<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?><rss version="2.0" xmlns:content="http://purl.org/rss/1.0/modules/content/" xmlns:wfw="http://wellformedweb.org/CommentAPI/" xmlns:dc="http://purl.org/dc/elements/1.1/" xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" xmlns:sy="http://purl.org/rss/1.0/modules/syndication/" xmlns:slash="http://purl.org/rss/1.0/modules/slash/" > <channel> <title>Issue Two – Backstory</title> <atom:link href="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/category/issues/two/feed/" rel="self" type="application/rss+xml" /> <link>https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au</link> <description>History Writing Journal</description> <lastBuildDate>Tue, 08 Aug 2023 04:32:59 +0000</lastBuildDate> <language>en-AU</language> <sy:updatePeriod>hourly</sy:updatePeriod> <sy:updateFrequency>1</sy:updateFrequency> <generator>https://wordpress.org/?v=4.6.29</generator> <image> <url>https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/cropped-Klio-2-32x32.jpg</url> <title>Issue Two – Backstory</title> <link>https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au</link> <width>32</width> <height>32</height> </image> <item> <title>‘Falling Pomegranate Seeds’ by Wendy J. Dunn</title> <link>https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/11/21/falling-pomegranate-seeds-wendy-j-dunn/</link> <pubDate>Mon, 21 Nov 2016 07:52:54 +0000</pubDate> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Backstory]]></dc:creator> <category><![CDATA[Issue Two]]></category> <category><![CDATA[Reviews]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/?p=5288</guid> <description><![CDATA[<img width="895" height="530" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/FPS_resizedForWeb.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="fps_resizedforweb" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/FPS_resizedForWeb.jpg 895w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/FPS_resizedForWeb-300x178.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/FPS_resizedForWeb-768x455.jpg 768w" sizes="(max-width: 895px) 100vw, 895px" />Review by Sarah Giles “All of us must walk our own roads, but ‘tis wrong to prevent women from walking to many roads just because we’re women. Even Plato said, ‘Nothing can be more absurd than the practice of men and women not following the same pursuits with all their strengths and with one mind, …]]></description> <content:encoded><![CDATA[<img width="895" height="530" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/FPS_resizedForWeb.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="fps_resizedforweb" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/FPS_resizedForWeb.jpg 895w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/FPS_resizedForWeb-300x178.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/FPS_resizedForWeb-768x455.jpg 768w" sizes="(max-width: 895px) 100vw, 895px" /><p>Review by <a href="http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/05/15/sarah-giles/">Sarah Giles</a></p> <p><em>“All of us must walk our own roads, but ‘tis wrong to prevent women from walking to many roads just because we’re women. Even Plato said, ‘Nothing can be more absurd than the practice of men and women not following the same pursuits with all their strengths and with one mind, for thus, the state instead of being whole is reduced by half.’ I so agree.” — Beatriz Galindo, Falling Pomegranate Seeds.</em></p> <p>At its heart <em>Falling Pomegranate Seeds </em>is a story about female duty. Detailing the difficult, and often painful, lives women lead, Wendy J. Dunn writes evocatively about Queen Isabel I of Castile and her family. Through the eyes of Beatriz Galindo, a woman known for her brilliant mind, the reader becomes witness to the highs and lows of the most powerful royal family of their time.</p> <p>While sticking as true to the facts as possible, Dunn uses her extensive knowledge of the era and her beautiful imagination to bring to life a story of friendship, love, loss, power, suffering and strength, in what is (at times) a heart-wrenching page turner.</p> <p>In a novel dominated by intelligent, strong and inspiring women from history, Dunn doesn’t let the suffering of men fall to the sidelines. While much of the story is focused on the lives of women, the Holy War of the time saw men slaughtered by the hundreds, the thousands, a tragedy Dunn writes of with such sorrowful grief the reader is moved to ponder the utter wastefulness of war.</p> <p>Coming to the end of the novel found this reader more aware of the difficulties of motherhood, and the many different paths women walk. Queen Isabel must rule her people, Josepha must raise her children and Beatriz must continue in her quest to gather knowledge: each woman a mother, each with a different road to travel. And of course, there is the duty of daughters who have to accept their own responsibilities and follow their mother’s example.</p> <p>Dunn’s writing style is rich in intriguing detail that paints a nuanced picture of the lives of these real women. By the end the reader feels like a friend to the characters, and every happiness feels like a personal success and every tragedy a painful loss.</p> <p>Wendy J. Dunn brings together a story of true friendship and the love of mother and child in <em>Falling Pomegranate Seeds, </em>a novel that holds lessons for anyone lucky enough to read it.</p> <p><em>Falling Pomegranate Seeds</em> by Wendy J. Dunn is available on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Falling-Pomegranate-Seeds-Daughters-Katherine/dp/8494489399">Amazon</a>.</p> ]]></content:encoded> </item> <item> <title>Editorial – Issue Two</title> <link>https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/09/05/editorial-issue-two/</link> <pubDate>Mon, 05 Sep 2016 10:49:59 +0000</pubDate> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Backstory]]></dc:creator> <category><![CDATA[Issue Two]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/?p=5196</guid> <description><![CDATA[<img width="1500" height="1000" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Teddy-Kelley.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="A photo by Teddy Kelley. unsplash.com/photos/_4Ib-a8g9aA" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Teddy-Kelley.jpg 1500w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Teddy-Kelley-300x200.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Teddy-Kelley-768x512.jpg 768w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Teddy-Kelley-1024x683.jpg 1024w" sizes="(max-width: 1500px) 100vw, 1500px" />By Dr Jacqueline Ross This second edition of Backstory gives Swinburne students an opportunity to see their work published and a reach an audience much wider than their peers. This is an exciting issue. It contains a wonderful mix of genres and styles including poetry, fiction and interviews with writers. Once again, the standard of …]]></description> <content:encoded><![CDATA[<img width="1500" height="1000" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Teddy-Kelley.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="A photo by Teddy Kelley. unsplash.com/photos/_4Ib-a8g9aA" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Teddy-Kelley.jpg 1500w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Teddy-Kelley-300x200.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Teddy-Kelley-768x512.jpg 768w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Teddy-Kelley-1024x683.jpg 1024w" sizes="(max-width: 1500px) 100vw, 1500px" /><p>By <a href="http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/09/05/jaq/">Dr Jacqueline Ross</a></p> <p>This second edition of <em>Backstory</em> gives Swinburne students an opportunity to see their work published and a reach an audience much wider than their peers.</p> <p>This is an exciting issue. It contains a wonderful mix of genres and styles including poetry, fiction and interviews with writers. Once again, the standard of writing is impressive and showcases the many talents of Swinburne writers.</p> <p>The interviews are particularly interesting this month, allowing us an insight into the world of historical writing by some world-class writers.</p> <p><em>Backstory</em> was fortunate enough to secure an interview with leading historical fiction writer, C.W Gortner. Tamasine Loves asks him some interesting questions and discovers what time period he is drawn to again and again.</p> <p>In a dual interview, Jac Mason and Ana Tinc question Alex Miller about his work and latest novel <em>Coal Creek. </em>The writers of this interview have drawn on the craft of creative non-fiction and offer us a highly original narrative interview.</p> <p>James Palmer interviews playwright Dr Ron Elisha and finds out why he is so fascinated by history.</p> <p>There are reviews by Sarah Giles, Abby Claridge and Tina Tsironis that ensure we keep up to date with the latest historical publications, both by Swinburne students and other writers of note.</p> <p>Margaret Marchant has written a moving poem about Anzac Day and another, by Vashti Farrer, explores memory and loss through the prism of abandoned houses. <em>Bovary </em>by Eloise Faichney offers an insight into love and creativity and is beautifully crafted.</p> <p>Our own Wendy Dunn, editor of <em>Backstory</em>, also has a compelling new poem about the importance of words and art this issue.</p> <p>In the short story, <em>Prelude to the Dawn,</em> Arianne James writes evocatively about a relationship rocked by grief and family difficulties. Her writing is so full of sensory detail; the reader feels almost like a voyeur.</p> <p><em>Had as Leif Control</em> by Vashti Farrer, reminds of our barbaric convict past in a short story that is rich with period detail and ends with a clever twist.</p> <p>Real diary entries from 1915 form the basis of Kate Wann’s story, <em>Lucy’s War. </em>She has cleverly used diary excerpts to create a story about a war nurse. This piece of ‘faction’ captures the raw experience of the nurses and their struggle – an often overlooked story.</p> <p>This second edition of <em>Backstory</em> could not have been possible without all those who have been involved in the writing and production process. We, as readers, say thank-you!</p> <p> </p> <p>Image by <a class="_3XzpS _3myVE _1_w0v _2tPAp _21rCr _2zITg" href="https://unsplash.com/@teddykelley" data-reactid=".1dggzw21hc0.0.2.0.1.0.0.0.1.0">Teddy Kelley</a>.</p> ]]></content:encoded> </item> <item> <title>Prelude to Dawn</title> <link>https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/09/05/prelude-to-dawn/</link> <pubDate>Mon, 05 Sep 2016 10:48:00 +0000</pubDate> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Backstory]]></dc:creator> <category><![CDATA[Fiction]]></category> <category><![CDATA[Issue Two]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/?p=5193</guid> <description><![CDATA[<img width="1500" height="1125" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/nikita-velikanin.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="Processed with VSCOcam with p5 preset" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/nikita-velikanin.jpg 1500w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/nikita-velikanin-300x225.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/nikita-velikanin-768x576.jpg 768w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/nikita-velikanin-1024x768.jpg 1024w" sizes="(max-width: 1500px) 100vw, 1500px" />By Arianne James   We arrive at winter’s onset. I upon an open-aired milk truck, Lionel riding close behind. The downpour strikes earlier than predicted. I don’t mind. Once those bulging droplets kiss the ancient pines the air brims with a heady scent, coating the dewy atmosphere. Still the truck trundles through. Branches scraping against …]]></description> <content:encoded><![CDATA[<img width="1500" height="1125" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/nikita-velikanin.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="Processed with VSCOcam with p5 preset" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/nikita-velikanin.jpg 1500w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/nikita-velikanin-300x225.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/nikita-velikanin-768x576.jpg 768w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/nikita-velikanin-1024x768.jpg 1024w" sizes="(max-width: 1500px) 100vw, 1500px" /><p>By <a href="http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/09/03/arianne-james/">Arianne James</a></p> <p> </p> <p>We arrive at winter’s onset. I upon an open-aired milk truck, Lionel riding close behind. The downpour strikes earlier than predicted. I don’t mind. Once those bulging droplets kiss the ancient pines the air brims with a heady scent, coating the dewy atmosphere. Still the truck trundles through. Branches scraping against the front windows, then back, as if in some desperate attempt to claw onto a future they can never be a part. Lionel’s rigid stance grows more pronounced as the deluge turns his faded green shirt dark again. I smile. Looking into those startling eyes, like molten silver, which soften at my gaze, I think for the first time in months that perhaps it’ll work. His horse splutters and jerks its velvet neck and the look vanishes into the depths of his fatigue. Practical hands caress the panting animal. I look away.</p> <p>The final track is too narrow for the milk truck to venture so Lionel pulls me up onto the horse and we wave goodbye to the driver. The air seems colder the deeper we venture into these woods. A growing chill turns my breath to splinters and my eyes water, yet there is no denying its ancient, archaic beauty. The path is bedded with auburn needles and the soaring, indomitable branches above are cast in shadow, crisscrossing together to form an elaborate cage. We don’t speak. Lionel and I have an unspoken understanding. Marvel first, share later. The only sounds for company are the echo of the rain, softer now, reverberating off the leaves; the thick slaps of hooves and a band of storm clouds above; one colossal, melancholy bruise filling the air with an ever-watchful hum. The cottage can now be seen, if we squint into the mist. A one-storey log cabin advertised as two for the tiny attic loft perched like a church spire in the center of the shingles. Lionel’s sigh behind me is distant. I’ll tell him when we arrive.</p> <p>Inside, generations of dust have created an intricacy of particles that shimmer like a veiled barrier as we step over the landing. Lionel heads to the kitchen. I gravitate towards the attic ladder, climb to the top and push open the wooden panel. Peering into the gloomy depths I can see the silhouettes of memories flitting through the gauzy light. Trapped up here with no one to visit, to reminisce. The room is tiny, just big enough for an armchair by the window, perhaps a desk in future. Through the oval window I watch the first evening snowflakes tumble to earth, forever graceful in their demise from individuality. Transfixed, I’m jolted to attention by a fluttering at the window, a bemused gust attempting to rattle the thin panes. As I myself, flutter. Flutter in secret as tiny hands tap and patter against the walls of my heart. Searching. Yearning for their lost sibling.</p> <p>Lionel huffs up and down the ladder bearing our small collection of boxes. The first few trips he avoids my eyes. I can feel him looking at my side profile, and yet when I turn all I see is a retreating back, his caramel waves bent in all the unnecessary concentration of the avoidant soul. The third trip is a little better. I’m quicker in my glance and manage to catch his silver eyes. Hold them while he makes an effort to hold mine, smiles once. The fifth trip is unexpected. Distracted by a faded crochet doll abandoned on the windowsill, I’m startled as I feel his quiet, warm body nudge against my own. Weathered hands find mine and a sigh leaks from my lips as he returns some of their warmth. One hand leaves, returns.</p> <p>‘I found this down by the boatshed right before we left. Only just remembered where I’d kept it.’</p> <p>Now perched atop my unfurled palm lays the poetry book given to me by my grandmother, years ago. To see it again, after weeks of trying to hide the <em>silly </em>grief over its believed loss seems an illusion. I don’t understand why he didn’t give it to me immediately, but I school my expression and bury the hurt as I let out a little laugh, kiss his prickly cheek, a cautionary question. His answer: a fleeting brush of lips on mine. And then his retreating back – taking with him the story, our story, still forming on my parted lips.</p> <p>Lionel doesn’t know that I watched through the crack in the door. I can’t forget the way he looked at his mother. His features were contorted in an expression bespeaking the most unbearable sorrow. She could hardly speak, but in her unnaturally high-pitched husk of a voice she sung him a lullaby:</p> <p><em> </em></p> <p><em> May you bring love and may you bring happiness</em></p> <p><em>Be loved in return to the end of your days</em></p> <p><em>Now fall off to sleep, I’m not meaning to keep you</em></p> <p><em>I’ll just sit for a while and sing loo li, lai lay.</em></p> <p><em> </em></p> <p>I watched, unblinking as he rested his cheek to hers and sobbed, the most heart-wrenching sound in the world. And this deep, guttural music fused with her higher keening; creating the kind of love song poets strive to conceive.</p> <p>And here I lie. Lie against the growing cold and growing stillness. Lie to protect this fragile family. Lie by omission. How can the wind howl so articulately, with such determined passion? How can the pines bend to her every will? Perhaps I was meant to be a pine. A solitary being, yet part of a unified forest. Allowed to be different but all at once forever the same. Told which way to swing and which way to fall. Never which way to hope. Lionel is the only man I’ve ever felt truly comfortable with. People used to think that was strange. His shyness can come across as surly, intimidating even. But I knew deep down he was gentle. Our first conversation at a dance my sister had somehow convinced me to attend floats around in my head.</p> <p>I turn from the window and begin the climb down the narrow ladder. Reaching the bottom I see Lionel stacking logs by the open fireplace. I know he’s seen me. He’s changed his rhythm. Stacking logs slower, fixing any loose strands of newspaper. Outside, redwoods bend to the gales pining lullaby, transforming into glistening pillars of white. Sentries guarding our fragile future.</p> <p>‘Lionel.’ My voice has acquired an unfamiliar edge. One second passes. Then five. Until at last his flagging face meets mine.</p> <p>‘Lionel I’m…’ I falter, suddenly conscious of the finite particles floating around me, entering my mouth, my lungs. Breathe out. Breathe out.</p> <p>The wrinkles on his face are like crevasses, transforming his features into a cryptic labyrinth. There are too little around his eyes. I continue to stare despite the filmy sheen steadily glazing over my vision. It’s strange how long seconds last when you’re fixated on a memory. Lionel’s tentative <em>ahem</em> carries me back.</p> <p><strong>‘</strong>Are you alright?’ The words seem shocking to my ears.</p> <p>‘Yes… Yes, I am darling.’ I laugh not really knowing why.</p> <p>‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I must be tired.’</p> <p>I stare at the flames as they begin to stroke the newspaper and feel those solitary eyes drop to my belly for an irregular heartbeat. My own green orbs meet him halfway and in the split second it takes for our eyes to lock they tell me everything. He knew. He knew but never spoke. Our eyes are still fastened, neither one of us willing to make the first move.</p> <p>‘I thought talking about it would make it worse,’ Lionel exclaims, continues. ‘I’ve been childish, acting as if pretending it isn’t happening will make it go away. I tried to talk about it the whole way here, rolling words around, but I knew speaking would mean hope and excitement and longing. I couldn’t do that to us again.’</p> <p>He stops talking suddenly, as if he has much more to stay but can’t quite figure out how to say it. Breaking eye contact he continues to coax the fragile fire, but now his hands shake as he prods the florid logs. I crouch down and shuffle over to kneel by him. We sit there, side by side; both moving a little bit closer to each other every minute. I reach for his hand, clutch it tight. He leans his head upon mine and we close our eyes; singing each other to sleep to a song only we can hear.</p> <p> </p> <p>Image by <a class="_3XzpS _3myVE _1_w0v _2tPAp _21rCr" href="https://unsplash.com/@nikita_v" data-reactid=".171pfhviuww.5.$=10.0.0.2.0.1.0.0.0.1.0">nikita velikanin</a>.</p> ]]></content:encoded> </item> <item> <title>Lucy’s War</title> <link>https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/09/05/lucys-war/</link> <pubDate>Mon, 05 Sep 2016 10:47:00 +0000</pubDate> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Backstory]]></dc:creator> <category><![CDATA[Fiction]]></category> <category><![CDATA[Issue Two]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/?p=5185</guid> <description><![CDATA[<img width="1500" height="1000" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/woodrow-walden.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="woodrow walden" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/woodrow-walden.jpg 1500w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/woodrow-walden-300x200.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/woodrow-walden-768x512.jpg 768w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/woodrow-walden-1024x683.jpg 1024w" sizes="(max-width: 1500px) 100vw, 1500px" />By Kate Wann   The following story is based on fact. All the quotes are directly taken from the diary of Lucy Daw 1915. Except for a minor change, I have kept her exact words and punctuation to maintain the authenticity of her work. In between her diary entries I have used fact and fiction …]]></description> <content:encoded><![CDATA[<img width="1500" height="1000" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/woodrow-walden.