After the Fire, A Still Small Voice by Evie Wyld

By Evie Wyld

After the departure of the lady he loves, Frank struggles to rebuild his existence one of the sugarcane and sand dunes that encompass his oceanside shack. 40 years previous, Leon is drafted to serve in Vietnam and reveals himself unexpectedly confronting an identical reports that hang-out his war-veteran father. As those tales weave round every one other—each narrated in a voice as soft because it is fierce—we examine what binds Frank and Leon jointly, and what can result maintaining them apart.
 
Set within the unforgiving panorama of jap Australia, Evie Wyld’s complete debut tackles the inescapability of the previous, the ineffable ties of family members, and the wars fought through fathers and sons.

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For the first time in his life, Charles saw his father’s eyes probing his own for interest. ” The clocks in the study ticked, and one of them purred, as it was about to chime the half hour. Charles knew he was supposed to have a response, and he didn’t want his father to dismiss him. “If he wasn’t just locked in . . ” His father’s lips pursed as if he would continue, but only if Charles earned it. Charles looked away from his father. He could think of nothing further to say. He pretended new interest in the pictures on the wall until his father returned to his financials.

Sometimes he imagined there were fairies in other rooms, wicked imps, urging him to discover them. Come look at the brank, they said. If he concentrated hard enough, maybe his mother would hear him wandering and would come back. At the rear of the house, by the kitchen and the pantry, was the dark and formal dining room, where Charles would push under the curtains, and surface on the other side, his breath making half-dollar-sized clouds on the window, to watch the wild back garden and listen for the faint wheeze of an accordion.

See, it says ‘five’ in Roman numerals on the back, but they forgot to say ‘five cents,’ and a racketeer dipped it in gold solution. ” Sullivan tapped his rolled-up newspaper against the leg of his trousers, and poked his tongue into his cheek. ” It was the most valuable piece in the collection that Charles was allowed to handle himself. He wasn’t sure what it was worth, but he had never let anyone else touch it. Feeling triumphant, he handed it over. Sullivan examined it, murmuring, “Well, whaddya know.

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