Taking The Next Step

My first book, Dangerous Stars, was written, edited, and published by me.  Some friends and family members helped with reviews and suggestions, but there was no editing staff, interns, or executive assistants to do all of the menial work that comes after the creative process is finished.

Contracts have been signed and files transferred.  The wonderful folks at Amazing Things Press have agreed to the next steps for my new title, Post Exodus.  This means less physical work required of me to get the book released, but more effort once all of that is done.  Release parties, book signings, authors' gatherings, and other events will soon be filling my schedule.  I consider that a fair exchange.

The new book came from a simple question.  What if an apocolyptic event was predicted but never happened?  The majority of humanity was able to leave the Earth, but a few remained behind by choice.  Technology and major infrastructures were still intact, there just wasn't anyone to fill the space.

This is just a snapshot of how I think one small segment of civilization would change after the ultimate nothing happened.

 The door to the bedroom opened and a young woman entered just as I was feeling myself again. She had long hair of a light golden color. Her face was circular in shape without appearing puffy or pudgy. She had a classic beauty that was accentuated by a faint tan from working many hours in the sun.

She had on a simple dress with a white apron on over it. The apron had some small stains on it that appeared to be from being worn while cooking many meals between washings. In one hand she carried a bowl full of something steaming and a pitcher of water was in the other. Her voice was gentle and smooth. “I see you are awake. It probably isn't a good idea to try and get up too fast. It looked like you had a rather hard knock on your head when my brother found you coming back from collecting firewood. We tended to your wounds and kept you warm in the hopes you would heal.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Not very long. My aunt found you early in the afternoon the day before yesterday. My sisters and I brought you here that evening and started bandaging your cuts and scrapes. This is the most awake and talkative you've been since then.”

“What about my bike? Did you leave it by the log I hit?”

“No. We figured you were doing something important by the way you were traveling. My sister brought your bike back while the rest of us carried you. It will need some repairs before you can travel any further though.”

“How bad is the damage?”

“Some cosmetic scrapes, about like you really. However, the front tire is severely dented and the handlebars are bent. Any other alignment damage would be up to you to find. You probably won't be able to find any replacement parts here, but there is a small town about a day's walk north that should have anything you need.”

“Thank you for all that you and your family have done.”

“You are most certainly welcome. Now, it's time for you to have something to eat. This is a thick broth that we've been carefully spooning you since you got here. Would you like me to feed you again, or do you think you are up for doing it yourself?”

I'm not sure, but her tone of voice when offering to feed me seemed to hint that there was more than food being offered. “Thank you, but I think I would like to try to feed myself. See how much of my strength I have back.”

“Okay. It shouldn't be too hot to eat right away. I didn't realize you would be awake so I let it cool before bringing it up.

She set the bowl down on the nightstand next to the bed. Reaching underneath the bed itself, she pulled out a tray and set it on my lap as I positioned myself more completely on the bed. Once I was settled, she placed the bowl on the tray and pulled a spoon from a pocket of her apron. The soup was rather thick and creamy. It had a cheesy flavor with a hint of garlic. There was also a mixture of other flavors I couldn't quite name. There didn't seem to be any chunks of meat or pieces of vegetable in the soup. The soup's thickness and lack of other ingredients explained how it could be safely fed to someone unconscious without running the risk of the patient choking. The texture reminded me of a potato chowder my mother was fond of making.

The young woman pulled a glass from the drawer in the nightstand. She filled it with water in the pitcher she had brought in with her. “It is a blend of helpful herbs in a cheese soup that comes from an old family recipe. We make it thick enough to fill the stomach during a long convalescence. It's good enough we eat it as part of our regular meals now and then. Goes well with a bread we make ourselves and some of the pork we trade with nearby farms for.”

“It is quite good. I thank you for taking care of me and providing me with this fine meal. Once I am up and around again, is there anything I can do for you?”