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="woodrow walden" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/woodrow-walden.jpg 1500w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/woodrow-walden-300x200.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/woodrow-walden-768x512.jpg 768w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/woodrow-walden-1024x683.jpg 1024w" sizes="(max-width: 1500px) 100vw, 1500px" /><p>By <a href="http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/09/05/kate-wann-2/">Kate Wann</a></p> <p> </p> <p>The following story is based on fact. All the quotes are directly taken from the diary of Lucy Daw 1915. Except for a minor change, I have kept her exact words and punctuation to maintain the authenticity of her work. In between her diary entries I have used fact and fiction to highlight what she went through. The dates are all fact but what Lucy felt and saw is fiction, based on as much research that I could do to make it as real as possible.</p> <p> </p> <p><em>17<sup>th</sup> July 1915</em></p> <p><em>‘We have been given our orders and will be working with casualties from Gallipoli, based in Lemnos. We leave England tomorrow.’</em></p> <p>She leant over the side of the troopship and vomited into the rolling ocean. The seas had been horrific and despite her iron stomach for many things, she had succumbed to seasickness. Lucy went back to her room and looked at the pale faces of her fellow nurses. They were on the last leg of their two month ocean journey from Australia to Gallipoli via England, and these were the worst seas yet. They all knew that they would arrive at Lemnos in a few hours. What they didn’t know yet was that it would be much more of a challenge that any of them had ever faced.</p> <p>The men had left Plymouth six days prior to the nurses, and the supply ship the <em>Ascot</em> a week before that.</p> <p>In the early hours of 5<sup>th</sup> August 1915 the ship pulled in to the now calm waters surrounding Lemnos. Lucy ran on to the deck with the other nurses. They stood along the rails with their red capes flapping gently in the warm morning wind. The harbour was full of boats, huge grey war ships, submarines, and Cunard liners being used as hospitals. The women stood silently in awe of it all as this was the first glimpse of war they had seen. Lucy had a surreal moment trying to catch up with the reality of it all. It seemed so far from the family farm in the Adelaide Hills.</p> <p> </p> <p><em>5<sup>th</sup> August 1915</em></p> <p><em> ‘The harbour is full of war ships of every description. I saw several submarines for the first time</em>.’</p> <p>The nurses stood on the deck anticipating some sort of greeting from the Ascot, the supply ship that was to have arrived two weeks before them. Matron called the women to the bow of the ship and explained that the supply ship had been delayed. They were trying to find some tents to use in the short term and found some boxes of bandages they had brought with them. This was all that they had, and they would have to make do.</p> <p>In the glow of the rising sun, they could see the shore where the tent hospital was to be set up; it was brown dirt and white rock. They had been told that some wounded soldiers would be arriving in a matter of days. They were to treat the men with no real hospital and limited supplies. That night, the nurses slept on a ship in the harbour and the men slept on the hard ground of the island.</p> <p>Two days later the hospital site had been pegged out and some marquees had been found to house the wounded. Two other hospitals were already on the island. One was English and the other, Canadian. The nurses remained on the boat, waiting for orders to come ashore. They sat on the front of the ship rolling what bandages they had, and trying to create shade as best they could. The cabins were way too hot, but out here at least there was some breeze.</p> <p>It was later that day when they were finally told it was time to come ashore. Lucy carefully navigated herself on to the unsteady row boat. Long skirts and lace up boots always seemed to get in the way of remaining truly ladylike. She squinted to look up at the large grey ship she had just disembarked, feeling insignificant and uneasy in the smaller boat. They pushed away from the ship and began rowing towards Lemnos Island.</p> <p>The heat was almost unbearable in the exposed boat, and the bleached stones of the shore and huge metal side of the ship were glaring under the unrelenting sun.</p> <p>As they came closer to shore, the wind picked up and the sailors had to row twice as hard to keep the dinghy on course. The nurses tucked their chins down to try and keep the sun and wind out of their eyes. Lucy kept trying to peek up and get a glimpse of the island that would be her home and workplace for as long as she was needed. It struck her as a formidable place, the few trees and brown dry earth adding to the feeling of isolation.</p> <p>The dinghy came to the gritty beach and the nurses were helped ashore. They stood on the sand smoothing down their dresses and wondering what on Earth they had signed up for. The Matron signaled for them to follow her and they made their way up a rocky hill. The wind whipped around them, which seemed to increase the temperature, and they breathed in the warm air.</p> <p>‘Line up,’ ordered Matron. Despite the weather and the fact no hospital had arrived before them they were marched, led by a piper, to the site where the 3<sup>rd</sup> Australian General Hospital was to be set up.</p> <p>Before breakfast the following day, 200 injured soldiers arrived. By the end of the week they had around 800. Lucy was shocked at their wounds and felt helpless with the limited supplies. The men were thin and filthy; one was admitted dead.</p> <p>Despite her feelings, she worked as hard as she could to get the men comfortable as she triaged the injuries.</p> <p>The more seriously injured had a crayoned ‘M’ with a time written on their forehead. It was a message from the nurses at the front line that they had been given morphine for their pain and what time it had been administered. Lucy had a simultaneous pang of guilt and relief that she wasn’t at the front line. She knew the nurses at the front on the hospital ships had a hard time. In one pocket of their apron they had aspirin; in the other one morphine. They distributed these to the injured and dying men who had come straight from the trenches, as they saw fit.</p> <p>‘Bring him over here boys,’ Lucy said, directing the exhausted orderlies carrying a stretcher. The man was unconscious but not bleeding badly, ‘<em>thank goodness’</em> she thought. The supply ship had still not arrived and they had very little in the way of bandages left. This soldier might survive, but many before him were not so lucky.</p> <p>She had only arrived in Lemnos ten days before and had been working day and night. There were still no beds, so Mackintosh sheets were put on the ground for the injured.</p> <p>As she rolled up the man’s sleeve to take his pulse, she noticed a large tattoo of an attractive, dark-haired woman on his arm. Lucy found tattoos unnerving, more than she felt she should. They were such a personal glimpse into the life of the men she helped; a reminder of the people they left behind to fight the war.</p> <p>She bobbed down beside him and took the soldier’s pulse. It was weak. She needed to concentrate to feel the gentle beat. And then, it stopped. She gasped as she realised that he had died. He really had not looked as bad as some of the men. She was not someone to make mistakes and found it difficult to consider that she had missed something. For a moment, she ruminated about how hard it was to look after so many men. The heat was stifling and the epidemic of flies was the worst she had ever seen. What littler water they had was needed for the patients. As a result, she had been brushing her teeth with sea water since her arrival.</p> <p>Her friend Grace walked past and saw Lucy sitting frozen, holding the dead soldier’s wrist and staring into middle distance. ‘Lucy, is everything alright?’ she asked gently. Startled out of her reflections, Lucy nodded, and stood up. ‘I need an orderly to take this chap, he didn’t make it,’ she said, matter-of-factly.</p> <p> </p> <p><em>10<sup>th</sup> August 1915 </em></p> <p>‘<em>A boy cried for his mother last night, don’t think they will get through the Dardanelles, everyone just cries and cries.’</em></p> <p>The August offensive continued at Gallipoli and with it, the injured continued to pour into the 3<sup>rd</sup> Australian General Hospital. Lucy had heard that the loss of life on the battle field was horrific. She could see it on the men’s faces; they were only shadows of the raucous lads who left for battle. Being an Australian hospital, only injured Australians were meant to be admitted, but these days, no Allies were turned away.</p> <p>Exhausted from the day’s efforts, Lucy still found it difficult to sleep in the makeshift tent. Sometimes it was the noise that kept her awake; sometimes it was the silence.</p> <p> </p> <p><em>13<sup>th</sup> August 1915</em></p> <p><em>‘I can hear guns. None last night, they must have been burying their dead. 1000’s lie wounded.’</em></p> <p><em> </em></p> <p><em>15<sup>th</sup> August 1915</em></p> <p><em>‘A Turkish prisoner turned sniper last night, killed 10 of our men. The men did not want to take him in but the officers insisted. I believe in taking no prisoners.’ </em></p> <p>Early the next morning, Lucy went down to the shore to rinse out some clothes. It was a beautiful morning, not too hot or windy yet, and the sky was a glorious pink. The red and green of the harboured ship hospital lights almost looked festive in the early morning light. The girls were exhausted but the camaraderie was strong. Grace talked about how one of the other nurses had been proposed to by one of the soldiers. After the wedding she would have to resign, as once they were married, women were not allowed to nurses. Lucy wondered where they could get married on the island, and was uplifted that such happiness could still be found in times of war.</p> <p>On the 20<sup>th</sup> of August, the supply ship Ascot finally pulled into the harbour to much excitement from the nurses and orderlies. Lucy watched as the supplies were unloaded and large marquees and tents were put up. She wondered how they had saved so many lives with so little, and in such appalling conditions.</p> <p>The weather was beginning to get cooler and there was more rain. It hit the parched, hard earth and tricked off into small streams. The nurse would leap like deer over the water as they moved between tents. The timing of the Ascot was perfect, before the weather turned really bad. The men now had beds and the 150 that Lucy had on night duty were being well cared for. Some nights she was able to sit at a small desk by lamplight and write in her diary while the men slept.</p> <p> </p> <p><em>20<sup>th</sup> August 1915</em></p> <p>‘<em>The patients are pretty good at night, so I have a bit of a rest.’</em></p> <p>Lucy missed her family back home, especially her sister Mary in Adelaide, who had given birth to a little baby boy after she left. She wished she could cuddle him and smell the wonderful, powdery, new baby scent. She looked up at the rows and rows of mostly sleeping, injured men and felt a heavy nostalgia for the time before war broke out.</p> <p><em>‘</em>Nurse,’ called one of the men, from deep in the shadows. Lucy immediately got up and walked purposely towards him. She smiled kindly at the tanned face. ‘I am sorry, but I really can’t sleep,’ Will said. She sat on the edge of the bed and they talked. She told him about Mary and the baby, and he told her about his dairy farm in the Barossa Valley. It was now being run by his mum and her sisters as all the men had left for the war.</p> <p><em> </em></p> <p><em>23<sup>rd</sup> August 1915</em></p> <p><em>‘I really like him, we reminisced about home together as he lives in Adelaide too.’</em></p> <p>Whenever she had time, she would visit Will to see how he was going. Although she felt strongly for him, she knew that nurses who married could no longer work. When Will was sent back to Gallipoli, she declined to give him her contact details. Squeezing his hand tightly, she said ‘<em>Thank you,’ </em>and left. However, he would not give in that easily.</p> <p>More injured soldiers arrived every day, but now they were seeing many more sick men, too. Dysentery and typhoid where another enemy, for both the soldiers and nurses. 25 nurses had come down with dysentery and that meant more patients and work for Lucy and the other nurses. By the end of the August offensive, 32 soldiers had died from injuries. After August, most of the deaths that Lucy had to deal with were not from injury but disease.</p> <p>As she looked after the men, they often would give her news about the war. Some would not talk about their own experiences. A few wouldn’t talk at all.</p> <p> </p> <p><em>25<sup>th</sup> August 1915 </em></p> <p><em>‘We heard that a transport has been torpedoed. Twelve are said to be drowned. A terrible lot of boats are being sunk by submarines which are at large in the Mediterranean, far more than are ever reported.’ </em></p> <p><em> </em></p> <p><em>1<sup>st</sup> September 1915</em></p> <p><em>‘The men haven’t eaten since Friday but they are so happy to be here they are almost cheerful.’</em></p> <p>The warm weather and flies had turned to rain and vermin. The orderlies worked hard to keep mice out of the tents. The heavy rain caused flooding and the wind threatened to destroy the tent hospital.</p> <p>Lucy lay in her bed that night listening to the wind slapping at her tent, breathing shallowly. She felt if she fully relaxed and fell asleep, the tent might fall down, trapping her. Lucy was resentful that the nurse’s huts still had not been put up despite the supplies that had arrived. The other hospitals on the island had huts for nurse’s quarters, yet the Australians still remained in tents.</p> <p>The next morning, she got dressed quickly as the sides of the tent were rolling, like waves. It was very difficult to get clothes dried in this weather and she felt the still-damp collar and cuffs of her uniform as she pulled it over her head. She silently hoped the tent wouldn’t blow away until she had put her dress on.</p> <p> </p> <p><em>16<sup>th</sup> September 1915</em></p> <p>‘<em>The patients had a river of water running through their tents, heavy rain. Orderlies up all night, tents blowing down. This is the biggest mistake possible spending money erecting hospital here, they can never be a success. No operations are to be done unless absolutely imperative.’</em></p> <p><em> </em></p> <p><em>1<sup>st</sup> October 1915</em></p> <p><em>‘I have never seen the sisters so upset. We all had to move. The night nurses came on to day and the nurses in the Typhoid Marquees had to get together in the bell tents. So that meant we who are not in Ty wards had to move into the Marquees! 8 in each instead of our little tents. That meant Grace and I were again separated.’</em></p> <p>The rough, alien terrain of Lemnos was now familiar. She knew most of the ships in the harbour that came and went. The dramatic ups and downs of war nursing began to feel like normal life for Lucy, not that she ever would get entirely comfortable. She felt that as a nurse, her skills had improved. As a woman, she found that she was braver and more capable then she ever imagined.</p> <p><em> </em></p> <p><em>5<sup>th</sup> October 1915</em></p> <p><em>‘It is a perfect day. Grace and I are sitting outside the marquee, had afternoon tea, and asked Matron to join us. We all agree we are glad to be one of the first women to land at Lemnos, even though we had hardships.’ </em></p> <p><em> </em></p> <p><em>12<sup>th</sup> October 1915</em></p> <p><em>‘Got a move today, to the other ward, but this time in charge. Colonel Cudmore asked for me so Matron sent me. I am jolly glad, am quite sure I shall like having a ward of my own.’</em></p> <p>A small bird flitting about in her ward made her jump. It came out from under her desk and scooted past so fast that for a moment, she thought it was a mouse. She watched it peck at the ground just outside the canvas door. Suddenly she felt very homesick. It looked similar to a kind of bird back home that was called a Willie Wagtail. They were everywhere at the farm. She felt a lump catch in her throat and wished for some letters from home.</p> <p> </p> <p><em>24<sup>th</sup> November 1915</em></p> <p><em>‘The German submarines are doing a lot of damage, torpedoing our supply ships, have got a few transports, but they mostly manage to get into this harbour. They are most active between here and Alexandria a big mail went down in one boat this week, a number of parcels and 900 registered letters.’</em></p> <p>The nurses were devastated by the loss of the mail. The usual chatter between them was more sober. However, they managed to keep upbeat when around the sick and injured men. Lucy was surprised when Will came to visit her and felt her face flush. This time he did not ask for her contact details but left with a knowing look on his face.</p> <p><em> </em></p> <p><em>25<sup>th</sup> November 1915</em></p> <p><em>‘I am glad that Will visited me today from the rest camp. He has been at Anzac for 3 months, he looks a bit thin.’</em></p> <p>Grace and Lucy were now working together again and between them they managed to keep the men’s spirits up. Grace had a wonderful singing voice and Lucy, a quick wit. The men joked that they should start a stage show when they got back home. They finally got a hut to share, and contentment came with the strong sense of belonging. Lucy felt that the two of them had arrived as single entities but were now connected to the war and the men who fought in it.</p> <p>At the end of their shift, the women walked back to their hut in the twilight. In the distance they could see orderlies carrying a stretcher with a stark white sheet covering the body beneath. They took the body up a small hill; on the other side was the mass grave for all the unfortunate ones.</p> <p> </p> <p><em>14<sup>th</sup> December 1915</em></p> <p><em>‘The war has got me down today, all this loss of life and nothing obtained.’</em></p> <p>The nurses were told to begin to evacuate the hospital as the final offensive was to soon take place at Gallipoli. It felt surreal to Lucy, knowing that on the other side of the world her family was getting ready for Christmas, as she prepared for more injured.</p> <p><em> </em></p> <p><em>16<sup>th</sup> December 1915</em></p> <p><em>‘We are sending patients to the convalescent camp each day, evacuating our hospital, getting ready for any wounded who have the good fortune to get off the Peninsular from the final fight. Each day we hear rumours of who is to fight the rear guard. It might be very terrible at the last, they have it all arranged, mined to blow the works up as they come down, then barbed wire entanglements then machine guns every 12 yards. So Mr Turk will not gain ground very quickly.</em></p> <p><em>Thousands of troops are being got off every night. Heavy bombarding was heard all last night.’ </em></p> <p><em> </em></p> <p><em>17<sup>th</sup> December 1915</em></p> <p><em>‘Volunteers were called to remain amongst the stretcher bearers. They were told by their Colonels that they would probably be killed if not taken prisoner for sure, so the ones that stay are brave men. The Navy goes out each night and returns in the morning, we are expecting the final blow up on Monday all stores, guns, munitions have to be blown up before the last of them get off. The boys are all very sad about it. They say, it’s our home.’</em></p> <p>Lucy understood how the soldiers felt, that even a muddy, lice-infested trench can feel like home. Just as her a makeshift hospital in the middle of a war could begin to feel like her home. But with the men leaving Gallipoli, the 3<sup>rd</sup> Australian General Hospital would also soon be leaving Lemnos.</p> <p><em> </em></p> <p><em>18<sup>th</sup> December 1915</em></p> <p><em>‘Heard today the Destroyer HMS Pincher has been blown to atoms, it always anchored where we could see it quite plainly form our lines. But we have watched for over a week and seen no sign of her. Mr Palmer used to come and see me each time she came in, I don’t know if any were saved, but I think not.’</em></p> <p><em> </em></p> <p><em>19<sup>th</sup> December 1915</em></p> <p><em>‘Tonight is the final at Gallipoli, every man who remains has to be got off so stores and trenches are to be blown up. The ones who remain to do that then have to run and swim to the destroyer, which has volunteered to get within 100 yards of the</em> shore.’</p> <p>Lemnos was harsh, and so different to that of Lucy’s Adelaide home, but she had come to like it and had never felt more useful. She was tired and had times of complete exhaustion, but knew more than ever, nursing was what she wanted to do. She walked down to the harbour and looked at the boats that had been such a shock when she had first seen them. Now, they were just part of the scenery. She mused on how amazing it was that, given time, one can get used to almost anything.</p> <p>There was something about necessity and the human spirit that allowed the most inhospitable places to become familiar and sacred. The nurses remained in Lemnos until late January, when they moved to Egypt. Lucy’s war was far from over.</p> <p> </p> <p>Image by <a class="_3XzpS _3myVE _1_w0v _2tPAp _21rCr" href="https://unsplash.com/@wquaredphotography" data-reactid=".dzvax28qv4.0.2.0.1.0.0.0.1.0">woodrow walden</a>.