Rachel A. Rosen (she/her) is an activist, graphic designer, and for her sins, a high school teacher. In a previous life, she published two long running anarchist 'zines and designed the uniform for the Christie Pits Hardball League.
She is the author of Cascade, the first book in The Sleep of Reason trilogy and its sequel, Blight. With Zilla Novikov, she is the co-author of The Sad Bastard Cookbook: Food You Can Make So You Don't Die.
More of her writing can be found in the Toronto Star, Trollbreath, Beyond Human: Tales of the New Us, Instant Classic (That No One Will Read), Antifa Lit Journal, Anarchist Fictions, and The Dance. Rachel co-hosts the Wizards & Spaceships podcast with David L. Clink.
In the wake of a worsening climate crisis, magic runs rampant and demons roam across the Canadian prairies. A long-dead god stirs in the Pacific Ocean, while the wilderness is choked by invasive, screaming grass.
The Cascade has shattered political stability, leaving a scandal-plagued government clinging to power in Ottawa. As catastrophe looms ahead, a precognitive political rainman, Ian Mallory, stands between run-of-the-mill corruption and a nightmarish, dystopian future. It is up to a diverse and unlikely band of activists, scientists, journalists, and one underpaid, emoji-spell wielding intern to save their beleaguered country from its own worst impulses.
Another thing I greatly enjoy is seeing how different authors approach a somewhat similar theme. Whereas other authors may create their own language and very different landscape, sometimes the scariest post-apocalypse stories are set in lands we easily recognize, enough that their similarities to our own world cannot be denied, even as the author twists that once-familiar setting into something new and terrible. In her novel Cascade, Rachel Rosen has done just that, taking the Canada we once knew, adding magic, and turning it into something darker, more malevolent, with a rag-tag group of desperate truthseekers standing against utter environmental catastrophe. It's a story that will remain with you long after you''ve finished it. – The SFWA
"A near-perfect blend of implacable horror, gallows humor, and ecological apocalypse. It seems almost absurd that a novel about chaos magic and bureaucrat magicians (even if they are embedded in the sociopathic morass of Canadian politics) can somehow feel more viscerally relevant than all the earnest mainstream novels and Suzuki-Foundation bulletins you could stuff into a ballot box. Pay attention, people: all magic aside, we're far closer to this future than any of our rulers will ever admit. Rachel A. Rosen is some kind of twisted genius. I wish I had even half her moves."
– Peter Watts, author of Blindsight"Finally, an urban fantasy that kills the cop — and the rest of the government — in your head. Relentlessly radical and often hilarious, Cascade will change the way you look at magic, and the state, forever."
– Nick Mamatas, author of The Second Shooter"Imagine a Canadian version of the TV show The Thick of It, set in Canada, where Malcolm Tucker isn't an obscenity-spewing Scottish PR mavin, but an equally foul-mouthed Newfoundlander who just happens to be an actual wizard. Also the whole world is on fire, and the only people not arguing over which colour dixie cup of water should be used to extinguish the fire are the people reaching for jerry-cans full of naphtha."
– James Nicoll for Tor.comBlythe interrupted, with a phone call rather than a text, a rarity for her.
"There's a thing," she said, instead of hello.
The last time she'd called unscheduled, it was to tell him that she'd come face-to-face with motherfucking Cthulhu and almost died. She sounded more frantic now, but the tinny distance and her own rush to explain masked any fear that a normal person, a civilian, might feel. Funny how, through all their fights, through the broken crockery and promises, they slipped so easily into their old dynamic when the pressure was on, Blythe racing ahead of him, breathless, and Jonah never quite catching up.
"And there are blips. Several blips," Blythe added, quickly, translating from scientist-who'd-been-buried-in-this-for-months to regular person sans context. "But none recently. Until three days ago, when there was a temperature spike like the ones right before Y2K."
What she didn't say was, the ones that started the Cascade. Everyone, scientist or not, knew what a sudden temperature spike in the deep ocean heralded.
The world is ending. It wasn't, really. The world is never ending. What ends is the subjective, personal reality that one has carefully constructed over a lifetime, the plans and human ties and ideologies and the physical trappings of home and family that always seemed immutable, permanent. The Earth itself would, in all probability, march on, as it had through the Black Death, through the bloodthirsty colonization of Turtle Island, through both World Wars, through the Cascade and each one of its horrors and wonders—though whether at the end of this blip it would continue to be able to support human life remained to be seen—but it wouldn't end. It is only your own, personal, fragile world that is always in danger.
"The SVAR delegation is here," Jonah said. "I'm—I can get you a meeting, maybe in a day or two…"
"You know that bit in the disaster movie where the egghead in the lab coat is running down corridors, trying to convince the bigwigs that a volcano is about to explode?"
He drew in a breath. He doubted she'd worn a lab coat since first year university, but she'd made her point all the same. "That's where we are?"
"That's where we are. Except I'm not running down hallways because they were observing to see if I had a concussion and they haven't cleared me for frantic running."
He glanced at the clock on the monitor. 8:43 am. Technically, his work day was just starting. Gaby Abel, career reluctantly resuscitated to shovel shit like unexpected enviro-magical catastrophes, was at the Holiday Inn meeting. And Ian, the only person who had a genuine grip of the stakes, was in full-scale whirlwind mode, attempting, via black magic or seduction or bribery, to bend to his will the selfsame CEOs that as a young man, he'd declared guillotine-fodder.
"I'll do what I can," he told Blythe. He hung up with an apologetic look to the stack of papers, which after several hours of analysis, were barely closer to politically palatable. And there was the looming prospect of whatever it was Ian intended to trade in exchange for not tracking explosive pipelines through the Rockies.
He was calm. He was collected. Everything was still under control.
Sujay was at her desk, looking for all intents and purposes on top of things, which, he gathered, was the advantage of being an illusionist. "How well do you speak wizard?"
"Ehhh—" She made a so-so gesture, which he identified as unnecessary humility, given that she was a wizard. He herded her over to Ian's desk.
"Direct Ian-to-English translation: everything we do will fuck us. The SVAR delegation can't, under any circumstances, be allowed to leave with an agreement on wellspring access nor can they, equally important, be allowed to leave disappointed with our government. This slaughtered forest is an entirely unverifiable study of every potential outcome that led to this conclusion. Your first task, as Ian's apprentice rather than his intern, is to phrase that, and what I just told you, in government jargon so if it comes to a vote in Parliament, everyone knows what to do. The fate of the world depends upon it. Can you manage that?"
Not missing a beat, Sujay said, "Of course."
"I see why he likes you." He flashed her the grin that countless women had told him was irresistibly charming and roguish, and gathered what remained of his things. Let the girl keep thinking that the government ran on goodwill and ponies for as long as anyone could maintain that smokescreen. Poor thing; she'd probably gone into politics to make the world a better place, or something.
"Where're you going?"
"To help out an egghead scientist," Jonah said.
