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About this product
Product Identifiers
PublisherCreateSpace
ISBN-101483991911
ISBN-139781483991917
eBay Product ID (ePID)159915330
Product Key Features
Book TitleCatastropolis
Number of Pages230 Pages
LanguageEnglish
Publication Year2013
TopicGeneral
GenreFiction
AuthorBrad Beals
FormatTrade Paperback
Dimensions
Item Height0.6 in
Item Weight14.4 Oz
Item Length9 in
Item Width6 in
Additional Product Features
Intended AudienceTrade
SynopsisWhen the unimaginable happens to the stable world of Liam, Jack, and Josiah, when all but a few scattered souls are lost, the structures of society fail - utterly, and maybe forever. It is here in this new, primitive age that our young heroes must find their way, that boys, armed with the Word of the God of their fathers, must band together, learn to be men, and lead their people out of the wilderness. And like all great stories of survival, life and death will contend for them every step of the way. Catastropolis is a story of apocalyptic endings and hopeful beginnings. It holds forth a vision of what society could be: creative, simple, and God fearing, made up of citizens who, like Nehemiah, must work with a trowel in one hand and a sword in the other. It is a story that answers the call of all great literature "to teach and to delight," portraying the heart of man so that we are made to reconsider - or perhaps consider for the first time - our place in the world and the fundamentals of society that we now take for granted., Poor Josiah. Poor, filthy, illiterate Josiah Mench. Not even Liam, the closest thing he has to a friend, can stand to be near him. But friendship of any kind becomes a matter of survival when pandemic tears the world to pieces. Now, the survivors--children here and there, untouched by the plague--must hang together or die. Catastropolis is a book of endings. When a single generation is lost, the structures of society fail--utterly, maybe forever. But there are beginnings too, visions of what life in a new future might hold for those willing to fight for it. It is here in this new, primitive age that Josiah finds his voice, and a new people find a prophet to lead them out of the wilderness. But it is also here that heaven and hell will contend for them first. Chapter 1 My neighbors see this work as a chartered undertaking, a sanctioned effort. They want to be a part of it, and rightly so, for this is their story. So at all opportunities they encourage me with helpful offerings. I try to accept them with grace. Dori Kelso's funeral last week brought me this: Max Gailey whispering in one ear that I must remember the corn blight of '28, his grandson in the other that I must not forget the tornados that took houses on three straight days in September of '42. Three straight days Noah Street, who boards our cow and delivers our milk in the morning, is a walking catalogue of obituaries filed by year and cause of death. His wife, who accompanies him on alternate days, manages the births, and from them both I receive faded bulletins at no fee. Even the children bring me scraps of history, some stretched in the telling of their elders beyond all recognition. At these I smile and say, "A tale for your own hearth maybe." Be it calamity or bounty, war or truce, signs in the heavens or signs at our feet, all of it, according to my neighbors, is to have a place in this chronicle. And yet, as broadly cast as the fragments are, there is one memory that recurs in us, in all of us from that first generation. At the conclusion of an interview or following a relived bygone that simply must have its own chapter, my New Alaiedon neighbor will go wistful and nostalgic, or steely-eyed and amazed, and he'll remember him. He may share a story, or he may go quiet for a time at the recollection. Sometimes a hand will rise of its own impulse and touch lightly the forehead, as if in blessing. But eventually, they'll all say something like, "And of course you'll have to tell them about Josiah. Josiah Mench, I mean.", Poor Josiah. Poor, filthy, illiterate Josiah Mench. Not even Liam, the closest thing he has to a friend, can stand to be near him. But friendship of any kind becomes a matter of survival when pandemic tears the world to pieces. Now, the survivors--children here and there, untouched by the plague--must hang together or die. Catastropolis is a book of endings. When a single generation is lost, the structures of society fail--utterly, maybe forever. But there are beginnings too, visions of what life in a new future might hold for those willing to fight for it. It is here in this new, primitive age that Josiah finds his voice, and a new people find a prophet to lead them out of the wilderness. But it is also here that heaven and hell will contend for them first.Chapter 1My neighbors see this work as a chartered undertaking, a sanctioned effort. They want to be a part of it, and rightly so, for this is their story. So at all opportunities they encourage me with helpful offerings. I try to accept them with grace. Dori Kelso's funeral last week brought me this: Max Gailey whispering in one ear that I must remember the corn blight of '28, his grandson in the other that I must not forget the tornados that took houses on three straight days in September of '42. Three straight days! Noah Street, who boards our cow and delivers our milk in the morning, is a walking catalogue of obituaries filed by year and cause of death. His wife, who accompanies him on alternate days, manages the births, and from them both I receive faded bulletins at no fee. Even the children bring me scraps of history, some stretched in the telling of their elders beyond all recognition. At these I smile and say, "A tale for your own hearth maybe." Be it calamity or bounty, war or truce, signs in the heavens or signs at our feet, all of it, according to my neighbors, is to have a place in this chronicle. And yet, as broadly cast as the fragments are, there is one memory that recurs in us, in all of us from that first generation. At the conclusion of an interview or following a relived bygone that simply must have its own chapter, my New Alaiedon neighbor will go wistful and nostalgic, or steely-eyed and amazed, and he'll remember him. He may share a story, or he may go quiet for a time at the recollection. Sometimes a hand will rise of its own impulse and touch lightly the forehead, as if in blessing. But eventually, they'll all say something like, "And of course you'll have to tell them about Josiah. Josiah Mench, I mean."
