Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

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.”

“They regularly visited gymnasium physical education classes to pick out promising students, and I was plucked out of my school for tryouts before coming in at the top of their little class of gymnasts. The Soviets weren’t as bad as the East Germans in that we weren’t relentlessly doped up with anabolic steroids, but the training program was still merciless: a medal at the Olympics was a matter of national security. They altered my state records to make me seem two years older than I really was, to keep me competitive longer.”

“But it wasn’t just that–we were suddenly pulled out of obscurity into the elite, something few managed in the ‘egalitarian’ society they had at the time. My family was given an apartment near the IOC complex in Moscow, jobs, and a stipend. My father was so proud; I know because he would sometimes come to practice to watch me. Once he even bought me an ice cream afterwards, which brought the coach to our door, red-faced, the next day–we girls were on a strict diet, you see.”

“We girls had private tutors, and most of the lessons were in English–we were expected to gain mastery of the language with an American accent in hopes of romancing Yankee athletes and pumping them for information–or better yet, bringing them back as defectors. But it never came to that; I was left off the 1988 Olympic team after I sprained my ankle, and by 1992 the country had collapsed–no more apartment, no more stipend, no more team.”

Yes, I think the overwhelming impression students got of Witherton was a cackling old man, rubbing his hands together safe in his Archivist’s Spire as he planned on how best to alienate and fail his students.

I took a slightly softer view. The man wasn’t a teacher, wasn’t trained as a teacher, and was clearly more comfortable with ancient manuscripts than people. But the way the university worked required him to teach, but gave no rewards for good teaching or punishments for bad teaching. His research kept him at the head of his field and the tip of the tenure iceberg, but the students…well, it’s safe to say that even with the slack some of the more enlightened of us cut him given the circumstances, it wasn’t easy.

Nothing illustrated that better than what became known as the “Action of April 30.”

“Dr. Corrie Smithson. A real pioneer in a lot of fields, especially cancer research.”

“She did a lot of work with immortal cell lines when the field was still fast and loose–back when they were basically stealing cells from cancer patients without their consent,” Dr. Mays said. “Way I remember it, Dr. Smithson’s wrote that postdoctoral thesis on the genetic markers in immortal cell line conteminants…using blood she drew from the original subject’s family without a consent form. She was only able to keep that act up so long before the laws caught up.”

Annette nodded, making a note on her pad. “What happened after that?”

“She still worked with immortal cell lines, mostly ones that were grandfathered in. Spent a lot of time working with animal cells that were similar–canine transmissible venereal tumors, Tasmanian devil facial tumor disease, Syrian hamster reticulum cell sarcoma.” Dr. Mays sounded wistful as he spoke.

“I’m…sorry?” Annette said, unsure what he was talking about.

“Oh. Those are all naturally occurring immortal cell lines, which have manifested as transmissible diseases. But the critters didn’t need to sign consent forms, you see. Dr. Smithson pretty much wrote the book on transmissible, immortal cancers.”

“That sounds…well, terrifying.”

“Don’t worry,” Dr. Mays laughed. “They’re quite rare.”

“What happened to her?”

“Terrible story. Lymphoma. The girl spent her entire life researching ways to cure it, and she died of a particularly aggressive strain. Interestingly enough, she took samples from her own tumors and bred an immortal line of research cells from it–they’re now the second-most used immortal cell line in medicine and responsible for half of all laboratory contaminations!”

Even after centuries passed and conquerors, caesars, and caliphs overran the island, the locals continued to swear that, on certain nights, one could glimpse Phagyana, the Ghostly Sphere, over the central mountain of the isle or out to sea.

The real danger, the islanders insisted, was not the Ghostly Sphere itself but rather its inhabitants. The Children of Phagyana were said to become fascinated by anyone who glimpsed their spectral home for more than an instant, and would descend upon them. Mischief and misfortune would follow, with the Children rumored to be behind everything from plague to pregnancy.

Worse, if the proper cleansing rituals were not adhered to, the Children of Phagyana would eventually bear down upon the unfortunate and bear them hence to the Ghostly Sphere. Those so taken, it was said, became Children themselves.

“So what?” I said. “It’s just a game.”

“It is not ‘just a game'” Samson cried. “The Lawful Demon Tactics games aren’t just RPG’s, they’re the best stories ever told in any form!”

“Uh-huh, just like vegemite is the greatest spread of all time,” I scoffed. “You get too wrapped up in things, Sam.”

“It’s an acquired taste!” barked Samson. “And that’s beside the point. If you can’t grasp the subtle storytelling in a series about hereditary high school age demon summoners saving postapocalyptic Japan using blood rituals, nothing I can say will convince you.”

“Damn straight.”

“But Lawful Demon Tactics and Lawful Demon Tactics II: Diamond Chaos Unlimited are my favorite games of all time, okay?” said Samson, adding another suitcase to his pile. “That’s why the new one is such a big deal for me.”

“That doesn’t explain the whole go-to-Japan part of your plan,” I said. “If it’s not coming out in the States because the others didn’t sell enough copies–and who could imagine that?–just import it.”

“You don’t understand,” Samson whined. “They’re releasing it for Japanese smartphones. Smartphones! They won’t work with American wireless carriers! The only way to play the game is across the pond, with a six-month contract.”

They tell of a soul, conflicted and caring, half made of sunshine, half cast in moon’s light. For friends and more is she ever caring, taking their burdens, both heavy and light.

An artist’s free spirit dwells in her, ever balanced by writers’ fine wit. A poet’s sage wisdom if ever there were, with a skeptic’s sharp queries is writ.

Lithe of body and mind in fighting trim, lover of nature in all of its forms. Competing passions filled to the brim, the calm’s exciting as the storm.

Dwelling eternal betwixt dawn and night; though this be so, darkness has its delights.