</p> ]]></content:encoded> </item> <item> <title>Dinosaurs: An Alternate Ending</title> <link>https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/09/05/dinosaurs-alternate-ending/</link> <pubDate>Mon, 05 Sep 2016 10:46:54 +0000</pubDate> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Backstory]]></dc:creator> <category><![CDATA[Fiction]]></category> <category><![CDATA[Issue Two]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/?p=5257</guid> <description><![CDATA[<img width="800" height="533" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Dinosaur.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="dinosaur" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Dinosaur.jpg 800w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Dinosaur-300x200.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Dinosaur-768x512.jpg 768w" sizes="(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" />By John Whitehall King Jayavarman’s waning virility was not surprising. The royal serpent had raised its head to strike so many concubines that it was obviously exhausted or bored, or both. The royal serpent deserved a rest. But Jayavarman thought differently and so, once again in search for the ancient remedy, he mustered the royal …]]></description> <content:encoded><![CDATA[<img width="800" height="533" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Dinosaur.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="dinosaur" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Dinosaur.jpg 800w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Dinosaur-300x200.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Dinosaur-768x512.jpg 768w" sizes="(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><p>By <a href="http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/09/05/john-whitehall/">John Whitehall</a></p> <p>King Jayavarman’s waning virility was not surprising. The royal serpent had raised its head to strike so many concubines that it was obviously exhausted or bored, or both. The royal serpent deserved a rest. But Jayavarman thought differently and so, once again in search for the ancient remedy, he mustered the royal hunting party.</p> <p>To hell with the king’s spoiled serpent, Ponleu thought. Unlike Jayavarman, he hated hunting. He cursed the jungle’s stifling embrace, the teeming sweat, and the relentless insect headdresses that veiled the entire royal hunting party. He had longed for an excuse to avoid trailing the king on these ridiculous forays through the jungle wall. Of late, he had tried to avoid the king altogether, but Ponleu could only blame himself for being forced into the hunt.</p> <p>King Jayavarman was, in Ponleu’s opinion, crazier than an elephant in musth. He was heavily dependent upon the pipe and a yellow haze had long clouded his majesty’s eyes, along with his mind. The king was renowned for his mood swings; he became completely unpredictable which, considering his authority, could be exceedingly dangerous.</p> <p>Jayavarman had for years confided in Ponleu, his Royal Artist. Although Ponleu had dedicated his life to the temple carvings, his role as King’s confidant far outweighed his role as artist. He had become Jayavarman’s chosen ear. The king had taken to him and often sat whilst he worked in the temple, chattering like an adolescent monkey about his spiritual encounters and sexual exploits.</p> <p>Over time, the king’s sexual and spiritual tales merged and Ponleu’s diagnosis seemed to be confirmed. It soon became common knowledge in the Kingdom that the king proclaimed to enjoy nightly sexual encounters with a spirit from the otherworld, in his chamber overlooking the palace. Lately, the king had struggled with the behaviour of his reluctant serpent and had experienced dark and dangerous moods.</p> <p>Ponleu was himself to blame for the inception of the hunting trips. When Jayavarman had complained to him that the royal serpent would no longer raise its head, Ponleu had mentioned the ancient Chinese remedy. Jayavarman had become obsessed with the idea and when the hunt was arranged, the king suggested that Ponleu accompany him on commission to depict the hunting scene in stone. He could hardly have declined. To upset the king was to put oneself in mortal danger.</p> <p>Ponleu fantasized about being back at the palace, in the baths, being treated with herbal poultice and the ministrations of one of the palace handmaidens. A bead of sweat stung his eye and brought him back to the jungle. They were all here in the service of the Royal Serpent, hunting creatures that most believed didn’t exist anymore.</p> <p>Ponleu knelt next to his king, whose eyes remained fixed upon the trail. The royal hunting party had picked up the spoor and the trackers had, after much consultation, decided to halt the party at the confluence of two steep but small river valleys. The trackers were optimistic even though the spoor was old. They had waited for three days. Ponleu was miserable.</p> <p>Then the beast was upon them. For a creature of such size, it moved silent as a wraith and the thickness of the jungle and the beast’s mottled skin had ensured that none of the hunting party had seen it until it was danger-close. The creature stopped and raised its snout as if it had caught their scent. Ponleu appraised the creature with his artist’s eye, noting the relatively small size of its head and stumpy legs compared to its elephantine body. He became detached from his fear and clinical in his observance of the size and shape of the creature’s dorsal plates. They bloomed down its spine to peak at its midsection, and then grew smaller towards the tail. But the legendary tail spikes, feared and coveted by all who had hunted this particular species of dragon, were absent. Instead, the powerful tail tapered abruptly, appearing stubby and somewhat malformed.</p> <p>The dragon remained like a statue apart from its slow, rhythmic breathing.</p> <p>Ponleu heard the king’s bow sing. It wasn’t part of the plan for the king to begin the attack; he was a terrible archer. The arrow arced high and wide, disappearing into the foliage. The dragon appeared not to have heard the bow, and Ponleu registered its small ears. It tilted its head back toward the ground, apparently satisfied that there was no danger. As it curled its tongue around a young, succulent creeping vine, an arrow thudded into its neck, just behind its jawline. Delivered by the commander of the royal hunting party, it was the signal for the onset of the engagement. The silence was rent with screams, accompanied by several other bows in harmony, as the hunting party advanced.</p> <p>Ponleu had talked with a few of the hunters as they trekked through the jungle. They were eager and willing to serve the King, even if death was the cost of servitude. They received advance payments for their potential sacrifice through the lifestyles they enjoyed within the palace walls. They looked impressive as they charged, their lithe bodies rippling, their blades dark under the jungle canopy. They were almost within range and Ponleu wondered how many would perish for the glory of the Royal Serpent.</p> <p>Then the dragon fell, its hind legs twitching. From its throat came a cry which sounded like a small child. The hunters slowed and stopped, their war cries suddenly absurd. They lowered their blades and formed a semicircle around the dragon as it exhaled, its nostrils bubbling thick dark blood. Jayavarman and Ponleu joined the semicircle as the commander cleaved the dragon’s head from its neck. He then moved a twitching hind leg to access the genitals.</p> <p>‘It is female, my King. It is gravid.’</p> <p>The hunting party was silent and still, waiting for the King’s reaction. His volatility was renowned, but he remained impassive.</p> <p>‘Then we shall hunt until we find a male. I must have the penis.’</p> <p>The youngest of the band of hunters, Piseth, had to look away. He hid his expression but failed to contain a snigger. The whole party heard it. The King heard it. He walked slowly towards Piseth.</p> <p>‘On your knees.’</p> <p>But Piseth was already slumping to the ground, paling…</p> <p>Back in the city, Ponleu meandered through the palace grounds wearing what Jayavarman had once referred to as ‘the ugly face of beauty.’ It was the face he wore when he was working, concentrating, presenting life in stone.</p> <p>The scents, sights, and sounds of the palace, usually such divine distraction, could not draw him from his thoughts. He passed the bathing pool, shrouded with fine, rich silks that only served to enhance the allure of the bodies beyond. The essence of femininity danced unhindered through the silks on air laced with sandalwood, but Ponleu’s visage confirmed his preoccupation.</p> <p>Ponleu and the hunting party had been commanded to not speak of their failed endeavour, but Ponleu was affected by the deaths of poor Piseth and the pathetic dragon. Their spirits seemed to have taken over his head; he could think of nothing else.</p> <p>He passed by the celestial temple, Phimeanakas, where the king had been ensconced since their return. The king spent much of his time isolated in his chamber at the peak of Phimeanakas, a room gilded with a spectrum of precious and semiprecious metals and jewels. It was in this chamber that the king was said to have regular intercourse with the Naga, the nine-headed serpent-spirit. Of course, nobody dared question the king about his contact with the Naga.</p> <p>Ponleu was one of very few people to have been in the king’s chamber, for he was responsible for its conception and completion. He was particularly proud of his choice of lead as a dull, brooding backdrop to enhance the lustre of the precious metals and jewels encrusting the carvings in the chamber. The chamber was indeed beautiful, but Ponleu had never felt anything like a spiritual presence around Phimeanakas. The presence of the king, however, was palpable. He hurried on.</p> <p>He nodded at the guards at the Central Gate, declining the offer of transport, and wandered down Victory Avenue. It wasn’t far to Rajavihara but Angkor Thom, The Great City, was bustling and it was a slow, dusty walk to Victory Gate. It wasn’t as crowded past the causeway, past the bottleneck of beggars.</p> <p>He arrived at Rajavihara near the end of the working day. The stonemasons had completed their contract, leaving the Artists and Decorators on site. There was a fine layer of dust in the air and the cool scent of metal and struck stone was familiar and soothing. It was good to be back.</p> <p>He greeted Chanvatey, his leading foreman, who was warm in welcome and eager for him to critique their progress. Chanvatey asked about the hunt and was sickened at being told of Piseth’s demise. He was intrigued at the description of the Dragon; Ponleu was as expressive in voice as he was with his hands. Chanvatey was sympathetic that Ponleu had lost his commission. He nudged Ponleu with his elbow.</p> <p>‘You should draw the animal from the stone before it fades from your memory.’</p> <p>‘The King ordered me to forget about the entire hunt, that I’m not to mention anything about the Dragon.’</p> <p>Chanvatey gestured at the temple, adorned with the work that had taken years of their lives.</p> <p>‘You could carve the animal here, in Rajavihara.’</p> <p>Ponleu rolled his eyes.</p> <p>‘The King will never know. The roundels of the southwest Gopura are yet to be completed. You could hide a carving there. Do it for yourself. Do it for the Dragon. You may never see one again. Do it for Piseth.’</p> <p>Chanvatey pressed a hammer and a delicate chisel into Ponleu’s hands.</p> <p>Ponleu wiped his brow with the back of his hand, wiping the rivulets of sweat that advanced towards his eyes, smearing more dust onto his grimy face. He breathed slowly onto the stone, stepped back, and scrutinized the carving. He wiped his tools against his loincloth and laid them in their mahogany case. He ran his fingers over the carving, feeling the texture of the stone, tracing the contours of the plates on the dragon’s body. Then, swiping a mosquito from his ear, he left Rajavihara.</p> <p>Verity traced her middle finger along the contours of the dinosaur’s body, oblivious to the mosquito that hovered around her ear. She wondered how many people had touched this particular carving. It seemed to be situated in a nondescript section of the temple in the middle of one of the many intricately carved steles. She knew the name of this particular dinosaur. It was a stegosaurus. After looking through the ruins for weeks and seeing countless images of elephants, crocodiles, fish, Khmers, Chams, Thais, Buddhas, Shivas, Garudas, cows and chickens, here was a lone dinosaur.</p> <p>A cicada screamed, piercing her reverie as it pierced the silence. It was so loud, it reminded her of one of her dad’s power tools. What was it called? Circular saw? Bandsaw? Angle grinder. The sound would ever remind her of Cambodia.</p> <p>A security guard approached.</p> <p>‘Sorry, closing now,’ he smiled, but the vanguard of dusk mosquitoes was more than enough to encourage Verity to leave. She was the last visitor at Ta Prohm, or Rajavihara as it was once known. Most of the tourists, she knew, were crowded around Angkor Wat to witness the famed sunset, to capture the standard photographs, or being hurried back to their resorts in their buses, or Tuk-tuking it back to Siem Reap.</p> <p>Verity savored her last afternoon at the ruins, absorbing the still, tropical air. She wandered towards the exit, through the cool chambers of Ta Prohm. Fading, mottled sunlight made the Apsaras dance on the steles. It was, apart from the mosquitos, the perfect time of day but she was exhausted and she had an early flight.</p> <p>Arriving back at her hotel, she thanked her driver and arranged for him to take her to the airport the following morning. Verity craved a shower and bed but needed first to eat. There was a small restaurant down the alley opposite her guesthouse and she thought it would probably be quick to eat there. She would be able to avoid Armando the Spanish guy and Harold the Englishman, who always seemed to be at the guesthouse restaurant and were relentless with their clumsy advances.</p> <p>Verity was glad to see the restaurant empty. She ordered Pizza ‘al fun gi!’ with herbs and garlic, and waited with an icy beer. The pizza was quick to arrive, and as quickly devoured. As she paid the bill, she saw a little handwritten sign: Like us on Facebook! Not a fan of Facebook, she decided to recommend the restaurant on the Lonely Planet website. Verity wrote its name on her guidebook: Very Happy Smile Pizza. The significance of the name was lost on her.</p> <p>Back at the guesthouse, showered and cool, Verity shoved her belongings into her backpack. She lay on the bed, listening to the whirring fan, which made the mosquito net float around her. She googled ‘Ta Prohm dinosaur’ and was surprised to find numerous links. Before long she gave up and put her laptop to sleep. In between conscious thoughts and dreams, she felt a flutter in her stomach; a slight, queasy sensation, outmatched by an overwhelming sense of wellbeing and euphoria.</p> <p>She wandered in a lush garden beside a muddy, languid river. The garden breathed with the sounds of birds and insects. A rooster crowed somewhere in the distance. She followed a stony path meandering along the bank. A cool breeze from upstream mingled with the warm jungle air, saturated and perfumed with frangipani. A large, metallic-green dragonfly rode the thermals, banking through a copse of hibiscus, contrasted against drooping crimson flowers.</p> <p>Rounding a bend in the river, she heard voices emanating from the jungle. Two male voices, in animated conversation, their accents unmistakable. The Spanish voice was loud, heavy with accent and emotion and wildly inflective, and the Londoner’s voice sounded as if bred for a TV documentary. The jungle parted and she saw them, both reclined on cushions in an open walled, grass-thatched hut.</p> <p>The Englishman was tall and thin, immaculate in white trousers and collared shirt. His hair was behaving, disciplined by a strict comb, and his cheeks were blushed as if from a heavy-handed teenage girl. He was clean-shaven and wearing delicate rimmed spectacles of remarkable strength, supporting lenses that resembled the base of shot glasses. His forehead glistened.</p> <p>The Spaniard wore loose-fitting pants that looked like a tile mosaic. He wore a flowing, off-white, collarless shirt, open to the navel. His wild beard and chest hair were seamless and his Saddam Hussein moustache rested on lips adequate to the task. Their conversation ceased as Verity approached. They both turned and stood.</p> <p>‘Ah, Verity, how are you? Please jou come and join us.’</p> <p>‘How do you–’</p> <p>‘Well, that’s just a silly question, Verity. This is, after all, your dream. Of course we know your name.’</p> <p>The Englishman presented his hand, which Verity shook.</p> <p>‘But jou do not know us.’</p> <p>The Spaniard took Verity’s hand and kissed it, lingering too long, the moustache rasping like the furry side of a Velcro strap searching for attachment.</p> <p>‘I am world renowned Archaeologist, Dr Manuel Clavicle and dis is my good frien’ Señor Frank Coprolite. He is specialist Palaeontologist.’</p> <p>‘Yes, thank you, Manny. It’s an absolute delight to meet you, Verity. Please join us. Would you care for a drink?’</p> <p>Frank motioned to a small table where there were two frosted glasses and a huge silver tankard brimming with ale. Manuel hefted the tankard and made a toast.</p> <p>‘To Verity, and to de endless search for meaning.’</p> <p>‘Yes. Quite.’</p> <p>Frank took a polite sip in the time it took for Manuel to tilt the contents of the heavy tankard down his throat. The Spaniard wiped his mouth with his sleeve and grinned, his teeth gleaming through the untamed forest of his face. He clicked his fingers and Verity noticed calloused hands and seams of red dirt under cracked, yellow nails. A bald diminutive Asian man, wearing only a codpiece and Ho Chi Minh sandals, coalesced from the jungle carrying a tray loaded with a pitcher of the amber liquid. He charged the Spaniard’s tankard and, without a word, blended into the foliage.</p> <p>‘Please, sit down, no?’</p> <p>The two men waited for Verity to sit on one of the cushions and then took their places. Frank sat cross-legged, maintaining perfect posture. Manuel seemed to melt into the cushion, slouching against the bamboo rail of the hut, each limb assuming a position requiring the least amount of energy. Verity sat with her knees under her chin, resting her drink on the table.</p> <p>‘So, lets begin, Verity. Jou are wonder about de dinosaur, no?’</p> <p>‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’</p> <p>‘Tis a splendid way to approach this conundrum, dreaming about conversing with such learned companions. You must be quite an intelligent young lass.’</p> <p>‘Well, no, I just try to search for truth in life.’</p> <p>‘Intelligent and humble; you are a rare breed. Now, you must know about the fossil record. Our interpretation of the fossil record is that most of the dinosaurs suffered mass extinction approximately 65 million years ago. Those that didn’t evolved into the Avian class. So the most direct contact humans have ever had with dinosaurs is with the birds, who are direct descendants of dinosaurs.’</p> <p>The Spaniard drenched his moustache with the head of his ale and cleared his voice.</p> <p>‘My frien’ is confuse because he is look at a record of all of de dead things and den he make belief about de living. Dis, to me, is a little backward, no?’</p> <p>He nudged Frank.</p> <p>‘How do jou know all of de dinosaur die? Jou cannot know dis.’</p> <p>‘Well, what we do know is that humans didn’t walk the earth until many millions of years after the Triassic period. It is impossible that human and dinosaur coexisted. The carving is misleading.’</p> <p>Frank took another polite sip and shook his head. The Spaniard threw his arms around and continued.</p> <p>‘Jou know, Verity, how many stories there are of dragon? Many, many cultures have de written history and de painting or carving of de dragon. Dere are so many record dat one of dis man colleagues make a story to esplain why de stories exist. He say dat before we evolve into human and our ancestor were some kind of tiny mammal or someting, dis ancestor were so afraid of de dinosaur dat dis images were burn’ in our little mammal brains. So when we get de opposable tumb we all over de world make drawing or carving of de dinosaur because it stick so much in our nightmare. What do jou tink of this?’</p> <p>‘It does seem a little far-fetched.’</p> <p>‘What is a little far-fetched,’ Frank responded, ‘are the fables of the heroic humans slaying the fire-breathing dragons. If you believe that nonsense, well, you can’t really call yourself a scientist.’</p> <p>‘I don’ have to believe in de fire-breath to believe man live with de dragons. Of course man is exaggerate de story. But de carving and de painting and de description of most of de dragon convince me dat some of dem survive. Of course, man keel de rest of dem. Man is keel, keel, keel everyting. Mostly because he is scare of de big animal, but also man keel for de food, or for fun, or for to be a hero, or for something dat he treasure, like de elephant tusk or de tiger penis.’</p> <p>Verity couldn’t suppress a giggle. The Englishman rolled his eyes.</p> <p>‘Ah, you see, Señor Coprolite here he is very sceptic. But you look at de poor tiger. He is hunted because de Chinese believe to eat his penis make their penis hard like a rock, no? And de elephant he is almost keel off because de ivory is precious. Everywhere, man is keel all of de things. We know man is biggest keeler in history and den dis Palaeontologist like Señor Coprolite is assume a big rock from de space is keel all of de dinosaur. If we look at de human history, we must make assume dat de man keel de dinosaur.’