Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

And then you have the one-hit wonders, people that produce a single magnificent piece of literature and then nothing again. Harper Lee came out of nowhere with To Kill a Mockingbird and to nowhere she returned save for a cameo in In Cold Blood. J. D. Salinger did the same with Catcher in the Rye, with it and a few short stories representing his entire oeuvre. We can even add Joseph Heller to that pile, since so much of his limited later work is a pale reflection of Catch-22.

People often wonder why this happens, but it seems perfectly clear: the novels are autobiographical to the extent that the author’s voice and the main character’s voice merge and are one and the same. Harper Lee was Scout Finch. Holden Caulfield represented the deepest opinions that Salinger held, ones he was afraid to declare openly. Heller was a smartass and a war veteran. The authors told only one story because they had only lived one story.

If you check the medical records, it’s all there in plain black and sepia. From June 1 to July 1, out of the roughly 150,000 troops scheduled to take part in the offensive, nearly 5,000 were treated for hemorrhagic nosebleeds. Add to that voluminous complaints of piercing headaches (10,000 cases) hearing voices (8,000 cases), grand mal seizures (500 cases), and even a reported case of spontaneous combustion.

This despite optimistic predictions and generally high morale.

The fact is, there was a strong sense that something terrible was about to happen. And, of course, it was borne out for nearly 60,000 of those troops by the first of July.

“I’m in the hallway outside,” said Jordan. “I don’t see any more of those things.”

“Wonderful,” squawked Graves through the walkie-talkie. “Don’t you think you could have waited another forty seconds and simply come into the lab?”

“I wanted you to be expecting me.”

“I was already expecting you! Now stop babbling and cover the last fifteen point seven-two meters to your destination!”

Jordan gritted her teeth. “I told you before, Dr. Graves, I’m sick of your attitude.”

“And I told you before, Ms. Avery, that your feelings on the matter are strictly incidental. You should be grateful that I need a tool in accomplishing my ends; otherwise you’d have been left to rot with the rest of them.”

That was it, Jordan decided. When she met Graves, she was going to kick him directly in the stones. She’d had enough of his bossy, disembodied voice.

The lab door had been locked from the inside; it opened as she approached. Inside, she saw a walkie-talkie held in one of the lab’s manipulator arms, positioned next to a mainframe terminal speaker. Dr. Graves lay in a heap on the floor, with deep red marks around his neck.

“Surprise,” the terminal said.

This post is part of the May Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s challenge is to show a character’s approach to relationships in a short scene.

In a corner of Sasha’s basement, Mirya was sorting a pile of hand-typed literature into piles for distribution when Vasily found her. “So,” he said. “Why did the Siberian buy a refrigerator in winter?”

“Because, as a Soviet-made appliance, it was prone to overheating,” Mirya said.

“Close! Since it was -20 outside and -10 in the fridge, it was the warmest place in his igloo!”

“Very funny,” Mirya said.

“Where’s that revolutionary idealist of yours off to?” Vasily asked, pulling up a chair.

“He’s got a meeting with our sponsor,” Mirya said.

“We have a sponsor now?” Vasily said. “I’m not sure I like what I’m learning about this job after the fact.”

“I was completely honest when you came begging for work,” Mirya said, sticking out her tongue. “Wanted: ex-KGB agent to forge official-looking documents in service of sabotage, revolution, and other acts of all-around hooliganism. Well-adjusted individuals with no penchant for telling corny jokes need not apply.”

“Nothing in there about a sponsor,” Vasily said. “I have to report you for misrepresentation.”

Mirya crossed her arms. “Trying to keep me from getting work done, Vasya? That wasn’t in the description either.”

“I just want to talk, Mirya,” said Vasily. “All I have to go home to is a dank corner and a shrew of a landlady, with toaster assembly to follow at work. Being here, with you…that’s the high point of my life right now.”

“Oh, stop it,” said Mirya. “Roman wouldn’t like that kind of talk. He’s very protective, you know.”

“Roman’s not here,” Vasily said.

Mirya raised her eyebrows. “And?”

Vasily sighed. “What do you see in him, Mirya?”

“You of all people should know,” she said. “He’s everything we both left home to find.”

“A lot’s changed since then,” Vasily said. “Help me out here.”

“Roman is a revolutionary, Vasya. He believes in things passionately and he’s willing to risk everything. He’s got big ideas, big plans.”

“What about me?” Vasily said. “I’m a part of his cause. Without the passes I forged and the uniforms I found, Roman would still be sitting down here passing out cheap copies of banned books.”

“Don’t you see, Vasya? Even that was something,” said Mirya. She gently took Vasily’s hand. “You being here is the best thing that’s happened to either of us in the struggle. But you’re aimless; unless there’s someone strong to lead you, you’d just sink into a rut with only a few jokes to lighten the way.”

