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Somewhere Far from Iris
Clinically depressed Shane Morris is trying to learn how to cope with his condition and find balance within the turmoil of his mind. He embarks on a mission to reconstruct himself by going back to his roots in the Australian outback town of his childhood. In Iris, this man who thinks he is nothing discovers at its extreme, life has two poles, the tender and the brutal. In the fires of the worst and best expressions of man, Shane learns he's far from nothing and just where he fits into humanity's broad spectrum.
- GenresContemporary
ebook
First published June 17, 2014
1 person is currently reading
4 people want to read
About the author
John Holland
10 books30 followersJohn Holland grew up in outback Australia. Living on cattle stations his father Jack Holland managed in Queensland, the Northern Territory and the Kimberley.
He has been a stockman, miner, road worker, speech writer/media officer for a Queensland state member of parliament and a newspaper columnist.
John now lives in Townsville, tropical North Queensland and writes full time.
Check out his website: http://poetrysansfrontieres.weebly.com/
His writing credits include:
FICTION:
Mark Taggart and the Circle of Stones (with co-author Nicci Carrera).
Old Year's Day (Louisa Publishing Australia)
Heartland (Louisa Publishing Australia)
Somewhere far from Iris
Bitter Bread
The Light at the Bottom of the Garden
Left of the Rising Sun
POETRY:
Dry Bones (Stonesthrow Poetry)
Under The Dog Star (Hammer & Anvil Books)
His work has also appeared in the anthologies:
Ink Angels (Allpoetry)
Found Patrick (Regina Sokas)
Rawahi (Lazarus Media)
His work has also appeared in the poetry magazines:
Danse Macabre
Umphrose
Mystical Muse
Spontaneous Spirits
The Mozzie
And many others.
He has been a stockman, miner, road worker, speech writer/media officer for a Queensland state member of parliament and a newspaper columnist.
John now lives in Townsville, tropical North Queensland and writes full time.
Check out his website: http://poetrysansfrontieres.weebly.com/
His writing credits include:
FICTION:
Mark Taggart and the Circle of Stones (with co-author Nicci Carrera).
Old Year's Day (Louisa Publishing Australia)
Heartland (Louisa Publishing Australia)
Somewhere far from Iris
Bitter Bread
The Light at the Bottom of the Garden
Left of the Rising Sun
POETRY:
Dry Bones (Stonesthrow Poetry)
Under The Dog Star (Hammer & Anvil Books)
His work has also appeared in the anthologies:
Ink Angels (Allpoetry)
Found Patrick (Regina Sokas)
Rawahi (Lazarus Media)
His work has also appeared in the poetry magazines:
Danse Macabre
Umphrose
Mystical Muse
Spontaneous Spirits
The Mozzie
And many others.
Ratings & Reviews
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Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews
December 27, 2014
4.5★s
Shane Morris hated the dark hours of the night – his own thoughts were dark enough with the depression having been with him for most of his life. Travelling on the bus toward his hometown of Iris – the town in the outback of Australia that he had called home when he was a child, his thoughts were confused. He wasn’t sure why he was returning – he didn’t have a lot of happy memories from that time, but he felt he needed the chance to find himself.
When a young woman tentatively sat next to him after a meal stop, he withdrew into himself further – he didn’t want conversation; he was certainly not worth talking to; but she was friendly enough. When it turned out she was also going to Iris, his thoughts were then on making sure he avoided her.
As he gradually settled into the town, he found his days were a confusion of lightness and dark. But when evil in the form of a brutal man appeared, things were bound to change. But what would happen to Shane? Would he discover the reason he had returned to Iris?
This novella by Aussie author John Holland was thoroughly enjoyable. The protagonist was a likeable young man who was struggling; he had of course long since come to terms with the depression that dogged his days. Combining mystery and suspense, the pace was fast – it was a quick, easy read. I have no hesitation in recommending Somewhere Far From Iris.
