In the rugged expanse of The Outlands, where the land itself seems to breathe with secrets, lies the town of Wondilla. A place of harsh beauty and unyielding challenges, Wondilla is home to souls bound by fate, hardship, and the courage to endure. This is the story of its people—their lives interwoven through time, their paths crossing in ways both profound and unexpected. From the haunting echoes of past mistakes to the quiet resilience of those who refuse to give up, Wondilla’s residents each carry a piece of the region’s untold story. Sheila, struggling to reconcile her past with the growing weight of her present, searches for solace amid the whispers of her own heartache. Derek, a man of quiet determination, hides wounds deeper than anyone knows, finding strength in physical toil but losing himself in its monotony. Bobby, must face the unease within himself as he grapples with a world that feels increasingly unsteady. And Emiel, fighting for survival uncovers fragments of himself while navigating his past, every step a battle against despair.
In the rugged expanse of The Outlands, where the land itself seems to breathe with secrets, lies the town of Wondilla. A place of harsh beauty and unyielding challenges, Wondilla is home to souls bound by fate, hardship, and the courage to endure. This is the story of its people—their lives interwoven through time, their paths crossing in ways both profound and unexpected. From the haunting echoes of past mistakes to the quiet resilience of those who refuse to give up, Wondilla’s residents each carry a piece of the region’s untold story. Sheila, struggling to reconcile her past with the growing weight of her present, searches for solace amid the whispers of her own heartache. Derek, a man of quiet determination, hides wounds deeper than anyone knows, finding strength in physical toil but losing himself in its monotony. Bobby, must face the unease within himself as he grapples with a world that feels increasingly unsteady. And Emiel, fighting for survival uncovers fragments of himself while navigating his past, every step a battle against despair.
stand
Long had I grappled with the notion of revenge, or a profound yearning for unblemished absolution. From the vantage point of the hill's crest, I cast my gaze upon the silhouette of a mother, a solitary figure amidst the dimly lit abode. Unmoved by the mundane tale, she eventually set the book aside, plunging her quarters into darkness by extinguishing the gentle radiance of her lantern.
In the adjacent chamber, a father sought solace in his den while a bottle of whisky kept him company during his leisurely pursuit. Blind to his own bodily demands, entrenched in the cycle of his alcohol-driven routines, the father moved from the tattered worn recliner. He ventured out onto the rear patio, his steps unsteady. Down to the boundary's edge he trod.
A brittle branch's crunch snapped through the still night. The father, who had been relieving himself, quickly rezipped his trunks and took a hesitant step backward, slowly turning around, sensing the underlying tension. "Whatever this is, we can talk about it inside," he suggested, his voice trying to mask his fear. The darkness seemed to deepen.
His fear was palpable, a tangible thing that hung heavy in the air. Before another word could be exchanged, I swiftly hoisted a hefty wooden slab, bringing it down forcefully on the father's head.
I carried his unconscious form uphill, my breathing laboured under his weight as we slowly ventured deeper into the desolate terrain. My footsteps crunched on the gravel, the isolation perfect for finishing unresolved wounds. A sense of grim satisfaction settled over me. This was the place where it would all end. As I placed the father on the ground, the makeshift campsite offered little comfort. The stars above, cold and distant, bore silent witness to the unfolding drama. Drained and fatigued, my eyelids grew heavy, and I succumbed to the call of slumber, my body seeking respite from the aching burden of resolve.
The father stirred from unconsciousness; his vision blurred with disorientation. The vast expanse of the night sky stretched out above him; a canvas dotted with stars that mocked his confusion. Fear gnawed at the edges of his consciousness, urging him to make sense of his surroundings. The wilderness loomed around him, its dusk light dancing in the dim light of the moon. Every crack of a dead branch, every whisper of the wind, sent shivers down his spine as he stumbled forward, driven solely by instinct.
In the darkness, his heart pounded, each beat a frantic drum against the night. The father’s steps faltered, his feet stumbling over roots and rocks in the wake of this chilling encounter. The jagged edge loomed menacingly, a yawning abyss threatening to swallow him whole.
With each breath, the cold air bit at his skin, his pulse quickening with the realisation of his precarious position. Struggling to maintain his composure he fell, the father's hands grasped desperately at the rocky outcrop, his fingers scraping against the unforgiving surface as he fought against the pull of gravity. Every muscle in his body strained against the weight of uncertainty, his mind a whirlwind of panic and disbelief. Just as he teetered on the edge of oblivion, a final gasp of desperation, the father's grip faltered.
The father's contorted, fractured form lay sprawled upon the imposing rockface, a place once nameless before the desolation. The dim light of dawn with its golden rays cast a harsh glint upon the barren background. Blood pooled on the unforgiving stone around his fallen carcass, staining the rocky surface crimson.
Appearing from its dwelling, the creature rents its own flesh with claws bared, a display of unrivalled dominance. Recognition dawned that the quarry was no longer just prey, leading to a gradual surrender to the enveloping hush of the natural world. Tugging the lifeless form into her den, unfazed by the potential repercussions of this ominous choice, she stayed unperturbed.
This father was worth no toast.
The pain that follows
The barn was dimly lit, the scent of hay thick in the air, mingling with the faint musk of animals long gone. The night outside was cold, silent, as if the world beyond had ceased to exist, leaving only this hidden refuge where two souls dared to defy their fate. Warm breaths mingled, the two young men knelt close, their faces barely visible in the darkness. The barn was their sanctuary, a small space of solitude amid the endless sea of responsibilities and expectations that kept their hearts shackled. It was here that they met, against propriety and unspoken rules. Here, in the quiet of the barn, they allowed themselves to feel something they could not name.
The kiss was gentle, a promise of something neither knew how to define, but something that was undeniably real in that instant. A hand reached out, fingers brushing against the other’s jaw, hesitant, trembling with an uncertain yearning. The hesitation was brief, overcome by the desire to feel warmth, to hold onto something that could carry them away from the weight of their everyday lives. It was in that brief touch, in that fleeting moment of connection, that they both found the courage to close the distance, lips meeting in a rush of warmth—a touch that felt like defiance against everything outside that barn. It was as if, in that kiss, they were rejecting the world, here, they could just be.
