Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

It’s safe to say nobody cared much for Edward “Bitter” Tannen. When he’d first come aboard at Delacroix & Masterson the office wags had taken to calling him “Biff” after the character from “Back to the Future.” But it soon emerged that this Tannen was anything but the swaggering, aggressive fictional character. He was a morose man, face always lined in worry rather than age, and any conversation with him tended to turn quickly to recrimination–against unnamed persecutors, Tannen’s ex-wife, his grown daughter, Canadian society at large, and so on.

So to his back he was “Bitter” Tannen. He’d have been fired long ago if he hadn’t been, in addition to all that, a stellar researcher, brief writer, clerk, and all-around workaholic. Tannen took on jobs that people with an eye on making partner wouldn’t, and he did them well. That was enough for Mme. Delacroix and Mr. Masterson to overlook any complaints about his behavior in the office. He was, in the words of a co-worker, a cog who needed twice the grease for three times the work.

When he died at his desk late last July, no one noticed until a brief wasn’t handed to the right person nearly two days later.

Arthur “Hoc” Hocker Jr. was arrested for embezzlement on June 19. His gambling debts were such that he didn’t have the money to post bail, and the arrest came at the tail end of a long, slow slide from grace that had ultimately driven away any friends or relatives that could have helped him out. Even the local bail bondsmen refused, as several had been clients of Hoc’s accounting firm and therefore defrauded.

That much is clear: Hoc, undone, rotted in the city lockup until his trial. CCTV recordings, affidavits from attending officers, and interviews with myriad cellmates confirm this beyond a shadow of a doubt.

What, then, are we to make of Hoc appearing at his ex-wife’s house on June 21? Or his partner’s summer cottage the next day? In all, police counted seventeen appearances of Hoc in the outside world while he was incarcerated. Witnesses attest to this, but more concrete proof is offered in the form of voicemails (Hoc made no phone calls from prison) camera footage (Hoc’s wife lived in a gated and monitored community) and, most convincingly, fingerprints. The latter were found at the partner’s summer house, where Hoc had never been as a free man.

Strangest of all, witnesses report that Hoc explicitly apologized for his behavior to the people that he had harmed the most, and that he urged them to go on with their lives without regard for him or his fate. Indeed, at his trial Hoc expressed just such a sentiment, and bemoaned the lost opportunity to deliver it. He was, in point of fact, sentenced without ever leaving jail save trips to the courtroom.

But what, then, are we to make of that strange psuedo-Hoc?

“Miguel Villaponte is one of the most important authors that nobody knows about,” said Meghan. “His inventiveness and facility for the whimsical and the bizarre makes him easily the equal of Carrol, Borges, or any number of other literary luminaries.”

Danielle cast a wary glance over the disheveled pile of manuscripts on her sister’s desk. “So what’s the problem? Have your college put out a book of his stuff.”

“Why do you think he’s still so obscure?” Meghan barked. “It’s not just because people are lazy. Villaponte wrote in Galician, a language related to Portuguese, and it’s never been translated into English.”

“So translate it. That’s what all this is for, isn’t it?” Danielle thrust a finger at the degrees, honors and other shingles decorating the study wall.

“That’s not the only problem,” Meghan sighed. “A lot of Villaponte’s work is laced with nonce–er, with nonsense–words. How do you translate something like pageretal that has no meaning in Galacian or any other language? Worse, his nonsense words follow Galacian syntax precisely and lend a certain cadence to the language–in addition to being used, modified, references, and reinvented throughout the text!”

Danielle shrugged. “Make up your own nonsense.”

“I can’t just make up my own words–I need to settle on something that’s nonsense but fits the text, in English. If I do it wrong, the whole translation comes tumbling down like a house of cards.” Meghan cradled her head in her hands. “Did you understand any of that?”

“‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves / Did gyre and gimble in the wabe,” Danielle said. “Does that answer your question?”

“Which one of you here is Leah Botchpot?”

A loud clang echoed from the furthest part of the kitchen, and a puddle of steaming water spread out from behind one of the many fireplaces.

“Does that answer your question?” the head cook said.

Henry made his way back and stepped briskly through the spill to find a woman on her knees with a rag, furiously trying to soak the water up.

“Oh, is it any wonder they only trust me to boil water?” she muttered.

“Leah Botchpot, is it?” said Henry. “I need to talk to you about your father.”

“He’s dead,” the woman said without looking up. “If he hadn’t been friends with the owner I’d have been fired long ago, but I can’t say he’s done much else for me lately.”

“And his research? His notes?”

Leah Botchpot looked up. “His what?”

I know what it is like to be alone, without identity, without family, without memory. I am Sigma Albion, and I don’t know what, or who, I truely am. My life before the age of ten is a gaping void, with only a dim, dreamlike recollection of burning flames and the name ‘Sigma’ known to me.

