice
I wish that my own home was still here in this remade world; I’d like to sleep one last night in my own bed. But perhaps there is a reason for that comfort being denied me. Perhaps I’d wake tomorrow back in a world busy with people, in an illusion of reality reconstructed from my memories as a Th e Lo s t De u s o f Su m e r / 2 5 buffer against the cold truth. I know a part of me would like that. But I have the Book, and in the pages of the Book, I have the map and, on that map, I have the way that I must travel marked out.
But, yes, it’s time for me to sleep—even if it is only an imagined sleep within the sleep of death—so I can wake to face tomorrow fresh. The irony of it all does strike me as I sit here, but it seems that even in eternal rest I need . . rest. I have a long road ahead of me, a long and winding road of dust . . perhaps the road of all dust. one A DOOR OUT OF REALITY from the great beyond F rom the Great Beyond she heard it, coming from the Deep Within. From the Great Beyond the goddess heard it, coming from the Deep Within.
Thomas. Fucking hippy fucking Thomas; he always loved that song. It would have been his birthday today. The door swings shut behind her. Click. Errata The Book of Life “ S o tell us about this Book then,” says Jack. ” Joey snorts derisively and heads off to the bar to get another round in; Puck, arms draped over Jack’s shoulders, sticks a tongue out at his back. In his long, black coat and brooding silences, I can’t help but think of Joey Pechorin sometimes as a sort of latter-day version of his forebears.