Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

The tiny car shuddered, and Lowell could feel the accelerator begin to go limp.

“No!” he cried. Lowell pressed the pedal to the floor, and systematically pumped it., as beads of sweat dripped down his pallid features. If he could only get over the crest of the next hill . . . But gravity wasn’t cooperating, and neither was the car. With a final spasm, the engine fell silent, and the car began to roll backwards. Lowell guided it onto what passed for the shoulder and threw the parking brake.

“What’s the matter?” Deacon asked from the passenger seat. His tiny glasses were fogged from the lack of air conditioning, and perspiration plastered his sandy hair to his head.

His only reply was a stream of inventive invectives, as Lowell hammered at the steering wheel.

Some time later, Lowell looked up. “We’re out of gas.” he said, as if Deacon had just asked.

“What?” Deacon glanced at the dashboard. “It says we’re half full!”

“It always says that.” Lowell muttered, opening his door and stepping out.

“Then look at the odometer!” Deacon cried.

“It doesn’t work either.” was the reply. “I just have to guess.”

Deacon flung his door open and leapt out, just as Lowell popped the trunk.

“What do we do now?” he asked.

“I’ve got a gas can in the trunk.” Lowell said.

“Thank God.”

Lowell slammed his hands down on the trunk’s rubber seal and swore. “An empty gas can.”

“Empty?”

“It’s like a game of chicken–either I lose and fill the tank, or the car loses and stops.” Lowell said, holding up the empty can. “I used this the last time I won.”

Deacon gave the car a halfhearted kick. “What now?”

“We walk.”

The creature was human-shaped, but unfinished. It had no face, just a featureless blank, and all the other finer details of the human form were missing. Its body was covered with elaborate raised lines that spiraled crazily over its body without rhyme or reason. It floated a few inches above the ground, in a relaxed, almost boneless, pose.

“There is no Zeitengel, and there never was,” it hissed. The words didn’t seem to issue from any particular point but were audible nonethtless. “That was only a name adopted to seed confusion and spur futile searching. The true author of his works has no name, no form, and cannot be comprehended by an ordered mind.”

“A-an ordered mind?” Susan stammered.

“The world is organized, ordered. There still exist dark places where order has never existed, and here dwell the ancient essences who embody all that order is not. To call them beings is to impose an order on that which has none, but they embody complete and utter chaos. The very structure of time and space was created to deny them access to reality, to keep them isolated in pockets of nothingness. They chafe under this, as is their nature, and desire nothing but to break free of their bonds and invade ordered space that such order might be destroyed.”

“I don’t understand,” Susan said. “And what exactly are you?”

“It matters not who or what I am. Suffice to say, I am not one of them, but merely a servant. I was placed here in the expectation that someone might come, and bidden to say what I have said. Do not think this aid; I have given myself wholly to chaos, and await only its inevitable arrival and the burning away of oppressive order. I am to spread chaos in the most efficient manner by moving you to action. Through struggle or inaction, you bring the destruction of your world order closer. Does it not fill you with a sense of importance, that one as insignificant as yourself may perform such mighty deeds?”

A gout of cold wind from the desolate plain chilled Susan to the quick. “Not really.”

“If you choose to embrace this mission–to embrace what is so regardless of your acceptance–you may become a servant like myself. By giving yourself wholly to chaos and the dark ones, you will be granted continuity rather than destruction. When the end comes, the cage of time and order about you will be stripped away, and you may take your place among the dark. Until their coming you will, like I, serve. Perhaps aiding the Anarchists in some way, perhaps as a font of wisdom like I. We are the vorhang, the blind, but we see more than all others combined. You are lucky in that you are aware of your state, and of your choices. Very few enjoy the same luxury as they wander through time. It is the closest to true freedom you can come while the oppressive order remains.”

Thomas couldn’t help but watch her from across the room, but then again neither could his friend Calvin; there was a magnetism there that wasn’t all that hard to explain in terms of physical attraction.

“Don’t stare,” Calvin said.

“You’re the one who’s staring.”

Everything about her–from her delicately managed winter tan to the confident polish strokes on her nails–bespoke a sharply intelligent woman that didn’t tolerate imperfection in herself or others. Calvin ruefully noted that her type was always looking to “trade up;” swapping a less desirable specimen for a fresh prospect at the earliest opportunity. After all, perfection was an ideal, and there was always someone out there who embodied it more.