But the door swung open. The father stood there, he paused only for an instant, his eyes narrowing, his posture stiffening with the realisation of what he was witnessing. His anger was silent, heavy—more terrifying in its restraint than in its expression. He moved quickly, too quickly for them to react. He grabbed his son by the arm, wrenching him away from the other boy, who stumbled backward, his face pale, his breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a cry.
"Get away from him!" The father's voice was a growl, rough as gravel, vibrating with a fury that had not yet found its full expression. And before the other boy could protest, before he could do anything at all, he was running. He ran, but not far. His feet took him just beyond the barn, to a thicket where he crouched low, his heart pounding so violently that he feared it would betray his hiding place. His throat was dry as he strained to hear, to catch some indication of what was happening inside. The muffled sounds of struggling reached him—and then the dull, heavy thud of blows.
The son was on the ground, the father towering over him. There was no sound now but that of flesh meeting flesh, the weighty impact of each blow, the father's rage manifest. It seemed endless, the fury and violence. The son curled in on himself, trying in vain to shield his head, his arms already bruised and limp. The young man hidden in the thicket held his breath, waiting, praying for it to end. He wanted to rush in, to pull him away, to plead—but he knew better. He knew that any movement would bring the father’s wrath on himself, perhaps worse. He waited, his fingers digging into the earth beneath him, his body trembling.
It felt like an eternity before the mother's voice cut through the darkness, trembling and breaking as she called them in for dinner, her voice cracking under the strain of what she must have already understood.
The father finally paused, his eyes vacant, lost in his anger, and turned, stepping away from the broken figure on the ground. His chest heaved with the remnants of his fury, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. The son lay there, unmoving, the dirt beneath him dark with blood, his eyes half-open, unseeing. The young man in the thicket did not wait. He fled, his legs carrying him westward, his breath ragged. He ran, the road a blur beneath him, his mind a storm of fear and guilt, unable to reconcile what he had witnessed with what he had known of the family. He ran until the house appeared, its warmth a cruel contrast to the cold night behind him.
The evening was falling softly over the fields, the sky painted in hues of lavender and gold, as Ethel stood at the threshold of the house, her apron still clutched in her hands. The scent of cow stew with potatoes and fresh bread wafted from the kitchen, the warmth of the fire spilling from the doorway. She called out, her voice reaching across the yard, "Edgar! Emiel! Dinner is ready!"
The wind carried only silence back to her, the barn standing dark and mute in the distance. A frown creased her brow. The sun was dipping low, shadows stretching long across the fields, and still no answer. The animals stirred restlessly, the chickens already nestled for the night. Ethel stepped down from the porch, her bare feet brushing against the cool earth, and she walked toward the barn, her heart heavy with a vague unease that she could not name.
She called again, her voice louder this time, "Edgar! Emiel!" But still, only the rustling of the wind through the tall grasses responded.
The barn door stood ajar, and as she approached, she noticed a strange stillness, the kind that made the hairs on her neck stand on end. Ethel paused at the entrance, her eyes adjusting to the gloom inside, and there she saw him—Edgar, her husband, standing rigid, his face pale and his eyes vacant, staring at something she could not see. His fists hung at his sides, bloodied, though she saw no wound on him.
"Edgar?" she whispered, her voice trembling as she stepped closer. The stench of sweat and something metallic filled her nostrils. "Edgar, what is it?"
He did not turn, did not blink, as if he were lost in some dark place beyond her reach. His eyes, once filled with the fire of determination, now looked hollow, extinguished. She moved past him, her breath caught in her throat, and then she saw.
Emiel lay crumpled in the straw, his small body twisted, his face bruised and bloodied beyond recognition. His shirt was torn, his small chest barely rising and falling with shallow breaths. Her breath caught, and for a moment, the world seemed to fall away, a yawning chasm opening beneath her feet. She let out a scream, a raw, animal sound that tore from her chest, echoing in the hollow space of the barn.
She fell to her knees beside her boy, her hands shaking as she touched his face, felt the warmth still there beneath the bruises. He was alive—barely. The bruises were deep, purple welts covering his cheeks and forehead, and blood trickled from his lips. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she looked up, her eyes finding Edgar, still standing there, lost in that trance.
Rage surged through her, hot and blinding, and she rose, her body moving before her mind could catch up. She went to him, her fists clenched, and struck him across the face, the force of it sending him stumbling backward. He fell to the ground, his eyes wide, as if only now waking from a terrible dream.
"What have you done, Edgar?" she cried, her voice breaking, her whole body trembling with fury and fear. "What have you done!”
Edgar stared at her, his mouth opening, but no words came out. There was nothing in his eyes but confusion, a hollow emptiness that terrified her more than the blood on his hands. He raised a trembling hand to his face where she had struck him, his lips parting as if to speak, but only a low, broken sound escaped him.
"Ethel... I..." he began, he looked down at his hands, the sight of the blood seeming to confuse him. "I don't remember..."
Ethel turned away from him, her mind racing, a thousand thoughts rushing through her head, none of them making sense. She knelt beside Emiel once more, her hands brushing his hair back from his forehead. She had to get help—but The Outlands were so far, the nearest neighbour miles away. She looked out into the darkening fields, her heart pounding. They were alone, so terribly alone, and she knew that if she did not act now, she might lose him forever.
"Emiel, my sweet boy," she whispered, her voice cracking, her tears falling freely. She pressed her ear to his chest, listening to the faint, fragile beat of his heart. "Hold on. Hold on!"
She screamed again, her voice ringing out across the empty fields, a desperate plea for help that seemed to vanish into the growing night. Then she grabbed Emiel by his arms, her tears falling onto his bruised face, and began to drag him, her own body trembling with the weight of her son and her fear. Her hands ached, fingers slipping on the damp ground, but she could not let go, not now. His frame was so limp, so fragile, and she could feel his faint, uneven breath. She knew she could not waste another moment.
She dragged him out of the barn, her eyes scanning the horizon, praying that someone—anyone—would hear her cries, that somehow, they could be saved from this nightmare. The gravel of the yard scraped at her bare feet, the cold biting into her skin, but she pressed on, driven by a mother's love and the desperate hope that she could still save her child.
"Help!" she screamed again, her voice cracking, her throat raw. "Please, someone, help us!"
