Somewhere Far from Iris

By John Holland

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.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Holland
• Release date: Jun 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311436955

John Holland

The author received a calling and anointing from the Lord to undertake a ministry of spiritual teaching. Following this call was a directive to engage in a Jonah type ministry of revealing to the Church her apostasies with a warning of oncoming judgement. A further anointing was received to discern the meaning of symbols and unveil the meaning of prophecies. This particular book started out to be a study, but was extended further by the Holy Spirit until it reached its current length. To see more of the author's work, see the Covenant Truth Christian website at(http://www.covenanttruth.com.au)

Book preview

Somewhere Far from Iris

Book one in the Heartland series of novellas focusing on Australian outback themes.

John Holland

Published by Louisa Publishing

Copyright 2014 John Holland

Smashwords Edition

Second Edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Other books by John Holland

About John Holland

A note from the editor

Chapter 1

Shane

I’m on a bus that’s half full of strangers. Encaged in the quiet comfort of the air-conditioned cabin, we hurtle at breakneck speed down a pot-holed highway that leads into the dark guts of an old continent.

The night is tar paper and silver sparks. The huge bus is all glass and speed—too much glass. If we crash, there will be a bloodbath.

I huddle in the window seat of the third row, left. The cloying artificial wildflower scent of air freshener competes with the nicotine smell on the clothes and breath of seasoned smokers. The headlights chew up the black asphalt and hurl it back into the cloud of darkness we drag along behind us. The darkness clings to the back of the bus like bulldust on the tailgate of a ute travelling hard on a dirt road.

The night is surreal and some might find it magical. But I don’t. This night is too much like depression—another kind of blackness that swallows you up. But that one replaces you with a hollow replica holding little of yourself you can still recognize.

Night just spits you out wherever it ends. Night can’t end fast enough for me. The fires of dawn can burn it to oblivion and maybe even throw a bit of light into the face of the mind-born darkness.

I’ve been sick in the mind for a long time—probably always. I can’t remember many times when my mind wasn’t heavy with bad thoughts and my heart wasn’t a lead weight in my chest. They tell me it’s chemical. They can go and root their boot. I know enough to know this sickness is as individual as the people who have it, which is why it is so hard to treat.

We stop at a small town just as dawn breaks. I emerge from the bus and take a deep gulp of fresh air. The air is cleaner and sweeter than the city air I’ve been used to these past few years.

Breakfast for me is two bacon-and-egg McMuffins and a cup of lukewarm coffee. The coffee could be hotter, and it has a funny taste to it that is most likely dishwashing detergent. It is wet though, so I drink it down without complaint. When I finish eating, the craving for nicotine hits hard. It’s been two months since I quit, and mostly I’m okay, unless I eat something or drink a beer. I’ve always found it hard to give up bad habits. I’m good at giving up good habits though, or maybe the good ones give me up? Doesn’t matter. It’s all much of a muchness and the end result is the same. Funny how the sickness makes you give up the things good for you but embrace the things that are bad.

Back on the bus, passengers straggle past me. We’ve lost a couple of last night’s passengers and picked up three new ones. One is a young woman who hesitantly takes the seat beside me, throwing me a nervous half-smile as she does so. She’s slim, with longish dark hair, and she wears jeans and a pullover. She’s not pretty in the accepted way. Nothing Hollywood about her—not even much Woman’s Day. But there is something in her face that draws the eye. She’s what people used to call striking. I turn my head and pretend I’m interested in what is happening outside the window. We are probably going to be sitting together for many hours, so I know I should make polite recognition of her and maybe say hello. Such things are hard for me. I am not normal.

The bus grunts and groans back into positive motion. The small town slides away until we are past the last of the scattered houses. The dry open downs country rushes along beside the bus. The hills in the distance look like islands in a sea of yellow Mitchell grass. Then I remember we are driving over the bed of an ancient inland sea and the hills actually were islands once—islands dotting warm shallow seas.

My face stays turned towards the windows, but my eyes roll back and my gaze shifts inward. What the heck am I doing? I’m heading back out to the mining town where I was born. I know that much. But why? I think I’m going back to see if I’m still there. I know that doesn’t make any sense, but it’s how I feel. I know I’m not here, and I know I’m not back there behind me. So I have to be somewhere…right?

I must doze off for a while. I’m a kid again. I am standing in a doorway looking into a bedroom. There’s a woman in bed with a man. When they notice me looking at them, the man shouts at me. Then the woman gets up from the bed and chases me away. She doesn’t have on any clothes. I can’t see her face, but I know she must be my mother. She slams the bedroom door in my face. I run out of the house and down the street. I want to go and play in the park, but the park is full of men dressed as clowns. They look evil and scary. One in a suit striped with red and yellow tries to catch me. His teeth are white and huge. I run from him, and his big funny boots slap the footpath behind me. He’s just about caught up with me when I wake up. I’m back on the bus.

Would you like a chocolate? says the girl. She’s holding out an opened bar of Cadbury’s milk chocolate. The pleasant fragrance mingles with her features. Sweetness and her face will