Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

“How can you ignore the plight of our planet?” Kayleigh cried, thrusting her flier into Dr. Stewart’s face once again.

“Oh, I’m not ignoring anything,” said Stewart. “You kids are too young to remember the Love Canal, but it was big news in my day.”

“Love Canal? Is that like a carnival ride?”

“No, the problem for me isn’t the message but who’s delivering it. Imagine, Kayleigh, that you live next to a straitlaced conservative Republican. And imagine that he’s always telling you to quit smoking. You know he’s probably right, but the fact that he rubs you the wrong way and stands for everything you don’t keeps you from taking the advice out of sheer human nature.”

An instant message window popped open while she worked, attracting no notice until a second message arrived a few moments later.

millerpond1987 (6:31:24 PM): hey sis

millerpond1987 (6:31:37 PM): hows it hangin

Sharon’s typing stopped. She groped for the glass of water at the desk’s edge, only to knock it to the floor. Her other hand hovered over the keyboard, unsteady.

That was Paul’s usual greeting—the lack of capitals that belied his degree in fine arts, the terrible pun he knew she hated that invariably accompanied all his communications, written or spoken. Even the font color and style matched.

It was almost enough to make Sharon forget that Paul had been dead for nearly six weeks now.

The sun was setting over the tundra, painting the frosted hills a vibrant purple and softening the ugly edges of the huts at their foot. The traveler stared down at the rickety houses made of corrugated steel and plywood, and then looked over at the caribou herd, safe behind their protective fence.

As she watched, the sun caught the snow at just the right angle to erupt in a flare of light. The huts and fence vanished amid the glare, and for a moment it was as if they had never been there at all, as if when God knelt to make the earth, he had left this place completely new, utterly untouched, forever.

“Okay, how about this,” said Travis. “We can outsource our entertainment coverage to a firm in Liverpool. It’ll save us the time and expense of writing the news up ourselves, and since entertainment is a global industry these days, no one will notice.”

Murmurs of assent were heard around the boardroom table.

“Are you sure about that?” Jason said. “Need I remind you of our disastrous decision to outsource our computer science coverage to Pakistan?”

“That was never proven!” snapped Travis. “Here, take a look at my next slide. It’s a real-time mockup of how the site would look, complete with actual breaking news!”

The page loaded, displaying the following banner headline: Sir Nigel Westlake’s Departure Throws Spanner Into Works of New BBC Programme ‘Orchestral Colours’.

“Oh yes,” Jason said. “No one will notice that’s Liverpudlian, certainly not.”

Dr. Barrett could always be relied on to block anything the faculty senate tried to vote on, whether by ceaseless questioning, filibustering, or endless motions for amendment. Sam often remarked, and I was inclined to agree, that the old bag treated the meetings as her own private airing of grievances. She wasn’t so much participating as holding court.

That attitude had earned her the moniker of “Princess Senatus,” among the other senators which in the grand old tradition of academic puns wasn’t understandable to anyone without a PhD in something or other. Sam thought it was the funniest thing in the world, and was always trying to explain it to his undergraduates:

“See, it’s a pun. Augustus was the “Princeps Senatus,” the First Man of the Senate, and the word senator actually comes from the word for old man, so we’re really calling her the old man princess!”

In response, the students would try to text from behind their schoolbooks, and I can’t say I blamed them.

Kaprov sighed, his face lit by the fires of his dying city.

“So this is the paradise they promised me,” he said. “Freedom from poverty, freedom from death. The Bolsheviks said that if we could shake off the shackles of class, we’d be able to…trancend all this.”

“In a way, you have,” Semyonik murmured. His head was in his hands. “We have seen the end of our city. We have seen the beginning of something completely different. We have transcended something all right, but we’re still dying a minute at a time.”

The book was extremely worn: its binding had cracked and frayed, numerous pages were dog-eared or torn, and wrinkled or water damaged leaves had swelled the volume to double its original thickness. The word “Journal” was printed in block letters on the front cover, the word run through with voyeuristic thrills.

Virginia eased it open and read the stumbling, awkward handwriting that made up the first entry:

“June 17th 1853. thot i’d start writin down things so i can recolect em when things get all gray up ther. met with rangers agin today, had to tel walter of for 2nd time. bastird wont be happy til we got a ide war party in prosperity squar. maryanne is feelin beter today an she let me feel th babee kickin.”

Pride, lust, greed, envy, anger. If ever these traits had manifested themselves in a single person it was Bernard Orleans. Mick vividly remembered the first time they’d met: he’d been hurrying to his office on the first day of work when he rounded a sharp corner and ran headlong into someone going the other way.

“Oh! Oh, I’m so s-”

The man he’d run into—short, wild-haired, broad-shouldered—cut Mick off, pushing him to the wall and holding him there with an arm on each shoulder.

“Explain yourself! I’m not used to being attacked, least of all in my own office!”

“I…sorry…was…accident…” the shock of the impact and assault had left Mick scrambling for words.

“Hah! In my experience there’s no such thing as accidents—only deliberate injuries and incompetence! So which were you guilty of, eh boy?”

“Look here, Graham. You know as well as I do that the city’s budget is in freefall. People in breadlines don’t buy furniture. Factories that don’t sell furniture don’t pay taxes. No taxes, no Ryerson Library.”

“I’ve heard about budget problems for eight years, Mike,” said Graham. “When the Dow was at three hundred plus we were talking about budget cuts. The library’s always been just above the dog pound in terms of importance in the budget.”

“This time it’s not just because the city council wants to renovate the baseball stadium. Look, Graham, I’m not going to fire you. But there’s no money to pay you this month. My advice is to go home and take it easy—if you stay here, you’re working for free.”

Graham stormed to the door. “That’s not the kind of thing you tell a friend, Mike,” he growled. “Especially not one you’ve worked with for eight years.”

Mike sighed. “Out of my hands. Look on the bright side: now you’ve got all the time you could ever want to chase that damn book down without any distractions.”

“Daddy,” Tia said. “Daddy, can you hear me?”

Juan stirred. “Tia,” he said in a flat voice. “Hello, angelita.”

“Dr. Crowe tells me that you haven’t been eating very much, Daddy. He says that you hit an orderly when they tried to feed you.”

“I’m waiting for your mother, Tia. Laura promised me that she would return if I did as she asked, and now I’m waiting for her. Won’t you stay with me until she comes? Laura misses you so, Tia.”

His daughter shook her head, eyes wet. “She’s not coming, Daddy. She’s dead. She died while you were away, years ago. Don’t you remember?”

“Of course, angelita,” Juan said, “But she promised to come back once I set things right. I did just as she asked, and now I’m going to wait here. She never lied.”