She pulled Emiel towards the Suburban Chevy, the light blue paint barely visible in the night. Her heart pounded as she reached the car, her hands trembling as she yanked open the door. She heaved Emiel into the back seat, her breath ragged, her body screaming in pain. She climbed into the driver’s seat, her fingers shaking as she fumbled for the keys, the engine roaring to life as she slammed her foot on the gas.
The tires kicked up dirt as she sped away from the barn, her eyes fixed on the neighbour’s house in the distance. The fields stretched endlessly before her, the sky now a deep indigo, stars beginning to prick through the darkness. The world felt vast, the emptiness of the landscape swallowing her cries. But she would not stop. She could not stop. She thought of Emiel's laughter, the way his eyes lit up when he saw her, the way he would run to her, his small arms wrapping around her waist. She thought of the life she had dreamed for him, a life far away from the hardship of The Outlands, a life full of promise and joy.
Behind her, in the barn, Edgar had pulled himself to his knees, his hands trembling as he looked at the blood staining his skin. His mind felt fractured, as if pieces of it were missing, lost to some darkness he could not comprehend. He heard Ethel's screams, distant now, carried away by the wind, and a deep, gnawing fear began to take root in his chest. He looked around the barn, his eyes falling on the spot where Emiel had lain, the straw stained with blood, and a sob tore from his throat.
"What have I done?" he whispered, his voice breaking, his heart pounding with a terror unlike any he had ever known. He pushed himself to his feet, stumbling toward the barn door, his legs weak beneath him. He had to find them. He had to make this right. Ethel's breath came in ragged gasps, her eyes darting back to the rearview mirror, where Emiel lay motionless in the back seat.
And somewhere in the distance, a light flickered—a small, faint glow, barely visible against the darkened sky. Ethel's heart leaped, hope surging within her, and she turned toward it, her foot pressing harder on the gas, her voice rising once more in a desperate cry for help.
The light grew brighter, a beacon in the night, and Ethel sped toward it, her heart pounding with a fragile, desperate hope. She would save her boy. She had to. No matter what it took, no matter how far she had to drive, she would not let him go.
He barely had time to catch his breath when he saw her, the mother, standing at the door. She held her son, her hands trembling, her face hollow. She did not need to speak. The other family understood. The father and eldest brother, both veterinarians, exchanged a look that spoke of experience and grim determination. They knew what was needed—they carried the unconscious boy to their workroom, laying him on the table, the instruments of their trade gleaming dully under the dim lamplight. He was trained to save, to heal, to revive, but this was different.
The boy’s body was limp, his skin pale, his breathing had stopped. Time moved slowly, each second stretching into eternity. The eldest pressed his lips against the boy’s, forcing air into his lungs, his hands moving in rhythm, pressing down on his chest, again and again, willing him to live. The mother stood in the corner, her eyes wide, her lips moving in silent prayer, her tears flowing freely down her cheeks.
And then—a gasp, shallow, but there. The boy coughed, his chest rising, his eyes fluttering open. They all waited, unsure what to do next. The boy was alive, but the fear, the pain—they lingered, unspoken, an invisible weight in the room. The eldest brother stepped back, his hands still trembling, his eyes wet, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath. The mother whispered her thanks, her voice breaking, her eyes never leaving her son, her hands never releasing him.
The teenager lay on the narrow space in the workroom of the veterinary clinic, his growing frame half-covered by a threadbare blanket. His mother watched, her face drawn with exhaustion and grief, as the elder veterinarian examined him once again in the workroom, surrounded by the scent of hay and antiseptic. The man, roughened by years of treating cattle and horses, shook his head solemnly.
She nodded mutely, her heart crumbling beneath the realisation that her son, was forever lost to her. Not in body, but in mind. The youngest son of the household lingered in the doorway, his eyes hollow and brimming with a mixture of grief and rage. He had known him better than anyone else. They had shared secrets in the shadows, moments stolen away. Now, those moments were shattered memories, sharp fragments lodged deep within his chest. He could not look at the mother, could not bear to see the same grief in her eyes reflected at him.
The young man remembered the first time he and the boy had shared a smile—a shy, hesitant thing, given in the privacy of the fields behind the veterinary clinic. The sunlight had filtered through the tall grasses, the air heavy with the scent of clover and dust. The young man had known love in those secret embraces, in the warmth of the boy's hand slipping into his own, in the soft press of lips that spoke of promises and dreams.
Days passed, and the teenager—the boy who once laughed with such careless joy—now stared blankly at the walls of the clinic, as if they held answers to questions he could no longer form. The boy was gone, lost in a fog that no amount of love could penetrate.
The mother came to the young man, her face pale beneath the harsh sunlight. She asked him what he knew. Her voice trembled, her words laced with an unbearable sadness that made his heart ache. He hesitated, but he knew there was no use in lying. He told her the truth: that they had been in love.
The words came out slowly, each one a dagger that twisted in his chest. The mother listened, her face expressionless, her eyes filled with a grief so deep it seemed to swallow her whole. She had known. She had always known. The truth only made the weight she carried heavier, more unbearable.
After the truth had been laid bare, the young man felt a hollow emptiness settle in his chest. He had loved the boy, had dreamed of a future where they could be free, where they could be happy. He watched as the mother took her son's hand and led him away, her steps slow and deliberate, her shoulders hunched beneath the weight of her grief. He wanted to follow, to stay by the boy's side, but he knew he could not. This was a journey the mother had to make alone.
She took her son to Brisbane, to the asylum. The asylum was a place of walls and silence, of memories dulled by time and by pain. The mother visited her son faithfully, sitting by his side, holding his limp hand, speaking to him of days long past. Her voice was soft, a whisper of hope that never quite reached him. He never got better. His mind slipped further away, lost in the fog of his own creation, unable to find its way back.
The young man received a letter from the mother. She wrote of her visits, of the boy's slow decline, of the emptiness that had settled in her heart. She asked him to come, to see the boy one last time. He went, his heart heavy with fear and sorrow. He entered the asylum, the walls cold and unfeeling.
The young man knelt by the boy's side, his hand trembling as he reached out to touch his arm. The boy's eyes were vacant, staring into a distance that only he could see. The young man spoke, he spoke of the fields, of the sunlight, of the laughter that had once filled their days. But there was no response, no flicker of recognition. The mother watched, her heart breaking anew as she saw the depth of the young man's love, the pain etched into his face.
