~Rach

Guest Post and Giveaway by Eric Swett,
Author of Apocalypse in the Balance

November 6, 2014 by Rachel Bostwick

Before I finished my first novel, Apocalypse Rising, I wrote a post apocalyptic novel that I called Alone. When I first started writing the story it was all about a single survivor. I shared his perspective on the world as it was after the collapse of civilization and how the collapse occurred.
The days, months and years that followed took up a large portion of the book. I enjoyed playing through the scenarios that would lead to the end of the world and then showing what the aftermath would look like. As the story continued I wrote more and more about the character’s present life and a different story started to take shape. Soon it became less about the world and more about the people that survived within it.

Once I was finished writing the first draft and started the editing process I realized the two did not quite fit together. I thought that maybe I could take the first part of the book and move it to the middle as some sort of flashback the main character could share with the few people he meets along the way, but the more I think about it the more I think that it might be better to break it up into two separate books so that each can be the focus of what is important in each of them.

Why split them up? Why not make the make one part a smaller part of the main story rather than abandon the connection altogether? Well I’ll tell you why.

Apocalypse and Aftermath

There are a few books I have read that spent time dealing with the lead in to the apocalypse, the time during, and the time immediately after everything goes bad. Some excellent examples are Stephen King’s The Stand, Lucifer’s Hammer by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle, and The Grey Matter by Billie Sue Mosiman. In all three we see what leads up to the apocalypse and the author guides us through the events that take place during and after the end of the world. I really enjoy these books as much for the details of the collapse as the human story that follows. They satisfy me in ways that so many Hollywood movies fail to. Usually in Hollywood the movie is about diverting the apocalypse or the aftermath that follows, but rarely are both covered in adequate detail.

Think of Independence Day. Aliens come down and destroy all of the major population centers on the planet. The humans fight back and beat the enemy, but the movie fails to address what happens in the aftermath. Millions of tons of crashed alien spacecraft littler the planet and the population of the planet has been dramatically curtailed, so what happens afterward? And what about 2012? A massive planetary shift, depopulation of the planet and ecological devastation on an epic scale, and all we get to see is the ships full of people sailing off to Africa. Where is the follow up? What happens next? I suppose the same can be said of any Hollywood movie or novel for that matter. As the consumer we are left with questions of what next, assuming we care to ask the question.

The aftermath is every bit as exciting as the destruction itself, so I think it is important to show that rather than take it for granted. Human suffering is the perfect fodder for the novelist and I couldn’t help but try my hand at exploring the world as it fell apart.

Survival in a Time Beyond the Collapse

The other popular end of the apocalypse spectrum is the time when the death throes of civilization have subsided and the survivors must forge a new existence. Whether that existence is one of solitary survival or a return to civilization is the only real difference in the genre. Some classic examples of this are David Brin’s The Postman and The Road by Cormac McCarthy. The struggle for survival and to forge a new world with those that survived is a classic theme that has countless movies dedicated to them. There is nothing wrong with these stories, in fact I think they are fantastic, but to do them by themselves leaves the genre short. I feel cheated by the lack of detail regarding what happened to the world itself. The setting is important to these stories, but it is treated like a secondary concern. In the movie version of The Road we are never really told what caused the apocalypse, only that it happened.

These true post-apocalyptic stories focus on the story of the individual with a backdrop of a world that exists after everything else has failed. The interpersonal relationships are what matter most and drive the story beyond the events that take place in the world around them.

I want to tell a story that covers both the time before and the time after, but in a way that is personal and drives the reader to wonder about the possibilities. Can they imagine themselves in the middle of the collapsing world and consider whether or not they could survive it all? If they managed to make it, would they be the lone survivor cast adrift or the community member striving for a better tomorrow. By breaking it into two books the writer can share the collapse in a way that is personal and tell the story of survival that is easy to relate to.

So what do you think? Is all in one the way to go, or does it make more sense to break it all apart?