</p> <p>Manuel reached down and pulled an old duffel bag from underneath the hut. He upended it and the contents dropped onto the floor of the thatched hut. A large, round stone thudded to the ground, followed by books, scrolls, parchments, and sketches, forming a huge, dusty pile. The Spaniard cradled the stone and showed it to Verity.</p> <p>‘Ah, now you see dis? Dis is carving from South America. One of thousands of Ica stone.’ He grinned. I could not help myself and had borrow dis for long time.’</p> <p>On the stone was a clear engraving of a Triceratops.</p> <p>‘Why, those stones could easily be fakes. They simply cannot prove the coexistence of man and dinosaur.’</p> <p>‘As I tell jou, Seńor Coprolite, dere are thousands of dese stone. Jou tink somebody carve dis all for joke?’</p> <p>He passed it to Verity, who was clearly impressed. Encouraged by this, the Spaniard shuffled through the pile of books.</p> <p>‘Jou see dis is photograph of engraving on tomb in Carlisle Cathedral. Dis tomb was build in 1496. What do jou tink this look like?’</p> <p>‘They look like dinosaurs.’</p> <p>‘Day are de Sauropod dinosaurs. Of dis I am convince.’</p> <p>Frank scoffed.</p> <p>‘Ah, jou see Verity? Seńor Coprolite is still stuck in his view of how de world is. Nothing change his mind. How about another?’</p> <p>The Spaniard tossed a few more books aside and blew some dust off another faded photograph.</p> <p>‘Now dis is from cave in North America and is petroglyph from de American Indians. It look like Brontosaurus, no? And dis one from Amazon fores’ is pictograph of de hunting of Sauropod. The hunting is common theme in a lot of dis artwork. I show you only one more because I fear to bore you.’</p> <p>The Spaniard flicked through an old notepad and showed Verity another hunting scene.</p> <p>‘Dis one is from Kuwait and is more rock art of human and dinosaur together.’</p> <p>‘Yes, but could it have been faked too?’</p> <p>‘Could all dis have been fake? Jou have to make up a your own mind. Dere is no fool-proof way to find de truth, but as I say to Señor Coprolite to tease him, dere is a lot of proof of fools. For me, I cannot ignore dis pictures and I cannot ignore de written history. In dis collection of mine dere is written account from Herodotus, Aristotle, Pliny, Alexander de Great, and de list go on, but I must not.’</p> <p>He fumbled through the pile.</p> <p>‘Now, where is my photograph of dis Ta Prohm dinosaur? It a must be in here somewhere.’</p> <p>Finally, he found a photograph of the carving Verity had touched the day before. The Englishman remarked with a single word, appearing somewhat smug.</p> <p>‘Pareidolia.’</p> <p>Verity felt foolish to ask, but she knew she could look more so if she didn’t.</p> <p>‘What does that mean?’</p> <p>‘It mean jou see what jou wanna see. But everyone who is see dis carving see de same ting. I do not tink day all wanna see dinosaur. I tink day recognize de stegosaur when day see it and I tink some of dem don’ even wanna admit to themselves dat it is what it is, because day wanna see what day tink day already know. See what I mean?’</p> <p>The Englishman sighed and parted his hair with his fingers. The hair retreated to its fortified position.</p> <p>‘You know, we seem to cover this every single night, but for the sake of our guest I will again repeat myself. The carving could easily be a baby rhinoceros, surrounded by floral whorls. And the tail spikes, which we know to be characteristic of the stegosaur, are conspicuously absent on this carving. I just cannot believe we are having this conversation again. This whole idea is preposterous.’</p> <p>‘An’ like I already tell jou, Señor Coprolite, dere are no flowers looking like de plates of de dinosaur on any other carving in de entire ancien’ city. And if jou wanna care look with the fossils not a jam in jou eyes, jou can see de esplanation for de missing tail spike on de carving. Look at de elephan,’ no? His tusk is get smaller and smaller over de years. Even he is get smaller and smaller. Look at de rhinoceros. Sometime he not even have de horn anymore. Jou know why dat is?’</p> <p>The Spaniard’s voice was getting progressively louder, his arms flailing in cadence. He stood up, knocking his tankard onto the grass. The waiter in the codpiece materialized and silently refilled it, placing it on the table. Then he was gone. The Englishman took his glasses off to clean the spittle that had sprayed from the Spaniard’s mouth. He waved his encouragement and shot Verity an amused look.</p> <p>‘Please, do tell.’</p> <p>‘Because, Señor Coprolite, MAN IS KEEL ALL OF DE BIG ONE SO DAY CANNO’ BREED ANYMORE!’</p> <p>‘Calm down, Dr Clavicle. I believe you are upsetting our guest.’</p> <p>‘No, it’s O.K. I find this really interesting.’</p> <p>The Spaniard sat back down and sucked back an enormous volume of beer. Verity turned toward the Palaeontologist.</p> <p>‘What do you think, Sir Coprolite?’</p> <p>‘Well, Verity, the fossil record simply doesn’t support Dr Clavicle’s wild explanations. The surviving dinosaurs evolved into birds long before man grew erect.’</p> <p>He guffawed at his own joke and then his cheeks became a darker shade of pink.</p> <p>‘Señor Coprolite is make a joke, no? But is not very funny, I tink. Must a dinosaur evolve over de years? It is possible he remain, how you say, static?’</p> <p>‘This theory is very highly unlikely, Dr Clavicle. We believe certain environmental factors caused all of the remaining dinosaurs to become birds.’</p> <p>‘Jou keep saying dis over and over, but look at all of de other tings dat are in your fossil record dat have no’ change over time. De crocodile, although he become smaller, the plants like dis pine tree in Australia dat everyone is tink long dead but is now call ‘de living fossil’. What do you tink about all dis? Also dis ocean bug, de Balmain bug he is stuck in the fossil record with de dinosaur and also I ate him las’ night and he taste good.’</p> <p>‘Well, yes, there are some creatures which have remained in phenotypic stasis, but they are the exception to the rule. You must accept this.’</p> <p>‘Many creatures have remain de same. Why jou cannot ascept some dinosaur not change?’</p> <p>‘Because there is simply no scientific proof.’</p> <p>‘Ah, Señor Coprolite, your speciality and my speciality cannot have the scientific proof. De scientific proof is require observation, repetition, and falsification, no? How do jou suppose we will ever get dis?’</p> <p>‘Obviously when we study history we cannot, but we can use evidence to arrive at a conclusion.’</p> <p>‘No, no, we use de evidence to arrive at presumptions, no? Based on de worldview, no? Based on de preconceive idea, no?’</p> <p>‘Yes, yes, that is correct. Now, can we not hurry this up? Verity has a plane to catch.’</p> <p>‘Ah, si, but jou know I have one other point.’</p> <p>‘Of course I know. We repeat this conversation every day, ad nauseam. Please, do get on with it.’</p> <p>The Spaniard swilled the remnants of his tankard and grinned.</p> <p>‘Jou see, Verity, it is not often dat someone passionate and charismatic like me get to speak on top o’ loud mouth Palaeontologist. Dead tings in de sediment rock are speak so loud to dem day cannot hear de voice of de artwork and written history.’</p> <p>He paused for effect.</p> <p>‘Recently de Palaeontologist find remains of one dinosaur with soft, stretchy tissue and blood cell intact. Day are amaze to find dis. Day cannot believe. Dis is should not be called fossil like we know, because fossil is meant to be rock, not a tissue. Is indicate to me dat de specimen is not very old but because is dinosaur, day say it must be millions of years. Instead of maybe tinking is not so old day are frantic try to find why delicate, err, organic molecules stay in a such good condition. It is example of try to stick de evidence to fit de belief system instead of maybe consider it does not fit.’</p> <p>‘Is this true?’</p> <p>‘We did indeed find a Tyrannosaurus rex fossil, remarkably preserved so that its connective tissue could be stretched and its blood cells clearly identified. We are searching for the mechanism by which this tissue could be preserved for so many millions of years. We think it must have something to do with the iron content in blood cells in combination with other as yet unknown environmental factors. There must be some explanation, it’s just that we haven’t found it.’</p> <p>‘Jou see, Verity? Now day fight against entropy because day must believe millions of years. Never will be ascept dat some dinosaur not so old. Jou know what is derivation of de word, Palaeontology? It of course come from de Greek, palaios, which is mean ancient, and ontologie, which is mean philosophical study. So it is metaphysical study with assumption dat what is study is ancient. It is rigid mindset. So day ignoring de people’s history and listen to de rock instead of reading the writing on it.’</p> <p>‘A ridiculous semantic argument.’</p> <p>‘But Verity, I tink she get my point.’</p> <p>‘It’s definitely something to think about.’</p> <p>‘And so jou should. Dese people who did de carvings and wrote de history deserve as much, no?’</p> <p>A bell tolled somewhere in the forest. The palaeontologist and the archaeologist lowered their heads, their eyes closed.</p> <p>Verity fumbled on the bedside table, knocking her phone to the floor. She felt sick.</p> <p>Ponleu never again saw a dragon.</p> <p>Image courtesy of<a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Dinosaur_carving_at_Ta_Prohm_temple,_Siem_Reap,_Cambodia_(5534467622).jpg" rel='prettyPhoto'> Wikipedia</a>.</p> ]]></content:encoded> </item> <item> <title>Had as Leif Control</title> <link>https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/09/05/had-as-leif-control/</link> <pubDate>Mon, 05 Sep 2016 10:46:00 +0000</pubDate> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Backstory]]></dc:creator> <category><![CDATA[Fiction]]></category> <category><![CDATA[Issue Two]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/?p=5190</guid> <description><![CDATA[<img width="979" height="555" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Pearls.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="Opnamedatum: 2009- 06-16" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Pearls.jpg 979w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Pearls-300x170.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Pearls-768x435.jpg 768w" sizes="(max-width: 979px) 100vw, 979px" />By Vashti Farrer   LETTER from: Earl Bathurst to Governor Darling.   Downing Street, 17th August, 1825. Sir, With reference to my Dispatch of the 22nd of July, 1824, to take measures for the reoccupation of Norfolk Island, to which place the worst description of Convicts might be sent. I transmit to you the copy …]]></description> <content:encoded><![CDATA[<img width="979" height="555" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Pearls.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="Opnamedatum: 2009- 06-16" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Pearls.jpg 979w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Pearls-300x170.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Pearls-768x435.jpg 768w" sizes="(max-width: 979px) 100vw, 979px" /><p>By <a href="http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/08/25/vashti-farrer/">Vashti Farrer</a></p> <p> </p> <p><strong>L</strong>ETTER from:</p> <p>Earl Bathurst to Governor Darling.</p> <p> </p> <p>Downing Street, 17th August, 1825.</p> <p><em>Sir,</em></p> <p><em> With reference to my Dispatch of the 22nd of July, 1824, to take measures for the reoccupation of Norfolk Island, to which place the worst description of Convicts might be sent. I transmit to you the copy of a letter by Major Morriset of the 48th Regt., whose experience in the management of Convicts points him out as a very fit person for the position. I strongly recommend the appointment of Major Morriset as Commandant to Norfolk Island, with such reasonable Salary as you may consider proper.</em></p> <p><em> I have, &.,</em></p> <p><em> </em>BATHURST.</p> <p> </p> <p><strong>E</strong>mily has decided she will walk today to the other side of the bay and back. It is a pleasant enough morning and there can be no harm, surely? After all, James has merely told her not to ride. She suspects he plans to take the horse himself, reduced as they are now, to one.</p> <p>She shudders to think of the poor horses lost at sea, when the storm broke. The ship’s hatches were battened down, but the horses were hurled against their stalls in the hold, bashed and injured, some killed, their bodies thrown overboard to feed the sharks.</p> <p>It is such a pity not to be out riding, when the weather promises to be pleasant, after days of rain. She was so looking forward to it. Riding has now become her particular pleasure; there is little else for her to do. She loves the feeling of being raised, the breeze in her face, as she makes her way down Military Row to the water’s edge. There to sit motionless in the saddle, gazing out, hoping for the sight of a sail on the far horizon.</p> <p>It means she must pass the gaol, with its long uneven walls of stone, broken only by the archway serving as gallows. She cannot help but shudder whenever she passes. James has said there are thirteen steps to the gibbet and she wonders, <em>do the sad wretches, that climb them, ever count?</em></p> <p>It is now mid-morning and still cold on the veranda. Trees overhang the house, like a cloak, blocking out the morning sun, keeping it dark, enclosed. <em>Secretive.</em> By afternoon, it will creep up towards the eaves, spilling over the sills to the rooms beyond. Then, as dusk falls, the fires will be lit, dispelling the threat of shadows once more.</p> <p>The servant, Turner, has cleaned and blackened the grates, stripped and made the bed. The doctor and some of the officers are expected to dine with them this evening. Emily has already given orders for more bread to be baked and the pork to be soaked. There is not much to work with and though she tries to work miracles with a little sage and parsley, she wonders if James ever notices her efforts.</p> <p>Now, she opens her workbox and threads her needle, takes out her embroidery frame, only to lay it in her lap with a sigh. She has grown so weary of sewing; something that once gave so much pleasure. Now she merely aches for someone to talk to, other than a man. Someone to share her secrets, the little things—another woman.</p> <p>Those last letters she had from home, she has read many times over, folding and creasing the paper so often, it has started to tear. She has deduced every shadow of meaning from the lines, the words unsaid, pictures conveyed, in the hope of seeking the truths lying behind.</p> <p>Her sister’s child is sickly pale still, and she wonders: will it survive the damp of another Yorkshire winter? Her brother, in London, has acquired new friends that sound too wild and racy, by far, and what of his drinking? His gaming debts? She knows him only too well and worries for him. As for her parents, no longer young, how do they fare? The letters barely hint at such matters.</p> <p>Emily sits with her embroidery in her lap, staring out at the monotony of blue that skirts the island and feels herself a prisoner. Every bit as much as the beasts locked up at night without benefit of stars above them.</p> <p>It is still not noon, when she closes her workbox and goes into her bedroom. Taking off her morning gown, she steps into her day dress, pulling it up and buttoning the bodice. She exchanges silk slippers for neat leather boots which she laces tightly.</p> <p>Opening the door onto the verandah, she runs down the steps and heads for the tiny beach her husband, Major Morriset, has named ‘Emily Bay’ for her. It is only a curve of sand, but if she closes one eye and looks beyond her outstretched arm, she can imagine it fitting within the palm of her hand.</p> <p>She hears the squish of sand underfoot as she walks, feels it working its way through the eyelets of her boots, rubbing between her toes. She loves this feeling of grit. It makes her feel like a child again, untethered and free to play at will.</p> <p>High above the island, looming cliffs are topped by a hairline of brooding pines, but here in her bay, the sand is pale, the bushes around her low and scrubby. She feels they offer a sense of peace that sets this place apart.</p> <p>The sun is now high overhead as she sets out to walk the length of the sand to where the long boats tie up. Today there are no ships riding at anchor inside the reef and no small boats out fishing.</p> <p>She can hear the waves as they break on the reef, only to crash against the rocks on the foreshore, sending spumes of spray high in the air while up in the hills, the wind sighs wretchedly through the sombre pines.</p> <p>Emily reaches the end of the beach but makes no attempt to turn back, telling herself there are still hours before Turner will need to start cooking dinner. She can easily be back in time to change.</p> <p>Then she hears the cry of an animal caught in a trap and is about to part the bushes and step through, when something pulls her back. A group of men, gathered around a prisoner. His arms are manacled above his head, tied to a triangle. Legs apart, he stands, his cries floating back towards her as she stands rigid behind the bushes.</p> <p>The man’s back is already bloodied as a soldier steps forward and shoves a plug of leather between his teeth.</p> <p><em>THWACK </em>– she hears the lash comes down again and the overseer call, ‘TEN!’</p> <p>The man’s head jerks back, his back arching in spasm.</p> <p>Between the leaves Emily watches, horrified. Are his eyes closed? She cannot tell.</p> <p>The stripe snakes thin and red across his back. The convict wielding the lash is broad-shouldered. Chosen for his strength.</p> <p>A wave of nausea rises from her stomach, but still she cannot move.</p> <p>This time a stripe, wider, opens the flesh, allowing the blood to flow freely.</p> <p>At fifty, the doctor steps forward, checks the prisoner, calls, ‘Water!’ and a leather pail of seawater is thrown over the felon’s back.</p> <p>He writhes, shudders, twisting and clenching his fists above his head. Already two ribs show white through the flesh, the vertebrae sharp-etched, like hills on a map.</p> <p>‘Continue!’ orders the captain of the guard.</p> <p>‘FIFTY-ONE!’ the overseer resumes the count.</p> <p>High above, the wind in the pines builds to a fury.</p> <p>The doctor takes a step back to keep his shoes from being spattered and stares in dismay at his once white breeches.</p> <p>The ground all around them is dark and sodden.</p> <p>Small bits of flesh lie scattered over the area. Shrubs hold forth tiny morsels, delicate as pink blossoms, suspended momentarily on twigs. Emily is mesmerised. She reaches out as if to touch one, only to turn away in revulsion. Again, she tries to summon the strength to run but cannot.</p> <p>‘ONE HUNDRED!’</p> <p>She dares not move, knowing she must wait till the end, for fear of being discovered.</p> <p>The doctor removes his hip flask, takes a quick nip of brandy; to sustain himself.</p> <p>‘ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY!’</p> <p>‘Enough!’ He steps forward and calls a halt to the punishment.</p> <p>Emily does not need to look to know that the prisoner has slumped unconscious, that only his arms to support him still.</p> <p>‘Release this man,’ orders the doctor. ‘Put him in solitary.’</p> <p>‘Will he be fit enough to work in the lime kiln, tomorrow?’ asks the captain of the guard. ‘I need men in the salt tower, as well?’</p> <p>‘Who knows? He’ll not thank you for either,’ observes the doctor. ‘But I will give my opinion tomorrow, should he last.’</p> <p>Clouds now shunt their great grey shadows across the shore line, as the man is released and carried by his fellows back to the penitentiary. Emily, suddenly freed from the sight, climbs back down onto the beach and starts to run for the house.</p> <p>That evening, she dresses plainly in her dark red velvet dress. She lifts her pearls and is about to place them round her neck when she thinks of the translucent balls of skin she saw today on the bushes and hastily puts the pearls away. James has given them to her, but should he ask, she will say she forgot to wear them.</p> <p>As they sit at dinner, she sees a frown ruffle his brows as if he is less than pleased with the meal before him, and yet it has been months since a ship brought them fresh supplies. Surely he realises she has done her best?</p> <p>Emily has placed herself between the doctor and the captain of the guard, but though it is her duty to speak of matters that will raise the level of conversation to something more cultured and civilised, tonight she seems more than usually quiet. She listens to the men speak of the brutes in their care. How difficult is the task of keeping them <em>in order</em>. The nature of control, how it should always serve the common good—and does.</p> <p>She eats listlessly, pushing the food around her plate, showing little appetite.</p> <p>‘Are you all right, my dear?’ James appears solicitous in front of his guests.</p> <p>‘Yes, a little tired, that is all.’</p> <p>‘We had a flogging today, Emily. A most depraved wretch. Barely human.’ He reaches for the decanter. ‘Port, doctor? Captain?’</p> <p>‘Thank you. Yes,’ the doctor says, helping himself and passing it on. ‘I doubt he will give you too much trouble now.’</p> <p>‘Good.’ The captain replaces the stopper, holds his glass to the candlelight, then says, ‘I need more convicts for the lime kiln.’</p> <p>‘You shall have them,’ says James.</p> <p>‘They may come with scarred backs,’ warns the doctor.</p> <p>‘No matter,’ replies the captain.</p> <p>Emily looks from one to the other. All three of these gentlemen treat her with the utmost respect and courtesy. Yet tonight, it is as if she is seeing them for the first time. <em>Strangers.</em></p> <p>James reaches across and places a hand over her delicate wrist. He smiles with some concern, ‘That is why I would not have you ride out today.’