Vasily squeezed Mirya’s hand. “You could be that someone. You’ve always been the strongest person I know, even when we were children.”

“Like when I convinced you to steal sweet potatoes from your mother’s garden? That’s not strong, Vasya. I need someone to show me the way forward, and you do too.”

Drawing closer to Mirya, Vasily dropped his voice a note. “What about just before I left for university. The attic, remember?”

Mirya blushed. “That was just us being children,” she said.

“That’s not what you said then,” Vasily said, only a few centimeters from Mirya’s face.

“Vasya, I…we…no,” Mirya said. She pulled away. “That was a mistake. It’s different now.”

“Does it have to be?”

“I need you here, Vasily,” Mirya said. “The cause needs you here. But please don’t ask me to choose. That choice was made a long time ago.”

“But…”

“Please, just go.”

Vasily stood up and trudged toward the door. “The General Secretary’s son felt out of place riding to university in a limousine instead of the bus like other students,” he said over his shoulder. “The General Secretary told him ‘don’t worry, I’ll buy you a bus so you can drive it to school just like your friends!”

“Good night, Vasily,” Mirya said. She was able to suppress a smile until just after he left the room.

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post their own responses:
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John looked over at her. The bright, silvery moonlight lit up her face and hair from behind, like a kind of celestial backlight. She was as radiantly beautiful as he had ever seen her. “And there never can be.” he said ruefully. She only nodded, slowly.

“We’ve know each other for a while.” John said at length. “And it occurs to me that we’re not going to see each other much anymore. After tonight, there’s just two weeks of school left, and then summer jobs, and then college. This may well be the last time we can really talk. I’d like to end our friendship on a high note.”

She cocked her head. “What do you mean?” she said.

“Have you ever kissed before?” John asked.

She nodded.

“Well, I haven’t. So, will you do me a favor? For just a moment, pretend that you’ve never kissed anyone before. Pretend that we’re in love, and that we’ll never see each other again.” John gently put his hand on her shoulder, and drew her toward him. She didn’t resist, didn’t cry out. She simply closed her eyes and gave a little half smile

They kissed. Not a short, impersonal peck on the cheek. Not a vulgar, lingering wrestling match between tongues. Not even the passionate culmination of a wedding vow. Just the simple, pure essence of physical contact. They lingered there for what felt like an eternity, locked in a tight, personal embrace–the most perfect, innocent, and pure expression of love that the cosmos had ever seen.
Perhaps because it never really happened at all.

That was the evening John preferred to remember, the one he described to his children years later. He never really talked to that girl again, but he heard second-hand of her happy marriage. John knew that his cherished memory was a fantasy, but he clung to it nonetheless; an inner monument to mistakes made, painful lessons learned, and redemption.

“Betty,” Harry said. “Betty!” She didn’t respond, lost once more in her own world.

He took a deep breath. “Mr. Williams apologized for what he had written,” Harry said. “He had been searching for something that may not exist, and it had blinded him.”

“Betty looked up, listening.”

Harry continued. “Mr. Williams had looked at Betty’s work anew, and found in it much to appreciate. It had taken him to a place he never dreamed.” He held out his hand. “Mr. Williams reached out, asked Betty to take his hand, to leave the place she had created for herself. In return, he promised to work with her, to help her understand her gift, and maybe understand a little more of himself. He said that she might be the very thing he had been searching for, a writer able to make her words real like no others could.”

Nothing happened for a moment, and then Betty broke the stare that had kept her riveted on her notepad, and looked up at Harry. Something stirred deep within her eyes, and Betty reached up and grasped Harry’s outstretched hand. He pulled her up and out of the crater, which faded and closed as she left it.

“You…you found me,” she said. “Thanks.”

Getting past the fact that the Myers-Briggs test is pure hokum founded on Jungian principles that have been discredited since my parents were zygotes, it’s also vastly unfair to the people that it pigeonholes as introverts.

Extroverts are described with roundly positive terms: action-oriented, gregarious, assertive, adventurous, exciting, life of the party. Introverts, by contrast, are made to sound stunted with words that sound straight out of mom and dad’s basement: reserved, private, loners, wallflowers. Hell, even the number of adjectives is skewed one way.

Worse, the dichotomy tends to be presented in terms of what extroverts have but introverts don’t, as if the latter are lacking something fundamentally human. We read all the time about how extroverts live longer, are considered more attractive by the opposite sex, are happier, are less stressed, and so on.

Even the examples people choose reinforce the perception that extroverts are normal and introverts are twisted creatures deserving neither pity nor mercy. John F. Kennedy vs. Richard Nixon. Franklin Delano Roosevelt vs. Joseph Stalin. George Washington vs. George III.

