Literary post-apocalyptic fiction · Book One
The Crimson Roar
Every eclipse brings it back.
At 6:40 on an ordinary morning, Paul loses an argument with a toddler about a banana. At 11:40, the lights go out — all of them — and the phones search for a signal that is simply no longer there. The Crimson Roar is post-apocalyptic fiction written at the sentence level: 96,000 words about an ordinary father, a city gone quiet, and what a man owes the people he kissed goodbye that morning.
Read the opening.
The last ordinary thing Paul did was lose an argument about a banana.
The baby wanted it peeled from the wrong end and would not be reasoned with, and Dana was laughing at him from the sink, and Lucy was narrating the whole crisis to her cereal in the grave voice of a courtroom reporter, and Paul stood in his own kitchen in the gray of six-forty with a banana and a furious toddler and thought, the way you think a thing you’ll never get to be embarrassed about later, that he was a man who had everything and most of it was sticky.
He kissed all three of them on his way out. He always did; it wasn’t a thing he noticed doing. The baby’s head smelled like sleep. Lucy held up her cereal spoon for inspection and he inspected it. Dana, on his way past, without either of them looking up from what they were doing — her hand found his and squeezed once and let go, the whole of a marriage in it, the entire ordinary miracle, go on, you’ll be late.
The Crimson Roar · PrologueSentence-level craft sustained across a full-length novel. This is the register upmarket fiction and literary memoir are bought in — and the standard a ghostwritten manuscript is held to at this studio.
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