</p> <p>Image by <a href="https://kalden.home.xs4all.nl/verm/rembr_tripENG.html">Kees Kaldenbach</a>.</p> ]]></content:encoded> </item> <item> <title>Bovary</title> <link>https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/09/05/bovary/</link> <pubDate>Mon, 05 Sep 2016 10:45:00 +0000</pubDate> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Backstory]]></dc:creator> <category><![CDATA[Issue Two]]></category> <category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/?p=5179</guid> <description><![CDATA[<img width="1500" height="1253" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Padurariu-Alexandru.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="Padurariu Alexandru" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Padurariu-Alexandru.jpg 1500w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Padurariu-Alexandru-300x251.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Padurariu-Alexandru-768x641.jpg 768w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Padurariu-Alexandru-1024x855.jpg 1024w" sizes="(max-width: 1500px) 100vw, 1500px" />By Eloise Faichney   Flaubert recognised my love, tender and whole, and it made him sad.   ‘I forsee that I shall make you suffer’, he wrote to me, he included a line of my poetry;   ‘I shall show them what a woman of iron mind can do.’   ‘But not if I keep …]]></description> <content:encoded><![CDATA[<img width="1500" height="1253" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Padurariu-Alexandru.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="Padurariu Alexandru" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Padurariu-Alexandru.jpg 1500w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Padurariu-Alexandru-300x251.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Padurariu-Alexandru-768x641.jpg 768w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Padurariu-Alexandru-1024x855.jpg 1024w" sizes="(max-width: 1500px) 100vw, 1500px" /><p>By <a href="http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/05/14/eloise-faichney/">Eloise Faichney</a></p> <p> </p> <p>Flaubert recognised my love, tender and whole,</p> <p>and it made him sad.</p> <p> </p> <p><em>‘I forsee that I shall make you suffer’</em>, he wrote to me,</p> <p>he included a line of my poetry;</p> <p> </p> <p><em>‘I shall show them </em></p> <p><em>what a woman of iron mind can do.’</em></p> <p> </p> <p><em>‘But not if I keep you here on my page, my Emma</em>,’ he said.</p> <p> </p> <p>He half-knew what I would reply:</p> <p> </p> <p><em>‘We’re all suffering, all the time. If you do not make me suffer, </em></p> <p><em>somebody else will make me suffer, </em></p> <p><em>and of all the infinite options, I choose you.’</em></p> <p> </p> <p>He had a remarkable way</p> <p>of flexing his thresholds for me.</p> <p>I was that one, the one he would always forgive;</p> <p>despite storms, despite wars, despite himself.</p> <p> </p> <p>He would write my punishments—</p> <p>oh, yes, he delighted in those.</p> <p> </p> <p>He mocked my books;</p> <p>he killed my lovers;</p> <p>he poisoned my bread.</p> <p> </p> <p>But Flaubert never truly</p> <p>embodied his fiercest sentences,</p> <p>or his darkest thoughts.</p> <p> </p> <p>He would make me suffer in other,</p> <p>more creative ways.</p> <p> </p> <p>For my part, I found my revenge;</p> <p>I became his universal listener.</p> <p> </p> <p>Years later, in periods of our prolonged,</p> <p>but never indifferent silence, he would still speak to me.</p> <p>In his heart. In his head. Out loud in his bedroom.</p> <p> </p> <p>It was not my voice he imagined, but my listening,</p> <p>the unquenchable way that I had absorbed him;</p> <p>his words, his brilliance.</p> <p> </p> <p>In his final letter, he would tell me,</p> <p>he never found a match for that.</p> <p> </p> <p>“Elle est moi,” he said. <em>She is me.</em></p> <p> </p> <p>And I, in my profound listening,</p> <p>had taken his voice into mine.</p> <p> </p> <p>Image by <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/ydGDOuub4wA">Padurariu Alexandru</a></p> ]]></content:encoded> </item> <item> <title>Once and Future</title> <link>https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/09/05/untitled-poem/</link> <pubDate>Mon, 05 Sep 2016 10:44:00 +0000</pubDate> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Backstory]]></dc:creator> <category><![CDATA[Issue Two]]></category> <category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/?p=5173</guid> <description><![CDATA[<img width="1500" height="1000" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Carli-Jeen.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="A photo by Carli Jeen. unsplash.com/photos/15YDf39RIVc" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Carli-Jeen.jpg 1500w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Carli-Jeen-300x200.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Carli-Jeen-768x512.jpg 768w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Carli-Jeen-1024x683.jpg 1024w" sizes="(max-width: 1500px) 100vw, 1500px" />By Wendy Dunn   Can poetry die When words mark meaning On a page? No Not simply mark But explode Into architecture Imaginary gardens living toads My heart Beats Poem fragments Jotted down At night Between awake and sleep: Crystal waters Sunlight kissed Tinkered over rocks I blinked Water and light Shattered into stars Lovers …]]></description> <content:encoded><![CDATA[<img width="1500" height="1000" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Carli-Jeen.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="A photo by Carli Jeen. unsplash.com/photos/15YDf39RIVc" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Carli-Jeen.jpg 1500w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Carli-Jeen-300x200.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Carli-Jeen-768x512.jpg 768w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Carli-Jeen-1024x683.jpg 1024w" sizes="(max-width: 1500px) 100vw, 1500px" /><p>By <a href="http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/05/15/wendy-dunn/">Wendy Dunn</a></p> <p> </p> <p>Can poetry die</p> <p>When words mark meaning</p> <p>On a page?</p> <p>No</p> <p>Not simply mark</p> <p>But explode</p> <p>Into architecture</p> <p>Imaginary gardens</p> <p>living toads</p> <p>My heart</p> <p>Beats</p> <p>Poem fragments</p> <p>Jotted down</p> <p>At night</p> <p>Between awake and sleep:</p> <p>Crystal waters</p> <p>Sunlight kissed</p> <p>Tinkered over rocks</p> <p>I blinked</p> <p>Water and light</p> <p>Shattered</p> <p>into stars</p> <p>Lovers on the escalator</p> <p>Hand in hand</p> <p>No one else</p> <p>In the world but them</p> <p>Ah, let me believe</p> <p>In romance</p> <p> </p> <p>Rustling rush of rain</p> <p>Rattles my window</p> <p>I listen, thinking about</p> <p>My novel</p> <p>Blanche spoke with</p> <p>A Welsh lilt</p> <p>‘My Queen, my lamb,’</p> <p>She said</p> <p>Life’s hard</p> <p>It’s a crying shame</p> <p>Get over it</p> <p>Deal with it</p> <p>Listen to your heart</p> <p>And be true to what</p> <p>You believe</p> <p>Language speaks</p> <p>Gives us back</p> <p>The past</p> <p>Seemingly alive</p> <p>And now… and always</p> <p>The Once and Future King</p> <p> </p> <p>Words toss</p> <p>Stepping stones</p> <p>Between you and I</p> <p>Together we cross</p> <p>Making, creating</p> <p>Making art</p> <p>Creating anew</p> <p><em>Cogito, ergo sum</em></p> <p>Poetry dying?</p> <p>I don’t think so</p> <p> </p> <p>Image by <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/15YDf39RIVc">Carli Jeen</a></p> ]]></content:encoded> </item> <item> <title>Outline</title> <link>https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/09/05/outline/</link> <pubDate>Mon, 05 Sep 2016 10:43:55 +0000</pubDate> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Backstory]]></dc:creator> <category><![CDATA[Issue Two]]></category> <category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/?p=5176</guid> <description><![CDATA[<img width="1500" height="844" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Paz-Arando.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="Paz Arando" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Paz-Arando.jpg 1500w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Paz-Arando-300x169.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Paz-Arando-768x432.jpg 768w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Paz-Arando-1024x576.jpg 1024w" sizes="(max-width: 1500px) 100vw, 1500px" />By Vashti Farrer   On the corner stood a house. Unloved, its weathered weatherboard. But now a wire fence surrounds the lot. No planks or window frames. No door to enter. All signs of living, dead.   Where once the sound of children filled the yard. Or played indoors from rain, the mother shouting, all …]]></description> <content:encoded><![CDATA[<img width="1500" height="844" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Paz-Arando.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="Paz Arando" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Paz-Arando.jpg 1500w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Paz-Arando-300x169.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Paz-Arando-768x432.jpg 768w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Paz-Arando-1024x576.jpg 1024w" sizes="(max-width: 1500px) 100vw, 1500px" /><p>By<a href="http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/08/25/vashti-farrer/"> Vashti Farrer</a></p> <p> </p> <p>On the corner stood a house. Unloved,</p> <p>its weathered weatherboard. But now</p> <p>a wire fence surrounds the lot.</p> <p>No planks or window frames. No door</p> <p>to enter. All signs of living, dead.</p> <p> </p> <p>Where once the sound of children filled</p> <p>the yard. Or played indoors from rain,</p> <p>the mother shouting, all in vain.</p> <p>‘Stop that noise, you’ll wake the baby!’</p> <p> </p> <p>In nearby streets stand houses; twos</p> <p>and threes, their storeys telling tales</p> <p>of birth and death a hundred years</p> <p>ago or more. Diphtheria</p> <p>and measles, Whooping Cough and Scarlet</p> <p>Fever. Spanish Flu, the dreaded</p> <p>Smallpox. Typhoid Fever, too.</p> <p> </p> <p>Now, all that’s left of one small cottage –</p> <p>the outline of a roof on next door’s wall.</p> <p> </p> <p>Image by <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/fpw2EF6W_NY">Paz Arando</a></p> ]]></content:encoded> </item> <item> <title>Identity (A Recipe of Crumbs)</title> <link>https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/09/05/276/</link> <pubDate>Mon, 05 Sep 2016 10:43:32 +0000</pubDate> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Backstory]]></dc:creator> <category><![CDATA[Issue Two]]></category> <category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/?p=5246</guid> <description><![CDATA[<img width="1500" height="1000" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Identity-A-Recipe-of-Crumbs.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="identity-a-recipe-of-crumbs" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Identity-A-Recipe-of-Crumbs.jpg 1500w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Identity-A-Recipe-of-Crumbs-300x200.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Identity-A-Recipe-of-Crumbs-768x512.jpg 768w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Identity-A-Recipe-of-Crumbs-1024x683.jpg 1024w" sizes="(max-width: 1500px) 100vw, 1500px" />By Clare Millar   416,809 enlisted 156,000 wounded, gassed, taken prisoner 62,000 killed Preheat a war. Line countries with armies. Combine Australia with its British obligations. Stir until men enlist, men want to enlist, men will do anything to enlist. Roll out the guns, roll out the ammunition, roll out the men. Flatten lives until …]]></description> <content:encoded><![CDATA[<img width="1500" height="1000" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Identity-A-Recipe-of-Crumbs.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="identity-a-recipe-of-crumbs" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Identity-A-Recipe-of-Crumbs.jpg 1500w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Identity-A-Recipe-of-Crumbs-300x200.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Identity-A-Recipe-of-Crumbs-768x512.jpg 768w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Identity-A-Recipe-of-Crumbs-1024x683.jpg 1024w" sizes="(max-width: 1500px) 100vw, 1500px" /><p>By <a href="http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/09/05/clare-millar/">Clare Millar</a></p> <p> </p> <p>416,809 enlisted</p> <p>156,000 wounded, gassed, taken prisoner</p> <p>62,000 killed</p> <p>Preheat a war. Line countries with armies.</p> <p>Combine Australia with its British obligations. Stir until men enlist, men want to enlist, men will do anything to enlist.</p> <p>Roll out the guns, roll out the ammunition, roll out the men. Flatten lives until dying, leave until completely dead. Leave to cool for a few years, then add a nation creation myth to the mix.</p> <p>Serve as ‘Lest we forget.’</p> <p>But eat, and remember that how we tell stories</p> <p>is not the truth of what happened.</p> <p>And the biscuits we eat now</p> <p>are not the biscuits that were sent to war.</p> <p> </p> <p>Image by <strong><a class="_3XzpS _3myVE _1_w0v _2tPAp _21rCr" href="https://unsplash.com/@satian39" data-reactid=".18gasu48g74.0.2.0.1.0.0.0.1.0">Hoshino Ai</a>.</strong></p> <p> </p> ]]></content:encoded> </item> <item> <title>Reflections of an Anzac Day March</title> <link>https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/09/05/reflections-anzac-day-march/</link> <pubDate>Mon, 05 Sep 2016 10:43:00 +0000</pubDate> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Backstory]]></dc:creator> <category><![CDATA[Issue Two]]></category> <category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/?p=5182</guid> <description><![CDATA[<img width="1500" height="1000" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Neil-Thomas.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="Neil Thomas" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Neil-Thomas.jpg 1500w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Neil-Thomas-300x200.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Neil-Thomas-768x512.jpg 768w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Neil-Thomas-1024x683.jpg 1024w" sizes="(max-width: 1500px) 100vw, 1500px" />By Margaret Marchant   Once tall proud men Remembering those who went before them Marching for those who cannot and those left behind Lives lost, lives mourned, tears shed Once tall proud men Proud families watching, tears in their eyes Struggling to make sense of the feelings of loss Friends made, friends lost …]]></description> <content:encoded><![CDATA[<img width="1500" height="1000" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Neil-Thomas.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="Neil Thomas" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Neil-Thomas.jpg 1500w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Neil-Thomas-300x200.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Neil-Thomas-768x512.jpg 768w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Neil-Thomas-1024x683.jpg 1024w" sizes="(max-width: 1500px) 100vw, 1500px" /><p>By <a href="http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/09/05/margaret-marchant/">Margaret Marchant</a></p> <p> </p> <p><em>Once tall proud men</em></p> <p><em>Remembering those who went before them</em></p> <p><em>Marching for those who cannot and those left behind</em></p> <p><em>Lives lost, lives mourned, tears shed</em></p> <p><em> </em></p> <p><em>Once tall proud men</em></p> <p><em>Proud families watching, tears in their eyes</em></p> <p><em>Struggling to make sense of the feelings of loss</em></p> <p><em>Friends made, friends lost</em></p> <p><em> </em></p> <p><em>Once tall proud men</em></p> <p><em>Tears in their eyes</em></p> <p><em>They have lived their lives as others should have</em></p> <p><em>They have honoured those who did not return</em></p> <p><em> </em></p> <p><em>Once tall proud men</em></p> <p><em>Stooped with age, weary with life</em></p> <p><em>Marching for those who cannot</em></p> <p><em>Tears in their eyes</em></p> <p><em>Memories never fade</em></p> <p><em>Stories untold</em></p> <p><em> </em></p> <p><em>Once tall proud men</em></p> <p><em>We honour you and your fallen comrades</em></p> <p><em>Feelings never change</em></p> <p> </p> <p>Image by <a href="https://hd.unsplash.com/photo-1418489614040-ee0ac582072e">Neil Thomas</a></p> ]]></content:encoded> </item> <item> <title>Interview with Alex Miller</title> <link>https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/09/05/interview-with-alex-miller/</link> <pubDate>Mon, 05 Sep 2016 10:42:00 +0000</pubDate> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Backstory]]></dc:creator> <category><![CDATA[Interviews]]></category> <category><![CDATA[Issue Two]]></category> <category><![CDATA[Alex Miller]]></category> <category><![CDATA[historical fiction]]></category> <category><![CDATA[interview]]></category> <category><![CDATA[writer]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/?p=5165</guid> <description><![CDATA[<img width="895" height="530" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Alex-Miller.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="Alex-Miller" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Alex-Miller.jpg 895w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Alex-Miller-300x178.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Alex-Miller-768x455.jpg 768w" sizes="(max-width: 895px) 100vw, 895px" />By Jac Mason and Ana-Teona Tinc The walls were lined with books, stacked up higher than any of us could reach. Alex stood and turned his back to us, his hand ran along the spines as he searched for Hannah Kohler. I pulled the coat from my shoulders and placed it at my feet, almost …]]></description> <content:encoded><![CDATA[<img width="895" height="530" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Alex-Miller.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="Alex-Miller" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Alex-Miller.jpg 895w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Alex-Miller-300x178.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Alex-Miller-768x455.jpg 768w" sizes="(max-width: 895px) 100vw, 895px" /><p>By <a href="http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/05/15/jac-mason/">Jac Mason</a> and <a href="http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/05/15/ana-teona-tinc/">Ana-Teona Tinc</a></p> <p>The walls were lined with books, stacked up higher than any of us could reach. Alex stood and turned his back to us, his hand ran along the spines as he searched for Hannah Kohler. I pulled the coat from my shoulders and placed it at my feet, almost slipping from the edge of the couch. Ana’s eyes tracked his hand.</p> <p>“I tend to have favourite novels,” he said as he passed us a book in Polish “but, no one novelist stands out as my favourite.”</p> <p>He names an author in German that neither of us, nor the recording, quite catch.</p> <p>“You’ve heard of him?” he said.</p> <p>“I’m horrible with names,” Ana said, after we shared a gape mouthed glance.</p> <p>“You’re just horrible.” His eyes caught the light as it leaked through the rain clouds outside; he sat up in his chair and cupped his hands and rubbed his knuckles. “If you’re just horrible, then why wouldn’t you be like that with names?”</p> <p>“I don’t pretend to know anything, I know nothing,” Ana said, a gentle smile pulling on the corners of her mouth.</p> <p>Alex leaned back into his chair, the light escaping his eyes as he looked between the two of us. He shrugged, hands balled tight together in his lap, as his laugh faded.</p> <p>“No I don’t know anything either,” he said.</p> <p>“You know bit,” Ana said.</p> <p>“We can chat about stuff.”</p> <p>Before our meeting with Alex Miller, a multi-award winning Australian author, Ana and I had failed to prepare. We arrived at Castlemaine station in a light mist of rain with four or so questions each of us had scribbled on torn out sheets of paper. During our extensive research we had found out two things. One, Alex Miller is probably one of the most celebrated Australian authors still active. Two, we should have read something he has written.</p> <p>“I love your honesty,” he would later say in his study. “Most people who interview me, I ask them, have you read my book? And they will say no I have bought it, but I read an essay you wrote, and it was just fantastic.”</p> <p>As a result, we attempted to gain an understanding of the process and influences of one of our greatest authors.</p> <p>Silence came over the room as he took a shallow sip from his crystal glass of water. The small pyramids carved into the base of the glass took me back to my grandfather’s living room. He had a hexagon ash tray, styled in the same crystal fashion. In each corner a small bump was chipped out and smoothed to create a holster for one’s cigarette. He would stand up, place his cigarette in the bump and slick back his thin silver hair before placing a tartan cap on his head. As far as I know, he still uses that ash tray.</p> <p>“How important are facts and research in your writing?” I said, my pen readied against my notepad.</p> <p>“For me [a novel] has to be authentic to the people from that place,” he said as his hands waved out in front of him. “The review which meant more to me than any other appeared in the West County Gazette and it read, this man knows his hunting country.”</p> <p>Alex cited the importance of creating an authentic snapshot of a place and time. He further went onto discuss the Ancestor Games, winner of the Miles Franklin Award, and the time he spent in China.</p> <p>“If a Tunisian writer came out here to write about Melbourne or Castlemaine and got it wrong I would say it’s nothing like this… it’s got ring true, but it’s got to ring true for the people from there, but that’s just me.”</p> <p>He crossed his legs and straightened up in his armchair. My eyes were drawn to the small fire pit in the wall, right next to a box full of his most recent book.