Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

Ramon examined the car on the precipice before the void with a steely gaze. In his eyes, the cladding and accents were of an IKA Carabela.

“My stepfather was so damned proud of that car,” he growled. “A big, shiny, American automobile to show the world that he had made his grand entrance, even if he was only a civil administrator in Córdoba. We could hear him coming from a half-kilometer away, riding that big engine block, and he’d bring in the hubcaps every night for my sisters and I to polish.”

“Why not just have you polish them outside?” Stennis asked, feeling that he should say something.

Ramon turned the full force of his baleful glare on Stennis. “He didn’t trust us to touch it. A fingerprint on that car was grounds for a beating. Knocking a branch into it got my sister Isabel a crown on her front tooth. That man wouldn’t even allow us to ride in it; the five of us were crammed into my mother’s old Model T, a prewar import! All the while he rode in his great, shining four-door coupe!”

It was all nonsense, of course. Katyushev knew how to play chess, but was nothing more than a mediocre player, without the ability or mathematical mind to visualize more than two moves ahead. That’s why he refused all offers of play outside his home town and contented himself with being the peak of a smaller pyramid.

His winning strategy came down to a keen understanding nevertheless. While most chess players sought to be like human computers, efficient and analytical, Katyushev had perfected the use of psychology in his games. He excelled at creating a complex board situation and then forcing his opponent to play against the clock, for example. In trying to puzzle out a board layout generated strictly to confuse them, his opponents would more often than not run up against the timer and have to make a snap decision–one that often led to a disastrous move, opening the way for even a mediocre player to vanquish them.

Bert snorted loudly. “French orthography may be internally consistent, but it’s terrible suited for writing any language but French.”

“That seems a rather…shallow and nationalistic position to take,” countered Otis. He washed his words down with a swirl of sherry, as if to give them that extra touch of conviction and class.

“Not at all. English is rubbish when it comes to consistency, but by adopting sounds from other languages it can pronounce anything. Just look at what French did to the places they colonized. The capital of Laos is Wiang-chan, which the French naturally spelt ‘Vientiene’. And poor Wagadugu in Central Africa…thanks to the lack of a hard ‘w’ and ‘d,’ it’s butchered into ‘Ouagadougou.”

“And what about English’s total inability to conform to the demands of tonal languages?” Otis replied. “Do let’s bring up the Peking/Beijing imbroglio.”

The reach of the clique went far beyond its members. There were “Earliest Texans” clubs in the elementary, junior, and senior highs which served to crowd out many of the more common, and less exclusive, service groups like Scouts and 4H.

The junior and senior branches of the organization elicited howls of protest from both sides of the aisle, with people muttering for years that ancestors arriving in town in 1837 instead of 1835 were needlessly excluded or that there were dozens of groups of “Texans” that had inhabited the area before the club members’ ancestors.

Only a few changes resulted from that. Juan Nogales and his family found themselves unexpectedly inducted one April, and a few people whose ancestors had arrived as scandalously late as 1840 were admitted by a unanimous vote.

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.”