Post Apocalyptic
Date Published: March 11, 2015
322 years after the apocalypse, the world has changed, but her people have not. Secrets, lies, and manipulations endure among a small group of survivors taking refuge on an island in the Northern Pacific.
No one knows what claimed so many lives over three centuries ago, and no one asks, except Ashley Wortham. She can feel the secrets all around her, begging to be uncovered.
But the nine elders who govern the island guard their secrets jealously. They believe the islanders know what they need to, and they hide their secrets behind a ruse of peace. But when Ashley, and her best friend Mason, go down the rabbit hole, no one is prepared for truths they uncover. What will they do when they discover the downfall of humanity lies within their own island, deep inside the dead room?
The body lay on a two-piece metal pyre in the center of the
clearing.
Nothing more
than the skeleton of a table, the pyre was
simply used for the display and
transport of the bodies. Burning the dead was a
custom from the time before.
The corpse’s blue cotton, long-sleeved shirt was
buttoned all the way to
the top to
hide his injuries, and the matching navy slacks
had recently been pressed.
With his
hands folded over his abdomen, Wesley looked
rather dashing. Ashley wished
her match
had actually been dashing in life.
She wondered who would wear that outfit next.
Nothing was ever wasted on
the island.
Not even the clothes of a dead man. She herself
had worn the clothes off a
dead
woman’s back. Squeamishness was a luxury no one
could afford.
Although “new” clothes were made on the island,
from animal skins and the
cotton
grown in the farmlands, they were typically
reserved for the higher
ups—elders,
doctors, and the like. Cotton was difficult to
grow in the cold climate,
and the
clothes were made entirely by hand. Once it had
been worn and patched a
few times by
those with power, new clothing was eventually
passed down to the lower
branches of
society,
But, it wasn’t just clothing that moved on after
an islander died. All of
their
belongings were redistributed among those in
need. The dead’s family
wasn’t allowed
to keep anything they didn’ tneed.
Sentimentality was a lost emotion to the
islanders. Reusing everything was essential,
even if the previous owner
was a dead
man.
It had only bothered her once—the first time
she’d seen one of her
father’s outfits
on another man. Even then, at the tender age of
ten, she’d understood it
was bound to
happen eventually. She just hadn’t expected it
to happen so quickly. Only
a week
after his funeral, she’d spotted one of her
neighbors walking down the
road in her
father’s clothes. She ran to him, hoping her
father’s scent might still
linger on his
shirt. But the man neither embraced her nor
offered her any sympathy. He
only looked
at her with wide eyes,the horror and disgust
plain on his face.
Death on the island was such a strange thing.
She’d lost track of how many
funerals
she’d been to in her lifetime—at least one a
month. Unexpected deaths,
like that of
her match, added to the average.
Only three of the losses had actually meant
something to her—her mother,
her father,
and now Wesley. Her father’s funeral was, of
course, devastating, made
more so by the
fact that they’d shared the same first name.
Everything the elders said
about him
could have also been applied to her. How they
were thankful for “Ashley’s
life,” how
they wished “Ashley peace.”It sent shivers down
her spine.
Once, she’d asked him why they shared a name.
His mother’s name had been
Ashley, he’d
explained, as had her mother, and her father
before that. On and on, down
the line,
the name had traveled, until it had reached
Ashley. And one day, as was their
tradition, it would go to her own child.
The funeral for her mother, who had been taken
by a simple cold that
escalated into
something much worse, was nothing more than a
hazy memory. Still, Ashley
missed her
mother terribly and felt incomplete without her.
She searched for her
whenever the
jasmine got caught on the wind, because her
mother had loved to wear the
flower
behind her ear.
Wesley’s funeral was a problem. She wasn’t
entirely sure how she felt
about it. The
loss of her parents had left her feeling
completely alone. She’d hoped to
find love
again with her match, but he’d left her terribly
disappointed.
Now that he was gone, her emotions warred with
themselves. Relief was the
biggest
player fighting for space in her mind. Relief to
have escaped the abuse
and the
pressures of being the next elder’s wife. Guilt
came in at a close second,
but not
because she regretted killing her match.