Even when Thomas said something funny and she laughed, there was something feral in her scrunched nose and flash of ivory-white teeth–something that said “you may amuse me now, but watch your step or I will devour you.”

“Old Man Withers was a nasty piece of work. During the war he shot soldiers from both sides that set foot on his property, and he was famous for feeding ground-up glass to neighborhood dogs. The only thing that rotten Old Man Withers loved was chestnuts, fire-roasted, from his trees out back. They say he fertilized the trees with the bodies of trespassers.”

Howard emphasized each scene with a shadow puppet from the campfire’s light.

“But there was nobody to help him when Old Man Withers choked on a chestnut. Some people said they could hear him bargaining with the Devil with his final gasping breaths. They buried him in his own backyard. But wouldn’t you know it, one day a chestnut tree sprouted from Old Man Withers’ grave. They say that the tree has all the rotten old coot’s meanness pent up in it; more than that, it started gathering up the meanest souls that shuffled off in Royal County, maybe as part of some deal with Old Scratch himself.”

The assembled scouts drew closer.

“And when it was about as tall as a man, that mean old chestnut tree up and vanished. They say it walks these woods still, in the shape of a man, taking the souls of every man, woman, and child it meets. Any of you wonder how I know this?”

“H-how?”

Howard had turned away from the scouts to cast more shadows; he slipped on the bark mask that had been hidden in the bedroll.

One particular stretch of the walk, a dead-end utility road, was Jackson’s favorite. He liked the way thick foliage on either side cut busy nearby streets and buildings off from view; made him feel, if only for a moment, like he was out in the back country on a casual stroll instead of trying to save precious gas money by walking to the office.

That was only the most visible part of the atmosphere, of course.

The real attraction was the scent that filled the area during the springtime.

Even though the brambly wooded gullies on either side of the road revealed nary a visible blossom, the path always smelled strongly of wildflowers. Nevertheless, their presence was felt as soon as Jackson walked by; unlike many strong floral scents, he didn’t cease to percive it after a few moments.

It was almost as if he were walking somewhere breathtaking, like a flower show or a wide-open field scattered with blossoms rather than a dreary windowless office.

“Sorry I’m late,” said Sean. “I had to stop by Fabrics Plus. Abby wants new curtains.”

Adam and Job snickered from behind the games counter, the half-processed inventory of Streets of Fury 3 all but forgotten.

“What’s so funny about that?” Sean asked. “Also, the first person who makes a lewd pun about drapes is fired. That’s my wife we’re talking about.”

No, no,” said Job. “It’s just…can you imagine what would happen if they ran Fabrics Plus like a GamerStore?”

“Oh, that’s right, I forgot that Yarn 2.0 drops today,” said Adam. “I’m glad; Yarn 1.0 was too easy to snarl.”

“I bet you had that plus last week’s Threadbane III on pre-order” Job retorted. “I sewed in the beta and got to keep a square yard as long as I didn’t show it before the release date.”

“Do you have any used paisley cloth? I want to trade in three square yards of berber for paisley,” Adam said in falsetto.

“I’m sorry, we only have enough paisley for our pre-order customers,” Job replied, putting on a stoner voice. “We’ll be getting another shipment in a week.”

“You two are idiots.” Sean sighed and walked toward the back of the store. “No wonder we’re behind in sales this month.”

Many people pick up a pen because they hear the inscrutable call of the muse; they have a story that must be told, one which will haunt them until purged in the telling.

Mikey Kingston was not one of those people.

When he picked up his pencil in third period algebra or during lunch, it wasn’t because of some deep need to tell a story or write the Great American something or other. It wasn’t to write tales of high adventure of the sort alien to Howard J. Crittenden Junior High; it wasn’t to present as an offering to any of the Jennies, Katies, or Jessicas.

No.

Mikey Kingston wrote for revenge.

Not in the mean-spirited way, of course–he wasn’t making a hit list, which he was at pains to explain whenever the topic of literary revenge came up in the post-Columbine era.

Rather, Mikey had realized that, in real life, the savage Magma Men from Interion didn’t carry douches away to melt down for tallow in their Horrorariums deep below the great hollow rind of Mother Earth. In his fiction, sometimes that well-deserved fate was meted out.

At least that’s how it began, anyway.

God, there’s dirt everywhere you look. How did you let yourself become such a pig? Out comes the vacuum cleaner, the laughably small and shrill one that was Mom’s housewarming present. You lay into the carpet, vigorously dragging the unit back and forth, reveling in the tight lines it draws in the tight Berber fabric.

But it doesn’t seem to be picking anything up. Look there; you went over a fleck of granola three times, and yet that refugee of a hurried breakfast hasn’t budged. Cracking open the vacuum cleaner shows why: the bag’s full. When’s the last time you emptied it? Or is the floor so filthy that a few quick sweeps were grime enough to fill it? You shudder to think of her there, eying the floor askance, hesitating to kick off her boots for fear of getting black soles.

There’s the pile of dishes heaped in the sink, as well. Approaching, you remember why it’s been Chinese takeout and pizza for the last few days—every dish in the apartment is in there, from plates to scooped-out butter jars, all brimming with stagnant muck. You dip a finger in, withdrawing it a second later as if burned, flailing it in revulsion. Surely she has seen other messes like this; there’s no need to dive in and scrub when she probably has a sinkful just like it at home. Then comes the image of her on the couch, asking for a snack and having it come out on a napkin.

You run some water and break out the sponges, dry and hard from lack of use. Soapy water cascades to the floor, soaking into your socks and the rug. Another thing to clean, more time lost. You fill bag after bag with dripping paper towels; before long, mopping up the spill has turned into mopping the kitchen floor. Hair and crumbs and bits of dead leaves and dried noodles and more; your head starts to spin as the room takes on an antiseptic odor. The bathroom’s even worse; out with the Windex. Every surface has to shine.

Music, music. There’s got to be music to play. What’s in there now? Verde? What were you thinking? Who listens to Verde anymore but geeks and opera students? Disgusted, you drop the disc into its case. Isn’t there any popular music in this apartment? You paw through a stack of discs, cursing Mozart and Gershwin and Yo-Yo Ma as you go. Nothing that you think she might like, though come to think of it you have no idea what she listens to. A CD of James Bond theme songs is the hippest choice on hand; you jam it into the player, cursing.

In a dark and windswept place, the Lady and the Fighter met. A cool wind was blowing, making the Lady’s silvery cloak and the Fighter’s long black coat as things alive, writhing and twisting.

“What about…him?” the Fighter said. “If he returns, he’ll crush us. I can’t win against him–none of us can.”

‘”He is lost,” crowed the Lady, each word accentuated by a cloud of mist from her lips. “Swallowed by the darkness he created. There’s no more than an echo left, a pathetic little thing.”

“Let me kill him,” the Fighter said. “I’ll make it slow, so when I finally crush his skull, he’ll know…”

“No. You will leave the echo He is already broken. The echo is powerless to act, and is no threat to us. But, more than that, I want him to see our triumph. He sought to destroy us–now he will see us triumphant and simply fade away.” The Lady laughed, silver bells smothered in indigo velvet.

“I still think we’re making a mistake,” said the Fighter.

“Of course. Attacking, grappling, feeling the sour breath of your adversary in your face: that’s you. Far better to act with a subtler touch.” the Lady said. She made a sweeping gesture and rose off the ground, riding the wind like a gossamer thread. “Great things have been set in motion; go and do your part.” She wafted upward, and vanished among the clouds.

“And you do yours,” the Fighter muttered. The ground at his feet became tacky and malleable, and he sank into it. The precipice where the conspirators had met was left barren, as it had always been.

A small figure appeared at the edge, emerging from nothingness as a fuzzy outline before congealing into the form of a small child with dark hair. He stood for a moment, sadly regarding the desolate scene, and then vanished, fading away like a dream upon awakening.

You find yourself breaking away from the group, returning to Hoan Kiem in the center of town, gazing at passersby or the glass-smooth surface of the lake from a park bench.

The legends you hear from the locals speak of Emperor Lê Lợi, who the Golden Turtle God had given a magic sword to defeat the Chinese. After his victory, they say, a large turtle confronted the Emperor while he was boating and took the sword back until such time as it is needed again. That is why they call it Hoan Kiem, “Returned Sword Lake,” and descendants of that turtle supposedly still remain.

Like so many things, people said the turtles were only legend…at least until they made themselves known. One came ashore to die during the war, the year before Tet; you see it on display in the temple, a leathery giant over five feet long with no company in its gilded display case save a dehumidifier. People videotape other turtles when they appear, but none have been seen in years. You read an inset in your travel guide which claims that there may only be a single turtle left. Their kind lives to an advanced age; one may very well linger on, the last of its kind. Even if there were more, the lake’s edge is all hard cement, enveloped by the city of Hanoi.

There is nowhere for a mother turtle to bury her eggs.