Oliver Fudge never wanted to live in a dusty, wasted hellscape crawling with giant insects. Sadly, nobody asked him.
Still, the apocalypse hasn’t stopped Oliver from selling his books to, well, just about anybody. That includes a half-human, half-cockroach drone he meets on the road. But what does this drone want with Oliver? And why does he seem so familiar?
Perfect for fans of "The Stand," "Station Eleven," and the works of Nicolas Cage, "The Post-Apocalyptic Independent Author" is an offbeat, darkly humorous short story about art, survival, and unexpected reconnections. The end of the world has never been so much fun.
Oliver Fudge never wanted to live in a dusty, wasted hellscape crawling with giant insects. Sadly, nobody asked him.
Still, the apocalypse hasn’t stopped Oliver from selling his books to, well, just about anybody. That includes a half-human, half-cockroach drone he meets on the road. But what does this drone want with Oliver? And why does he seem so familiar?
Perfect for fans of "The Stand," "Station Eleven," and the works of Nicolas Cage, "The Post-Apocalyptic Independent Author" is an offbeat, darkly humorous short story about art, survival, and unexpected reconnections. The end of the world has never been so much fun.
There’s really only one thing you can do when a half-human, half-insect drone approaches you from the distance of a desiccated land, his body augmented by the secretions of a giant cockroach that’s taken over the world, and he’s hoping to convince you to endure the same procedure so you’ll grow greasy mandibles on your cheeks and buzzing wings beneath your shirt, just like him. There’s really only one thing you can do, and that one thing is this: hide.
Fortunately, I have a body built for hiding. I’m short and slight and slouchy, you see, with a narrow neck and stubby legs. I’ve been hiding most of my life, behind paperbacks and hardcovers, notebooks and laptops (not that we have laptops anymore). Red ink stains the heel of my writing hand—the curse of the lefty writer.
Presently, I’ve bundled myself behind the lone standing corner-wall of a long-abandoned house. Dust threatens to choke me at every inhalation, and a meager shaft of midday light lances overhead, as if someone’s trying to shine a spotlight on me. I crouch beside a pot-bellied wheelbarrow. And inside the wheelbarrow: books.
There’s Destiny’s Sticky Fingers, a cosmic horror novel about a woman who glimpses the future, but only while eating garlic parmesan chicken wings. There’s Slap of the Ass, an erotic thriller about a virile fellow implanted with a bomb that will explode the next time he has intercourse. There’s Bowlegged and Headed Home, a fantasy western about a trigger-happy gunslinger who moves back in with his mother.
I wrote them all. Yet despite my best efforts, I’ve never sold a single copy. And no, my name is not Kilgore Trout.
“Come forth,” calls the drone. He stands maybe 10 yards away, strutting through the omnipresent dust. “Come forth and accept the Blessing of the Roach. You shall not hunger, you shall not thirst. Join us, and live forever.”
I once wrote a book about a guy who lives forever. It’s called Everlasting Pain in the Ass.
“Come forth,” the drone continues. “Come forth and accept your Blessing.”
I don’t think he’s spotted me, but he must smell me; he keeps sniffing the air, delicate little chuffs that remind me of a pug struggling to breathe. Remember pugs?
I stop peeking and press my back to the wall. In my time on this earth, I’ve never prayed…well, that’s not true. I’ve prayed for better book sales, coherent story ideas, and an agent, though none ever appeared. But I’ve never prayed in earnest before, or believed anyone was listening.
But I’m praying now. Praying hard. And it’s sure as hell not a prayer to a giant cockroach.
The sniffing sounds grow louder. Footsteps scuffle the dust. My pulse thuds through my veins, my breath quickens, and—
A face peers around the wall. A half-human, half insectile face. The drone.
“Hello, human,” he says.
I don’t often read post–apocalyptic stories but I can't deny the fact that The Post-Apocalyptic Independent Author quickly grabbed my attention when I read that the story was about an author living in a post-apocalyptic world and despite the state of the world, he is just trying to sell his books. To whoever will buy them. This seemed so unlike anything I had read before, so naturally I was intrigued and I’m glad I had the chance to read it.
This is such an unusual and sweet short story that at its core it is about friendship. I really had no idea what to expect but this story was definitely an entertaining read, and I highly encourage other to pick it up. It has intriguing characters, a good and likeable protagonist in Oliver, it is wonderfully written and there is so much more I could say but I don’t want to spoil the story for others. Everyone deserves the chance to experience this strange yet endearing story. Through his writing, Kyle Massa does a wonderful at pulling us to this post-apocalyptic world and getting us to relate to the characters we meet throughout the story and at the end, I was left wanting more. This was such an original idea and I wouldn’t mind reading more stories set within this world.
If you haven’t read The Post-Apocalyptic Independent Author, I would highly recommend that you do. It is a great read. I love how original it is and it was also a great introduction to Kyle Massa’s work for me and now I’m looking forward to reading more of his work.