It was because her best friend was being blamed
for it.
The body lay on a two-piece metal pyre in the center of the
clearing.
Nothing more
than the skeleton of a table, the pyre was simply used for the display and
transport of the bodies. Burning the dead was a custom from the time before.
The corpse’s blue cotton, long-sleeved shirt was buttoned all the way to
the top to
hide his injuries, and the matching navy slacks had recently been pressed.
With his
hands folded over his abdomen, Wesley looked rather dashing. Ashley wished
her match
had actually been dashing in life.
She wondered who would wear that outfit next. Nothing was ever wasted on
the island.
Not even the clothes of a dead man. She herself had worn the clothes off a
dead
woman’s back. Squeamishness was a luxury no one could afford.
Although “new” clothes were made on the island, from animal skins and the
cotton
grown in the farmlands, they were typically reserved for the higher
ups—elders,
doctors, and the like. Cotton was difficult to grow in the cold climate,
and the
clothes were made entirely by hand. Once it had been worn and patched a
few times by
those with power, new clothing was eventually passed down to the lower
branches of
society,
But, it wasn’t just clothing that moved on after an islander died. All of
their
belongings were redistributed among those in need. The dead’s family
wasn’t allowed
to keep anything they didn’ tneed. Sentimentality was a lost emotion to the
islanders. Reusing everything was essential, even if the previous owner
was a dead
man.
It had only bothered her once—the first time she’d seen one of her
father’s outfits
on another man. Even then, at the tender age of ten, she’d understood it
was bound to
happen eventually. She just hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly. Only
a week
after his funeral, she’d spotted one of her neighbors walking down the
road in her
father’s clothes. She ran to him, hoping her father’s scent might still
linger on his
shirt. But the man neither embraced her nor offered her any sympathy. He
only looked
at her with wide eyes,the horror and disgust plain on his face.
Death on the island was such a strange thing. She’d lost track of how many
funerals
she’d been to in her lifetime—at least one a month. Unexpected deaths,
like that of
her match, added to the average.
Only three of the losses had actually meant something to her—her mother,
her father,
and now Wesley. Her father’s funeral was, of course, devastating, made
more so by the
fact that they’d shared the same first name. Everything the elders said
about him
could have also been applied to her. How they were thankful for “Ashley’s
life,” how
they wished “Ashley peace.”It sent shivers down her spine.
Once, she’d asked him why they shared a name. His mother’s name had been
Ashley, he’d
explained, as had her mother, and her father before that. On and on, down
the line,
the name had traveled, until it had reached Ashley. And one day, as was their
tradition, it would go to her own child.
The funeral for her mother, who had been taken by a simple cold that
escalated into
something much worse, was nothing more than a hazy memory. Still, Ashley
missed her
mother terribly and felt incomplete without her. She searched for her
whenever the
jasmine got caught on the wind, because her mother had loved to wear the
flower
behind her ear.
Wesley’s funeral was a problem. She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt
about it. The
loss of her parents had left her feeling completely alone. She’d hoped to
find love
again with her match, but he’d left her terribly disappointed.
Now that he was gone, her emotions warred with themselves. Relief was the
biggest
player fighting for space in her mind. Relief to have escaped the abuse
and the
pressures of being the next elder’s wife. Guilt came in at a close second,
but not
because she regretted killing her match.
It was because her best friend was being blamed for it.
Nothing more
than the skeleton of a table, the pyre was simply used for the display and
transport of the bodies. Burning the dead was a custom from the time before.
The corpse’s blue cotton, long-sleeved shirt was buttoned all the way to
the top to
hide his injuries, and the matching navy slacks had recently been pressed.
With his
hands folded over his abdomen, Wesley looked rather dashing. Ashley wished
her match
had actually been dashing in life.
She wondered who would wear that outfit next. Nothing was ever wasted on
the island.
Not even the clothes of a dead man. She herself had worn the clothes off a
dead
woman’s back. Squeamishness was a luxury no one could afford.