GIVEAWAY

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About Apocalypse in the Balance:

Five years have passed since the Angel of Death made a very public appearance in the middle of New Arcadia. Since then the city has become a hub of activity for the supernatural. Most people are blissfully unaware of the powerful forces at work in their city, and the darkness bubbling under the surface could not be happier.

Businessman and criminal kingpin Kohaku Hitaratsu finds his world turned upside down, and he is forced to seek refuge in the slums he left behind. He no longer rules the neighborhood that was the foundation of his empire and he must find a way to survive on the streets with little more than a pickup truck to his name.

When Kohaku finds his neighborhood and his new found home under siege by monsters better found in nightmares, he chooses to stand and fight rather than simply survive.

Standing up to the darkness draws the attention of forces better left alone, and Kohaku is caught in a tug of war between the all too familiar evils of his life and the light within that is struggling to get out.

Friends and relatives choose sides in his struggle, but ultimately it is the love of a woman that will determine his course and could decide the fate of the world.

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About the Author: Eric Swett is an author and IT professional living in Mooresville, NC. He is the husband of Tracy and the father of Zachary, Connor, and Kaitlyn. Eric is a rabid Arizona Cardinals fan and a lover of most things geek, and hes been before either of them were cool. When he is not writing or spending time with his family, he is reading and playing the occasional video game. His favorite authors include Ben Bova, H. P. Lovecraft, Robert Jordan, J. R. R. Tolkien, and L. Ron Hubbard. His favorite Bands/Musicians include The Beatles, KISS, AC/DC, Yoko Kanno, John Williams, and Imagine Dragons.

The Ten Commandments of Social Media

October 16, 2014 by Rachel Bostwick

1. Thou shalt not post a polarizing article unless it is important enough to lose friends over. A few things are, but choose carefully.

2. Thou shalt not read the comments on a polarizing article. Ever. Trolls are real and their hateful comments will ruin your day.

3. Thou shalt not let games steal all your time. Play one or two that build your friendships, then mercilessly block the rest.

4. Remember to hide haters from your feed. Gossip and scandal are contagious and they will kill your joy.

5. Thou shalt block those who hurt you on purpose. Life is too short.

6. Honor your family and others you love in spite of value differences by using list-based privacy to share sensitive things only with those who will enjoy and appreciate them.

7. Thou shalt use your words to make someone feel loved today.

8. Enlighten others gently and with love.

9. If you can do it sincerely and with love, cultivate friends you disagree with. This is how humans grow in understanding.

10. Thou shalt learn something awesome every day. Be filled with wonder. All the world’s knowledge is laid out for you. Take a bite.

I Had A Nightmare

August 6, 2014 by Rachel Bostwick

I had a bad dream last night.

It was such a casual dream at first. We were milling around a sort of hardware store that was on its last legs. Holes in the ground everywhere. One with a slit that was so dark you could almost see stars in it, like it were torn into the fabric of the universe. Basements half-dug and then given up on, full of old, rusty junk. Men were standing around as if they were waiting for the someone or something to die so they could collect what was left of an estate.

Our car, it was parked by a deep red barn. The ground around it was eroding, but it was time to go. So I began the simple, daily act of loading up the children.
But there were deep holes around the car. The ground was falling away. If we could get to the car we’d be fine, and I wasn’t scared yet, but I knew I should be soon, and then Julius got too enthusiastic. Leapt past me into the car.

He didn’t make it. And the starry abyss was right next to us.

Time frozen. He smiled at me, as sad little smile to say, sorry, mom. Guess I messed up.

My heart tore out of my body.

As soon as his face disappeared, I looked around but only for a second before I leapt into the hole, too. Either I would catch him or I’d die with him. Either way.

The first part of the hole was dark brown. I saw him and could almost grasp him. My heart was still screaming. But just as I reached for him, a spring carried him away from me, far deeper into the hole. I followed again.

This time the deeper hole was light. White and green striped marble, roughly textured but wet, a very close tunnel but fully light. I grabbed him again but he went deeper still. I followed him into a deeper tunnel.