“From all the letters in your vest, I guessed you are a messenger. We really don't have much need for you since our family is all on nearby farms. Since you will still be healing for another day or so, I will talk to the others and see if they can think of some way for you to repay us. Is there anything else you would like me to do for you?”

Between spoonfuls of the wonderful soup, I thought about her offer. Once again her tone suggested an invitation for something more than simple assistance. “The only other thing I would like while I'm here is the saddlebags that were on the back of my bike. Would it be possible for you to ….”

I suddenly felt extremely exhausted. I was way too weary for the amount of energy expended since I woke up, even taking into account my injuries. I barely heard the spoon clatter into the empty bowl as I fell back against the pillow and fell hard asleep. I will never be sure if what I heard as I passed out was her actually speaking or just my imagination. “You sleep now, we will see if you can give us what we want.”

When a release date is set, I will post it here and on my Twitter feed.  Until then, there is more work to be done.

Work in Progress-- Post Exodus

There are many books available about the Apocalypse.  Some predict what will lead up to the end of mankind.  Others chronicle the struggles of humanity after the majority of civilization has been wiped out.  A few even tell the stories of those attempting to prevent or avoid the End of Times.

What if all the nations of the world came together to avoid a planet-wide tragedy that doesn't happen?  What happens to those that remained behind?  How will humanity survive and change for the next few generations?  

These are the questions I ponder on my current work in progress, Post Exodus.  A young man leaves his family farm lands to travel the country.  He visits small villages and towns delivering messages and carrying packages in exchange for supplies and a single night's shelter.  

 The piked heads on the road and the fact the vehicles were deliberately headed to this dead end told me that these people knew more about the area than I did. Some inner instinct told me that me being a messenger is something that would only be discovered after it was too late to save me from a fate similar to those back up the road. A sense of fear mixed with a degree of curiosity about the people that could perpetrate such violence and not wipe themselves out within a couple of years. I felt the need to see these people more closely yet do so from a discreet distance. I picked up my bike and carried it as I ran to the edge of the road. There were numerous trees on each side of the road, plenty of places for me to hide until the oncoming vehicles left. I managed to get myself and my bike out of sight before the roaring engines changed into visible vehicles. I could still see the disconnected ends of the bridge and areas around the opposite side from my hiding place. As long as nobody in the vehicles looked directly towards me, they wouldn't know I was even there.

As the vehicles came into sight I could tell they had been modified. The three cars and one pickup truck looked nothing like the abandoned cars and trucks I had seen around my hometown and parked on the sides of some of the larger highways I had ridden across. These had sheets of metal neatly attached over the windows. There was also a person armed with a machine gun sticking up out of the roof of each car. There were two guys standing carefully balanced in the back of the pickup. Each of them was armed with a machine gun in their hands and what appeared to be a shotgun holstered to their backs. Everybody I could see was carefully looking around. Their hands weren't gripping the triggers of their weapons, but they were held close enough to quickly fire off a few rounds at a second's notice. It was clear this was no simple group out for a leisurely drive. They clearly had violence in mind. What I couldn't figure out was who they intended to be so violent to. They were the only people I had seen in a week, there was nobody around for them to victimize.

I kept myself absolutely still as the vehicles approached the end of the road. A large individual got out of the lead car. He was both tall and stoutly built. He didn't so much step out the door as he extracted himself from the side of the car. He walked to the very edge of the road. The river was flowing strongly far below his feet. After a few seconds of staring across the water he turned to the vehicles, looked stonily at them, and turned back to the opposite side of the river. He bellowed in a voice that seemed to come from deep within the Earth itself. I could hear his words echoing off the far bank as clearly as though I was right in front of him. He was calling for someone named Jack to get his hands out of his pants and raise the God-damn bridge. The threats being made to Jack's person if he didn't get moving were enough to make my skin crawl. If I hadn't been doing my best to keep still and avoid notice, I would have cringed with each word on Jack's behalf.