***
The path to the house was overgrown, the garden long forgotten. The air carried by the wind that pulled through the branches, making them creak in a strange kind of lament. As she approached, her eyes set firmly on the dim window of the cottage, Ethel felt a cold, resolute emptiness. She was hollow, the pieces of herself that could break had long since broken, and she was left only with this: a determination so pure it frightened her.
He opened the door before she could knock. The young man—no longer a boy, though she could still see his ghost there in his face—stared at her, his expression torn between surprise and unease. His lips parted, forming her name: "Ethel!" There was a tremor in his voice, as if her presence alone had dislodged some old, buried memory.
Ethel stood there, her eyes as cold as the winter sky above them. For a moment, she let the silence fall between them, allowed him to feel the weight of it. She could see the discomfort in his face, the way his eyes darted nervously, the old shame stirring in his chest. It was a look she knew well—she had seen it so many times before in the faces of those who had turned away when they should have acted. She let that silence stretch, let it twist inside him, until she saw the tears begin to well in his eyes.
"You know why I'm here," she said finally. Her voice was calm, almost gentle, and it made the man swallow hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He turned away, the guilt written in the lines of his body—in the slump of his shoulders, in the way his fingers twitched by his sides. The shame had always been there, a stain he could never wash away, and now, faced with the mother of the boy he had failed, it rose up within him like a tidal wave.
"I was a child," he murmured, his eyes fixed on the floor. "I didn't… I didn't know what to do." His voice broke, and he could feel the weight of those words, the hollowness of them. He had repeated them to himself so many times, had tried to convince himself that they were true, but now, they felt like a coward's excuse.
Ethel stepped forward, her footsteps muted by the thick rug. She reached out, her hand brushing against his cheek, her fingers trembling slightly. He flinched at her touch, but did not pull away. His eyes were glassy, haunted by a past neither of them could escape. He could feel the years between them, the terrible silence that had grown like a chasm, and yet, in that moment, her touch felt like the only thing anchoring him to the world.
"You could have saved him," she whispered. "My boy. My sweet boy. You let it happen." Her voice broke, and for a moment, the mask of cold determination slipped, revealing the raw wound beneath. She had lost everything, and he had stood by.
He shut his eyes tightly, the words striking him like a blow. His breath hitched, and he turned his face into her palm, seeking the warmth there, as though some part of him still craved absolution, forgiveness, anything.
"You owe me," she said, her voice no louder than a breath. "You owe him." Her hand fell away, and he opened his eyes, meeting hers. There was something fierce there, something unbreakable, and he knew—he knew he could not refuse her.
"What do you want me to do?" His voice was hollow, the resignation clear.
"Help me end this," she said. "Help me make him pay for what he did."
They were bound together by their shared pain, by the memory of a boy who had suffered while they stood by, helpless.
He nodded.
porcelain
The light filtered through the old, grimy kitchen window across the worn linoleum floor. The mother, aged and hardened by the years of silent endurance, sat at the formica table, her gaze fixed on the man sitting across from her, much younger, exhibited a quiet intensity. His face, unmarred by the passage of time which had heavily lined the mother's, hardened by the gravity of her inaction. "Are you sure this is the only way?" he asked, the weight of their impending feat tempering his usually assertive tone.
"It’s the only place remote enough, and with your knowledge of the terrain..." the mother's voice trailed off, her fingers tracing the edge of a map spread between them. She met the man’s gaze, her eyes a mirror of the torment that had clouded her family's life. "My husband sealed his fate as much as any act."
I’ll take him up the Mountain, to the clearing you described. It's isolated enough to... to finish this."
The mother nodded, her hand pausing in its nervous tracing of the teacup’s rim. The porcelain was cold, much like the resolve that had settled in her bones.
"Tonight, then," she said, a grim finality lacing her words. "We end what he began, and perhaps find some semblance of peace in the act."
***
As dawn cracked well past the horizon, the mother sat across from the man, their silhouettes etched against light from the rear window. The kitchen, steeped in shadows save for the soft luminescence of a dying candle, that held a tension unspeakable.
The man’s eyes, normally a fortress of resolve, now flickered with a hint of something akin to remorse. "It’s done." The mother nodded slowly, her fingers nervously tracing the rim of her fresh teacup.
The mother closed her eyes, a silent tear escaping down her cheek. She had imagined many endings, but this solitary, violent one, was perfect.
"This is the end then." Her voice was steady now, the initial shock giving way to a resolute calm.
The man and the mother now found themselves at the precipice of a new beginning, unburdened by the inertia that had once held them captive.
***
In the decaying embrace of a town forgotten by grace, a lonely soul lingered at a dust-smeared window, the glass foggy with the breath of desolation. Outside, beneath the skeletal boughs of a dead tree that no longer bore witness to the seasons, a man laboured with grim determination. Each swing of his hammer was a punctuation mark in the quiet afternoon, the tool rising and falling in a relentless rhythm. He was dismantling something round, its form growing increasingly unrecognisable with each violent strike, fragments scattering like the remnants of a shattered promise.
The man's actions spoke of deep-seated frustrations, of angers unarticulated, channelling through the hammer as if to beat away the layers of his own hardened despair.
From behind the grimy veil of that window, the observer's eyes followed the arc of the hammer with an intensity that bordered on obsession, each swing reflecting her own suppressed regrets and smouldering anger. Her presence, flitting across the dim interiors, was oppressive.
But then, in the sudden collision of their stares, everything changed. The man halted, his hammer suspended in a moment fraught with threat and exhaustion. His eyes, sharp and accusing, cut across the distance between them, slicing through her veil of anonymity with a ferocity that laid bare her hidden wounds. In that electrifying instant, a raw, unspoken bond was forged, linking their isolated struggles in a silent pact of shared desolation.
In that suspended look, a cascade of unspoken understandings passed. She was no longer just a witness to his destruction but a participant in the silent acknowledgment of what he had just done.
***
As my fingers worked through the soil, they found the familiar texture of leather—rough, yielding, a morbid treasure chest holding just a skull, human and haunting in its hollow emptiness. With a reverence born of necessity, not affection, I unwrapped the skull from its leathery shroud.
The leather fell away, limp and lifeless, as I set it aside, a discarded chrysalis that had once cocooned a darker truth. Returning the skin to the earth felt like an absolution, a footnote in the sprawling ledger of the farm's history.