</p> <p>“But then again you don’t have to be like that,” he said as his eyes soaked up the fleeting light once more. “There are no rules. Maybe you want to write a book about New York and know nothing about the place, that’s alright too.”</p> <p>Leaning forward, he claps his hands at his knees. He rubs his hands together as a wide smile overtakes his face. I looked at Ana. I’m not sure, even now, why I thought she would understand any better than I had his fascination with her comment.</p> <p>“What a story,” he said, another small clap sounded from his hands “I love to clean, I love cleaning.”</p> <p>I look out the corner of my eye at him, expressionless and pale. Outside the rain gained pace against the tin roof. We had been there for at least an hour and a half which had caused the interview to slide more into the territory of a conversation. I felt my stomach turn as I looked over my spent questions.</p> <p>“And you know what,” he leaned in, his elbows pressed on his knees with his voice a mere whisper, “sometimes I make the mess, just to clean it.”</p> <p>“I can use that as a metaphor,” said Ana.</p> <p>“Don’t worry about the metaphor,” he sat up and waved his hands outwards like a horror film victim caught in headlights, “let the metaphor take care of itself.”</p> <p>He returned to his chair and pushed the cloud of hair above his head backwards. I looked down at the patch of mud on my back pack and my t-shirt with coffee stains from work. My eyes ran down my legs, patched with stray pet hairs and crumbs from lunch.</p> <p>“There is no usual,” he said “my previous book, Coal Creek, took ten weeks from the first idea to finished.”</p> <p>Ana leaned forward, her black, shining shoes tilted over onto their toes. On her lap, her notepad faced upwards with small notes scribbled across the page.</p> <p>“I’ve taken seven years to write a book.”</p> <p>The room falls silent. Outside an old ute thunders past. The neighbour’s dog barks, perhaps at the ute, perhaps not. I focus my attention and try to pick the smell in the room. Fire wood and paper. Maybe an orange air freshener.</p> <p>“So, you’re known for –”</p> <p>“There’s no time to write a book.”</p> <p>I was thankful for the interruption, I didn’t have an end to that statement.</p> <p>“I’m not like Graham Greene… who would wake up and write four or five hundred words a day, I’m not like that.”</p> <p>“Do you like to do that?” I said.</p> <p>“I don’t know,” his face was serious, his upper lip laid flat across his lower as he spread his hands. “With Coal Creek, I just listened to the story in my head and wrote it. The problem with my current book (80) is that I know it all, so I have to leave ninety percent of it out.”</p> <p>“It’s hard,” Ana said, while she shifted her gaze between Alex and me. “When you know all the details and you’re fascinated by all of them.”</p> <p>“Exactly,” he said “because they are the ones, the leaves on the tree and the smell on the wind.” He paused and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, “not, I woke up in the morning and I was looking at the ceiling.”</p> <p>Sitting here now listening back to the audio of Ana, with her clear speech and professional demeanour, and I, stuttering as I ask questions, I couldn’t agree more with Miller more. We spent three hours sitting with the author, immersed in a work space that I believed only existed in films and novels. Three hours of conversation ranging from his roots in the Gorbals, a notorious region of Glasgow where my own family used to live, to all of his books and the drive behind them.</p> <p>However, as I conclude, I hope I left all of the right details in.</p> <p>Image by <a href="http://alumni.news.unimelb.edu.au/alex-miller-authors-journey">Melbourne University</a></p> ]]></content:encoded> </item> <item> <title>Interview with Dr Ron Elisha</title> <link>https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/09/05/interview-dr-ron-elisha/</link> <pubDate>Mon, 05 Sep 2016 10:41:00 +0000</pubDate> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Backstory]]></dc:creator> <category><![CDATA[Interviews]]></category> <category><![CDATA[Issue Two]]></category> <category><![CDATA[Dr Ron Elisha]]></category> <category><![CDATA[historical fiction]]></category> <category><![CDATA[history]]></category> <category><![CDATA[interview]]></category> <category><![CDATA[playwright]]></category> <category><![CDATA[writer]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/?p=5161</guid> <description><![CDATA[<img width="895" height="530" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Rob-Elisha.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="Ron Elisha" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Rob-Elisha.jpg 895w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Rob-Elisha-300x178.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Rob-Elisha-768x455.jpg 768w" sizes="(max-width: 895px) 100vw, 895px" />By James Palmer Before screens colonised the world, performances were exclusive to live production. Yet the advent of film and television does not simply invalidate the experience of theatre. Unlike a recording, every moment on stage is fleeting and unique, regardless of script, cast or direction. The works of writers such as Shakespeare, Wilde and …]]></description> <content:encoded><![CDATA[<img width="895" height="530" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Rob-Elisha.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="Ron Elisha" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Rob-Elisha.jpg 895w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Rob-Elisha-300x178.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/Rob-Elisha-768x455.jpg 768w" sizes="(max-width: 895px) 100vw, 895px" /><p>By <a href="http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/05/16/james-palmer/">James Palmer</a></p> <p>Before screens colonised the world, performances were exclusive to live production.</p> <p>Yet the advent of film and television does not simply invalidate the experience of theatre.</p> <p>Unlike a recording, every moment on stage is fleeting and unique, regardless of script, cast or direction. The works of writers such as Shakespeare, Wilde and Chekov have endured through time around the world, yet each production is still raw and individual, untouched by edit or retake.</p> <p>This issue, Dr Ron Elisha has kindly given us the opportunity to explore the mind of a modern playwright, and understand the process behind turning a script into a live production.</p> <p> </p> <p><strong>Interviewee snapshot: </strong></p> <p>Ron Elisha is the world renowned playwright of numerous productions, such as <em>Pax Americana, The Levine Comedy </em>and <em>The Goldberg Variations, </em>and has won numerous awards, including the Australian Writers’ Guild Major Award for his play <em>Einstein. </em>He has written for television and authored several children’s books. His current play, <em>The Soul of Wittgenstein, </em>is currently being shown at the King’s Head Theatre in London.</p> <p><strong> </strong></p> <ol> <li><strong>What motivated you to start writing? </strong></li> </ol> <p>From a very early age, I was fascinated by the physical act of writing itself. To my parents’ great annoyance, I would fill page after page with scribble that I believed to be writing. Next, I became utterly fascinated and thrilled by the manual typewriter my father owned (and almost never used). The clack of the keys, the smell of the ink. It was like having a wonderful jewel in the house. I first felt the urge to write prose in my mid-teens – I’m still not sure why, and after several false starts, I found I had nothing to say. Further down the track, I read Nabokov, who taught me what one can do with language, then Germaine Greer, who taught me the power of the polemicist. Then I went to Sydney to do my internship. I wrote many letters (snail mail) to friends back home, often inserting slabs of dialogue, many of which launched into fantasy. These were well-received, so I decided to try a play, which I figured was shorter than a novel, thereby increasing my chances of finishing it.</p> <ol start="2"> <li><strong>Your plays tend to focus on historical figures. What draws you to write to history over pure fiction? </strong></li> </ol> <p>Truth is indeed stranger than fiction, and in using historical characters/settings, one can’t be accused of contrivance. Also, inasmuch as historical events have actually taken place, we need to be able to explain how such things could’ve happened. The discussion is real, nothing is fabricated. It’s a great way of beginning to understand the past, which in turn shines a light on the present.</p> <ol start="3"> <li><strong>What do you think are the biggest challenges posed to theatre as a medium? </strong></li> </ol> <p>Finding a new audience with each passing generation, given the advances in technology that threaten to swamp us, and the concomitant reduction in attention span and general dumbing down. In other words, remaining relevant.</p> <ol start="4"> <li><strong>Who are some of your favourite writers and authors? What do you find inspiring about their work? </strong></li> </ol> <p>As I’ve mentioned above, Nabokov for the use of words, Greer for the power of sheer polemic, as well as Voltaire and Swift for sheer brilliance and GBS for sheer iconoclasm.</p> <ol start="5"> <li><strong>Your play <em>Einstein </em>performed fantastically, winning the Major AWGIE Award in 1982. Do you have a favourite amongst your own works?</strong></li> </ol> <p>It’s one that got to within an inch of production, but never quite made it to the stage. It’s entitled ‘Jesus’ Blood’ and is based on an extraordinary piece of music by Gavin Bryars. It’s four and a half hours long, has twelve actors playing dozens of roles, and is probably the most complete thing I’ve ever written. Its thesis is that reality lies in the space between humans, and it explores this theme in a complex and highly original way. It was workshopped by Malthouse Theatre, but lacking the resources to put it on themselves, they tried to do a co-production with the Melbourne Theatre Company. Alas, creative differences in the direction team lead to the project being cancelled, but I still haven’t entirely lost hope for it.</p> <ol start="6"> <li><strong>Through most of your career as a playwright, you’ve ran your own private practise as a General Practitioner. Was it hard to find the balance? </strong></li> </ol> <p>There was no balance. I sacrificed sleep.</p> <ol start="7"> <li><strong>I know <em>In Duty Bound </em>copped a bit of backlash for its first production. Do you think the themes are still relevant, if not more so? </strong></li> </ol> <p>The particular community to which the play refers to has probably become more liberal over the years, but that basic tension between child and parent, between self and other, remains eternal.</p> <ol start="8"> <li><strong>What’s your advice those trying to get into the theatre industry? </strong></li> </ol> <p>Keep your day job, if you have one. Dig in for the long haul. Thicken your skin, mightily. Network like crazy.</p> <ol start="9"> <li><strong>Reviews of your latest play, <em>The Soul of Wittgenstein</em>, have been really positive. What exactly do you think resonated so well with audiences? </strong></li> </ol> <p>The play somehow seems to achieve a perfect balance between pain and joy, loss and fulfilment, humanity and intellect.</p> <ol start="10"> <li><strong>Have you given any thought to what you will write next?</strong></li> </ol> <p>I’m writing an 8-part TV series entitled ‘Palimpsest’, a morality tale in which the central character is an author, writing the autobiography of a crime boss.</p> <p>Image courtesy of <a href="https://australianplays.org/playwright/ASC-3367">Australian Plays</a>.</p> <p> </p> ]]></content:encoded> </item> <item> <title>Interview with C.W. Gortner</title> <link>https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/09/05/interview-with-c-w-gortner/</link> <pubDate>Mon, 05 Sep 2016 10:40:00 +0000</pubDate> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Backstory]]></dc:creator> <category><![CDATA[Interviews]]></category> <category><![CDATA[Issue Two]]></category> <category><![CDATA[C.W. Gortner]]></category> <category><![CDATA[interview]]></category> <category><![CDATA[research]]></category> <category><![CDATA[writer]]></category> <category><![CDATA[writing about writing]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/?p=5163</guid> <description><![CDATA[<img width="895" height="530" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/C-W-Gortner.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="C-W-Gortner" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/C-W-Gortner.jpg 895w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/C-W-Gortner-300x178.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/C-W-Gortner-768x455.jpg 768w" sizes="(max-width: 895px) 100vw, 895px" />By Tamasine Loves   Historical fiction is a genre with roots as deep as the storytelling tradition itself. And to the modern day, we love historical fiction. You need only to think back on the success of Titanic, or Gone With the Wind, or anything that aligns itself with the Tudor or Jane Austen canons, …]]></description> <content:encoded><![CDATA[<img width="895" height="530" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/C-W-Gortner.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="C-W-Gortner" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/C-W-Gortner.jpg 895w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/C-W-Gortner-300x178.jpg 300w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/C-W-Gortner-768x455.jpg 768w" sizes="(max-width: 895px) 100vw, 895px" /><p>By <a href="http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/09/05/tamasine-loves/">Tamasine Loves</a></p> <p> </p> <p>Historical fiction is a genre with roots as deep as the storytelling tradition itself. And to the modern day, we love historical fiction. You need only to think back on the success of <em>Titanic</em>, or <em>Gone With the Wind</em>, or anything that aligns itself with the Tudor or Jane Austen canons, to see the genre’s persevering popularity. Our media is flooded with films, television shows and novels, all depicting their separate, different, dramatized versions of ‘<em>a long, long, time ago…</em>’</p> <p>This issue, <em>Backstory Journal</em> was kindly given the opportunity to ask some questions of one of the most authoritative voices in the historical fiction today – historical fiction author, C.W. Gortner. <em>Backstory </em>hopes that you enjoy reading his answers as much as we did, and are as inspired by his passion and knowledge as we were!</p> <p> </p> <p><strong>Interviewee snapshot:</strong></p> <p><em>C.W. Gortner is the internationally bestselling author of nine historical novels, including his most recent releases Marlene, Mademoiselle Chanel, and The Vatican Princess. A former fashion executive, he holds an MFA in Writing with an emphasis on Renaissance History. His books have been translated into over 20 languages to date.</em></p> <p><strong> </strong></p> <p><strong>Was there something specific that drew you to write historic fiction, rather than other fiction genres? </strong></p> <p>I was raised in southern Spain and am half-Spanish by birth. When I was growing up, Spain was under the final years of Franco’s regime and the south, in particular, felt frozen in time; we had two television channels, movies were censored, and so I developed a lifelong passion for reading. History was all around me, too. Granada, with the marvels of the Alhambra, was a two-hour drive away, and a ruined castle that had once belonged to Queen Isabella was just a short walk from my home. I used to play in that ruined castle, which today is fully restored; and my imagination ran wild. Some of the books I most loved were historical fiction. These books brought the past to life for me in ways that reading nonfiction didn’t. When in my early twenties, I eventually decided to try my hand at writing a novel (even as a child, I’d written stories) historical fiction seemed the natural choice for me.</p> <p> </p> <p><strong>Do you agree that historical fiction has a purpose in present-day that is separate from mere escapism? Could it shed light on the present, or prompt valuable investigation into the past?</strong></p> <p>I do think historical fiction can illuminate our present. Though our circumstances have changed, people in the past struggled with many of the same issues we face today: intolerance, greed, ambition, love, lust, loss, matters of faith, and family. We haven’t changed as much as we should, and historical fiction can resurrect the past through the prism of the present. Our hindsight into these bygone historical characters and events sheds new perspective on them, and hopefully allows modern-day readers to discover the relevance in their own lives. In the end, I’m a writer of fiction and my ultimate goal is to entertain. But if my books help bring insight to history and inspire further interest, that’s always wonderful.</p> <p> </p> <p><strong>Do you have a ‘pet-time-period’ that you love to research, and write about?</strong></p> <p>I’m passionate about the 15—16<sup>th</sup> centuries in Europe, known as the Renaissance. My first six books are all set in this era. I do tend to move around, however. Two of my novels are set in early Renaissance Spain, one in late Renaissance France, and three in Tudor England. One of my latest novels, <em>The Vatican Princess</em>, takes place in Borgia-ruled Italy. I’ve also branched out into the early 20<sup>th</sup> century with my novels <em>Mademoiselle Chanel</em>, about the fashion designer Coco Chanel, and my most recent novel, <em>Marlene</em>, about the iconic actress and entertainer, Marlene Dietrich. I’m fascinated by many eras in history and don’t like to be tied down to one specific period. As a writer, I crave variety. But the Renaissance remains a favourite for me.</p> <p> </p> <p><strong>Yes! When looking at the libraries of historical fiction author’s work, most of the time it is easy to spot the pattern in their period(s) of choice and make a good guess which period holds their interest. You have spanned a lot of time, and countries! With your first few novels, it could be assumed your interest lies primarily with the Renaissance era. However, like you mentioned, <em>Mademoiselle Chanel </em>and <em>Marlene </em>are not Renaissance novels at all! A closer look at your work subject matters, and furthermore the way that you write about your characters, as well as the characters you choose, a pattern does look like it appears. It seems as though you have an affinity for the ‘maligned’, ‘difficult’, or ‘controversial’ women in history. Would you say this is true? What is it about the stories of historically ‘difficult’ females that capture your interest?</strong></p> <p>There is a pattern, yes. I’m attracted to underappreciated characters. And women, by and large, are not often treated fairly in history. We’ve had many powerful female historical figures, yet historians tended to ignore or downplay their accomplishments, in particular their more controversial ones, until our modern age. I do like so-called “difficult” women; I want to explore a breadth of human experience in my writing, and the women I select—or perhaps, they select me—fit the bill. They lived complicated, challenging lives; they weren’t always pleasant. In many ways, they rebelled against the constraints of their era to become something different than what was expected of them. They all share a common trait: at one point, whether willingly or not, they had to seize control of their fate. For most, it was a harrowing journey, with terrible sacrifices along the way, but it’s the journey itself that captivates me. Discovering how these women overcame odds to make their mark on history is so compelling to write.</p> <p> </p> <p><strong>Do you think you would ever be able to look at the history and journey of a male figure and feel the same pull and want to tell their story?</strong></p> <p>Absolutely. There are several men in history I’m very interested in exploring. Unfortunately, the publishing landscape doesn’t allow for it nearly as much, at least not in the first-person biographical fiction format that I work in, where 90% of my identified readership are women. The genre itself tends to be divided between books aimed at female readers, about women, and books about warriors, aimed at male readers. Male leads fall into a strange gap; we’ve had many wonderful novels with men as protagonists, but it’s still quite difficult to get a publisher interested in a historical novel about a man unless the audience is clearly defined as male readers. My books are not male-orientated, in that I explore relationships, emotions; the drama of being human. Not that these books I’ve mentioned about men don’t, but publishers tend to think a book for men should be lighter on the emotional aspects and heavier on the action. My Elizabeth I Spymaster novels are actually told in a male point of view, a fictional foundling with a secret who becomes a spy for Elizabeth Tudor. The books are more action-orientated and sold well, but there’s still a divide. I want to write more novels in my Spymaster series, and hopefully, one day, write a full biographical novel about a male character. I don’t agree with the publishing adage that women don’t want to read about men or that men don’t want to read about women.</p> <p> </p> <p><strong>Writers spend a lot of time with imaginary people (or, I suppose, we prefer the term ‘characters’!) In historical fiction, though, not all characters are imagined. Does knowing that these were real people change the way you approach writing them? Have your personal feelings towards a historical figure ever affected the way that you characterised or portrayed them?