There no good way for this to end, my brain said. WAKE UP NOW.

I woke up. So suddenly it hurt, like ripping a scab away without being careful about it.

I lay in bed shaking. Trying to run through the scenarios. The tunnels had been getting narrower. Eventually he wouldn’t be able to go farther. But maybe he’d be able to go farther than I. ARGH.

Or maybe I’d catch him but they wouldn’t be able to help us and we’d die of starvation together. DOUBLE ARGH.

Or maybe, and this one kept coming back, they’d send down a rope, but we’d have gone so far and it was so wet, how would we ever be able to scale back up?

God, it must sound so stupid from outside. I hid under my covers shaking and crying and finally left the room, climb into Julius’s bed and wrapped my arms around him. Kissed his head. Cried, but better, because he was in my arms and we’d be able to eat soon.

Husband came and called me back to bed. Scolded me, reminded me that I am a thirty-three year old woman who knows that nightmares are not real. That didn’t help. I cried some more. And I swore that I’d never, ever write about this. Because I would like to forget that little sad smile he gave me.

But this has been bothering me all day.

Why did my dream have foreshadowing? That gaping hole, visible in the first act?

Why the textures? The deep red barn, the white and green speckled tunnels? The stars in the dark? The cold of the water on the stone?

And why do dreams add layers of emotion? We know they do it independently of the stories, because sometimes dreams feel sad without seeming that they should be.The rush of grief and pain that flooded over me when my precious son fell into that imaginary hole, that was unnecessary.

Human brains are strange.

Or maybe dreams are really there for something. To warn us, or maybe just to remind us that things are sacred and that we are not immortal.

Everything

August 2, 2014 by Rachel Bostwick

He’d told her what she wanted was wrong so many times that she believed him. Soon, she didn’t want anything at all. He assured her she was blessed by freedom from want and soon she believed that, too.
“What do you want, my darling? he asked.
She looked around, at all the sweetness and the juice that the market had to offer. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask for a pear. “I want…”
He pierced her with his frown.
“Nothing,” she said.
He clapped her on the back. “That’s my girl.”
#
He took her to the beaches of More, where pine-smelling purple sand crunched beneath her sandals and grey waves pounded joyfully against the shore. She waded in up to her ankles, spun around in the water, swung her hands through the briny air. “I want to dance.” Her soul sang so loudly it joined with the songs of the gulls. “I want to dive into the water and investigate the deep, I want to search out the hidden secrets of…”
The Man put his hands on her shoulders. “We better get home, unless you want-”
His eyes met hers and he shook his head slightly.
“I…” she began.
He bit his lip and stared into her.
“I want nothing,” she said.
His weathered face cracked into a giddy grin. “Me neither!”
They drove home in silence.
#
A boy from the village came to the house one day, armed with holy scriptures and warm brown eyes. The Man was out tending the mills so she let the boy in; looked at his pretty pictures and listened to his pretty words. She let him out again before the Man came home.
“Can I come again?” he asked.
“No.”
“Can I meet you somewhere?” He looked down at her with a hopeful smile.
She stared at him with her lips parted. Something sparked. The words came out of her unwilled. “Yes.”
#
When the vegetable seller came around, she beat the Man to the door. The woman held out the board that displayed her wares. Pearl-colored Tillian apples, bound-up bunches of starlight, fresh feathered greens, and rosy radishes. It all looked so delicious. “I want-”
The Man came up behind her, rested his hand on her shoulder.
“Nothing,” she said. She turned around and looked at him, then back at the seller. “I want nothing.”
The seller’s shoulders drooped.
“But maybe next time,” she said.
The seller smiled.
She smiled, too, just a little.
The Man made a gritty sound. His hand gripped her shoulder, but he said nothing. Neither of them turned around until the seller was gone.
#
Under the green, green canopy of the pines, the missionary laid her down.
“I want you to want me,” he said.
She wriggled away from him. The tear never left the corner of her eye. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know how.”
She returned to the Man. He did not ask where she had been.
#
The missionary did not come again, but the greapers did.
When they offered annihilation in the shape of a pill, she honestly believed that this was what she wanted all along.
She dry-swallowed the little green square and slept alone on a bed of pine needles, lulled into deep darkness by the whistling of the wind in the branches.
#
“I want to live.”
Too late, whispered the darkness.
#
The light burned. It was too white, too bright, too unforgiving. But then his face blocked all the light. It was the missionary. He spoke too loudly; his words burned her brain. Was this hell? But he seemed so happy.
“-every day I waited in the forest, and finally you came,” he said. “I’m so glad. We’ll never-”
“But, the Man,” she said.
“Oh.” He stepped backward. “I’m sorry. He’s gone. He’s gone to be with the greapers now.”
She sat up. Banged her head on the back of the bed. It hurt; her head rang with glorious pain. She was alive. “I don’t understand.”
He pressed his lips together. “He wanted nothing. They gave it to him.”
She shook her head.
He stepped closer. “And what do you want?” he asked her. So softly. His eyes were hopeful again.
She smiled. The gesture felt awkward, but maybe with practice she could improve.
He touched her cheek, kissed the corner of her smile. His lips tasted like sweet pear juice.
“Everything,” she said. She touched his hand. “I want everything.”

