Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

“Go to this address,” Gane had said, sliding a handwritten card across the table. “The firm of Washdry & Fold handles all my important business, and they’ll take care of you.”

Mina had taken the card with quite a bit of suspicion, but Gane seemed forthright enough. When the people at that number didn’t pick up, she had gone down to see them personally.

When she arrived, though, Mina was greeted by a bright orange awning over a storefront that buzzed with neon:

THE FIRM Dry Cleaners
Since 1988
Wash Dry & Fold

Mina crumpled the card, flung it into the gutter, and raised a fist to the heavens.

“Gaaaannnneeee!”

“My men are brave, and they will fight,’ Sirik said. “But they are outnumbered, and under no illusions that they can reverse the tide of history.”

“I’m not sure what you’re saying,” replied Ames.

“I am saying that there is a chance we may make it downriver despite the mines and the gunfire and the rockets. And I am saying that, each time we stop, you should expect several of the men who go ashore to forage not to return.”

Ames bit his lip. “I understand,” he said. “Money and abstract things like loyalty can only go so far.”

Sirik nodded. “I am also saying that you should be prepared to operate the boat alone, Mr. John. I can show you a few things before we depart.”

“Newslak, the official outlet of the government, announced the election statistics this morning,” Calvin read. He resisted the urge to use “mouthpiece” instead of “outlet.” Keep it professional.

“President Tsocorw Easelk, in office since 1961, was reelected with 101% of the vote.” The dictator’s name was a tongue-twister, but the hours of practice last night hadn’t been for nothing. In Calvin’s opinion, reading a ludicrous figure like that with a straight face should qualify him for the Nobel Prize.

He continued, keeping in mind that nobody on the radio could see his expression and that it was okay to smile so long as it didn’t develop into a guffaw. “Officials report that the inflated figure is due to ballots cast from overseas and patriotic citizens insisting on voting more than once for their beloved leader.”

This post is part of the January 2012 Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s challenge is a “winter nightmare.”

Making good time despite a late start from my brother’s, I was thinking about what I was going to post for New Year’s on Facebook and LiveJournal. I was thinking how much I’d miss my brother and his crazy kids after spending a week with them. I was even thinking about my priorities at work this coming week.

The one thing I wasn’t even remotely considering was a massive doe jumping directly in front of me.

All I can remember is a flash of brown in the headlights, a terrific crunch, and being showered with shredded glass as the driver’s side window shattered. I must have had the presence of mind to immediately pull over onto the shoulder and park the car, since that’s where I found myself.

I sat there, staring at the broken glass and what I could see of the mangled fender, listening to hooves on asphalt somewhere behind me. I actually had to take a deep breath, look at myself in the rearview mirror, and say–as calmly as I could muster–“That just happened.”

All those previous concerns were wiped away, replaced with just two notions: “I’m lucky to be alive” and “What am I going to do now?”

The 911 dispatcher might have been surprised at how calm I sounded, but I think that was just shock talking. While waiting for the police, I found myself focused on the glass. It was everywhere, in bite-sized yet razor-sharp chunks: on my seat, in my clothes, in my shoes, in half-a-dozen tiny cuts on my hands and back. Methodically, I picked the stray pieces up with my gloves and threw them out the window.

Guess I really needed something to focus on, something that I could control in a situation that was otherwise pure chaos.

The night guy at the Knights Inn was bemused but sympathetic when he saw a mangled Honda dragging bits of bumper pull in escorted by a county sheriff’s car. I had to keep telling myself that I could handle this, that I was an adult, that this was just another kind of reference question and as a librarian I had to do was find an answer.

I returned to the Honda and managed to cut away most of the really mangled portions of the bumper and wheel well, which was easier than it sounds due to the car being mostly plastic. Duct tape and a garbage bag served to keep out the wind and the dew until the next morning.

Not knowing how the day would turn out, I went to the motel office for their “continental breakfast”: a loaf of bread and a toaster, a rack of Little Debbie cinnamon buns, two boxes of cereal, and one pitcher each of milk and orange juice in a minifridge–all tucked away in a dark corner of the motel lobby. I took two of everything, and sat in a rickety chair pulled up to a cheap pressboard table, watching the sun rise out the window and friends post jubilant New Year’s photos on Facebook.

It’s been a long time since I felt that pathetic, or that alone.

Lord knows what those people must have thought, seeing me hacking away at a clear plastic storage tub lid with a hacksaw and shears in the Wal-Mart parking lot the next morning at 9am. It took me an hour to get the plastic cut to size and taped in place. It seemed to hold well enough, and the car seemed to run all right.

Then the window came off entirely a few miles down the road.

I was able to grab it in time to hold it on and pull over to the shoulder, but three-quarters of the tape had come off, and freeway traffic was whizzing by at 70-80mph, to say nothing of the chill wind and light rain. Made sitting in the motel lobby seem like paradise, to be honest. Desperately, I reattached the window with latticed strips of duct tape, one over another, and damn if that roadside patch job on I-70 didn’t see me through to Memphis.