</strong></p> <p>Well, as writers, I think we always bring our own perspectives to our characters. We can strive to stay as true as we can to documented facts and recorded personalities, but in the end, we interpret them through our particular impressions. Of course, my research about who these women were in real life affects my perception; my characters don’t do nice things at times. They behave in ways I never would, and I have to honour that. What I try to do is to actually not let strong personal feelings influence how I portray them, because the moment I start doing that, the novel becomes about me, not them. As soon as I start judging a character or taking sides, it’s no longer her story. Rather, I seek to subdue how I feel about her entirely. My books aren’t about me. My character is telling you her story. Is she sometimes embellishing or misleading you? Maybe. But if that is how she was in real life, then that’s part of who she is. I don’t want to fall so in love with my character that I fail to see her flaws. She might not see them, yet I must. However, I do want to give her the chance to explain herself. Very few of us act badly and know we are doing so in the moment. We behave based on a complex set of instincts and perceptions, and we rarely think, “Wow. I’m being a monster right now.” What’s always fascinating and challenging for me is to allow my character to find her own voice through me. I know the writing is working when I cease to hear myself and the only one who speaks is her. Conversely, I know it’s not working when she refuses to cooperate. That said, I have been accused of “whitewashing” some of my characters. I find that ironic, considering how hard I work to not do that. But how I write and how my books are read are very different animals. Part of being a novelist with a public readership is letting go. Once my novel is published, it belongs to the reader. I may not agree with some of the criticism, but I have to respect it. Readers bring their own perceptions to these characters, too. I’ve gotten hate mail from some readers because they despise Isabella as a fanatic or Chanel as a selfish woman, a Nazi collaborator, and how dare I turn them into heroines. What’s interesting is that to me, they are never “heroines.” They are flawed and fallible human beings who made awful decisions. I don’t approve; it’s not my job to approve. My job is to try to find a plausible reason for <em>why </em>they behaved as they did. I could be very wrong in my interpretations, but I never enter into them lightly or without serious consideration of the available facts.</p> <p> </p> <p><strong>Your comment about readers being displeased about your characterisation of Chanel, for example, is interesting – on one hand, she is a character in your novel. On the other hand, though, she is a historical figure, and I suppose people have ‘facts’ they think they know about historical figures (like whether or not Chanel was a Nazi sympathiser). Coming up against and then navigating that sea of (often disputed amongst historians) ‘facts’, is an experience unique to historical fiction writing.</strong></p> <p><strong>When writing (not only characters) your historical fiction, how do you like to approach the line between fiction and non-fiction? Is it the same approach for every novel?</strong></p> <p>I always try to respect recorded facts. Not that these are uniform. In my research, I can discover that while one source says one thing, another says something quite different. I have to then find a middle ground or decide which source seems most reliable; it can often come down to how I believe the character was most apt to behave. It’s never easy to draw the line between accuracy and narrative vision; staying true to the character to the best of my abilities, in both her strengths and weaknesses, must be my guiding rule. Instinct also comes into play. If I read a historical “fact” that sounds off to me, I always do more digging. Sometimes, I find that alleged fact is just a rumour. Other times, I find that fact is often repeated as gospel and might be true, but cannot be verified, so I have to decide if it makes sense. Research involves diligence, a scholarly approach, but also a healthy dose of scepticism. Not everything “factual” is substantiated. The fun, for me, is finding the crevices between the facts into which I can build my story. Most importantly, I never want my historical novels to be mired in “Look how much I know!” I want to entertain readers by immersing them in my character’s mind and emotions; I want them to see her world through her eyes. In the final say, I’m not imparting a history lesson. I’m writing fictional interpretations of historical figures.</p> <p> </p> <p><strong>In trying to get some info on the protagonist of your novel <em>Marlene</em>, the actress Marlene Dietrich, I did a quick Google search. I turned up 486,000 results! How do you know when and where to start researching your novels and their characters? </strong></p> <p>Characters choose me. I know that sounds fey, but it’s how it feels. Of course, there are certain women in history who fascinate me and I want to write about them, but that doesn’t translate into being able to sell a novel about them. I’ve had ideas that I loved turned down by publishers. On the other hand, sometimes a character just appears. In Marlene Dietrich’s case, I wrote a scene in <em>Mademoiselle Chanel</em> where Chanel meets Marlene during a visit to Hollywood. The scene ended up getting cut during the editorial revisions, but when the time came to propose a new project, my editor mentioned that deleted scene and suggested I consider writing about Marlene herself. I knew little about her personal life, so I read a few biographies first to determine if she might be a character I could inhabit. Once I did, I realized she was indeed perfect for me: ahead of her times, unconventional and controversial, Marlene launched her career during an era I’d explored previously with Chanel, only this time, in Berlin before and after the rise of the Nazis, as well as the golden age of Hollywood. Since childhood, I’ve been an old movie fan; and Dietrich led an incredible life, both as a woman and an actress.</p> <p>My research process is dictated by the subject, to a certain extent. I must inevitably read many books on the character and the era—my bibliographies can include over a hundred books for each novel— travel to the places where she lived, and access archives for deeper research. For <em>The Vatican Princess</em>, I researched for two weeks in Rome. For <em>Marlene</em>, the research involved all the above, plus watching her films and numerous documentaries on her era. I love researching because I never know where it’ll take me. I look forward to it.</p> <p> </p> <p><strong>What is the strangest thing you have ever done ‘in the name of research’?</strong></p> <p>I strapped on a plastic “pregnancy” belly under a damask Renaissance gown and rode a horse to feel how it was like to be a woman in a gown, six months pregnant and escaping her captors. This was for <em>The Last Queen</em>. Enough said.</p> <p> </p> <p><strong>Incredible! That approach makes me think of ‘method actors’ and their approach to ‘getting into character’. Would you consider yourself a ‘method author’?</strong></p> <p>In some ways, perhaps. I do tend to live and breathe my characters when in the throes of writing, but I also know when it’s time to put them in their quiet place so I can resume my life. I am quite diligent about how I approach my work; I must spend quality time with my character every day while I’m writing and let her dominate the conversation. But creating a healthy balance is vital to my sanity. I can’t live in her shoes constantly until the book is finished. Unlike method actors, who can stay in character for three to five months of shooting a film, writing a book can take a year or more. I’d be a basket case if I remained fully in character for all that time.</p> <p> </p> <p><strong>The time periods you’ve researched and written about (the Renaissance, the ‘Roaring Twenties’) are often imagined particularly romantically. What is your opinion on the ‘Golden Era’ phenomenon, when people idealise a particular period as almost magical, and see ‘the now’ as lacking by comparison.</strong></p> <p>Part of the appeal of historical fiction is the romance of it. The beautiful clothes and the ambiance, the sense that we were not overwhelmed by technology and three thousand television channels, evokes our longing for a simpler life. It wasn’t simpler, not really. It had its own horrors and pitfalls. Humanity has never been better off than our current time period, and conversely we’ve never been more threatened by each other or threatening to our environment. But when people ask me, “Wouldn’t you have loved to live in the Renaissance?” my answer is, “No antibiotics. No human or animal rights. No washing machines. No decent sanitation. Are you kidding me?” We’re attracted to these eras because of how we perceive and romanticize them, but the reality was much of the past is not lovely frocks and candle-lit parties. I do try to bring that sense of reality into my novels, but even I must be judicious. If we had time machines and could transport ourselves to the past, we’d be appalled by what we find.</p> <p> </p> <p><strong>Your personal history and your path to becoming an author is a fascinating one. Would you ever delve into a memoir? Or does this genre not interest you?</strong></p> <p>I have no interest in writing about myself. I like reading memoirs but I relish my privacy. And really, my life isn’t all that interesting, or at least not to me. I also tend to be forward-thinking and delving into my own past just doesn’t appeal. I do, of course, delve into my own past when I write my novels. In order to understand the overwhelming grief Chanel felt at the death of her lover or Marlene Dietrich’s outrage over Nazi intolerance or Lucrezia Borgia’s desperate need to escape a dysfunctional family, I must find parallels in my own life to create the emotion of it. I have felt those emotions, too. The context was different, but the emotion is the same. There’s always something of me in my novels. It’s just hidden within my character.</p> <p> </p> <p><strong>Just to finish, have you any advice for would-be historical fiction authors that may be reading this journal?</strong></p> <p>I’ve said this before in other interviews, so I’ll quote myself: Persevere. This is a tough business and it’s not getting any easier. I had more than 350 rejections over thirteen years before a publisher made an offer. Write the very best manuscript you can, revise, revise, and then revise some more, and go out there like a warrior. Every rejection is a chance to improve your prose and your stamina. We all dream of being that author who made it – a perfect manuscript, submitted by our first agent and selling for millions at auction – but the reality is that success for most authors is built in increments, book by book, and reader by reader.</p> <p>I think that to want to be a writer isn’t enough anymore: You have to want to be a writer more than anything else, and know you’ll be absolutely miserable if you’re not. Publication might be the bed you want to make, but the writing itself must be your lover. If you’re not in love with writing, find something else. There are a lot of wonderful things to do in this world; and writing can be a lonely, demanding profession that will keep you up at night. If you don’t mind the occasional craziness of thinking your manuscript is the only thing that matters, then join the club. I highly recommend it (I think).</p> <p><strong> </strong></p> <p><strong>ABOUT C.W. GORTNER: </strong></p> <p>C.W. Gortner is the internationally bestselling author of nine novels, including his most recent releases <em>Marlene</em>: A Novel of Marlene Dietrich, and <em>The Vatican Princess</em>. He holds an MFA in Writing with an emphasis in Renaissance Studies from the New College of California, as well as an AA from the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising in San Francisco.</p> <p>After an eleven year-long career in fashion, C.W. devoted the next twelve years to the public health sector in the fight against HIV/AIDS. In 2012, he became a full-time writer, following the international success of his novels.</p> <p>In his extensive travels to research his books, he has danced a galliard at Hampton Court, learned about organic gardening at Chenoceaux, and spent a chilly night in a ruined Spanish castle. His books have garnered widespread acclaim and been translated into twenty-six languages to date. A sought-after public speaker. C.W. has given keynote addresses at writer conferences in the US and abroad. He is also a dedicated advocate for animal rights, in particular companion animal rescue to reduce shelter overcrowding.</p> <p>C.W. is currently writing his tenth novel for Ballantine Books, about Empress Maria Feodorovna, mother of Tsar Nicholas II, scheduled for publication in 2018.</p> <p>He lives in Northern California with his husband and two very spoiled rescue cats.</p> ]]></content:encoded> </item> <item> <title>‘The History of England. Volume IV: Revolution’ by Peter Ackroyd</title> <link>https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/09/05/review-history-england-volume-iv-revolution/</link> <pubDate>Mon, 05 Sep 2016 10:39:20 +0000</pubDate> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Backstory]]></dc:creator> <category><![CDATA[Issue Two]]></category> <category><![CDATA[Reviews]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/?p=5266</guid> <description><![CDATA[<img width="400" height="237" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/20160905-history-of-england-revolution-min.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="20160905 - history of england revolution-min" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/20160905-history-of-england-revolution-min.jpg 400w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/20160905-history-of-england-revolution-min-300x178.jpg 300w" sizes="(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px" />Reviewed by Professor Josie Arnold   I read this as a biography of the William, Anne and Hanoverian years in England that saw the growth of Great Britain as a colonial and commercial world centre. Ackroyd shows an incredible knowledge of the everyday, the quirky and the historical to build a portrait of the final …]]></description> <content:encoded><![CDATA[<img width="400" height="237" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/20160905-history-of-england-revolution-min.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="20160905 - history of england revolution-min" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/20160905-history-of-england-revolution-min.jpg 400w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/20160905-history-of-england-revolution-min-300x178.jpg 300w" sizes="(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px" /><p>Reviewed by <a href="http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/11/07/professor-josie-arnold/">Professor Josie Arnold</a></p> <p> </p> <p>I read this as a biography of the William, Anne and Hanoverian years in England that saw the growth of Great Britain as a colonial and commercial world centre. Ackroyd shows an incredible knowledge of the everyday, the quirky and the historical to build a portrait of the final rout of the Stuarts and the decline of the last of the Jacobites with their long and divisive influence. He shows how modern capitalist society begins to dominate politics and keeps alive the reader’s interest even when the most boring details of Whigs and Tories are addressed. His knowledge of their permutations made them able to be understood: something I had long found impossible.</p> <p>The influence of the City of London and the growth of modern parliament is traced starting with a house under King William wherein ‘the permutations of individual members were endless’ (13). Similarly, Ackroyd makes the growth of modern banking and commercial practices interesting: quite a coup for this reader.</p> <p>Throughout, Ackroyd’s deep scholarship, thinking and reading is shown through his references, quotes and bringing together what might be seen as disparate elements of history. The section heads show Ackroyd’s capacity to organise the details of the through line of the history of this period in an accessible and interesting way.</p> <p>London itself is a character that Ackroyd describes in detail following both literature (Humphrey Clinker), journalism (Addison) and art (Hogarth) to show that ‘crime and violence belonged to its streets as much as flints and stones’ (147). At the same time he asserts that ‘London was power and money’. As the largest industrial city in the world it transformed what it was to live by trade and under the influence of gin.</p> <p>Ackroyd captures the temper of the times with wonderful yet relentless detail. Commerce, politics, power and social change are brought before us. Above all, he brings the reasons for war to the fore. In this regard, he shows the machinations of Pitt the elder’s ‘vision, of global supremacy’ (169) on the continent as well as in the colonies. This involves also insights into slavery and commercialisation of people as well as success in Canada and the Indies.</p> <p>Nor does he ignore throughout the influence of religion; not only the Catholicism of the Jacobites nor the Anglican establishment, but also the importance of dissenters such as John Wesley. He is described as ‘a man whose optimism was matched only by his energy’ (165).</p> <p>Ackroyd’s depth and breadth of knowledge ranges throughout from trade to literature, art and music and to the scientific establishment. He also covers this period in which whilst the French revolution overturned their monarchy, England began its long period of constitutional democracy under the crown. In this, he succeeds in showing the English as ‘a practical and pragmatic race’ (319).</p> <p>Social changes are central of course in this fourth volume subtitled ‘Revolution’. Under Queen Anne, the nobility are beginning to give way to trade, and the middle class is developing strength and influence although ‘wealth was essential but not necessarily enough. Blood lineage was equally, if not more important’ (19). The conservative Church of England is also under fire from ‘dissenters and non-conformists’ (21). As ever, the poor labour and are held in disdain as only just above ‘the miserable, the abject, the worthless’ of the massed unemployed (23).</p> <p>Ackroyd pays attention to the importance of harvests and the cost of bread. He shows how the land enclosures made the rich even richer and the poor of course even poorer. These clear insights into social conditions and the pursuit of power clarify how the face of England changed as modern capitalist imperatives began to develop.</p> <p>Perhaps the most significant social change Ackroyd identifies is the growth of the media that so dominates today’s affairs. He records how the ‘fourth estate’ emerged and participated in the growth of what today we know as capitalism (25). Under Queen Anne London became dominated as ‘a world of news’(37) in the coffee houses and publications of political journalism. Much of this, Ackroyd shows, is based upon satire.</p> <p>Social order changes under King William and then Queen Anne are shown to prepare society for the Hanoverians. William, says Ackroyd, ‘had been, for many, the least bad alternative’ (31), and the unprepossessing Queen Anne is described well as not only a ‘woman without an heir’ (having suffered 12 miscarriages) but also as both shy, cautious and ‘addicted to protocol’ (33).</p> <p>Of course, the poor suffered as England marched triumphantly towards world power. These changes were brought about by experimentation and progress: it was a history of continual, almost inexorable, development’ (46). Ackroyd provides fascinating details of this from sheep breeding to mining, from machinery then to interesting comparisons to present day computerization. All show how the poor are exploited and powerless.</p> <p>It is under Walpole that the Jacobite influence finally wanes and stutters to a halt. The Hanoverians resist war as George 1 is ‘assisted by Walpole who above all else hated war. It was bad for business and wrecked the economy’ (93). It is now that trade comes to dominate England. Ackroyd describes England’s premier position as built on trade and colonies. When Walpole falters under George 2, Ackroyd summarises again pithily: ‘Walpole had miscalculated. His native optimism had triumphed over his natural caution’ (135).</p> <p>Whilst provincial English towns emulated the trade of London, the poor remain largely ignored. Ackroyd notes how the popular ‘low’ play ‘The Beggar’s Opera’ made political and social comment on this. It was set in Newgate Prison ‘filled with pimps, thieves, whores and all the other inhabitants of contemporary low life’ (127).</p> <p>Society was changing and one aspect of this was the development of commercial enterprises indicated in each village and hamlet by the establishment of the local shop, and the idea of a customer/consumer. As George II took the throne, Ackroyd shows how trade encouraged equality as money dominated acceptance and class: the market dominated society. He notes how at the same time parliament itself became more party driven and controlled.</p> <p>As George III was the first of the Hanoverian kings to be born and educated in England, change is bound to occur with his accession in 1760. Ackroyd is on to this of course. He develops our knowledge of trade as power when he shows how ‘England took its place at the centre of what was rapidly becoming a vast trading network from Canada to Bengal’ (185). He shows how trade, tax and mechanisation continued to place England as the most developed nation in the world. At the same time he shows the terrible injustices and imbalances of actual slavery and economic slavery that supported this dominance.