Turning the grenade over in his hands—it was small enough to be concealed in one palm—Matesi ruminated on his attack. A wealthy farmer’s car, perhaps, or a Rhodesian Army officer on an inspection tour. The privates were like dry sticks; they’d burn with whatever blaze was put to them. Matesi fully expected them to open fire when and if he did, and to follow him into ZANLA service.

When a personal car finally did appear, Matesi was relieved to see that it did in fact carry Rhodesians. He motioned for it to halt and walked up, grenade in hand.

“Where are you going today, sir?” he asked.

The driver stuck his head out; the man was freckled and flaxen-blond. “Bulawayo, eventually,” he said. “Taking the family in to pick up some things at the druggist.”

The word “family” gave Matesi momentary pause. But no, the beaming wife in the passenger seat made no difference. She too was Rhodesian, and as Ndabaningi had drawn no distinctions, neither should he.

“We’re getting some asthma medicine!” a voice said from the back seat. Matesi looked over and saw a young girl there, hair in pigtails. She was clutching a black knit doll with spindly strings for arms and legs, and Matesi had a brief, stabbing thought of his young ones at home.

“That’s a fine doll you have there,” Matesi said. One quick pull, a toss, and then three seconds.

“Thank you,” the girl said. “Her name is Fabunni Zene. Mummy says that means ‘ God has given me this beautiful thing’ in Swahili.”

“But we do not speak Swahili in Rhodesia,” Matesi said. His hand trembled as he regarded Fabunni. So much like his daughter’s…

“Mummy says that more people in Africa speak it than anything else!” the girl said. “That’s why Fabunni chose it, to be a part of Africa.”

Imagine a circus procession winding its way through town, set to jolly calliope music.

Hold on a second. What is a calliope? It’s always mentioned in connection with circuses (circusi?), but what exactly is it? It’s named after the muse of epic poetry in Greek mythology, but I can’t see a line of clowns belting out stanzas about Odysseus this and Achilles that, can you? All right, scratch the calliope.

Imagine a circus procession winding its way through town, set to jolly music.

Come to think of it, when’s the last time there was a circus procession in my town, or indeed in any town? Do they even proceed (process?) any more, or do they just drive the trucks to the fairgrounds and set up? I can remember a circus once, a long time ago, but since then, nothing. I think they might be a dying art form—how will people twenty years from now relate to this nonsense about the big top? All right, scratch the circus.

Imagine a procession winding its way through town, set to jolly music.

Now, “procession” to me means either a funeral or a wedding. In neither case is jolly music particularly appropriate, unless you’re in New Orleans (which we’re not). They call for a dirge or a march as appropriate. But since we’re unclear as to which it is, best to leave off the jollyness (jolility?). In fact, best to just get rid of the music entirely. The nature of the procession will determine it anyway. All right, scratch the jolly music.

Imagine a procession winding its way through town.

Do processions really wind in any of the towns I’m familiar with? No, the streets tend to be rather broad and straight. The whole “winding streets” thing is a European import anyway. And the word “way” is too esoteric anyhow. How does one find, or lose, a way in any real sense of the word? It’s too romantic a notion for today’s edgy youth audience. All right, scratch the way and the winding thereof.

Imagine a procession moving through town.

Back to that procession again. Would a funeral or wedding really go through town in this day and age? Unless it was a particularly small town (which this isn’t), they’d only move through a part of town, not the whole thing. And, really, the town is far more important than the procession of its various motions. The town sells itself, or should at any rate. All right, scratch the procession and the moving.

Imagine a town.

That’s cut down to the bone, right there. It’s all about the town, the locality. Though come to think of it, what exactly is a town in a cohesive sense? It’s just a collection of people, buildings, public utilities, and the like. It doesn’t really say anything other than, maybe, “Hey! I’m a collection of people, buildings, public utilities, and the like!” Nothing unique in that message, or anything interesting for that matter. All right, scratch the town.

Imagine.

Perfect!

“Central North America is the only major food-producing area without a native locust,” Laars said. “We’ve never had to deal with that kind of sudden crop damage before, since the Rocky Mountain locust became extinct.”

Smythe gnawed his lip. “So what you’re saying is…”

“If this is allowed to continue, we could see starvation and crop failure on a scale this continent hasn’t known for a century. Even if we sprayed for the locusts, our stock of pesticides isn’t large enough to handle a sudden outbreak, not to mention the damage rampant use would do to the crops themselves.”

Smythe turned over the specimen in his hands. “So with this bug, the Directorate could do more damage than with a biological weapon. And no one would know it wasn’t natural.”