I skipped lunch, skipped dinner, and drove the entire ten hours with nothing but snacks, cinnamon rolls, and Red Bull. The stereo still worked; perhaps in the spirit of danger and adventure I keyed in the complete Indiana Jones series to see me home.

Almost kissed the pavement at home when I finally limped in.

Fired up my old Escort to serve as a stopgap, went for a few quick essentials at the store…only to find as I pulled out that the Escort’s brake pedal had gone completely slack. Worse, the emergency brake, which hasn’t worked well for some time, completely failed too.

Luckily traffic was light on the way back, and I was able to coast home at low speed. I refilled the reservoir with fresh brake fluid, only to find that there was still no pressure and that the fluid was leaking out of the line. I immediately set out for the tire and brake place across the street–carefully, using park, my hazard blinkers, and what little braking power there was judiciously.

The mechanic said the problem was irreparable. My Escort’s brake line has rusted through, and with the car now eighteen years old and eligible to vote or be drafted in time of national emergency, the spare parts aren’t made anymore. I drove–well, coasted–the Escort home and took stock. Two cars, both with working engines, both crippled by other problems. It’s such a cruel coincidence I would have laughed if I hadn’t been crying.

Happy New Year indeed…

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post their own responses:
Areteus
MamaStrong
LilGreenBookworm
Domoviye
writingismypassion
pyrosama
kimberlycreates
Turndog-Millionaire
AbielleRose
Proach
SuzanneSeese
Alpha Echo
Diana Rajchel
Ralph Pines
Alynza
Literateparakeet

“I suppose you could say that made him a little bitter,” said Cliff. “Skilled metalworker and engineer getting laid off like that without so much as a how-do-you-do. Worse, the union told him that if he went to work for one of the other Big Three and switched locals he’d lose all the progress toward his pension.”

“So he started customizing cars after that?” said Wills, laying her hand on the vehicle’s fine–yet somehow unplaceable–lines.

“Whoever said that this was customized?” Cliff laughed. “I had to put something in the form, sure, but this isn’t just some rat rod. My uncle built the car from scratch.”

“You mean he made all the body panels himself?” Wills said. She whistled, impressed.

“And the frame, and the seats, and most of the engine,” said Cliff. “He used a few stock parts here and there, like the engine block, but nothing from the Big Three. Most of the stock parts came from wholesalers after car companies went out of business.”

Wills took a step back. “Are you serious? Why would anybody ever do something like that? It would cost more than a new one!”

“Maybe to prove to himself–and anybody else that was paying attention–that he could do everything the Big Three could do by himself, and better,” Cliff shrugged. “They were living off Aunt Milly’s salary anyway; maybe he needed something to do. But it’s a one-of-a-kind car, and after he finished it in 1963 Uncle Wilt drove it every day until he died. I guess you could say it’s the one and only ’63 Culbertson there is.”

By November 1915, the invading forces had reached the River Khstors and sought to force a crossing at Gnizediu, where there were both bridges and a ford. Elements of the Russian Fourth Army defended the town, but were critically short on ammunition and artillery compared to the advancing Germans and Austro-Hungarians. Both the Russian Imperial general staff and the Central Powers regarded the area as a sideshow in view of the massive confusion in the wake of the Gorlice–Tarnów Offensive and the subsequent Russian retreat.

However, the Russian commander in Gnizediu became determined to hold his position upon opening a map and discovering that the city was the last portion of Congress Poland still in Russian hands. Accordingly, he disobeyed the order to retreat and was left at the head of a narrow salient. Scholars contend that the commander, a minor noble, was convinced that his actions would result in greater opportunities after the war. His abilities, and those of his troops, were not up to the task.

Within a week after Central Powers troops entering the area, Gnizediu was cut off from reinforcements after Austro-Hungarian troops crossed the river on barges downstream. The Russian commander, perhaps seeking to inspire his troops, beheaded the emissary sent to request a surrender. This act irritated the besiegers enough that they brought up heavy artillery from operations further west. Gnizediu was subsequently bombarded into rubble.

The Russians eventually mutinied, executed their commander, and attempted to withdraw to the east. Only a handful of troops were able to break through the blockade. While the operation is almost forgotten today, it is notable for the fact that it incurred the highest percentage of Russian casualties (98.5% of the defenders) and the heaviest artillery bombardment (equivalent to two days’ shelling at Verdun) in four years of combat on the Eastern Front.

Originally a conscripted race known as the Jul-Thun, centuries of slavery and genetic tinkering by the Vyaeh have led Executioners to be wholly dependent on their masters for breeding and nutrition. One of two races that serve as internal police within the Vyaeh Empire, Executioners answer directly to agents of the Orphaned Court, the Vyaeh government, and not to local commanders (although they will obey orders that they see as in line with Court policies). As such, they are occasionally seen attacking and killing Vyaeh who are held to be traitors. Executioners are usually assigned to low priority garrisons and small ships.