This relic of a life despised, demanded a different kind of closure. A deed that needed doing. As I lifted the tool, the morning sun caught the edge of the metal. The impact was less a sound and more a feeling, a vibration that travelled through bone and earth alike.
Again and again, I brought the hammer down, each strike a fracture, each fracture a liberation of sorts, until the skull lay in fragments, scattered and irreversible.
As I stood to brush the remnants of soil and bone from my knees, a flicker of movement caught my eye. There, at the farmhouse window, a silhouette lingered. Someone was watching, their presence a silent question mark against the morning light. I couldn’t see their face, couldn’t guess at their thoughts, but the observation was noted—a thread left dangling, its purpose and meaning yet to be unravelled.
Unsettled yet undeterred, I left the tree and its new secrets behind. Each step away from the grave was a step back into life, the shards of the past ground underfoot, leaving a trail of dust that would soon be swept away by the winds of change—or so I hoped.
Many Faces
In the quiet hours of the early morning, when the boundary between night and day blurs into obscurity, I often find myself pondering the nature of my creation. The words spill across the pages, a cascade of thoughts that both belong and do not belong to me. I breathe life into charismas, into worlds. Yet, as the chronicler of this tale, I find my own essence bleeding into the fabric of the narrative, mingling indistinguishably with the lives I've conjured.
They say every writer is caught in the endless cycle of retelling their own story—each character reflecting pieces of the writer’s soul: someone they are, someone they knew, or someone they once dreamed of becoming.
A story and its words embody something deep within me that I can’t deny—something that slips between beauty and venom, between memory and madness. Every moment of this life is sharply etched, held together by threads that feel fragile and yet inescapable.
I can’t tell if I’m waking up or slipping into a new version of myself, but whatever it is, it feels different. Like something stirring—a bear emerging from a long hibernation, unsteady but alive. I may not know exactly who or what I’ll find on the other side of this, but for now, for the first time in a long time, I’m ready to begin.
Ossified
The worn and solemn gates of St. Mary’s loomed high before her, their cold iron casting shadows on the frost-bitten ground, like the silent sentinels of despair, indifferent to the sorrow that passed beneath them. Ethel stood there, her breath visible in the frigid air, gathering her strength as if it were her only possession, and finally stepped across the threshold. The hesitation that gripped her was not the kind that showed on her face, but one that gnawed at her very soul, each step carrying her deeper into an abyss that seemed to widen with every visit, the distance between herself and her son becoming an eternity of sorrow.
The scent of disinfectant mixed with the musty staleness of walls that had seen too much suffering, too many forgotten lives, clung to her like the very essence of the place. In the room, her son sat near the window. The afternoon light, feeble and thin, filtered through the dirty glass. Ethel looked at him—her boy, her Emiel—and yet he seemed so distant, a mere shadow of the vibrant child she had once known. He was staring out the window, his lips moving slightly, as though conversing with something only he could see, something birthed in the depths of his fractured mind.
“Emiel,” stepping forward, the word like a prayer escaping her lips. She forced a smile, though her heart trembled, trying to summon warmth, a warmth that might cross the vast chasm that had opened between them. Slowly, he turned, his eyes drifting over her face, his brow furrowing in confusion. For an instant, she dared to hope, but his stare was not one of recognition. It was a look as distant as the pale winter sun, as though he were seeing her through a veil, something unreal, something too far away to truly touch.
“Sheila,” he murmured at last, and Ethel felt her heart clench painfully, an invisible hand squeezing the very breath from her chest. “Sheila… you’ve come back.” There was something like joy in his voice, a hollow joy filled with yearning, a hope that twisted like a knife within her. She had heard that name before—Sheila—a name she could not fathom, a woman whose existence was a mystery, someone who lived within the labyrinthine halls of his mind, someone perhaps gentler, more forgiving than she could ever be.
“Yes, Emiel,” she whispered, her voice breaking, her throat tightening with the effort to keep her composure. She moved closer, sitting beside him, her fingers reaching out to brush against his hand, a touch so light she feared it might break him. He did not pull away. Instead, he looked down at her hand, as though trying to convince himself of her reality, and then covered it with his own, his smile trembling, fleeting, like a small light flickering in the dark. “The children,” he said, his eyes moving past her shoulder, looking for figures that were not there, “Are they well? And Derek? He must be waiting for us.”
“They are well, Emiel,” she said, and she watched as he sighed, his body relaxing, his head leaning against her shoulder like he had when he was a child, when all the world could be healed by his mother’s touch. She held him then, her arms wrapping around his frail form, Ethel turned her look out of the window. The bare branches of the trees beyond stood stark against the winter sky, and her eyes filled with tears that refused to fall, tears that seemed to freeze in the cold of that room. But she knew that he was not there, not truly. He was with Sheila, somewhere far beyond the confines of St. Mary’s, far from the winter-bound earth they inhabited.
***
The storm broke over Brisbane without warning, a sudden torrent that turned the streets into streams, darkening the skies as if twilight had come too soon. Clouds crowded the horizon, a heavy cloak draped over the city, and rain lashed against the windows in sheets that obscured everything beyond. The thunder was a slow, lumbering beast, rolling from one end of the sky to the other, the low growl echoing through the narrow streets and between the distant, hunched figures of buildings. The city, vibrant in its ordinary chaos, was now held under a shroud of ominous quiet, its restless energy subdued by the storm's raw force.
Inside St Mary's Asylum, the power flickered once, then vanished, leaving the hallways empty and the rooms in a hollow darkness. A hum of unease settled over the place, rising from the distant mutterings of patients in their rooms. Shadows lay thick in the corridors, broken only by the occasional glimmer of lightning, which threw the high ceilings into brief relief, illuminating the cracked plaster and the swaying curtains. The storm outside seemed to awaken old fears within the asylum, as though the fragile boundaries between the world and this secluded place were being tested.
Andrew, the asylum's old generator-keeper, a man whose back bore the weariness of years and whose hands were calloused with work, took a breath and lit the small lantern he kept beside his bed. His face, lined with age and a lifetime of labour, eyes that seemed accustomed to this dance between light and darkness. He made his way through the halls, his steps echoing, his ears picking up the creaking of doors, the murmurs of worry that filtered from behind the closed rooms. He had seen many a storm pass over this tired city, and he had coaxed life into the asylum's generator more times than he could count. Still, the weight of it never grew lighter—each time, there was something about the stillness that came after the lights died, a silence that whispered of something far deeper, something within the people here, within himself.
