It was indeed an instant and interesting juxtaposition. My first morsel was The Slap by Christos Tsiolkas. I had read one review claiming it to be a modern classic so I took it on board as so. But is it? And what constitutes a classic – historical or modern – anyway?

According to Wharton, ‘A classic is a classic not because it conforms to certain structural rules, or fits certain definitions, it is a classic because of a certain eternal and irrepressible freshness.’ (Edith Wharton, Author, 1862-1937).

On defining classic historical fiction, The Historical Novel Society’s definition includes; novels written at least 50 years after the events described or novels written by people approaching the subject only via research. Matching well along these lines is Penguin Publishing’s statement that they believe modern classics are the best, most read books since 1961.  Based on this seemingly fair rationale I have constructed the lists below.

A few examples of historical classics that are on most lists (as far as I can tell through research)

• Shogun
• War and Peace
• Wuthering Heights
• The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
• All Quiet on the Western Front
• Crime and Punishment
• Don Quixote
• The Great Gatsby
• Jane Eyre
• Lord of the Flies
• Moby Dick
• Pride & Prejudice
• Of Mice and Men
• Robinson Crusoe
• The Scarlet Letter
• A Tale of Two Cites
• Tess of the D’Urbervilles
• Brideshead Revisited

A few examples of modern classics (again, from my own research)

• In cold blood
• One flew over the cuckoo’s nest
• Middlesex
• Midnights Children
• The Lord of the rings
• The name of the rose
• Life of Pi
• The Blind Assassin
• One hundred years of solitude
• Animal farm
• The color purple

• The catcher in the rye
• To kill a mockingbird
• The old man and the sea

• 1984
• Lolita
• Atonement
• A clockwork orange
• The graduate

Given the calibre of the above, I personally do not believe ‘The Slap’ to be a classic. Modern yes, classic no. But thats just my opinion.

There are business buzzwords, social buzzwords, political and IT buzzwords; in fact every discipline seems to have their own, buzz, buzz, buzzing around. To add to the seriousness of this ‘speak’ there is in existence: ‘Buzzwhack: The Buzzword compliant dictionary’. No, I am not kidding and it’s quite a chuckle. It claims it is dedicated to de-mystifying buzzwords and it lists such terms as;

urban Amish: A city dweller with no cell phone, no laptop, no iPod, no Blackberry, etc.
funddrainer: An event that loses money for a nonprofit organization.

You can sign up for the buzzword of the day, which I found too irresistible and promptly did, or alternatively send one in that you believe deserves a WHACK!

It also states its definition for Buzzword as: ‘A usually important sounding word or phrase used primarily to impress laypersons’. Well it’s true isn’t it? We have all been guilty of this at one time, or ten. However if you do NOT feel inclined to go along with this pompous modern ritual and would rather stand as an individual you could choose to be a ‘buzzwhacker’. That is, ‘a person who receives some degree of pleasure in bursting the bubbles of the pompous’. (see buzzwhack.com)

Now I am in a bit of a pickle. Does that mean, as one who proliferates in the act of the buzz, that I would be classed as a ‘buzzwhackee’? My definition. To be or not to be a buzzwhackee … I mean I don’t desire to sound like a wanker but I want to look hip and happening also. Mmmm dilemma. No, I just can’t help myself. I just love saying the word ‘pop’ far too much.
Example; “Wow girlfriend that bright pink trench just pops with those alligator green heels.” See it just fits.

So which are you? Buzzwhacker or ee.

Possible buzzwords from history: 50’s to now
A gas
Bug out
Cat (as in a guy)
Decked out
Busy bee
Jazzed
Awesome
Bogus
Push the envelope
Cocooning
To the max
Yuppie
Dink
Networking
Synergy
Obamanation
Frugalista

You tell me. Send me some suggestions!

Heartache

After the break
Comes the ache
The grief, boundless
That comes in its wake

The remembering
The longing
To lay just once
More together, effortlessly

I miss your hands
Their tender touch
I miss your eyes
So blue I fell

True love
We created
True love
We did destroy

From out of the blue
We chose
Love, we chose risk
But I’d still choose you

You were my god
On top
Me your goddess
Adoring from below

You lay sideways
Into me, a perfect fit
We lay for hours
The world we omit

Our time
Changed me
Watch your watch
Whose face do you see?