Although “new” clothes were made on the island, from animal skins and the
cotton
grown in the farmlands, they were typically reserved for the higher
ups—elders,
doctors, and the like. Cotton was difficult to grow in the cold climate,
and the
clothes were made entirely by hand. Once it had been worn and patched a
few times by
those with power, new clothing was eventually passed down to the lower
branches of
society,
But, it wasn’t just clothing that moved on after an islander died. All of
their
belongings were redistributed among those in need. The dead’s family
wasn’t allowed
to keep anything they didn’ tneed. Sentimentality was a lost emotion to the
islanders. Reusing everything was essential, even if the previous owner
was a dead
man.
It had only bothered her once—the first time she’d seen one of her
father’s outfits
on another man. Even then, at the tender age of ten, she’d understood it
was bound to
happen eventually. She just hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly. Only
a week
after his funeral, she’d spotted one of her neighbors walking down the
road in her
father’s clothes. She ran to him, hoping her father’s scent might still
linger on his
shirt. But the man neither embraced her nor offered her any sympathy. He
only looked
at her with wide eyes,the horror and disgust plain on his face.
Death on the island was such a strange thing. She’d lost track of how many
funerals
she’d been to in her lifetime—at least one a month. Unexpected deaths,
like that of
her match, added to the average.
Only three of the losses had actually meant something to her—her mother,
her father,
and now Wesley. Her father’s funeral was, of course, devastating, made
more so by the
fact that they’d shared the same first name. Everything the elders said
about him
could have also been applied to her. How they were thankful for “Ashley’s
life,” how
they wished “Ashley peace.”It sent shivers down her spine.
Once, she’d asked him why they shared a name. His mother’s name had been
Ashley, he’d
explained, as had her mother, and her father before that. On and on, down
the line,
the name had traveled, until it had reached Ashley. And one day, as was their
tradition, it would go to her own child.
The funeral for her mother, who had been taken by a simple cold that
escalated into
something much worse, was nothing more than a hazy memory. Still, Ashley
missed her
mother terribly and felt incomplete without her. She searched for her
whenever the
jasmine got caught on the wind, because her mother had loved to wear the
flower
behind her ear.
Wesley’s funeral was a problem. She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt
about it. The
loss of her parents had left her feeling completely alone. She’d hoped to
find love
again with her match, but he’d left her terribly disappointed.
Now that he was gone, her emotions warred with themselves. Relief was the
biggest
player fighting for space in her mind. Relief to have escaped the abuse
and the
pressures of being the next elder’s wife. Guilt came in at a close second,
but not
because she regretted killing her match.
It was because her best friend was being blamed for it.
Stephanie Erickson has always had a passion for the written word. She pursued her love of literature at Flagler College, in St. Augustine, FL, where she graduated with a BA in English. She has received several honors in her writing career, including recognition in the 72nd Annual Writer's Digest Competition.
After graduation, she married and followed her husband in pursuit of his dream. The Cure and The Blackout were written to reignite Stephanie's passion, when she found the time. Now that he is settled in his career, it's her turn to devote more time and energy into writing.
Stephanie currently has 4 projects planned for 2015. Her latest release, The Dead Room, is a post apocalyptic set on a lonely island 300 years in the future.
Stephanie, of course, loves to read and write. She also enjoys living on the beach on the Florida's Treasure Coast. Most of all, she and her husband are in love with their baby girl.
Stephanie Erickson has always had a passion for the written word. She pursued her love of literature at Flagler College, in St. Augustine, FL, where she graduated with a BA in English. She has received several honors in her writing career, including recognition in the 72nd Annual Writer's Digest Competition.
After graduation, she married and followed her husband in pursuit of his dream. The Cure and The Blackout were written to reignite Stephanie's passion, when she found the time. Now that he is settled in his career, it's her turn to devote more time and energy into writing.
Stephanie currently has 4 projects planned for 2015. Her latest release, The Dead Room, is a post apocalyptic set on a lonely island 300 years in the future.
Stephanie, of course, loves to read and write. She also enjoys living on the beach on the Florida's Treasure Coast. Most of all, she and her husband are in love with their baby girl.
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