He paused at the entrance to one of the patient wings, where a few of the residents had gathered, drawn out by the sudden darkness. Their faces were pale in the dim lantern glow, eyes wide, fearful, searching for comfort in each other’s presence. There was Mrs. O'Leary, her hands trembling as she gripped her shawl tightly around her shoulders, her lips moving in a whispered prayer. Near her stood young Thomas, a boy no older than twelve, his scrutiny fixed on Andrew as if seeking reassurance. Andrew nodded to them, his voice low but steady as he said, "I'll see to it. We'll have the lights back soon."
He made his way to the basement, the storm seemed louder here, the wind pressing itself against the small, barred windows, as if eager to get in. The smell of oil, damp, and rust filled the narrow stairway as he descended, the steps groaning beneath his feet.
At the bottom, he paused before the old generator—a relic of another era, with its chipped paint and rust-stained casing. He crouched down, his hands moving slowly over the levers and valves. His thoughts drifted to his past, to the promises of youth that had slowly eroded under the weight of responsibilities, the endless cycle of fixing, mending, keeping things going when all they seemed to want was to fall apart.
The machine seemed reluctant at first, as though resentful of being woken, and for a moment Andrew held his breath, listening to the silence that followed. The seconds stretched long, and in that silence, he could hear his own heartbeat, steady but weary, an echo of the engine before him. Then came a sputter, a cough, and at last, the engine roared to life.
Upstairs, the light returned in uneven flickers, a ripple of cautious hope. The patients, some standing at their windows, others still huddled beneath blankets, looked around as the gloom gave way to dim light. Their eyes carried the weary terror of those who had long learned to fear the dark, but there was a measure of relief, however faint. Mrs. O'Leary crossed herself, her voice cracking as she murmured thanks, while Thomas let out a shaky breath, his small hands still gripping the windowsill.
Andrew stood for a moment in the basement, listening to the old engine's heartbeat, the pulse of it that, for now, gave life to this place. He allowed himself a sigh—not of satisfaction, but of acceptance, of the brief, uncertain reprieve that had been granted.
He climbed back up the stairs, in the hallway, he saw Thomas still standing by the window, and he walked over, placing a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. "See? Told you we'd get it back," he said. Thomas looked up at him, his eyes wide, and nodded, a faint smile breaking through the fear.
The lights in St Mary's flickered again but held. Andrew knew the night was far from over, that the storm would rage on, indifferent to the small triumphs.
***
The circle of chairs was arranged neatly, yet there was an unmistakable disorder in the faces of the people seated upon them. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and sunlight struggled through barred windows. Lisa sat in her place, hands folded primly in her lap, her watch resting on the floor tiles patterned in a grid that reminded her of classroom squares. She was meant to be here, she thought, because she was a teacher—a year ten science teacher, to be exact. She had a duty to impart knowledge, to bring order, to make sense of the universe's chaos. But somehow, she had ended up among these people, this collection of broken minds.
The therapist’s voice—a low, practiced gentleness—brought her back. "Lisa, would you like to share today? How are you feeling?"
Lisa blinked, lifting her head. The others were watching her, their eyes carrying burdens of their own: a man who spoke too much of his childhood home, a woman who had lost her words entirely, another whose silence was filled with screams only she could hear. Lisa cleared her throat. She imagined herself before her students, imagined herself as an instructor again, one who could clarify the inexplicable nature of things.
"I’m... fine," she began, her voice wavering. She straightened her back, settling into the posture she knew so well from years of standing at the chalkboard. "There is order in the world. Everything can be understood. Even us—" she gestured around the room—"we are merely variables in an experiment. If we can just find the right hypothesis..."
A murmur moved through the group. Some nodded, others looked down, unconvinced. The therapist watched her with a soft, almost saddened curiosity, as if observing something from afar, something fragile.
But Lisa went on, the words flowing out of her, searching for that authority she remembered having. "In my class, I always told my students that nothing was truly unknowable. If we observe carefully, if we remain rational..."
Her voice trailed off as her sense caught the eyes of another patient—dark, knowing, and filled with a sorrow that unsettled her. There was something in those eyes that seemed to say, 'You are not who you think you are.' It gnawed at her, a sensation like looking into a mirror and seeing a stranger blink back. Her breath caught, and she forced herself to look away, focusing again on the tiles.
The therapist spoke softly, "Lisa, do you remember what we talked about last time? About why you’re here?"
Lisa frowned, feeling a heaviness press down upon her thoughts, a thick fog through which she struggled to see. Why she was here? She was here because… because…
But the answer eluded her, slipping through her fingers like sand. She was not merely a teacher, was she? The corners of her mind felt bruised with unformed memories, fragments of another life she could not piece together. She took a deep breath, trying to gather herself, but the feeling only deepened—the sensation that the world she had constructed, so painstakingly, was paper-thin and curling at the edges.
"I… I don’t know," she whispered, the words finally failing her. A shiver ran through her as the silence in the room thickened. The other patients looked away now, their eyes avoiding the rawness of her confusion, the crack that had begun to open within her.
The therapist nodded, her expression unchanged, accepting the uncertainty that Lisa could not. "That’s okay, Lisa. It’s enough for today."
Lisa leaned back in her chair, her eyes returning to the tiles on the floor, searching their sterile lines for a logic she could hold onto. But all she saw were paths leading nowhere, a network without pattern, a map she could no longer read. And somewhere, beneath the surface of her thoughts, a truth waited—an uninvited truth—that she was not, and perhaps never had been, the person she thought she was.
The circle of chairs around me is like a crown of thorns, encircling me, each cruel barb pressing into my flesh, a reminder of pain that is at once intimate and unending. The walls of this room are too white, too pristine, as if their untouched purity has been designed to strip away the stains of memory, to bleach the very marrow of suffering from my bones. I clear my throat, the sound rough and unwilling, and let my scrutiny roam across the faces of those around me. They are each a broken shard of glass, a fragment reflecting my own cracked soul—shattered, sharp, barely held together by the brittle glue of endurance. But they are listening, and there is something holy in their patience, something sacred that commands my honesty. Shoulders slightly hunched, fingers tracing invisible lines along my knee. My eyes, hollowed by sleepless nights and the weight of forgotten smiles, seemed to be searching for something beyond the cold walls of St. Mary's.
