Oh God, The Sun Goes

by David Connor

Genres: General Fiction; Absurdist Fiction; Literary Fiction; Science Fiction; Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi

Synopsis

"A highly original and engagingly odd book." - Brian Evenson, author of Song for the Unraveling of the World

"...wondrous...mysterious...Connor lands plenty of stimulating riffs on themes of memory, love, and loss, all in lyrical prose and suffused with surreal imagery." - Publishers Weekly

An "indescribable marvel" (Jonathan Lethem) of a debut novel from a brilliant new voice

The sun has disappeared from the sky. No one can explain where it has gone, but one wayward traveler is determined to try. As our unnamed narrator begins his odyssey across the parched landscapes of the American Southwest, he is drawn into a web of illusion and mystery, a shifting astral mindscape that shimmers with the aftermath of loss—and the promise of redemption.

Oh God, the Sun Goes is a hallucinatory and deadpan picaresque that suddenly swerves into a love story of soaring poignance. Truly “the stuff that dreams are made of” – or maybe nightmares?

Apocalyptic, mesmerizing, and utterly unique, Oh God, the Sun Goes introduces readers to a young and keenly inventive mind.

4 one of a kind illustrations within and on the outside a cool holographic foil stamp cover.

Release date: August 1, 2023

Publisher: Melville House

Print pages: 240

Sample

A city emerges from flatness. Like floating, like falling slowly asleep.
 
If the town of Sun City appeared as a vision in a dream, it would most likely be a daydream, and it would most likely be a town where are all the houses were the same more or less – the lawns the same hue of green, the streets aligned in the same way in each corner of the grid. At one end of town, there would be a golf course with a large water fountain at the center, a manmade lake with ducks and lily pads and reeds along the side. At the center of town, there would be a post office, and a post office employee standing outside the office waving. In the corner of his eye, there would be a reflection of a bird traveling at a few hundred feet above ground, the bird’s vision taking in an aerial view of the scene, which reveals a town in the shape of a perfect O, a circle of houses surrounding a radial center and expanding out towards the desert in perfect symmetry. A Sun City, indeed, a town in the shape of a sun. If Sun City appeared in a dream, it would be a dream induced by the heat of the desert, or induced in a state of delusion brought on from driving too many miles. If Sun City were a town in a dream, it would be a town that doesn’t make sense in the desert, too round, too green. If Sun City were a town in a dream, it would be a retirement town and all of its residents would be over the age of sixty-five. They would drive golf carts and wear similar shirts and make jokes whose punch lines ended with immediate laughter. The laughter would start violently and then trail off as everyone caught their breath. If Sun City were a town in a dream, it would be a desert town, a sleeping eye, a flattened sun. But Sun City is not a town in a dream but a town in Arizona, in the northern bounds of the Maricopa County line, just twenty miles north of Phoenix, a few miles further from Tempe.
 
            “Is everything all right?” a voice asks as I step out of my car into the asphalt parking lot.
 
A man stands at the center of the asphalt, a pair of binoculars in his hands. He’s an older man, a resident of Sun City.
 
            “Is everything all right?” he asks again, setting the binoculars to his side. The man is heavyset, blue-eyed, reddish face. On his shirt, he has a tag that reads Parking Lot Attendant.

            “I’m all right,” I say, gathering to my feet. “Just here to meet somebody.”

            “Who’s that?” says the man, stepping closer.

             “I’m looking for the sun,” I say. “I’m here to see Dr. Higley.”
 
It becomes clear that the man is a long-time resident of Sun City, a volunteer at the Visitor’s Center. He pauses for a minute, and his face becomes redder.
 
            “Higley?” says the man. “Higley.”

            “That’s right,” I say. “I believe he lives here.”

            “Well, this is a retirement town,” says the man, looking straight at me then blinking. “We’ve got over twenty-thousand residents here.”
 
I look around.
 
            “Higley,” repeats the man, adjusting the tag on his shirt; it’s a collared shirt, color of mud, he ruffles it. “You know what?” he says. “That name sounds familiar. Let me run inside and check.”
 
The man turns around and disappears through a pair of double doors – Visitor’s Center – a moment later, he comes back with a note in his hand.
 
            “I got a hold of his wife,” he says, “Martha,” slipping me the note. “14073 Oakmont Drive, that’s the address. And so you know, they’re not expecting you for a few hours.”

            “That’s what I thought,” I say. “Thank you.”

            “If you’ve got time,” adds the man in a low voice. “There’s somewhere in town I think you should visit. It’s not far from their house, good place to pass an hour.”

            “Sure,” I say.

            “It’s the Sun City Museum,” says the man. “Good place to pass time.”

             “Okay,” I say. “I’ll think about it,” and thank him.

            “Just to pass time,” says the man, smiling.
 
I nod and head back towards my car. And the man returns to his post and reaches for his binoculars. He waves as I leave the parking lot.
 
            “Just to pass time,” he yells again, waving. A minute later, he’s gone.
 
A minute later, I’m driving through the middle of Sun City, past one-story bungalow houses, and rooftop satellite dishes, and sprinklers in yards twisting in precise mechanical spasms, relieving the grass of its dryness and heat. Must be the hour for that, because the sprinklers are moving at a fairly quick pace, turning each yard into a color of green that doesn’t belong in the desert.

After some driving, a yard appears up ahead with a sign in the front reading Sun City Museum, so I pull over the car and step outside.

           Sun City Township, established 1960, Del E. Webb Construction Company.
           Sun City Museum, reads a placard. Historical Landmark.

The museum is a house at the end of the block, no different from the others around it – yard, rooftop, antenna – an identical antenna atop each slated-roof, atop each one-story home in Sun City, pointing upward and awkwardly at the same desert sky. After a sprinkler’s twist, I open the front door of the museum and step inside a dark room.

The only discernible trace at first is a smell, an odor like metal or perfume. And as the odor fades, a room comes into focus; a living room set as if from the year 1960.

At the center of the room is a long oak coffee table; next to it, a couch and a sand-colored carpet stretching halfway across the floor. The couch is wrapped in a thin plastic slipcover, and resting atop the table are a few items like a pennwood clock, a triangle ashtray, and a small silver tin of assorted caramel candies. From a room in the back, the sound of a radio can be heard just barely, playing an old-fashioned group like the Fleetwoods or the Coasters.
 
The sound of a person can be heard as well, shuffling a few papers on a desk in the back, until it becomes clear that they’ve noticed my presence, and the radio shuts off, a pair of feet scurrying out to the entrance room to greet me.