After The Fall Blog Post

Hello my little munchkins. How are you all doing? I am doing okay. I haven’t had the chance to even touch my computer to write a blog posts for about a week and a half and even though this post was supposed to go up on the 11th like I had scheduled on my computer it did not so that is why I am posting it now.

Anyways, why don’t we get into it?

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After the Fall

By Brad Graber

Genre: Contemporary Fiction

Rikki, a teenager being raised by her grandmother, has a secret. She can’t remember her mother. Whenever Rikki asks the older woman a question, Rita falls apart and refuses to discuss the matter. Desperate to learn the truth, Rikki finds a hidden family album. Is the boy in the photograph with her mother a long lost uncle? Determined to solve the mystery, Rikki embarks on a journey from New York City to Toledo, then on to Detroit and Phoenix to meet Harry, a writer who is struggling with his own issues of identity.

From the award-winning writer of The Intersect, come After the Fall, a fast-paced, engaging read, with twists and turns that will surely surprise. After the Fall: an emotional roller-coaster of a mystery packed with personality and charm. Once you begin the journey, you won’t be able to turn back.

About the Author

Brad Headshot BW Web by Yucel Photo Dec2015_7009 (2).jpg

Brad Graber writes novels because he grew up in a family where no one ever listened to him – so he made up stories about them.

Born and raised in New York City, Brad obtained a B.A. in Biology from the State University of New York at Buffalo and an M.H.A. from Washington University in St. Louis, Missouri. A former healthcare executive, Brad has held a number of management positions and been a Fellow of the American College of Healthcare Executives and a Certified Medical Executive through Medical Group Management Association. Though he no longer works in healthcare, he continues to volunteer with local non-profits.

After the Fall is Brad’s second novel. His debut novel, The Intersect, released in 2016, has won multiple awards and garnered rave reviews.

Brad has lived in Highland Park, a suburb of Chicago; West Bloomfield, a suburb of Detroit; and Mill Valley, a suburb of San Francisco. He currently resides in Phoenix on the grounds of the Arizona Biltmore with his husband Jeff and their dog Charlie.

Twitter: @Jefbra1
Facebook: bradgraberauthor


On Amazon: 





“What are you doing?” Rita asked as she put on her coat, ready to go grocery shopping. “I thought you said you were coming with me.”

Rikki sat at the kitchen table. “I’m almost done.” She scribbled out a final sentence, as a look of pleasure swept across her face.

“That must be some letter,” Rita huffed. “Who are you writing to?” Rikki held up the legal pad. “This isn’t a letter. It’s a short story.” “Well, excuse me,” Rita snapped sarcastically, hands on her hips,

winter coat wide open. “My mistake. So, are we going or not?”
“Yes,” Rikki said as she marched off in her slippers to the bedroom.

“I need to change my shoes. I’ll just be a moment.”
When Rikki returned, coat in hand, Rita was sitting at the kitchen

table reading. She looked up as her granddaughter approached. Rikki was suddenly unnerved. There was a look in Rita’s eyes she hadn’t seen before. A look she didn’t understand. She readied herself for the criticism. To be mocked. Her adrenaline surged as she prepared to defend herself.

Rita smiled as she held the yellow pad. “This is good. Where’d you come up with the idea?”

Rikki rushed forward and grabbed the pad. “It’s not done yet.” “Oh, but it’s very good. I’d like to read more.”
Rikki suddenly felt ill. “It’s only a first draft.”
“I didn’t know you could write.” Rita opened her purse and

searched through it. “Why didn’t I know this?”
Rikki shrugged her shoulders. “There’s really nothing to know. It’s a

writing contest. The winner gets a scholarship. No big deal. I probably won’t win.”

Rita pulled out a Salem 100 and gently tapped it on the table. “Please don’t light that. Please,” Rikki begged.
Rita tried to squeeze the cigarette back into the pack. “Damn,” she

said as the cigarette broke in half. “Rikki, these are expensive. Now look what you made me do.”

“One less nail in the coffin,” Rikki muttered.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this short story?” Rita asked. “Am I that older woman?”




“It’s not about you,” Rikki clarified.

“Well, that isn’t very flattering. I’m thinking I’d make an interesting character.” Rita slid out of her coat and let it drop to the back of the chair. “So, what’s it about?”

“A journey,” Rikki offered. “A young girl goes off to find herself.” Rita broke into a broad smile. “Oh, well, that makes sense.”
Rikki pulled out a chair and sat down. “She travels to a place she’s

never been before and all sorts of wonderful things happen to her.” “Like Alice in Wonderland? The Wizard of Oz?”
“Kind of …”
And despite Rikki’s request, Rita took out another cigarette and

this time she lit it, inhaling deeply before exhaling up toward the ceil- ing. “Honey, it’s been done before and by far better writers.”

“I suppose,” Rikki said as she clutched the short story to her chest.

“You know, you remind me of your mother right now.” Rita took another drag as she eyed her granddaughter. “She thought she had this great talent. She attended Music and Art High School in Manhat- tan. I didn’t want her to go. It was so silly. No one can earn a living as a painter, unless of course they’re painting the outside of your house. And then she got that scholarship to Cranbrook’s Academy of Art. Spending her day dreaming impossible dreams. I think of that and wonder what might have happened if she’d been an administrative assistant or a bookkeeper. Something practical. Logical. She might still be alive.” Rita shifted her focus to her right index finger and a chipped nail.

“At least she was happy,” Rikki said, bringing her back to the conversation.

“Happy? You think she was happy?” Rita shook her head to the contrary. “She wanted to live in Europe. Study in Paris. She’d often say. ‘If I had studied overseas, I’m certain I could have become a marvelous portrait painter.’”

“Why didn’t she go to Paris?”

Rita put her cigarette out, smashing it into the ashtray with a twist. “Because people like us don’t go to Paris. We don’t do anything”


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