"You know," I began, my voice quivering before settling into an almost tranquil rhythm, "This city wasn't always what it is today. The entire world seemed like it was watching, waiting for me to make one wrong move. And if you were like me, you made the wrong move just by existing. I was young then, barely twenty. I thought I could hide. I thought I could just be what they wanted me to be. I worked construction during the day, with men who laughed loudly and smelled of sweat and beer. They talked about women as though they were trophies, something to be won or conquered. And I—I laughed too. I forced it. I made sure my voice blended in. I wore their disguise so well I almost fooled myself. But every night, when I went home, I could feel this emptiness, this aching gap between who I was and who I was pretending to be."
"There was a young man," I begin, the words dragging across my tongue, "He had a way of looking at you, that young man. Like he already knew your story, but still wanted to hear it in your own words.”
I could almost see it again: the soft glow of the bookstore's yellowed lights, the way Brock's fingers danced across the spines of old books. The bell above the door barely made a noise, muffled as it was by dust and time, but Brock had always been attuned to my presence—that unspoken connection between us like a silent signal."
"'Back for more?' Brock would ask. And I—I nodded, nervousness bubbling beneath my skin. 'What do you have today?' I’d ask."
"Brock reached beneath the counter and brought up a biography—the cover worn, the corners crumpled. 'Harvey Milk,' he said, holding it up as though it was a beacon. 'He was brave, you know. Not just bold—brave. He believed in being unbroken, unhidden.' There was something hopeful, almost haunting, in the way Brock said his name—Harvey Milk—as if it held meaning beyond history."
"My fingers brushed Brock’s for the briefest moment as I took the book. 'I’ve heard of him,' I admitted. The softness in Brock's look made me feel like I didn't need to hide, like the hollowness within me might someday be filled. Brock smiled—that smile that seemed meant for me alone. 'He was magnificent. He meant something. Here,' he tapped the cover lightly, 'read it. It might mean something to you, too.'"
I paused, my eyes misting over, lost in the bittersweetness of that memory. "Days later, I found myself back in the bookstore, book in hand, Brock's bright eyes meeting mine with unspoken recognition. I handed the biography back, a small smile breaking my usually neutral expression. 'How was it?' Brock's brows lifted, curious. I swallowed, the words caught in my throat for a second. 'He... Harvey, he wasn't afraid to be himself. Even when everything—everyone—was against him. He knew he mattered. He knew others did too.' I paused, my stare drifting across Brock’s face, memorising the gentle lines, the warmth in his eyes. 'It’s... hopeful, I guess. To think that maybe I could...'
My voice cracked. "Brock stepped closer, 'You can.'"
I sighed, a heaviness in my chest. "The bookstore became our place—a space beyond the bitter noise of the outside world. Brock would always be ready with a book suggestion, coaxing stories from the shelves like magic. I began to feel it—the hope Harvey spoke of the meaning Brock believed in. We would sit on the floor between towering shelves of mismatched paperbacks, our legs barely touching, and talk for hours—sometimes about books, sometimes about dreams, sometimes about nothing at all."
"Maybe," Brock would say, eyes bright with mischief, 'maybe one day, we won't have to hide.' And I would nod, feeling that aching emptiness begin to shrink. It was still there—it might always be there—but Brock had a way of bringing warmth into the hollow spaces."
I closed my eyes for a moment.
"One day, Brock handed me a memoir, the cover marked with creases and filled with hope. He slipped the book into my hands, and in that simple gesture, it felt as though he had measured the depth of my emptiness. 'You need this one. Trust me,' he said. The title was ' Storms of Deception: The Unseen Corruption of Inner Brisbane.'"
The silence in the room deepens, grows heavy, like the sky before a storm. I feel the weight pressing against my ribs as I force another breath and continue, my voice dropping to almost a whisper.
"It was about a young police recruit, Blake, stepping into the Brisbane police force in the eighties—those dark years when corruption was woven into the very fabric of the uniform. It was a time when everything good twisted like a broken limb, splintered and wrong. Blake kept his head down. He was just a man—a scared, desperate man—trying to do what good he could in a city that had long forgotten what good even meant. He stayed quiet, even when he saw the rot spreading, even when he knew that silence would gnaw at him until there was nothing left but regret. Perhaps that silence was what killed him most of all, the betrayal of his own conscience."
I drop my concern to my hands, those traitorous hands, fingers clasped together, knuckles stark white beneath the pale light of the room. "There was a night," I begin again, and it feels as though the words are made of lead, as if they are pulling me into the earth itself. "A raid on an illegal gay bar. They went in like wolves—no, worse than wolves, because even wolves have reason, a sense of necessity. They tore through it, the place, the people, as if they were tearing through refuse. Blake… he saw a boy there, no older than Brock, trembling, his eyes wide with a fear so palpable it seemed to crawl across the floor like smoke. The boy was trying to hide, trying to shrink into nothingness amidst the chaos. And Blake did the only thing he could think to do. He took that boy by the arm, led him to the back, pushed him out the door. 'Run,' he told him. 'Run and don’t you ever look back.' And then Blake turned around, and the night swallowed him whole. The others, they stayed. They tore into those left behind with a hatred so deep, so vile, it felt almost primordial, as if they had lost even the memory of what it meant to be human. Blake saved one soul, one frightened boy, and then had to live with the nightmare of everything else he couldn't change. I think about that a lot," I say, each word deliberate, weighted. "How sometimes, all you can do is save one person. Just one, even when everything else is crumbling, even when you are helpless in the face of all the suffering you cannot prevent. It's not enough. God knows, it will never be enough. But perhaps… perhaps it is something, in this world of ashes."
Bound by blood
The shattered body lay twisted against the hard stone, a tragic sculpture cast by fate. Blood pooled around the crumpled form, deep red against the indifferent grey of the rock face, seeping between the sharp edges and crevices. The old man, his features obscured, was nothing more now than a broken vessel, emptied of struggle. The air was heavy with a sombre stillness, a silence that followed the brutal finality of the fall.