I awoke near the a great city, dirty, naked, and alone–resorting to petty thievery to survive. Caught by the guardswhile stealing a bread loaf, I was taken to the town orphanage. There I met Helma Albion, the nurse who is my first recollection of kindness in this bleak world. She cared for me so tenderly that I often imagined her as my mother, or as my mother must have been. I remained at the orphanage for five years, until the elderly Helma died.

I struck out on my own, under cover of darkness, determined to carve a place for myself in the world, and taking the old woman’s family name as my own as a reminder that compassion does exist. I was unprepared for the rigors of travel, however, and nearly met my end at the hands of bandits. A guard patrol came to my aid, and I remained in the area for three years. I trained vigorously under the captain of the guard there, determined to be able to protect myself from the dangers that the open road holds.

I set off the night before I was to be officially initiated into the local guard. A rumor had come to the barracks, telling of a similar case of lost identity. However, the person had vanished by the time I reached the city, and I once more found myself dominated by others–not through steel this time, but through a honeyed tongue. I became a bounty hunter, chasing down those my ‘master’ convinced me were standing in my way. My final mission was to track a pair of thieves who had robbed a nobleman. It wasn’t easy, but I finally cornered Nyla Corvus and Jinx Galien after a month of pursuit. Nyla’s uncle, Miller, intervened. He stood, unarmed between my cowering marks and I. “Would you truly reward one injustice with another?” he asked.

“Let’s face it,” Jennie said, “you’ve never been able to hold a job for more than two months.”

“I always have a legitimate grievance,” Colin cried, waving his arms. “It’s not my fault, it’s that the modern workplace is so brutal and depersonalized.”

Jennie cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? What about when you working the fryer at O’Doul’s?”

“That customer said he wanted extra grease,” Colin deadpanned. “Never said where he wanted it to come from.”

“Pizza Mahjong?”

“Hey, they wanted me to dance on the sidewalk holding a lunch special sign when things were slow without even the benefit of a cartoon dragon mask. A guy’s gotta have principles.”

“Oh, of course,” said Jennie, rolling her eyes. “Metromart?”

“It’s their own fault for neglecting to put ‘not for recreational riding’ stickers on pallet jacks. Not to mention the way they stocked the cereal aisle just like a row of competition dominoes.”

A forest of lit skyscrapers opened up before the window. “I can’t believe your view.”

Austin handed a freshly-poured cocktail to Jay. “My only compensation for long hours in the trenches.

“Just look at it,” Jay said, staring out the window as he absently swirled his drink. “This city…it’s gorgeous. All laid out at night…it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen, but I’ve stopped looking.”

“Like something out of a storybook, huh?” Austin poured himself a scotch.

“It’s not that kind of beauty. It’s a dangerous, sinister, alluring thing…a dozen unhappy stories for every one that turns out right, all under the same skyline.”

Austin cocked an eyebrow. “Your point?”

Jay took a sip from his glass, never breaking his gaze. “It’s a that city cries for a better story than ours to take place within it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Austin said, setting his glass down with a sharp clink.

“It’s something I’ve been thinking for awhile. In the face of such possibilities, how can we manage to fill the hours with the same rat race people are running everywhere else?”

Sherry’s eyes went wide. “Harry, what have you done?”

“Don’t worry,” Harry said, holding up his hands in the most conciliatory gesture he could muster. “It’s just a broken vase. It’s not the end of the world.”

“Actually, Harry, I’m afraid it is.”

Before Harry could reply, he felt the earth quake. The sky turned blood-red, while the heavens and earth were opened, releasing the wailing spirits of the damned.

“Huh,” Harry said. “I’ll be damned.”

“Pretty much, yeah,” said Sherry.

“Let me guess. Looking for the Golden City?”

“Yes, yes,” Arn said. “Finally, a man with answers. Can you tell me how to get there?”

“You have already arrived,” the man said, sweeping his arms. “You’re standing amidst it.”

With that horrible proclamation, a veil seemed to tear away from Arn’s sight. He suddenly beheld pieces of stone, long-forgotten walls, and other manmade shapes that had been twisted up in the overgrowth that lined the King’s Road.

“Yes, the city fell close to a thousand years ago, but stories do not always reflect this,” the man sighed. “The road is only kept clear because it is on a direct route from Eversong to Fillkirke.”

“W…why are you here, then?” Arm mumbled.

“I came here long ago, a young man in search of the Golden City. I learned of its history and fall, and in my twilight years I like to give counsel and aid where I can–learning the languages of the seekers that still come, and offering them a roof overhead before their return.”

People talk about flashbulb memories, moments frozen like amber in the mind. Cathy had always envied them.

The three examples people were always giving were Pearl Harbor, the JFK assassination, and 9/11. Cathy had missed them all. She hadn’t even been a zygote in 1941, and had been barely four years old in 1964–her mom said she had been asleep most of the day. Cathy had slept through September 11, too, having just come back San Diego and jet-lagged to hell.

Who, then, could have guessed that her first flashbulb memory would come at 11:47am on an otherwise unremarkable Saturday in June?