Shane Morris hated the dark hours of the night – his own thoughts were dark enough with the depression having been with him for most of his life. Travelling on the bus toward his hometown of Iris – the town in the outback of Australia that he had called home when he was a child, his thoughts were confused. He wasn’t sure why he was returning – he didn’t have a lot of happy memories from that time, but he felt he needed the chance to find himself.
When a young woman tentatively sat next to him after a meal stop, he withdrew into himself further – he didn’t want conversation; he was certainly not worth talking to; but she was friendly enough. When it turned out she was also going to Iris, his thoughts were then on making sure he avoided her.
As he gradually settled into the town, he found his days were a confusion of lightness and dark. But when evil in the form of a brutal man appeared, things were bound to change. But what would happen to Shane? Would he discover the reason he had returned to Iris?
This novella by Aussie author John Holland was thoroughly enjoyable. The protagonist was a likeable young man who was struggling; he had of course long since come to terms with the depression that dogged his days. Combining mystery and suspense, the pace was fast – it was a quick, easy read. I have no hesitation in recommending Somewhere Far From Iris.
December 10, 2014
Mehreen Ahmed's review
This surrealistic novella by John Holland is an excellent example of his craftsmanship. Each sentence is encased within beautifully crafted words conveying precisely the expressions that they are meant to. Just as beautiful as the title Somewhere Far from Iris, the dark brooding plot pulls the reader into a force of strangely ubiquitous or parallel existence of the mind. Almost a stream of consciousness mode, in which the protagonist is not bound by the limits of space time parameter, but in an infinitely irresolute journey of self exploration, away from a reality that we know of. In other words Somewhere Far from Iris.
This surrealistic novella by John Holland is an excellent example of his craftsmanship. Each sentence is encased within beautifully crafted words conveying precisely the expressions that they are meant to. Just as beautiful as the title Somewhere Far from Iris, the dark brooding plot pulls the reader into a force of strangely ubiquitous or parallel existence of the mind. Almost a stream of consciousness mode, in which the protagonist is not bound by the limits of space time parameter, but in an infinitely irresolute journey of self exploration, away from a reality that we know of. In other words Somewhere Far from Iris.
February 9, 2015
An exceptional book that firmly places John Holland in the list of Australian writers who must be read. I found myself somewhat stunned by the raw power of this book. Shane Morris is a man who battles against depression and a negative image of himself. But there is an underlying strength and beauty to this man that gradually emerges from the depths of his personal darkness.
Add to the mix a brilliant cast of support characters including the brutish Blocker and an enigmatic boy, who may not even be real and you have a winner. The reclusive Mr Holland deserves to be spoken of in the same breath as the best of the modern Australian writers. His style is very original in my opinion and his work very personal, courageous and honest.
Add to the mix a brilliant cast of support characters including the brutish Blocker and an enigmatic boy, who may not even be real and you have a winner. The reclusive Mr Holland deserves to be spoken of in the same breath as the best of the modern Australian writers. His style is very original in my opinion and his work very personal, courageous and honest.
November 15, 2021
John Holland's support of a violent neo-Hitlerite, right-wing extremist and racist like Mercedes Webb-Pullman is utterly abhorrent.
'replied on How I distroyed the Speakeasy and little skid mark
Liar. Why do you bother? Ukrainian brides are such trash'
''replied on How I distroyed the Speakeasy and little skid mark
I live on my pension, dear, at 70 years of age.
Never was a whore - because people like you give it such a bad name.
You're not intelligent enough to make a difference to anyone's life, even your own.''
''So fuck off, creepy Russian doll with other creepy Russian dolls inside her.
replied on How I distroyed the Speakeasy and little skid mark
You have a sad history, Russian internet bride.
Why try to make it a stranger's problem?
Face it - you're ugly, stupid, and stuck in Australia.
Not quite Melania, are you?
Carry on.''
''Are there any Russians present with you at the moment? Can anybody else see them? Are the voices getting louder? Please consult your GP.
comment 7 months ago
replied on How I distroyed the Speakeasy and little skid mark
Yes, Russians live here. As they live in most countries of the world. Yes, they are visible to all. Bad clothes, bad teeth, bad accents and all. No, no voices getting louder.
