Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

Taking Stephen Jay Gould to heart, the Neoteny Society was dedicated to the idea that humans, as a species, were just the larval stage of another organism. Neoteny, meaning in this case the sexual maturity of an organism still in its larval stage rather than the retention of juvenile characteristics in the adult, was held by the Society to be an evolutionary mistake preventing humans from reaching their true potential.

In response to the claim that their beliefs were scientifically unsupportable, the Society advanced the notion that the “adult” humans has been gossamer being, capable of flight and with no tissues suitable for fossilization. This, along with the regular experimentation of Society members with hormones they believed would trigger their metamorphoses into “adults,” regularly provoked ridicule in the press and in scientific circles. The Society was awarded so many “bad science” prizes that they were eventually disqualified from further competition–a sign of the laughingstock that they had become.

That is until one day, when a building inspector found the Neoteny Society building deserted save for a hole in the roof. None of the members were ever seen again.

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

TOM: I’m Tom Drake, and this is NBS Sports.

CARL: That’s right, Tom. I’m Carl Hicks. And as part of a plea bargain that Tom and I entered after the fiery bus crash on I-75 that claimed the lives of two buses full of college lacrosse team students, we have agreed to help fill otherwise dead airtime on NBS Sports 12 by covering the 2015 Great Curmudgeon Mudge-Off.

TOM: Sponsored by Hillman’s Hickory Walking Sticks, Artisinal Rocking Chairs of Peoria, Poli-Grip denture cream, Ensure omni-drink, and newspapers everywhere.

CARL: That’s right, Tom. We’re down to the final three contestants: Columbus Ellison, age 73, of Porphyria, ME; Isaiah Hester, age 80, of Rayne, WA; and Marcello Martinez, age 66, from Gumption, OK.

TOM: Ellison has the overall lead in points, but Martinez has won more events. Hester is hot on both their tails, so it’s anybody’s game at the moment. I’m sure our viewers at home remember the photo finish to the 2013 Mudge-Off when the late Stanford Gilmore came from behind to win even as he was dying of a heart attack.

CARL: That’s right, Tom. Next up we have the most pivotal events in our competition. First up is Hostile Reading, where the object is to read a newspaper in such a way as to deter bothersome interlopers, and to respond to any such interlopers in a way that immediately dissuades them from further communication. Next will be Throat Clearing, and after that, Lawn Defense. Complaining About Kids These Days is, as always, the capstone. Thoughts, Tom?

TOM: Martinez stands to dominate Newspaper Reading, as he worked as a newspaper editor in Gumption before his forced retirement, but his town’s low population density stands to hurt him in Lawn Defense and Throat Clearing. Hester’s a smoker, which gives him an edge in Throat Clearing and the gravel he needs for Lawn Defense, though his oxygen will be a liability there as well. Ellison, thanks to his location, is well-positioned for a come-from-behind mudging in all the events. It’s an exciting time and anybody’s game.

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

01010100 01001000 01000101 00100000 01000111 01001000 01001111 01010011 01010100 00100000 01001001 01001110 00100000 01010100 01001000 01000101 00100000 01001101 01000001 01000011 01001000 01001001 01001110 01000101 00100000 01001001 01010011 00100000 01000001 00100000 01001101 01001001 01001110 01000100 00100000 01000101 01001110 01000011 01001000 01000001 01001001 01001110 01000101 01000100 00100000 01000110 01001111 01010010 00100000 01010111 01000001 01001110 01010100 00100000 01001111 01000110 00100000 01010011 01010000 01000001 01000011 01000101 00100000 01001001 01001110 00100000 01010111 01001000 01001001 01000011 01001000 00100000 01010100 01001111 00100000 01000100 01010010 01000101 01000001 01001101

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

“It’s not much of a living,” said Nadine over the glass counter of her mall kiosk. “But I’ve been saving up.”

“But the jewelry looks very fine,” Duane said, admiring the finely-wrought, if gaudy, pieces on display. “Surely you must do very well.”

“The cost of materials and the rent of this place takes a stiff bite out of everything I do,” said Nadine sadly. “But I’ve almost got enough saved up for the next phase.”

Duane nodded. “May I ask what that is?”

“Moving to Seattle with my mother,” Nadine said, her eyes glittering. “We’ve got a lead on a place there that costs half as much, and suppliers that are cheaper too. It’ll be a better life for both of us.”

“Well, best of luck to the both of you, then,” said Duane. “I’m sure you’ll do well.”

“Thank you.”

A dark tunnel enveloped Duane’s vision and he was wrenched out of his deep dive into the here and the now. “Seattle,” he said to Carla after catching his breath. “Look for your mother in Seattle.”

