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Fiction Dystopian

After the Flood

by (author) Shane Joseph

Publisher
Hidden Brook Press
Initial publish date
Jun 2011
Category
Dystopian
  • Paperback / softback

    ISBN
    9781897475324
    Publish Date
    Jun 2011
    List Price
    $24.95
  • Paperback / softback

    ISBN
    9781897475676
    Publish Date
    Jun 2011
    List Price
    $24.95

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Recommended Age, Grade, and Reading Levels

  • Reading age: 15 to 18

Description

Blurbs:
18 Words
After the Flood is a dystopian novel of hope that straddles a pre and post, catastrophic, world-wide flood.

68 Words
Hidden Brook Press brings you Shane Joseph’s second novel, a dynamic, thought provoking, dystopian, page turner, about second chances. After the Flood is a novel of love, loss and lust based in a fundamentalist society created in the aftermath of a catastrophic world-wide flood that covers most of the earth surface. After the Flood truly is a dystopian novel of hope that straddles pre and post flood eras.

200 Words
After the Flood is a dystopian novel of love, desire, and loss in a fundamentalist society created in the aftermath of a giant flood that drowns most of the earth. David Arthurs, born after the earth changing flood, tries to save his humanitarian city state of Tolemac—located somewhere in former North America. Can he save this new utopian state from sinking into sin and destruction as capitalism sweeps in from across the waters of neighbouring New Eden. How is he to overcome the forces of greed when his own father, founder of Tolemac, is having an affair with a beautiful New Eden exile. Media manipulation, political scandal, a drug cartel, all serve to poison the minds and bodies of the youth in the once peaceful island state? Shane Joseph engages the reader not only by his clear knowledge of the Old Testament but also by his insights into man-woman relationships. His flair in handling the age old problem of the other man, the other woman, the secret longing for carnality is revealed in his honest, well crafted, portrayal of characters. After the Flood, poses the question: “If mankind was ever granted a new slate to create Utopia, could it?”

About the author

Contributor Notes

Biographical notes about the author:
Shane Joseph began writing as a teenager living in Sri Lanka and has never stopped. From an early surge of short stories and radio play scripts, to humorous corporate skits, travelogues, case studies and technical papers, then novels, more short stories and essays, he continues to pursue the three pages-a-day maxim and keeps writer’s block at bay.

His career stints include: stage and radio actor, pop musician, encyclopaedia salesman, lathe machine operator, airline executive, travel agency manager, vice president of a global financial services company, software services salesperson, and management consultant.

Self-taught, with four degrees under his belt obtained through distance education, Shane is an avid traveller and has visited one country for every year of his life. He fondly recalls incidents during his travels as real lessons he could never have learned in school: husky driving in Finland with no training, trekking the Inca Trail in Peru through an unending rainstorm, hitch-hiking in Australia without a map, escaping a wild elephant in Zambia, and being stranded without money in Denmark, are some of his memories.

Shane is a graduate of the Humber School for Writers in Toronto and studied under the mentorship of Giller Prize and Canadian Governor General’s Award winning author David Adams Richards. Redemption in Paradise, his first novel, was published in 2004. Fringe Dwellers, his first collection of short stories, was released in 2008, and is now in its second edition. Shane’s third work of fiction, After the Flood, a dystopian novel of hope, was originally released in 2009 and won the Best Novel award in the Futuristic/Fantasy category at the Canadian Christian Writing Awards in 2010. His short fiction has appeared in several literary journals and anthologies in Canada, the USA, UK, India and Sri Lanka. His blog at www.shanejoseph.com/blog is widely syndicated.

After immigrating (twice), raising a family, building a career, and experiencing life’s many highs and lows, Shane has carved out a niche in Cobourg, Ontario with his wife, Sarah, where he continues to work, write stories, and play guitar in a dance band.