</p> <p>This book begins with a deceptively laconic style that sets a tone of interest and involvement rather than didactic factual analysis. He is a master of the contrapuntal as in this description of the Duke of Marlborough early in the book: ‘He was inclined to support whatever and whoever indulged his interests, whether for power, money, or further honours, while all the time remaining tactful, modest and obliging’ (11). Throughout too he makes use of contemporary literary references such as ‘Gulliver’s Travels’, Macauley’s ‘History of England’, and Defoe’s ‘Robinson Crusoe’.</p> <p>This contrapuntal style continues to contribute to his insights into apparent contradictions as he acknowledges: ‘Walpole had his own share of luck, an indispensable requirement for a successful politician’ (91). Ackroyd has a sharp eye and an even sharper pen with short sentences that are quite pert as when he speaks of the death of King William’s wife Queen Mary: ‘She was widely, and perhaps sincerely, mourned’ (23).</p> <p>There is, too, his appealing and stylish vocabulary as in his description of Marlborough’s acquisitiveness: ‘Blenheim Palace and Marlborough House were only two of the stone baubles he had collected’ (52). He also said to suffer from ‘vertiginous ambiguity’ (65) in his dealings with the Hanoverians and the Jacobites in the matter of succession after Queen Annes’ death.</p> <p>The single often short and always pointed sentence is used to great impact: ‘It was better to trade with the Americans than to attempt to rule them’ (247); and ‘trade could not be separated from power’ (248). Or, in detailing Pitt the younger’s persona: ‘Pitt relied upon tranquillity at home and abroad’ (252).</p> <p>Character insights abound in this book. From the first Ackroyd builds a lively portrait of the historical figures with a few words from himself and quotes from the period. His wry character assessment of King William shows his insightfulness and also his capacity to make a pen portrait with a few restrained strokes: ‘He had a low opinion of human nature’ (12). In a similar vein he brings down to earth such historical heroes as Marlborough.</p> <p>He also illustrates the character of the times. Under George ‘the gambler was king’ as ‘gaming affected all classes’ (85). This is shown to be based on a society where avarice, panics and money bubbles were in control: much like today? Ackroyd’s humorous description of Robert Walpole illustrates his stabilising character influencing England after the crash of the South Sea Bubble. He shows again his capacity to introduce splendid quotes and to elucidate historical data with pointed comments. Walpole: ‘knew the price of every man’ and thus he ‘held the state in his hands’ (88.). In all ways he demonstrates the qualities of modern politicians and politics, and Ackroyd devotes useful time to him and his ability to stabilise the complex social impact of political power.</p> <p>When describing William Pitt, Ackroyd again triumphs with his insights into historical characters’ actions and interactions, particularly in regard to war. It is in this period that Bonny Prince Charlie makes a final inevitably unsuccessful thrust to take the throne. His loss led to ‘a deliberate policy of cultural genocide’ in the Scottish highlands. Butcher Cumberland was allowed to destroy the Highlanders.</p> <p>The delicious descriptions and character assassinations continue with Ackroyd’s description of George III as: ‘He seems to have inherited a strain of obstinate self-righteousness from his Hanoverian predecessors; he had the deficiencies of a closed mind, including overweening self-confidence combined with long spells of resentment and sullenness’ (179). He is allowed some better attributes as a worker and a King who loved the land: ‘farmer George’ who was strongly against Pitt’s war policy and for peace.</p> <p>Invention, mechanization, science and the use of coal for machinery become strong indicators of the changing nature of industry. It is the inventiveness of this change that he captures as he details the influences of the theatre, art, literature and above all the fourth estate and emphasises the importance of the spread of literacy in the development of power. In showing that the 18<sup>th</sup> century was ‘a great age for political excitement’ (209), he indicates the historical importance of the American Revolution.</p> <p>George III’s reign seemed peaceful and hopeful: but as French revolutionaries were storming the Bastille and Europe was in chaos, something as happening to the King. England escaped revolution, but George III could not escape madness.</p> <p>At the same time wars with France continued and the revolution there was terrifying to the constitutional monarchy. Emerging on to this scene was the future emperor Napoleon Buonaparte. The Napoleonic wars were beginning and King George 3 was mad! He was replaced by his son as Prince Regent. The stability of England was under threat.</p> <p>Throughout Ackroyd succeeds in making the information flow into a narrative that is non-didactic. At no time does he seem to push a particular point of view. Rather he introduces ideas and looks at them from multiple angles. Interestingly this included perceptive insights into the working and lowest classes. His retrospective analyses demonstrates the role of the historian: a novelist would use his data in a different narrative style. His is a broad view whereas the narrative could also be micro-told with more specificity. There are so many stories in this history. Sometimes he stirs this with his discussion of the American colonies that fought for freedom: ‘for the first time a group of people had advanced the cause of a nation without a king, without an aristocracy and without a national church’ (243).</p> <p>The social control that is made available through industrialisation is considered alongside the growth of workers’ combinations or unions. Working conditions are shown in all of their commercialised savagery. Poor children are seen as subject to industrialized slavery. Women are employed as cheaper labour than men. Progress was the catchcry. While ‘employees were obliged to work in conditions that were compared to those of Hades’ (275) employees were setting up price and wage fixing rings and people were drifting to where this grinding labour existed.</p> <p>In this volume IV, Ackroyd demonstrates the great change that occurred as ‘England was no longer predominately an agricultural society, a state in which it had remained for approximately 10,000 years’ (290). He describes this as an apocalypse driven by science and industry. At the same time he shows the threats to the worker and the resultant anti-machinery Luddites.</p> <p>Whilst in many ways a typical political history dominated by rulers, their ministers and their generals, this book also has many interesting nuances about the periods of British History it covers. These include the arts, business and the lives of ordinary citizens as well as insights into active and class-based slavery. It provides multiple points of interest to the reader and multiple narratives that could be expanded for the historical novelist too. I enjoyed reading it.</p> <p> </p> <p>‘<em>The History of England. Volume IV: Revolution’ b</em>y Peter Ackroyd is published by Macmillan, 2016.</p> ]]></content:encoded> </item> <item> <title>‘Call to Juno’ by Elisabeth Storrs</title> <link>https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/09/05/call-juno-elisabeth-storrs/</link> <pubDate>Mon, 05 Sep 2016 10:39:00 +0000</pubDate> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Backstory]]></dc:creator> <category><![CDATA[Issue Two]]></category> <category><![CDATA[Reviews]]></category> <category><![CDATA[book review]]></category> <category><![CDATA[Call to Juno]]></category> <category><![CDATA[Elisabeth Storrs]]></category> <category><![CDATA[fiction]]></category> <category><![CDATA[historical fiction]]></category> <category><![CDATA[history]]></category> <category><![CDATA[review]]></category> <category><![CDATA[writer]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/?p=5167</guid> <description><![CDATA[<img width="400" height="237" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/20160905-call-to-juno-min.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="20160905 - call to juno-min" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/20160905-call-to-juno-min.jpg 400w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/20160905-call-to-juno-min-300x178.jpg 300w" sizes="(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px" />Review by Tina Tsironis Throw a number of interconnected characters together, add a dash of mental complexity to each, sprinkle with a touch of war politics, compelling romance and jarring violence, and you have Call to Juno, the third book in Elisabeth Storrs’ series A Tale of Ancient Rome. Storrs’ historical fiction novel flits largely …]]></description> <content:encoded><![CDATA[<img width="400" height="237" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/20160905-call-to-juno-min.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="20160905 - call to juno-min" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/20160905-call-to-juno-min.jpg 400w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/20160905-call-to-juno-min-300x178.jpg 300w" sizes="(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px" /><p><strong>Review by <a href="http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/05/15/tina-tsironis/">Tina Tsironis</a></strong></p> <p>Throw a number of interconnected characters together, add a dash of mental complexity to each, sprinkle with a touch of war politics, compelling romance and jarring violence, and you have <em>Call to Juno</em>, the third book in Elisabeth Storrs’ series A Tale of Ancient Rome.</p> <p>Storrs’ historical fiction novel flits largely between Ancient Rome and the Etruscian city Veii. Conflict between the cities is rife, largely due to ex-Roman Caecilia’s denunciation of her birthplace. Now Queen of Veii, Caecilia’s call to destroy Rome further escalates the tension between the two cities, ensuring that they become locked in a fierce war.</p> <p>A number of characters are thrust into <em>Call to Juno</em>’s spotlight, affording readers the opportunity to view the Veii versus Rome clash from a number of differing viewpoints. Caecilia’s actions set the bulk of the novel’s narrative on course, certainly. But the journeys of other characters help to round out the novel and accurately centre in on life in Veii and Ancient Rome.</p> <p>Roman tribune Marcus’ struggle with his sexuality is painfully rooted in truth. Marcus’ plight, to keep his feelings for friend Drusus carefully guarded, echo both Ancient Rome’s homophobic discourse, and the battle that a number of people still face today. Similarly, former sex worker Pinna, now a concubine in love with her master, fights to keep her past under wraps. Making it to book’s end in order to discover the fate of Marcus and Pinna alone is well worth multiple page-turning nights.</p> <p>Each character is multifaceted in their own right. Caecilia is often frustratingly impulsive, making a number of important decisions seemingly based on her emotions. Yet her bravery in following through on her decisions is surprisingly inspiring. Just like the novel’s readers, Caecilia isn’t perfect. Her foibles and successes, as well as her obvious love for her four children and her husband, Vel Mastarna, paint her not as an annoying, one-dimensional character, but as a relatable human.</p> <p>Storrs helpfully includes a Cast List of every character included in <em>Call to Juno</em>. As a large amount of characters contribute to the events of the novel, recalling how each person fits into the puzzle becomes a slightly overwhelming task at times. Readers can pour through the list whenever they need to, helping to clarify each character’s purpose.</p> <p>To read a novel and feel as though you’re a first-hand observer of its events, no matter how long ago or far away it takes place, is an intoxicatingly satisfying feeling. When the war between the clashing cities escalates, readers are drawn directly into the heart wrenching action. While we obviously weren’t alive in 396 BC, Storrs’ ability to catapult her readers into days long past, no doubt due in part to her intricate research, allows us to walk through the shoes of each and every character living amongst the <em>Call to Juno </em>universe, thus cementing the novel’s status as highly readable.</p> ]]></content:encoded> </item> <item> <title>‘The Constant Queen’ by Joanna Courtney</title> <link>https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/09/05/constant-queen-joanna-courtney/</link> <pubDate>Mon, 05 Sep 2016 10:38:00 +0000</pubDate> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Backstory]]></dc:creator> <category><![CDATA[Issue Two]]></category> <category><![CDATA[Reviews]]></category> <category><![CDATA[book review]]></category> <category><![CDATA[books]]></category> <category><![CDATA[historical fiction]]></category> <category><![CDATA[Joanna Courtney]]></category> <category><![CDATA[The Constant Queen]]></category> <category><![CDATA[writer]]></category> <category><![CDATA[writing]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/?p=5171</guid> <description><![CDATA[<img width="400" height="237" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/20160905-the-constant-queen-min.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="20160905 - the constant queen-min" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/20160905-the-constant-queen-min.jpg 400w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/20160905-the-constant-queen-min-300x178.jpg 300w" sizes="(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px" />Review by Abby Claridge   ‘That was well done, my lady,’ Aksel said softly in his newly deep voice. ‘Dignified,’ she told him, ‘that’s what I was looking for.’ ‘It was that indeed, but more besides, my lady; it was queenly.’   After finishing Joanna Courtney’s The Constant Queen, I needed some time to reflect …]]></description> <content:encoded><![CDATA[<img width="400" height="237" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/20160905-the-constant-queen-min.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="20160905 - the constant queen-min" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/20160905-the-constant-queen-min.jpg 400w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/20160905-the-constant-queen-min-300x178.jpg 300w" sizes="(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px" /><p><strong>Review by <a href="http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/05/17/abby-claridge/">Abby Claridge</a></strong></p> <p> </p> <p><em>‘That was well done, my lady,’ Aksel said softly in his newly deep voice.</em></p> <p><em>‘Dignified,’ she told him, ‘that’s what I was looking for.’</em></p> <p><em>‘It was that indeed, but more besides, my lady; it was queenly.’</em></p> <p> </p> <p>After finishing Joanna Courtney’s <em>The Constant Queen</em>, I needed some time to reflect before I wrote this review. <em>The Constant Queen </em>is a big book, both physically and rich in plot. This historical romance novel follows the protagonist Princess Elizaveta from the age of twelve. She is both a player and a pawn for the men in her life, in order to claim different thrones.</p> <p>However, one should not take this to mean that Elizaveta is feeble and submissive. In my opinion, Elizaveta is the strongest character in the novel. She is a likeable protagonist who has a passion for life. As a reader I watched her grapple for power, push those around her to behave like the leaders that they were, but most importantly, I watched her love story evolve with Harald.</p> <p>Nonetheless, all is not easy and happy in this love affair. Harald has two wives who are forced to co-exist, along with their children, for much of the novel. Courtney’s raw and emotional portrayal of Elizaveta’s inner monologue left me in a state of sadness for much of the book. Courtney confronted me, as a reader, with the slow deconstruction of the happy, independent, strong girl I was introduced to at the start of this story to a weary, world-wise woman whose passion and feelings are often trampled on and disregarded; especially by the man she loves.</p> <p>And though this disheartening transformation should have made me want to put the book down and pick up a book without so much emotional trauma – I simply couldn’t. Every moment that I could see Elizaveta’s true spirit return, even if just for a moment, despite all those determined to make her seem small and unimportant, I was reminded how each of us must do the same within our everyday lives. Within the character of Elizaveta, Courtney was able to capture what it is to be a human, and what it is to be a woman.</p> <p> </p> <p>Image courtesy of <a href="http://www.amazon.com">Amazon.com</a>.</p> ]]></content:encoded> </item> <item> <title>‘The Pedigreed Jew: between There and Here – Kovno and Israel’ by Safira Rapoport</title> <link>https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/09/05/pedigreed-jew-kovno-israel-safira-rapoport/</link> <pubDate>Mon, 05 Sep 2016 10:37:00 +0000</pubDate> <dc:creator><![CDATA[Backstory]]></dc:creator> <category><![CDATA[Issue Two]]></category> <category><![CDATA[Reviews]]></category> <category><![CDATA[books]]></category> <category><![CDATA[review]]></category> <category><![CDATA[Safira Rapoport]]></category> <category><![CDATA[The Pedigreed Jew]]></category> <guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/?p=5169</guid> <description><![CDATA[<img width="400" height="237" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/20160905-the-pedigreed-jew-min.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="20160905 - the pedigreed jew-min" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/20160905-the-pedigreed-jew-min.jpg 400w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/20160905-the-pedigreed-jew-min-300x178.jpg 300w" sizes="(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px" />Review by Sarah Giles ‘To this day I have no tears; that is one of the symptoms of being a Holocaust survivor…’ p. 147. ‘The Pedigreed Jew: Between There and Here – Kovno and Israel’ is a memoir written from the perspectives of two women linked not only by their relationship as mother and daughter …]]></description> <content:encoded><![CDATA[<img width="400" height="237" src="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/20160905-the-pedigreed-jew-min.jpg" class="attachment-small size-small wp-post-image" alt="20160905 - the pedigreed jew-min" style="margin-bottom:10px;" srcset="https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/20160905-the-pedigreed-jew-min.jpg 400w, https://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/20160905-the-pedigreed-jew-min-300x178.jpg 300w" sizes="(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px" /><p><strong>Review by <a href="http://www.backstoryjournal.com.au/2016/05/15/sarah-giles/">Sarah Giles</a></strong></p> <p><em>‘To this day I have no tears; that is one of the symptoms of being a Holocaust survivor…’ p. 147. </em></p> <p>‘The Pedigreed Jew: Between There and Here – Kovno and Israel’ is a memoir written from the perspectives of two women linked not only by their relationship as mother and daughter but also by the bloodshed that was the Holocaust.</p> <p>Safira Rapoport wrote this book in two parts. Part one is written boldly from the perspective of her mother, Nechama, before and during the Holocaust. Part two is written from Rapoport’s own view and her experience retracing her mother’s steps through Europe from Death March to camp, from camp to Ghetto.</p> <p>Sometimes referred to by her mother as ‘my victory over Hitler,’ Safira travels from Israel to Europe to find peace with the tragic legacy passed down to her and to discover the true fate that had befallen her grandmother Tzipora.</p> <p>Rapoport tells of her mother’s childhood before the Soviet and then Nazi occupation of Kovno, the Lithuanian town she grew up in. She writes of Nechama’s school days, learning Hebrew, sneaking off to the boy’s school during lunch breaks, and discovering Zionism. There was a strong and proud Jewish community in Kovno at the time, one that Nechama felt strongly connected to. Even while in the Kovno Ghetto Nechama worked secretly with the ABZ ‘(Association with Brit Zion [Covenant of Zion])’ p. 30 becoming a company leader of the women’s division. Rapoport writes of all this to give context to all that was lost when Nazi Germany took hold of Lithuania.</p> <p>Part two of Rapoport’s book is written from her own perspective and it opens with recollections of her childhood. She writes of her struggle between two places, ‘Here’ which is Israel and the place she grew up and ‘There’ which is Europe, Kovno, and the place of her families great suffering. ‘There’ is also the place her grandmother remains, lost to the Holocaust.</p> <p>Rapoport’s inner turmoil is too great to move on with her life in Israel and so she travels to Europe to see the place for herself, as her mother’s great victory over Hitler walking on the soil he soaked with the blood of the Jewish people.</p> <p>She searches for answers to the questions surrounding her grandmother Tzipora’s disappearance. She looks for peace in the home her mother grew up in. She tries to find comfort as she lays memorial candles in many places of mass slaughter.</p> <p>Safira Rapoport inherited a great loss as the daughter of a Holocaust survivor and in this well-written book she honours that loss and her mother’s refusal to find shame in her religion.</p> <p>‘<em>Ich bin eine echte J</em><em>ü</em><em>den (Ger. </em><em>I am a pedigreed Jew).’ P. 53 </em>(Nechama’s words to a Nazi soldier).</p> <p>Image courtesy of <a href="http://www.amazon.com">Amazon.com</a>.</p> ]]></content:encoded> </item> </channel> </rss>