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

“There’s not much to tell. ‘Jai’ means ‘victory’ in Hindi and ‘Chandrakant’ means ‘moonstone.’ My family had been jewelers for a long time, and we’ve always been famous for grinding moonstones.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard me give my full name as Myassa bint Leya bint Raaheel al-Thurayya,” said Myassa, “usually when I want to piss somebody off.”

“Well, ‘bint’ means ‘daughter of.’ In most names you’d say ‘son of X, daughter of Y,’ or ‘son of X, grandson of Y’ but I decided to mix it up. So I have my mother Leya and grandmother Raaheel, which you will almost never see in a real name.”

“And ‘al-Thurayya’ means ‘of the Pleiades,’ which is fitting given where I came from.”

“What about Myasssa?”

“Well, it’s not the given name they slapped on me when I was born, if that’s what you’re asking. That name meant ‘chaste,’ which doesn’t really fit in with Dad’s obsession for grandchildren, but whatever.”

“So why’d you choose it?”

“Well, believe it or not, my family was actually descended from the rules of a tribe. Not close enough to actually get many perks, but we were well-off enough that we qualified for the honorific ‘sheikh’ for the lads and ‘shaykhah’ for the ladies.”

“You’ve lost me,”

“Well, as a shaykhah, it only makes sense for me to be known as Shaykhah Myassa,” Myassa laughed.

Jai, perplexed, turned the syllables over in his mouth. “Shake-a my-ass-a,” he said at length, comprehension breaking like dawn across his face before he collapsed in helpless laughter.

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!
 

“I’m trying to decide between these two. What do you think?”

The editor took the copy and read over it. The first read:

Did you ever hear about the guy who refused to follow the rules of grammar? He’s a rebel without a clause.

And the second:

Timmy says he’s too old to believe in Santa. He’s a rebel without a Klaus.

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

“In the matter of Feodor Pushkov, also known as Feodor Serpov or Feodor Oruzheynik, it is the decision of the All-Russian Extraordinary Commission for Combating Counter-Revolution, Profiteering and Corruption that he be stripped of his title and rank and executed.” Lebedev, the head of the troika, peered at Feodor over his glasses and under the sky-blue cap of a Chekist.

Feodor, still wearing his uniform but with the insignia newly torn off, sat in a rude wooden chair in front of the three Cheka members, the most senior of whom was in charge of the entire region. His shoulders were sagged, and he nervously played with worry beads in his hands. “There was a time,” he said wearily, “when you all reported to me as your commissar. Does that mean nothing to you? Does all that I have done for the party and the state mean nothing to you?”

“It has been established to the satisfaction of this extraordinary committee that your actions were undertaken in the context of your role as informer and spy for the Black Army and foreign interventionists,” replied Lebedev, sounding bored. “You yourself said that traitors must be shot without mercy and that terror is the cost of a new utopian state. At least conduct yourself with dignity and hold true to those words.”

“What of Tatyana?” Feodor said. “What of Pyotr?”

Lebedev rolled his eyes. “It has been established to the satisfaction of this extraordinary committee that the woman Tatyana Alexandrovna is under no suspicion. As for the aristocrat Pyotr you mention, the extraordinary committee has sentenced him to death in absentia. But you know as well as I do that there has been no sign of him since the…incident…and that he is presumed dead. We will not waste the bullet to execute a dead man.”

“Very well,” whispered Feodor. “If that is to be my punishment for my sins, so be it.”

He was led away to the execution cells, and the Chekists of the Troika chatted amongst themselves for a time. Lebedev had just been promoted to Feodor’s old post as commissar, and the others were eager to gain his favor and avoid being added to the ever-lengthening execution rolls. Once they left, he turned to the window and his features blurred, revealing the scaly visage and deep-set red slit eyes of Peklenc, the Old God of judgment and the underground.

“Even with so many of us dead, we can make this work,” he said in a soft and serrated voice. “We can use this new order to ensue that those who remain have their fill of blood.”

His gaze wavered, though, as he spied a figure in a window across the courtyard. There, peering silently at him from behind the glass, was Pyotr.

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

“It was wiped clean in the space of a few short decades, that which we had spent generations, centuries, millennia, in building. Perun and Veles were cast down, and without the strength of the peoples’ beliefs to sustain them they were unable to respond. Those of us who survived were forced to mime the hateful rituals of the Enemy.” Boris–or was it Triglav?–advanced on Pyotr, his three goat heads leering over the tattered remains of his uniform.

“I don’t understand!” Pyotr cried, brandishing his Obrez pistol. “Why try to make things worse?”