Her Betrayer

July 11, 2014 by Rachel Bostwick

She was alone. Utterly alone.

She shook her head. Damp flew off her face, bounced off the white walls all around her. Where was she?

A hot ball of hatred dropped into her gut. Betrayal.

She took a deep breath and looked around. She had tried and failed to scale the walls. They were slick, soaking wet, and towered four times above her height.

Without assistance she’d never get out of here. No one was coming for her. No one. Except perhaps the one who’d dropped her here to begin with.

Her betrayer.

Her extremities shook. In her mind, she saw him. Relived his betrayal again and again. The torture. The cold. The water. The drowning. The agony. Even now, she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. As soon as that venomous liquid reached her chest, she had screamed, high pitched wails heaving from her chest, begging for mercy, but none came.

The man who brought her here was not the man she had loved. He was not merciful. He was relentless.

“It’s for your own good,” his voice had vibrated, rough and dominant against her ear. She shuddered remembering the strong stroke of his fingers against her dripping hair. “It will be over soon, my love.”

Bile rose in her throat at the memory. “Why?” she screamed. “Why have you done this to me? Leave me alone!” She had to escape. She scrambled to the wall again, tried to scale the smooth, white surface. She tumbled down again, her head banging up and down against the slick floor.

After he had broken her will, after she had cried over and again, he’d wrapped his arms around her and pressed her into his chest. He made sounds, protective sounds, possessive sounds, even laughter. She struggled to break free, raked her nails into his skin, but he only laughed again.

Then he dumped her, shivering and wet onto the smooth, white floor.

“I’ll be right back,” he whispered.

How long had it been now? A month? A year?

She shrank against the floor. What was left to live for, now? If he, her protector, the man she thought she loved, could do this to her, then what was left for her?

At the end of the room, a black hole marred the surface of the smooth white floor. A drop of water trembled and fell from a terrible apparatus above the room; plummeted into that darkness.

Muscles aching, she dragged her limp body across the floor, pace by pace, her joints straining, and peered down into that hole. Nothing but black. Dank whiffs of mildew and rotting human hair wafted up from the deep. Who else had he done this to? What would happen to her now?

She looked up and saw her twisted reflection in the shining steel that arced above her. Her bright green eyes were dull with sorrow.

If a silver grate, dotted by drops of filthy water, had not guarded the gaping mouth of the dark, she would have taken control of her fate, cast herself into that bleak night and been done with her miserable life. Instead she dropped her face onto the putrid metal and inhaled the welcome scent of death.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please just take me away now. Please let me go…”

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Her heart stilled. Her betrayer had returned. His voice reverberated against the walls. What fresh hell did he have for her now…?