Please consult your etiquette tips, Karen. They were handed out at the last meeting.
Then fuck off. (edited)'' replied on irish famine
Delusional.
Psychotic.
Jealous little bitch.
Every time you attempt to damage someone else's life, it comes back onto you and yours.
Carry on, шлюха
replied on How I distroyed the Speakeasy and little skid mark
Actually, I'm Australian. At least they pay my pension.
Do you have hair?
What colour is your hat? The same as the pot you piss in?
replied on Mindfulness
Message from your father - he's not your father
comment 11 months agocommented on topic Mindfulness
He's alive and well, silly thing. You are not.
replied on How I distroyed the Speakeasy and little skid mark
You have a sad history, Russian internet bride.
Why try to make it a stranger's problem?
Face it - you're ugly, stupid, and stuck in Australia.
Not quite Melania, are you?
Carry on.
commented on topic 4 years of bad peace
One for you
https://allpoetry.com/poem/15538809-D...
Dear Blessed Praying-with-your-eyes-open Mary
I have no family left but you. My father, uncles, brothers, all the men in our village, lined up against the town hall wall and machine-gunned. We were forced to watch. They shot old women and babies, sent women and girls to Kiev as servants for German soldiers. Mama wouldn’t work, just sat on the floor with her shawl over her face, rocking. They took her to Babi Yar from the barracks.
Now you are my mother, Mary Praying Virgin. When first I came to the city, for my first communion, you looked down from the dome straight into my eyes, through the halo of gold spread around you, and I knew you knew me and loved me.
Every person I’ve ever known, family and neighbours, they’re all dead. Even the village itself is gone. I know you’re still there, safe in Saint Sophia’s Cathedral, Blessed Virgin Orans, because you are the unbreakable wall. Rus will live as long as you are there. I need your blessing before my journey.
They’re sending me to Austria. I’m healthy, I know farm work and I can milk cows so I’ll go to a farm, and another Austrian dairy farmer will be freed to join the German army. I’m pregnant and the soldiers don’t want me in their barracks any more. I make them feel guilty.
I have a feeling I’ll never see Kiev, or Rus, again. Life so far has all been about love and losing it, connections that vanish. I don’t trust the world any more. Everything changes, nothing stays the same.
Except you, my new mother, 1, 000 years praying with your hands in the air and your eyes wide open, trying to scrape up courage, and faith, before the coming birth. Our people traveled south and stayed for centuries, maybe it’s time to turn west again. I know you’ll understand why I haven’t confessed my sins. My worst is wishing to die. Maybe that’s why this new child came, to force me to continue with life.
I sold my body for food and a bed in warm barracks. It was either that or compete for rats in Kiev’s starving streets. I’m anything but a virgin. A coward - I didn’t try to stop the machine gun. I didn’t try hard enough to get Mama up. I lived with the enemy for my own comfort.
I’m sorry to burden you with sins, faults. I write them down and send them to you so I can leave them all behind. So my story stays in the heart of Rus. I will arrive in Austria a slave still, pregnant, alone but for you, carrying new life.
This child has myriad fathers and will never know one. I ask your blessing on us all. The soldiers could have treated me worse. If the Red Army had won and my family was still be alive, would my brothers have treated the Germans any better? Bless us all, Mother Mary, weak sinners that we are. Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
Do pobachennya, Rus,
Vasha dochka.
Raise a glass to freedom © 9 months ago, Mercedes Webb-Pullman noguest
'replied on How I distroyed the Speakeasy and little skid mark
Liar. Why do you bother? Ukrainian brides are such trash'
''replied on How I distroyed the Speakeasy and little skid mark
I live on my pension, dear, at 70 years of age.
Never was a whore - because people like you give it such a bad name.
You're not intelligent enough to make a difference to anyone's life, even your own.''
''So fuck off, creepy Russian doll with other creepy Russian dolls inside her.
replied on How I distroyed the Speakeasy and little skid mark
You have a sad history, Russian internet bride.