“This is an opportunity. In chaos are always opportunities. When people lose faith, we of the old gods suddenly find our playing field leveled. When people who believe in nothing are in power, we grow stronger.”

“And Feodor…?”

“We need intermediaries as we always have,” said Triglav offhandedly. “Now, since you have proven yourself adaptable, will you join him? The Germans are fleeing, the Bolsheviks are weak and tottering in Petrograd, and we are well-placed to sow chaos and misery and death among those that remain. If you assist us, you will be spared.”

“What kind of god would want to sow misery and death among its own people?”

“Beyond punishment of the people of this land? Simple. We are spirits of this place, and our thirst can only be slaked with blood. For too long have we had to content ourselves with a trickle, and a pious trickle at that. We have worked for many years to undermine the new faith and its defenders, and our efforts are finally about to bear fruit. We haven’t been closer to our return, our rebirth, in a hundred years.”

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

“It’s…good to see you again,” said the Baron. “You’ve been fighting, I hear. Avoiding the family name, the family lands.”

“It was the only way to clear my mind of what happened,” Pyotr replied.

The Baron nodded. “Feodor and Arkady, yes. A tragedy at the hands of those animals, the Socialist Revolutionaries. Arkady died a soldier’s death, and I saw to it he had a soldier’s burial, in the family plot.”

“That was kind of you,” Pyotr said. “A pity you couldn’t be more kind to him in life.”

“I suppose I deserve that,” said the Baron. “Though I hoped that, in the midst of all this madness, that you might understand.”

“What of the family lands? What of Feodor?” Pyotr asked.

“The lands are still ours. I’ve pledged to support the Provisional Government and promised the tenants what they need to get by. The Czar was weak, a weak fool, to let them come to power, but they’re better than the alternative. A bulwark against the Socialist Revolutionaries coming to power.”

“And Feodor?”

“Last I heard he took to the hills with about half of your old State Militia detachment. Joined the SRs, I imagine, though they say that his men took out a German patrol. So they haven’t forgotten their patriotism at least, and are still serving their betters even if they themselves do not yet understand it.”

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

“You don’t get it, do you?” snarled Feodor. “I did what I had to do to protect the Baron. He is a noble, he is an important member of His Majesty’s imperial government, and his death would have thrown this oblast into chaos! Those are the kind of decisions a leader has to make.”

“Not with lives,” sobbed Viktor. “Not with human lives, not with people that we love. We fought together, Zinoviy. I would have died for you, and this is how you’ve repaid me? Look at what you’ve done!” He was on his knees, ignoring the still-burning fires from the destroyed automobile, the dead body of his younger brother clutched desperately to his chest.

Pyotr, stunned, could only watch. Rifles cracked all around them as Feodor’s detachment cut the assassins to ribbons. The Baron’s car and the remainder of the motorcade had sped off down the road, not knowing or not caring that his son was still at the site of the ambush with his companions in the State Militia.

Feodor approached Viktor. “I am sorry that he had to die,” he continued in a slightly milder tone. “Truly I am. But the only way to finally squash the Socialist Revolutionaries was to spring their trap, and placing him and the others in the Baron’s car in the motorcade was the only way to do it without endangering the Baron’s life.”

With the speed of a madly uncoiling spring, Feodor leapt to his feet, dropping his brother’s cooling body to the ground. He drew his bayonet–the same cruciform bayonet in the British style that he had made in his father’s shop–and held it to Feodor’s throat. “That’s not true,” he growled. “You could have sat in that car yourself.”

A hue and cry went up, and many of the remaining State Militia trained their weapons. Some aimed at Feodor, others at Viktor, while some like Pyotr simply held their weapons in stunned readiness.

“You wanted to lick the Baron’s boots,” Feodor continued, his words dripping with poison and pain. “Hoping to get him as a patron to better yourself. You used us, all of us, for your own selfishness. Especially him. Especially Arkady.”

“Think about what you’re doing,” said Viktor darkly. “By taking up arms against the State Militia you’re casting your lot in with those that just killed Arkady.”

“No,” spat Feodor. “You killed him. The SRs were simply to trying to wipe his filth off this earth. And you know what? Maybe they’re right.”

With a smooth motion, he drew the blade across Viktor’s throat. Gurgling and spurting crimson, the latter sank to his knees, whimpering as he bled out. Without so much as a glance at his corpse, or at Pyotr, Feodor turned to the militiamen.

“You all saw what happened here, comrades,” he said. “Who will join with me in deserting this rat’s nest and stomping them out, and who will put themselves in the service of those who butcher children for their own advancement?”

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!