Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

“Okay, well, you know how you only use ten percent of your brain?” Chatham said.

“No, you don’t. That’s an urban myth,” replied Durant. “You use different parts at different times and for different things, but it pretty much all gets used. Otherwise it would have been selected out by evolution.”

“Well, yes,” Chatham conceded, “but if you could use the whole thing at once, instead of just parts…”

Durant sighed. “They have a name for that, you know. It’s called a grand mall seizure. People flop about like dying fish and bite off their own tongues before choking on them.”

“Are you going to be like this the whole time, or are you going to hear me out?” Chatham barked, exasperated.

“If you have any more pseudoscientific gibberish to spout, you might as well get it out of your system.” Durant shrugged. “But keep in mind that I’ll just be mentally undressing your secretary while refuting it.”

“You obviously aren’t all that interested in intelligence enhancement.”

“If you’d actually used it on yourself, I might be.”

At the height of his powers, with around 5,000 cloistered followers and perhaps 10,000 or more admirers or loose adherents to his philosophy, Amur declared that it was time to reveal the great secrets of his movement. The Amurite press duly printed and distributed pamphlets with their prophet’s revelations:

1. Heaven lies not within the skies above but in the earth below.
2. Those who lack the spirituality to ascend to heaven through earthy denial must seek it physically.
3. A connection exists between earth and heaven at the deepest part of the earth accessible by man; anyone to reach it and return will be blessed by the wisdom and riches of heaven.

These “revelations” caused mass defections from Amur’s cult, even though he displayed an item of wrought gold he claimed to have been retrieved from the earthly entrance to heaven. Not long after, his community was broken up by government troops, Amur himself disappeared in the chaos, and his gold was seized and put on display in a museum.

Bizarrely, some adventurers (inspired by the appearance of what has come to be known as Amur’s Crown) have sought the entrance to heaven that he prophesied. Some claim it is near the great Sakhalin borehole; others hold out for Voronya Cave in Abkhazia, or one of the many caves in Sarawak. But many who have sought Amur’s Cave have never returned.

Until now.

“Yes, I know,” said Estok.

“You know? Then why summon me here?”

Estok cast back part of his coat to reveal a pistol.

“Y-you can’t have brought me here just to execute me!”

“You’re right,” Estok said. “I could have had you killed at any time or any place within the last 48 hours. No, I brought you here to execute you in front of witnesses. You may not be able to see them, but the entire Council and all the associated Acolytes are watching.”

“There aren’t any good words for something like that,” said Joan. “Elegy, lament, dirge…they’re nothing but blackness without a hint of the life that ought to be celebrated in memorial.”

“What about ‘threnody?'” said Austin.

“Not familiar with that one,” Joan said. “What is it?”

“A song or poem composed as a memorial. It’s the same idea as a dirge or an ode, but with emphasis not on the sadness but the memory. A subtle distinction, perhaps, but crucial.”

“Threnody…” Joan murmured, as if turning the word over in her mouth to get its taste. “I like the sound of that.”

“I thought you might,” Austin said. He passed a sheaf of music to Joan. “Here. A threnody for Olivia.”

“What outlet do you hope to find for your skills, especially in this economy?” Tanaka said, folding his hands across his lap. “You know as well as I do that Sandstorm is one of the top computer game development firms in the world. With the way you left…would anyone be willing to hire you, even if the economy improved?”

“I’m listening,” said Dennis. Clay looked like he was about to say something, but was silenced by a wave of his roommate’s hand.

“I have in this briefcase two first-class tickets to Beijing and reservations in a five-star hotel near Tienanmen Square,” said Tanaka. “There is also a twenty thousand dollar down payment, ten thousand for each of you. If you accept, you will have six weeks to put your affairs in order before the plane leaves. Our agents will meet you in China and arrange for you to cross the border into the DPRK.”

“And once we’re there?” Dennis asked.

“You will be provided with a generous stipend, use of a government villa, and all the associated privileges normally granted to high-level government workers, including access to imported materials at no charge. In return, you will use your programming skills in the service of the DPRK for a period of two years after which you will be allowed to emigrate with your accrued earnings and any imported items you wish to take.” Tanaka looked at the programmers over the wire rims of his glasses. “If you attempt to report any details of this arrangement to your government, of course, they will find that Hirosaki Tanaka has been dead since 1978 and the money and tickets are all connected with international heroin smuggling. You have one hour to make your decision.”