“Strangely, reports indicate that this creature only fired upon other aliens and never on humans. Due to this, as well as their sinister appearance, the personnel have begun calling them Executioners.”
-Report on the battle of Barnard’s Star

The other race to serve as internal police within the Vyaeh Empire, the Ryteg (commonly referred to as Adjudicators) are a conscripted race added to the Empire relatively recently. As with the Jul-Thun Executioners, the Ryteg Adjudicators are extensively modified through genetic manipulation and cybernetic augmentation when compared to their racial baseline. Their numbers have been increasing of late due to the Orphaned Court’s perception that they are more loyal and adaptable than the Executioners. As such, they are usually assigned to high priority garrisons, large fleets, or as personal guards to fleet commanders, government officials, and even the Court itself. As with the Executioners, Adjudicators are not accountable to local military commanders.

“Defend with your life. Accept no surrender and offer none yourself. In duty is life; in protection, honor; in battle, glory. Serve the Court and you shall be served. Destroy those that betray it and you shall be spared. Work to further it in all things and you will be blessed.”
-Vyaeh manual of arms

Now, they’d told me what to expect during the fourth stage of the xenofever, but “disordered optical sensations” doesn’t really do justice to the sensation. I thought they meant hallucinations.

I was wrong.

At first, the colors were just wrong. One by one the parts of the spectrum descended into anarchy until when I cut my hand I bled lavender and it dried to neon green. That wasn’t so bad, not unlike a few trips I had when experimenting with various substances in my youth.

Next I began to see spots, sometimes in the periphery, other times directly in front of me, where what I was seeing simply didn’t line up with what I knew to be there. moving my head produced movement in the vision, but it was more like a kaleidoscope than anything–and even a kaleidoscope simply mixes and matches the familiar.

This was totally outside the realm of my experience, such that I lack the words to accurately describe it.

Finally, the effect covered my entire field of vision. It was worse than being blind; I was subjected to a bombardment of colors and shapes that somehow took what I was seeing and twisted it into an utterly unrecognizable form.

By that point, I probably would have gouged my eyes out if I hadn’t been restrained.

There was barely time to register the sight of a loose spoke on the front wheel, and less still to compensate for the sudden loss of steering and momentum. Danny tumbled over the handlebars with a yelp, and the light was dashed out of the world.

The next thing he knew was a coppery taste in his mouth, followed by a blinding flare as things came back into focus. The Cannondale was a few feet behind him, bent in several places and scratched in others.

No sign of Steve and his crew. The race was over, and they hadn’t even bothered to come back for Danny when he didn’t make the finish line.

Dragging the mangled remains of the Cannondale, Danny struggled to River Park, leaving a long trail of dusty skidmarks in his wake. He’d carry it as far as the rack near the parking lot, and then leave it there, just like he’d found it, and give up that terrific sensation of riding the world through whizzing gears for good.

There was one car in the lot, parked near the rack—a familiar-looking sedan. The window rolled down as Danny approached it, and a familiar face appeared.

“Kids,” Dad said. “Always think we old-timers are blind and stupid. Well, we see and hear a lot more than you give us credit for. Looks like you got your head handed to you, eh kiddo?”

Danny nodded.

“Well, you put up one hell of a fight,” Dad said. “Building a new bike from scratch? I don’t know if I could do that now, much less at our age.”

“I…I just wanted to go fast,” Danny said. “I wanted to go fast whenever I wanted and feel the wind and see the ground going under me.”

“Well, we’ll see what we can do about that,” Dad said. “Load up what’s left of ‘er. You’ve got a gift, Danny me boy, and I’ve got a feeling you’ll feel that wind and see that ground spinning by again soon enough, on your own terms.”

The drive home wound over roads stained with fallen blackberries and under wide maples that filtered the waxing light of summer through their boughs. The world took on a bit of the heady blur it had carried earlier, and Danny trailed his hand out the window, letting the dusk air spin through his fingers like the tarnished spokes of an old tire.

Ever the optimist, navel-gazer, and science fiction fan, Ben kept a list of “Things to Change While Time Traveling.” It was concise yet specific, offering practical suggestions without offering any reasons:

1. Stay the hell away from Andrea Bellman
2. Leave the 2003 Christmas party exactly one hour earlier
3. Don’t join the fraternity
4. Don’t get in a fistfight with Ralph Gonzaga
5. Ask Paige Charleston for a date before 2007 for crap’s sake
6. Take the job out east
7. Get renter’s insurance and flood insurance before April 2005
8. Don’t buy the Honda
9. Save the Apple stock Aunt Agnes gave you
10. Skip the fishing trip to the gulf coast

Some time later, Ben amended the list with an eleventh item:

11. Prevent self from using a time machine