Excerpt: After the Flood (by (author) Shane Joseph)

Part 1
Genesis
The Lord said, “I will wipe mankind whom I have created from the face of the earth—man and animals and creatures that move along the ground, and birds in the air—for I am grieved that I made them.” —Genesis 6:7

Prologue
May 12, 2012
When the two black-suited men came to our door, I knew it was time to leave. They were Witnesses, one tall and black, the other short and white, prowling the neighbourhood with increased frequency. They looked confident as they stood on the doorstep with the rain pelting down behind them, shaking the water off their trench coats and umbrellas. I interrupted their usual opening spiel. “Same answer this week, I’m afraid—we have religion in this home,” I said. “Yes, brother,” the black man said. “But the kingdom of God is now at hand. In fact, it’s down on Kingston Road, not a half mile from here.” “That close, eh? I thought we would have more time.” “Are you ready to receive?” “We have received. My folks are packed to leave. I suggest you do the same.” “God be with you, brother,” the short one said. “Many have joined us today—the culmination of our work is at hand. It’s a day of great fulfillment!” “Good. You’d better be off then. And don’t leave it too late either,” I said, shutting the door on them. Their smugness bothered me. Through the window I saw their companions swarming across my neighbour’s waterlogged lawn. My van, packed with our belongings, stood in the driveway. Dad’s boat was on the trailer in the backyard, but it would have to stay where it was—we were not going to be slowed down. In hindsight, the boat may have taken us farther. “Time to go folks—the flooding has reached Kingston Road,” I said, rushing down to the basement. Dad was packing his fishing rods; he had four of them already on the roof of the van. The damp patches in the basement floor had widened since my last visit half an hour ago. “Dad, come on, there will be plenty of time for fishing later.” I threw his raincoat across his shoulders and gently led him upstairs. “I’m not so sure about that anymore,” he said shaking his head and muttering under his breath. “Hope there isn’t too much water damage to the house. You think my tool shed will be okay?” “Sure,” I lied. I was worried about the shed too. About everything. But there was no use in showing it. “Help me get the baby’s things in the van, Sam.” Adele slowly made her way from the bedrooms upstairs; she was six months pregnant and beginning to look a little weak in the mornings. Cole, carrying a small suitcase, shut the door behind them. They had abandoned their waterlogged apartment downtown to stay with us these past two weeks. Cole was good for Adele, caring, respectful and kind; he had been that way ever since they’d met in high school. “Not much more we can take, I’m afraid, the van’s packed—even the roof.” “But we have to take the baby’s things, no?” “Sure we have to,” I said, helping her down the stairs. It was nice embracing my kid sister. We didn’t do that much anymore. “Not taking your jazz collection?” “No, there’s no room. It’ll be safe ’til we return.” “Samson Arthurs! You never let it out of your sight.” “It’ll be okay. Where’s Mum?” “Watching TV again.” When I went into my parents’ bedroom, Mum was indeed watching TV and wiping her eyes. Tissues littered the floor. “Why do we have to leave, son?” she said, staring into one of those riveting news broadcasts that ran non-stop now. I went over and switched off the TV. “Come on, Ma. It’s time.” “But the house—thirty-five years of our lives are in this house.” “We’ll come back when the emergency is over, Ma. And we’ll fix the damage, if there is any.” “You promise?” I didn’t say anything but gently coaxed her out to the van. Dad, Cole and Adele were already inside, squished amidst the food containers, clothing and memorabilia threatening to burst the van at its seams. I checked the tarpaulin over the ski rack and it looked like it would hold, even though the wind was beginning to pick up. I was soaked by the time I slid into the driver’s seat. When we left our street and joined the stream of cars headed north for the highway, I didn’t realize that would be the last time I would see the old house on Saddler Street, where I had lived my entire life.