Why try to make it a stranger's problem?
Face it - you're ugly, stupid, and stuck in Australia.
Not quite Melania, are you?
Carry on.''
''Are there any Russians present with you at the moment? Can anybody else see them? Are the voices getting louder? Please consult your GP.
comment 7 months ago
replied on How I distroyed the Speakeasy and little skid mark
Yes, Russians live here. As they live in most countries of the world. Yes, they are visible to all. Bad clothes, bad teeth, bad accents and all. No, no voices getting louder.
Please consult your etiquette tips, Karen. They were handed out at the last meeting.
Then fuck off. (edited)'' replied on irish famine
Delusional.
Psychotic.
Jealous little bitch.
Every time you attempt to damage someone else's life, it comes back onto you and yours.
Carry on, шлюха
replied on How I distroyed the Speakeasy and little skid mark
Actually, I'm Australian. At least they pay my pension.
Do you have hair?
What colour is your hat? The same as the pot you piss in?
replied on Mindfulness
Message from your father - he's not your father
comment 11 months agocommented on topic Mindfulness
He's alive and well, silly thing. You are not.
replied on How I distroyed the Speakeasy and little skid mark
You have a sad history, Russian internet bride.
Why try to make it a stranger's problem?
Face it - you're ugly, stupid, and stuck in Australia.
Not quite Melania, are you?
Carry on.
commented on topic 4 years of bad peace
One for you
https://allpoetry.com/poem/15538809-D...
Dear Blessed Praying-with-your-eyes-open Mary
I have no family left but you. My father, uncles, brothers, all the men in our village, lined up against the town hall wall and machine-gunned. We were forced to watch. They shot old women and babies, sent women and girls to Kiev as servants for German soldiers. Mama wouldn’t work, just sat on the floor with her shawl over her face, rocking. They took her to Babi Yar from the barracks.
Now you are my mother, Mary Praying Virgin. When first I came to the city, for my first communion, you looked down from the dome straight into my eyes, through the halo of gold spread around you, and I knew you knew me and loved me.
Every person I’ve ever known, family and neighbours, they’re all dead. Even the village itself is gone. I know you’re still there, safe in Saint Sophia’s Cathedral, Blessed Virgin Orans, because you are the unbreakable wall. Rus will live as long as you are there. I need your blessing before my journey.
They’re sending me to Austria. I’m healthy, I know farm work and I can milk cows so I’ll go to a farm, and another Austrian dairy farmer will be freed to join the German army. I’m pregnant and the soldiers don’t want me in their barracks any more. I make them feel guilty.
I have a feeling I’ll never see Kiev, or Rus, again. Life so far has all been about love and losing it, connections that vanish. I don’t trust the world any more. Everything changes, nothing stays the same.
Except you, my new mother, 1, 000 years praying with your hands in the air and your eyes wide open, trying to scrape up courage, and faith, before the coming birth. Our people traveled south and stayed for centuries, maybe it’s time to turn west again. I know you’ll understand why I haven’t confessed my sins. My worst is wishing to die. Maybe that’s why this new child came, to force me to continue with life.
I sold my body for food and a bed in warm barracks. It was either that or compete for rats in Kiev’s starving streets. I’m anything but a virgin. A coward - I didn’t try to stop the machine gun. I didn’t try hard enough to get Mama up. I lived with the enemy for my own comfort.
I’m sorry to burden you with sins, faults. I write them down and send them to you so I can leave them all behind. So my story stays in the heart of Rus. I will arrive in Austria a slave still, pregnant, alone but for you, carrying new life.
This child has myriad fathers and will never know one. I ask your blessing on us all. The soldiers could have treated me worse. If the Red Army had won and my family was still be alive, would my brothers have treated the Germans any better? Bless us all, Mother Mary, weak sinners that we are. Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
Do pobachennya, Rus,
Vasha dochka.
Raise a glass to freedom © 9 months ago, Mercedes Webb-Pullman noguest
Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews