Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

Kevin had never liked Emmett very much, and the feeling was mutual. But, given the proximity of their cubicles, the two were bound to run into each other frequently.

And they did.

Kevin returned from lunch one day find all his pictures on the floor and his cubicle swaying like San Francisco during a 6.9. Emmett was on his end, Allen wrench in hand.

“What the hell?”

“I measured. Your cubicle’s six inches wider than mine, so I’m just correcting that little oversight,” said Emmett.

“How can you do that?” Kevin cried.

“Oh, it’s easy. The stuff’s all modular; all you need is the right tool.”

“I’ll be blunt,” Ken says. “I can’t fix this. Have you got a cell phone?”

“No,” you say.

“Perfect. Wonderful. Great. Fantastic.” Ken mutters. How far do you think it is to the nearest gas station?”

“I haven’t seen anything but wild grass for a long time,” you say, “I get the feeling it’s a long walk in either direction.”

Ken swears thickly and fluently. “Well, what do we do now?”

You look up at the approaching dusk. “Got a flashlight?”

“No.”

“Then we stay here. At least until morning.”

I’d never seen him so pale or gaunt. His eyes were sunken, riveted to the bank of monitors in front of him, and his clothes hung loosely from his emaciated frame. He clearly hadn’t seen the sun or any other light except his flat screens for weeks.

“My God, you look awful,” I said.

“The outside reflects the inside,” he replied without moving.

“You need to get up and do something,” I said. “You’re letting these people do whatever they like with your stuff. Kevin is out there now using your charge card, and Mary’s been tooling around in your car.”

“They’re doing what I’d like to do,” came the reply. “What the hell’s wrong with that?”

“You’re not doing it and they are. You’re letting them take over your life.”

A hoarse laugh. “Maybe so. Maybe I took over theirs. They’re kids, you know, really. Away from home for the first time, going out, establishing identities. It’s what I’ve wanted all along…”

“What you wanted?”

“You heard me.”

The crowd below began to cheer loudly even before Steyr stepped onto the podium; cries of joy and praise filtered up from below, bringing a smile to the young Prime Minister’s face.

“Citizens!” she cried, her voice echoing from speakers up and down the plaza. Steyr had to wait a moment as the cheers died down before she spoke again. “We stand at the threshold of the greatest event in the history of our fair nation! The dream of my mother, her mother, and all the Prime Ministers back to the foundation will now at last come to fruition! We have fought, we have suffered, and we have triumphed over all who would oppose us!”

“Victory!” came the cry from below.

“All resistance has been crushed. All are now included in our glorious vision. Only the final step remains: we shall once again go forth, and attain what eluded even the Founding Ministers themselves: a victory so absolute that a thousand years will not dull its memory!”

Louisa had once opened her eyes, but soon closed them again, without apparent consciousness. This had been a proof of life, however, of service to her sister; and Henrietta, though perfectly incapable of being in the same room with Louisa, was kept, by the agitation of hope and fear, from a return of her own insensibility. Mary, too, was growing calmer.

The surgeon was with them almost before it had seemed possible. They were sick with horror, while he examined; but he was not hopeless. The head had received a severe contusion, but he had seen greater injuries recovered from: he was by no means hopeless; he spoke cheerfully.

That he did not regard it as a desperate case, that he did not say a few hours must end it, was at first felt, beyond the hope of most; and the ecstasy of such a reprieve, the rejoicing, deep and silent, after a few fervent ejaculations of gratitude to Heaven had been offered, may be conceived.

The tone, the look, with which “Thank God!” was uttered by Captain Wentworth, Anne was sure could never be forgotten by her; nor the sight of him afterwards, as he sat near a table, leaning over it with folded arms and face concealed, as if overpowered by the various feelings of his soul, and trying by prayer and reflection to calm them.

Louisa’s limbs had escaped. There was no injury but to the head.

It had been clear and calm earlier in the day, but since Jacobs’ death an unsettled feeling had fallen over the valley, though Karen couldn’t be sure if the link was real or imagined. Still, when she left the house, she had to pause for a moment to take it all in.

A scene of incredible beauty and power greeted her when the door opened. Dark clouds rolled from horizon to horizon. There wasn’t a breath of wind, just an eerie twilight and the distant rumble of thunder.

“The calm before the storm,” Karen murmured. “I’d better get a move on.”

You never appreciate your mortality so much as when you’ve been injured.

“Scale this up a little, and I’m dead.”

It’s the little wounds that make me think the most. The other day I was trying to open a stubborn container of creamer and before I knew it my knuckle was gushing blood from a scrape. A little thing like that had the power to wound me so deeply I still carry the scar of it wrapped in bandaids.

That’s what it was like with Maxine. She gave me but a little nick, but the scar stayed with me to this day—and I’ve often wondered how much more it would have taken to end me.

The impact slammed Matthias against the bulkhead like a limp rag doll. He could still hear the alarm blaring, mingling with the ringing in his ears, but his body felt drained, empty. He didn’t even feel any pain, just a dull sensation in his lower back.

“Depth charge! Depth charge!” Someone—it might have been the captain—was screaming, but it was hard to hear him over the roaring and rattling that filled the air.

Matthias thought it all very silly; what good was it yelling about anything? He was too relaxed to care, and despite the seawater beginning to pool around his ankles he felt quite warm.

Everything would be all right after he’d had a little nap.

Without her, the house seemed empty and foreboding. The sun didn’t shine as brightly—the entire world seemed faded, as if it had been bleached.

Marshall looked out the second-story window and sighed. “Where are you?” he said.

The treeline at the edge of the yard undulated in the light summer breeze, answering the question with another.

“What am I supposed to do now?” Marshall asked. “I…I never thought I’d say this, even to myself, but I’m lost. And I don’t know if I can stand to lose you.”

Boughs rocked back and forth gently, as if nodding.

But I digress. This professor, who I believe I said should remain nameless, had it in his mind to debunk before the class each and every emotion known to man.

And he started with love.

“Love,” he said,” is merely a biochemical reaction designed to see that our genes are passed on. Do any other creatures feel love as we experience it? Of course not! It’s all instinct, from the courtship dance to the nest building. Anyone who says otherwise probably works for a greeting card company or chocolatier.”

“When you reduce things to their basics,” he continued, “it’s all biochemistry.”

My neighbor in the lecture leaned over. “Word has it he’s conducting some practical experiments along those lines after hours.”