A warm, rough blanket wrapped around her quivering flesh. Strong arms pulled her up and out.

“You poor darling.” He touched his face to her nose and his big brown eyes met hers. “You’ll be dry soon. I know you hate baths, but we can’t let those nasty fleas eat the little kitty alive, can we?” He stroked his fingernails against her scalp, then gently pressed his lips to the top of her head.

Maybe she could forgive him. Maybe.

With quiet dignity, she brushed her whiskers against his face and began to purr.

Lux and the Messenger (excerpt from The Seventh Judge)

July 10, 2014 by Rachel Bostwick

“Bite of jerky?” Lux ripped off a strip, plump with salt and juice, and held it out to the messenger. “You smell that? That’s good jerky.”
The messenger took a polite whiff and nodded. “Yes, sir. No, thank you.”
“I have a funny question for you, Eleazar. I’ve never seen any of you eat. Can you?”
“We eat sunlight and drink oxygen, sir. We rest once a week and our systems are highly efficient. We have no need for further sustenance.”
“Yeah, I read the pamphlet, Eleazar. That’s not what I want to know.”
“We have no pamphlet, sir. None were printed for the MSNGR3000. Nor an instruction manual of any kind.”
“It’s a metaphor, Eleazar. Nobody has pamphlets anymore. There aren’t too many manuals left these days, either. I just meant, everybody knows what you told me.”
“Well, what did you want to know, sir?”
“Are you equipped with the physical ability to process what humans consider to be food and drink?”
“An unusual question, sir.”
“Well, not that unusual.” Lux chuckled. “I caught one of your boys taking a leak off the bridge last night.”
The messenger laughed. “That was Job, sir. He is curious about human experiences. Yes, we are able to process the pleasures and the pains of human digestion.”
“And human humor, apparently.”
“We find things funny to a degree. We share the humor of our creator.”
“What about reproduction?”
The messenger shot Lux a penetrating look. “You are asking me if we are able to experience the act of reproduction, though we are not human?”
“That’s what I want to know. Job had a jangle. I was curious if it was a working part.”
Eleazar nodded slowly. “We are equipped with the ability to feel apparently random chemical attraction to human females. The chemicals serve as a motivational stimulus as well as positive reinforcement for interaction. We possess the physiological apparatus normally used for human reproduction, at least from an external perspective. We appear to feel a detailed facsimile of the joy and the sadness of the desire for human pairing. Is that what you wanted to know?”
“Yes,” Lux said. “And also can you… can you do it?”
“Sir?”
“Can you, you know? Can you do it?” Lux laughed.
Eleazer shook his head. If Lux didn’t know better, he would’ve said the robot was blushing. “I can’t answer that question from personal experience, sir. The sadness seems to outweigh the joy. And I have too much work to do to explore it otherwise.”
“You and me, both, Eleazar. Looks like we might be a bad influence on you. Come on, I want to have a look at this bridge before we do the lightning rods. Sound all right?”
“I will assist you as directed, sir.”
Lux stepped toward the bridge. Gooseflesh crawled up his arm. “There’s a disturbing odor here, Eleazar. Can you smell it?”
“Yes, sir, I am able to do so. The messengers are also in possession of superior olfactory senses.”
“I know that. I mean do you currently smell a disturbing… something?”
“I detect freshly rotting flesh, if that is what you mean. The odor has become increasingly apparent for the last half hour. I believe we are approaching the source.”
“Of course it’s what I mean! Why didn’t you say something?”
“I have developed a tolerance for it over the last few decades, sir. The smell raises no alarms.”
“Let’s go see what it is. Could be human.”
“It is human, sir.”
Lux stopped in his tracks. “And that doesn’t raise any red flags?”
The messenger stared at him. “I experienced the slow decay of seven and a half billion humans following the plague. The death of a single human does not trigger any unusual alarm.”
“Well, if you are able to refresh your alarm patterns, you might want to do so. For now, at least, a human decaying out in the open is a cause for concern. “Come on, let’s have a look.”