We had only just begun
Still so much to say
But the end came
In a messy fray

Now I’ll always compare
Our love
To others
Its so unfair

I look at your picture
Send silent whispers
Hear me, hear me
You must know

That I, still love you so…

HEARTBREAK

The moment of the break
I will never forget
Feeling the snap
The seconds that came in its wake

My outsides go numb
My insides start to swirl
Pins and needles creep into my fingertips
Breath refuses to come

Breathe, breathe!
Blink and blink
Knees weak
Can’t think

I am not here
I am not anywhere
Floundering, losing
My pupils constrict in fear

I am being rendered hollow
I am disappearing
Into the vortex of the universe
Where you will not follow

I am gone
I do not exist
All my parts have exploded and scattered
My body wan

I am safe for a minute
A shell at rest
A broken heart invisible
Hidden within it

INNOCENT BABE

I am naked, languishing in my bath time
Trusting, innocent, vulnerable
Silky, soft and bright eyed too
You hold me up, wetting my crown
You are my world
I trust you
You must look after me
Now and forever mum
I am naïve, exposed, simple
I am love, sweetness and affection
I am perfection
A cupid bearing delight
Will you cherish me each night?
Do you know the gift that I am?
I cannot yet ask
these questions of you
I simply believe your strength
to be true
Utterly, completely, entirely
I am not yet capable of doubt
The world that contains the seeds of pain
The pods of mistrust, betrayal and disdain
Are still but a tiny cell within my parts
The human condition resides within me
I am the vessel delivered to earth
I am the world
I am god
I am naked before you

MORNING TRYST

“I miss you,” she said.
“I’m only going to work,” James replied.
“Yes, but I already miss you,” said Elise.
She lay across the sheets, naked except for a pair of earrings and a single ring on her wedding finger. She began to remove an earring that had come askew during their lovemaking.
“Do you think of me while you’re working?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” said James.
“Because I think of you.”
“I don’t have time Elise,” he said. His voice was starting to sound edgy and he was dressing in a hurry; throwing quick glances in her direction but distracted by thoughts of the day ahead already. He was no longer present with her in the room.

She rolled over, unwilling to get up and re-dress. It was already near ten am but she didn’t care. Today would just be like any other. Make a few calls, run some errands and later, cook dinner for her husband. The monotony was tedious and made her want to pull at her hair. Pull until it hurt, until something happened. Why couldn’t James stay here with her, just for today, just this once?

“Why do you have to go?” she questioned him, lolling about on the bed attempting to look beguiling. “We could do that thing you’ve always wanted to try” she said, with a crooked, sexy grin on her face.
“You’re a wicked temptress but I’m already late,” he said grinning, only momentarily distracted. He carried on, picking up his keys and wallet off the dresser. James was 60 seconds off leaving.
“Well come here and kiss me, and pretend that you like me this time,” she demanded. Her face suddenly became dark and her mean frown made her ugly. The time of parting – or more pointedly – his departure, always pained her. She felt hollow and empty as soon as the front door closed behind him and she was left alone with the silence of the house. It enveloped her, tormented her and the watching of the clock began. Counting down the minutes, until the evening. She hated the days.

For a long while after he left, she lay on the bed. Trying to extend the interlude by remaining frozen, hoping to halt time while listening to all the street noise. Cars, neighbours, currawongs in song, dogs. Suddenly she heard a sound that didn’t belong to this cacophony of noise – a familiar sound but out of place at this time of day. The key was turning in the front door and someone was entering.

Elise jumped out of bed, not fully alarmed yet but just at that pause, seconds before all senses are assailed with the appropriate reaction. She stepped into the hall and looked straight down toward the front door. Her husband Gavin walked in, he had come home early for some yet unknown reason. She was still nude, except for her wedding ring.
He looked at her puzzled, with an enquiring grin on his face, “What are you doing naked darling?”

“I wash ya car for twenty bucks mate,” Mary hollered at JJ Newman as he lurched from his 4WD and onto his driveway.
JJ turned disbelievingly to the voice across the road. Oh this really is rich he thought. In five long strides he arrived at where Mary was sitting in the ditch.
“Don’t be thick,” he spoke, “last week it was ten bucks and I said no. Are you bloody stupid!”
“Nah, not stupid mate, got ya talking eh,” she replied.

That stopped JJ. He momentarily paused, frozen. And after a single ray of time had to admit she got him. Slowly, the corners of his mouth curled in acquiesce. He couldn’t argue on that score.
“Ok, yeh I’m talking alright.” He stands amused with hands on hips surveying their home in the twilight. It was a wallless, mobile, outback family home with old, vinyl car seats sitting on rough, red ground and remnants of a fire in the centre. Boxes of Moselle cask wine and their silver empty balloons were scattered on the perimeter next to mattresses and supermarket issue plastic bags misshapen amongst it all. The bags were temporary wardrobes containing shoes and dirty clothes. The site stunk and the three adults sitting amongst this wreckage were probably the major source.

