The small future parables of Assumptions We Might Make About the Postworld take place in a world very much like our own—and not—weaving what amounts to a beguiling meditation on inconsolable loss. In the mundane dailiness of this world, men and women of forbearance and good nature embrace world-altering anomalies of difference ---- a missing part, a troubling cough, a lack of body altogether ---- with carefree insouciance. While somewhere just the next story over, amorphous aliens gorge on seconds, vast schools of glittering fish appear out of nowhere for secret visitations in the night, and a tiny private tear rends an opening in the fabric of the universe itself. Meantime, all they ever wanted—all any of them ever wanted ---- was something they might call grace before everything disappears altogether in the postworld, when herds of unrecognizable animals inherit the earth.
Katharine Haake's Assumptions We Might Make About the Postworld is such a pleasure to read and re-read. With their sometimes haunting, sometimes hilarious, always fantastical tales, these parables place us on steep literary heights, where we find ourselves looking down at a poignantly despoiled, comically unspooling world. After each story I ended up feeling warm, giddy, very precarious, and hungry for more.
---- Rod Val Moore, author of A History of Hands and Brittlestar
This is an odd little book, full of catastrophes accepted without question, and characters without names, told in a quiet, elegant, slightly old-fashioned language. --- Cherry Potts, Sabotage Review
Assumptions We Make About the Postworld is a chilling collection. Haake manages to tell sweet, simple, and terrifying stories that make the reader fear the future, but also question the present. Whether or not the events in the story could come true isn't the most burgeoning question. It's whether or not we could already be in a postworld state where such events and occurrences are common-place. And to me, that's more terrifying than any knot in my stomach or any cough that won't go away.
--- Alex Carrigan, Quail Bell Magazine