But then, in a motion beyond comprehension, time seemed to retreat, unspooling itself like a thread winding back into a frayed spool. The blood paused, hesitated, then began its journey backward, as though the earth itself relinquished its claim. The crimson streams retreated, tracing their paths up the jagged rock, flowing back into veins and arteries, reanimating the flesh. Bruises faded, the pallor of death softened into something resembling life.
The body, once shattered, reassembled, the snapped bones knitting themselves together with a strange grace, the hollow chest rising as breath reclaimed it. The old man, no longer broken, seemed to lift from the ledge, his weightless form drawn upwards, away from the finality of his demise. His limbs straightened, his hands, calloused and scarred, reached skyward, and his eyes opened, vacant no more but filled with the light of life that had once escaped them.
He rose further, back to the edge of the precipice, to the place from which he had fallen. His feet found the earth again, firm and sure, the wind tousling his silver hair. The weariness, the loneliness of his late years, was still etched into his face, but the lines of grief seemed somehow softer, like a memory that had yet to fully form. He stood there, not yet the broken man who had fallen, but already marked by the weight of the years he carried—an old soul, suspended in the fragile balance between despair and endurance, at the edge of an ending that had not yet begun.
He stood on the edge of the ledge, his back facing the unknown, the abyss that had momentarily claimed him. To his front stood a young, broad-shouldered man, his face twisted in an ungraceful hate. The old man's eyes met the others, and in that instant, the scene unfolded in reverse—hands that had pushed him off the cliff now pulled away, retracting from his chest. The young man's expression of fury unravelled into something colder, calculating, as his body shifted backward, undoing the violence he had just committed.
The broad-shouldered man seemed seasoned, hardened by the hunt, with an air of military discipline about him. His eyes, dark and intent, watched the old man with a predator's focus. He had been chasing him through the dense mountain ridge, his steps measured, the pursuit a silent, inevitable march. The old man, once fleeing, now moved backward in time, his breath steadying as the urgency faded, the fear unwinding as the moment of confrontation unravelled into an earlier, more uncertain tension—two figures, each bearing the weight of their pasts, poised on the brink of a fate that had not yet decided itself.
18 YEARS PRIOR
The sun had long set beyond the field, yet a faint golden glow still clung to the tops of the pines, like a last reluctant touch before darkness took hold. Edgar trudged across the yard, his boots heavy with the day’s work, his shoulders stooped, not with labour, but with something deeper, an ache that had no name. The air was cool, and the sounds of laughter drifted towards him, alien and bright. His ears pricked up, and he paused. It came from the barn.
He moved silently towards the door, a primal unease growing within him, like a snake unfurling slowly within his chest. The laughter came again, softer this time, a different tone—intimate, tender, and then a sudden silence. It was a silence that carried within it a secret. He could hear nothing now but his own heavy breath.
Edgar swung open the barn door, and for a moment, time seemed to halt. The lantern’s light flickered, catching in its glow the outline of two young figures, entwined—his son, Emiel, and another boy, their faces close, mouths just apart, eyes wide and full of something Edgar could not name, something he did not want to name.
A sudden rage blinded him. It was not the rage of thought, but the rage of instinct—hot, pulsing, and merciless. He lunged forward, grabbing Emiel by the shirt, tearing him away from the other boy, who stumbled backward, fleeing into the darkness like a startled animal. Edgar did not care where he went. All his fury, all his shame, was fixed upon the trembling form before him.
Emiel’s eyes, the same eyes that had once looked up at Edgar with trust, with love, now held a different emotion—fear. It only fuelled the anger within Edgar, an anger that burned not only at what he had seen but at the world that had twisted his son, made him something that Edgar could not understand, could not accept. He raised his fist, and it came down like a hammer, again and again, and with every blow, he felt he was fighting against something greater, something that threatened to undo him, to strip away all he had ever known to be true.
Emiel fell to the ground, his face bloodied, his body curled, but Edgar’s rage did not relent. He beat him as if to beat the very soul out of him, to rid his son of what he saw as a sickness, a stain. It was only when Emiel lay still, barely breathing, that Edgar stopped, his chest heaving, his knuckles wet with his son’s blood.
For a moment, there was silence again, the same silence that had come before, only now it was different. It was heavy, suffocating. Edgar looked down at Emiel, at the broken body of the boy who had once run through the fields, laughing, his arms outstretched like wings. He saw his son now, and for a fleeting instant, the rage was gone, and all that was left was a hollow emptiness, a fear that was deeper than anything he had felt before.
He turned and stumbled out of the barn, his legs weak beneath him. The night was dark now, the last glow of the sun gone, and Edgar felt the cold air bite at his skin. He looked out at the fields, the same fields his father had worked, that his grandfather had worked, and he felt the weight of them, the weight of a life that he had thought he understood. But now, as he stood there, his son lying broken behind him, he realised that he understood nothing, that the world had moved beyond him, and he was left alone in the dark.
Having finished The Outlands, I am wondering how I can write this review to give you as full a sense of the book as I can. I think that I'm going to fail because all of the words that I want to use will make it seem unusual and I don't want it to sound unappealing because it's not.
It starts very darkly indeed and these elements are continued throughout, although they are not as pronounced as at other times in the story. The book is split into "Acts" and deals with the stories of different characters although they are all essentially linked to the town of Wondilla and beyond that a farm, even when the action takes us to Brisbane and less wholesome locations.
This means there are multiple stories in this novel, connected by place. The division of the book into "Acts" allows the author to provide a shift of perspective as Torn takes us into the lives and histories of Wondilla's residents. These stories are not limited to people, one of the Acts being devoted to Bessie the cow; but don't think that this is some children's tale or a dive into a cartoon-style viewpoint. Torn uses Bessie to pass on a serious message about food consumption and to be mindful about what we're eating.
What I think is remarkable is the way that the book has been meshed together. There is a sense that this is woven, that all the characters are living individual lives and they are all different and yet, there is a connectedness between them, and Torn takes these isolated strands, examines them and draws each one out of the fabric of his narrative, only to ease back to show us how it fits into the bigger picture. There is a chance with this complexity for strands to become crossed and for confusion to reign but this was never the case here. The weave was smooth, without knots. That, in my opinion, takes some doing and to do it well as in The Outlands, even more so.
What this ability to "knit the narrative" also provides is a stimulating read and with the clear characterisation conveyed through realistic dialogue, as well as a writing voice which is capable of conjuring vivid descriptions and tense situations, this was a great read.