Chapter 1

When I look at the “old guard” encircling our family mausoleum, I remember my father’s words about his friends. “They never age,” he said. “They just fade away.” Nathan Goldman stands tall and erect, but his thinning gray hair and emaciated body betray his frailty. “Damn awful weather for a funeral!” he coughs, gritting his teeth against the wind. He takes a cigar out of his pocket, then changes his mind and puts it back. I recognize the threadbare coat from ten years ago. It’s hard to believe that he is the richest man in Tolemac and that he was my father’s staunchest ally. “I hope Samson is at peace, wherever he is,” says my mother-in-law Kamala, standing to his right, stifling a tear. She is a beautiful woman in her late fifties. She has the grace of a dancer and yoga practitioner melded with a keen brain and a gentle heart. It’s hard to imagine she is chief justice of our city-state. She loved my father from a distance; I have always known that, although she will never admit it to me. Belva White Dove, in her flowing orange and black kaftan, leads the funeral ceremony. Optimistic and in control, her matronly jowls are subdued today, yet her voice retains its high melodious pitch during the hymns. Head schoolmistress at the Tolemac Academy of Learning and newly-appointed spiritual leader of our church, she looks the same as when she taught me in high school. It is raining; a thin May drizzle that quickly turns the ground into mud and makes the grass ooze. In Samson’s youth, the ground absorbed more rainwater than it does today. In fact, it does not rain much anymore except during the winter. Today’s rain is a rarity. A connection to the Old World Samson emerged from. Belva preaches a medley of animal medicine chants and biblical verses. My father would have loved the psalm she has chosen: “The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear? Though an army may beseech me, my heart shall not fear. Do not turn me over to the desire of my foes . . .” She then leads us in an Old-World hymn, “Nearer My God to Thee,” an anachronism on this twenty-fifth day of May 2046. Umbrellas go up as the drizzle thickens to steady rain. I am impressed by the loyal following that has entered the gates of the mausoleum. Politicians from the Humanitarian and Capitalist realms, the church congregation, the river transport people, and the general populace of Tolemac, from as far away as the New Settlements—they are all here. Even John Williams is here. Poor, dumb, stupid John; dumb from the day I can remember; stupid from the day of his childhood accident when he swallowed construction glue that gave him a brain haemorrhage, tore out his insides and nearly killed him. John is unaccustomed to the rain. It drips off his well-tailored dark suit and cape and makes him look like a wet sparrow—an orphaned, lonely, wet sparrow. I allow the rain to fall on me too, without seeking the protection of a raincoat or umbrella. I want to get a sense of what it is like to be well and properly wet, as Samson had been during the Flood, when for days on end, all he could hope for was a bit of earth to hug that was not shaking or under water. “Are you holding up?” Sonya inches up to me. “I’m okay.” I take her hand in mine. Sharing an umbrella with her mother, she has so much of Kamala’s poise and dark eyes. She will age as beautifully as her mother. We have quarrelled a lot over this last year and only recently discovered the mystical bond that unites a husband and wife. Our children, Joey and Hannah, dressed in dark clothing and holding small umbrellas, stand respectfully beside their mother. Hannah, the serious one, takes after me with her blond curls, and looks like she is pondering a deep mystery. Joey has the dark hair and complexion of his mother. “David...” Belva is next to me now. “Would you like to say something before we end the service?” “No.” What was there to say? There is not even a body in the coffin. This is just a ceremony to remind ourselves that my father has been finally pronounced officially “dead” and will now lie in peace next to my mother’s remains in the family tomb and that we can get on with our lives, which have been on hold since he went missing. “Are you sure? It’s customary . . .” “Yes, I am sure. You are doing a wonderful job. Please wrap it up for us.” After a few final words, the tomb is closed and people are lined up to shake my hand and to offer condolences. The President of the Federation of Humanitarian States—the FHS—passes by, having come up all the way from Oceania. Congressman Gordon, sole representative from the Capitalist realm, and his entourage follow closely behind. Gordon shakes our hands sincerely, spending meaningful moments with each family member. “Don’t forget to call me, David,” he says, taking my hand. I stare into his kindly eyes. “We have to continue our work,” he reminds me firmly. The general population follows the politicians. I feel the sincerity in their hugs, even a tinge of remorse. They merely watched during Samson’s persecution. Umbrellas and boots jostle around, drenching me with water and mud. I have never understood why they built the cemetery by the waterfront and not up on Sunset Hill. Something about it being one of the first places built, as there were many dead to bury before the post-Flood rebuilding began, and the fact that the buried could reside close to their less fortunate family members submerged forever in the waters surrounding Tolemac. With the ceremony over, the people disperse towards their homes. Some go up Sunset Hill while others head down into the city core.

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