This post is part of the August 2011 Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s challenge is “The Continuing Story of a Song” and is best read in order:
Part 1 (orion_mk3)
You are here.
Part 3 (BigWords)
Part 4 (AbielleRose)
Part 5 (Ralph Pines)
Part 6 (hillaryjacques)
Part 7 (Darkshore)
Part 8 (pyrosama)
Part 9 (Diana_Rajchel)
Part 10 (Inkstrokes)
Part 11 (soullesshuman)
Part 12 (Alyzna)
Part 13 (Cath)
Part 14 (dolores haze)
Part 15 (Alpha Echo)
Part 16 (pezie)
Part 17 (orion_mk3)
Part 18 (orion_mk3)
Part 19 (orion_mk3)

Song: “Dreaming” by Bruno Coulais

Chris had dreamed of meeting someone, or re-meeting someone, at the resort. It had been a naive hope, a young person’s hope, but Chris had clung to it nonetheless, even as the resort side of the island proved to be overrun with the sort of people that didn’t really seem worth meeting. The other members of the group surely disagreed, quickly vanishing into pools and bars and chatting up air-headed sun worshipers or drinking with business tax exiles and the wives they’d seemingly constructed out of strips of leather. The other side of the island was more authentic than any of that – you didn’t need a daiquiri to take the chintzy edge off.

Maybe that’s why the note, tucked under Chris’s door last night, seemed like such a blessing. It was terse, unsigned, and as romantic as one would expect from a postcard or a B-rate movie:

Meet me on the leeward side of the island tomorrow at 8. Take the middle path from the resort and turn left at the masseuse. Got something to show/tell you, something you won’t want to miss.

This post is part of the August 2011 Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s challenge is “The Continuing Story of a Song” and is best read in order:
You are here.
Part 2 (orion_mk3)
Part 3 (BigWords)
Part 4 (AbielleRose)
Part 5 (Ralph Pines)
Part 6 (hillaryjacques)
Part 7 (Darkshore)
Part 8 (pyrosama)
Part 9 (Diana_Rajchel)
Part 10 (Inkstrokes)
Part 11 (soullesshuman)
Part 12 (Alyzna)
Part 13 (Cath)
Part 14 (dolores haze)
Part 15 (Alpha Echo)
Part 16 (pezie)
Part 17 (orion_mk3)
Part 18 (orion_mk3)
Part 19 (orion_mk3)

Song: “Can’t Take it In” by Imogen Heap

At that early hour, the beachfront was stunning. White sand so fine it was hard to believe it hadn’t been raked stretched to either side of the path’s opening. There were no footprints, no docks, no boats, and–being the leeward side of the island–no debris. The travel agent had been right about the island being an unspoilt paradise; his mistake had been to only talk about the resort.

The warm early morning sun through the clear water cast a mosaic of light on the beach as it sloped away into the abyss, and the water and sky met on the distant horizon, delineated only by a wall of cloud that might have been a storm. If not for the twenty-minute hike and the lack of waiters serving drinks, it would have been the perfect place for the wealthy power couples infesting the resort to lose a couple of hours.

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post their own responses:
BigWords
AbielleRose
dolores haze
Ralph Pines
hillaryjacques
pezie
Darkshore
pyrosama
jkellerford
Diana_Rajchel
Alpha Echo

“You consider this to be the lap of luxury, Captain?” Pierre said, indicating his hut with a sweep of the hand. “Believe me, I am almost ready for the regimen and steady diet of penal colony life after this.”

“Tell me what happened, Pierre. And stop talking us in circles or you’ll find yourself under the guillotine or up against a pockmarked wall.”

“The supply ships stopped coming two years ago,” Pierre said. “About when Paris fell. Order broke down, the guards deserted us in the middle of the night and took the only boats. The lucky ones made it ashore by swimming. The unlucky ones? Maybe still on one of the islands. Maybe shark food. Isn’t that what you’re here to find out?”

“Here,” the clerk said, shoving the logbook at Travis. “There’s his name and info.”

Travis ran his finger along the entry. “Hirosaki Nagashima.”

“Like I told you,” said the clerk. “Asian guy. Sounds Japanese, I think.”

“And you didn’t see anything unusual about that name,” Travis sighed.

“Other than the fact that it’s Japanese?”

Travis slammed the book. “Other than the fact that our saboteur signed in with a name that’s a spoonerism of ‘Hiroshima Nagasaki?’ He was counting on having a dumb-ass American behind the counter, and by the sound of it you were lucky to finish fourth grade!”

“You should be honored,” said the Vice-Counselor. “The Emperor has bestowed a great favor on your younger brother.”

“Imprisonment is not a favor,” said Wei. “My brother should be among family.”

“Your filial piety is impressive, but do not think that absolved you of responsibility should you oppose the Son of Heaven,” the Vice-Counselor replied. “The Emperor’s word is final.”

Wei was led into a large room, richly decorated, where many writing surfaces and quills with inkstones were on display. “Your brother and the other divine poets will be housed here, given access to food, drink, concubines, and the Imperial Library. All the Emperor asks in return is that their maddened scribblings continue to flow.”

“And why is that, exactly?” said Wei.

“For amusement. Many of the writings can be surprisingly beautiful. For insight, as well, since the shen spirits speak to them in an altogether different way.”