“This my brother, Johnno,” says Mary pointing across to a young man sitting cross-legged on the dirt. His eyes were staring at an imaginary oasis in the distance, bent grin on his stoned face. “Johnno!” Mary kicks him into consciousness.
“Whadda ya want Mary?” he turns his wobbly head annoyed at being disturbed.
“Here, this guy, want his car washed.” She says.
Johnno fixes his neck and looks up at JJ contemptuously. “Clean your own damn truck, I’m not your slave,” he slurs.
Hot lightning strikes through JJ and he jumps into the ditch ready to take Johnno by the scruff. Cheeky black kid he thought, he was taking none of it. Just as he lurches toward Johnno, the second man, seemingly asleep two seconds before, grabs his thick arm with one hand while still holding his long neck stubby firmly in the left one.
“Leave it be mate.” Says the man. “Johnno here ran with McLeods mob, nobody touches ‘im.”
JJ’s breathing is heavy and he can feel the adrenaline at his temples. He takes a deep breath, assesses the situation in a flash and decides to step back. The heat and the stench fill his senses and he staggers on exhausted knees, the twelve hour shift at the mine is starting to sink into his weary muscles. This wasn’t worth throwing a fist over. There’s an empty car seat behind him and he smacks his body down into it.

“You lot are unbelievable.” He says. There’s silence in the circle now, all eyes set on JJ. They’re wary, sitting on the edge of their vinyl desert thrones waiting for a second pounce from the outsider. “I’ve never heard of McLeod’s mob. What are you talking about?” he says finally in an attempt to restore calm.

Everyone relaxes. “Ah ya had us worried there mate!” bawls Mary. She slides back on the vinyl and grabs a dusty plastic mug off the ground. “Wanna drink.”
“Yeh come on, I was just messin with ya white fella,” cackles Johnno. His mood has flipped and his red eyes are more coherent hinting there is possibly some substance to grab onto behind them.
“My dad used ta run with a white fella, we’re brothers you and me.” He says.
“Is that right?” JJ squints his eyes unsure. “Perhaps you better explain that to a dumb white fella like me then.”

Which brings me to my point – please POST FEEDBACK on this SITE rather than email me directly. It would be very much appreciated :^) …..

Thanks again and remember good or bad; I want to hear what you have to say…..I need you guys to be my readers, critics and editor all rolled into one.

I thank you in advance.

PS – your email address and details don’t have to be seen when you do post. Only your first name as username- or a made up name! Your choice. Why not become a ghost critic?

In 1991 JJ Newman couldn’t have known the significance of his initial interlude with Mary, a young barefoot Aboriginal woman. He was a loner who barely noticed his Acacia tree struggling to survive let alone the ditch dwellers living next to the road. Iron ore extraction with BHP Mining and the resulting, hefty deposits into his bank account each month distracted him from immediate life. He might as well have been a burrower in the Pilbara Gold rush of 1888.

He would never bother to discover the irony of his address, 146 Koombana Avenue, and the haunting story of the ship of the same name that sailed off the nearby coast into a cyclone in 1912. The three-year-old 3668 tonne Koombana steamship was lost in the Indian Ocean with 146 people on board. There were no survivors.

At this point in time he could not foresee how inexorably his life would be intertwined with Mary’s and the burgeoning violent death of her brother. The whole town of Port Hedland would be locking arms and raging fists in a rhythm of hateful insobriety that would reverberate across the country.

“I wash ya car for ten bucks mate,” Mary said to him that afternoon, ragged and ripped t-shirt hanging off her thin brown arm, too-large breasts swinging under threadbare linen. Persistent sticky flies hovered around her eyes and nose.

The Ute was filthy dirty with a coating of red dust from bonnet to bumper bar. Not that JJ noticed, he was elsewhere. Always in memories of past, of a turbulent life lived far from here and pleasant dreams of the future, but never here. To JJ the present was not important. He felt like (and he could only imagine because he’d never actually been on one) he was on a carousel, just going round and round. Steady, waiting and when ready to move on with it – jump. He could see Sydney as a blur but more easily visualised new and exotic shorelines altogether.

“Piss off ya coon,” he said to Mary, “you’re not washing my truck.” He was racist without thought. The assault rolled off his tongue as though yelling directions to a stranger who’s inconveniently holding him up.

But hold him up she would. In fact Mary would stop him in his stodgy miners boot tracks. JJ Newman could not know he would be walking into Port Hedland police station in a month’s time, determined, controlled and very much present. A history he could not realise he was a part of right now was about to be written and it would alter his life forever.