Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

The Emperor of All Oonsda considered himself to be a man of the people. Thus, he often took the elevator to and from the Core in the company of a small army of bodyguards.

“Dear Seven Spirits below, this is terrible!” he cried during one such Sunday trip. “I must say I do not much care for this jaunty tune. Elevators need music that is calming and serene. Something must be done.”

Near the back of the car, the Imperial Elevator Music Composer flattened himself against the steel and did his best to look inconspicuous.

Inspired by the song ‘Never on Sunday’ by Hiroki Kikuta, released under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license.

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NOTICE
Boffo Bros. Circus LLC GmbH reminds you that, as clowns and members of the International Brotherhood of Whitefaces, Augustes, and Characters, you are bound by its Code of Clownduct. This means:

-No alcohol during performances or backstage. Each pink elephant parade incurs major cleanup fees.

-No sharp corners on makeup, and no incomplete makeup. People are scared of us enough as is without looking like The Joker.

-25 clowns to a car or less. 12 clowns to a phone booth or less. The crash that took 47 lives in 2010 must never be repeated.

-Only soundalike or public domain songs to be used in the performances. The lawsuit with Smokey Robinson was very expensive.

-Animals in pratfalls are limited to 200 lbs. or less. We all remember what happened to Jumbo.

-Setzer water is to be used FOR PERFORMANCES ONLY. Anyone caught taking bottles home will be docked pay. This goes for pies as well.

-We have had reports of clown costumes and makeup that mock contemporary figures in politics and art. While this was once acceptable, now there are too many lawyers for this to be feasible. The People of the State of California vs. “Governor Jerry Clown” was another major expense.

Inspired by the song ‘Uriah Heep’ by Hiroki Kikuta, released under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license.

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The event was, of course, a thinly veiled attempt to introduce the pupils of the Hopewell Finishing Academy to fitting matches in the form of Southern Michigan Military Academy cadets. There were none of the popular tunes of the day in the repertoire; an entire committee had been assembled to choose a stately program of waltzes for formal dancing.

One concession–indeed the only concession–that the matrons and officers and hangers-on made was that cadets were free to dance with anyone they liked, and quiet conversation was generally permitted. The chaperones were eagle-eyed for any inappropriate touching, and none of the girls or boys were allowed to leave with each other. But they could discuss whatever they liked.

The fifth waltz, Eternal Wizrd by Adrian Wetzler, began. Alan DeVries, a cadet from the DeVries financier family out of Detroit, was dancing with Edith Carrington of the Battle Creek Carringtons. Alan had seen the Edith with a coy smile and a distant look on her face and, intrigued, held out his arm.

“What do you think of the latest fashions coming out of London this season, Miss Carrington?” Alan asked, hoping to stimulate conversation on a topic that the fairer sex would find interesting.

“I’m told that I am wearing them,” laughed Edith, “but otherwise I really couldn’t care less. Tell me, Mr. DeVries, what is the last book that you read?”

Alan bit his lip. “Er, Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott. It’s required reading for all first-years.”

Edith ostentateously batted her dark eyes. “And what year are you, Mr. DeVries?”

“A sixth year, Miss Carrington.”

“Lovely, truly lovely,” said Edith. “May I regale you with a book that I re-read recently, Mr. DeVries?”

Alan did not feel qualified to speak on a topic that interested him so little, but…for all her cheek, Miss Carrington’s dark hair and slim figure were very pretty. “Please do, Miss Carrington.”

“It’s called Folk Stories of the Spanish Conquest, by one Mr. Pierre Richat, and it collects stories and tales from the conquest of the New World.”

“Oh,” said Alan with a relieved smile. “Grand stories, I’m sure, of the conquistadors’ noble deeds.”

“Stories and tales of the Indians and their descendents, Mr. DeVries, not the conquistadors,” Edith laughed. “One of the tales in particular, that of Princess Eréndira of the Purépecha, has long fascinated me. Are you familiar with it?”

Alan cast a longing look about the dance floor, to the other couples waltzing silently or talking about fashion. “I don’t know that I am, Miss Carrigton.”

“Princess Eréndira was daughter of the king of the Purépecha people of Mexico. Although her father surrendered to the Spanish she resolved to defeat them, and defeat them she did. Would you like to know how?”

A military story seemed like it might be tolderable, so Alan nodded in the affirmative. “I have a passing curiosity, Miss Carrington.”

The waltz began to build to its cresdendo, and the whirling couples on the floor were suddenly faster, almost dizzying. “She learned the ways of the Spanish, taking their horses and their arms and studying them so that she knew how they worked. Princess Eréndira picked apart the machine that had been set up to oppress and conquer her, and she learned its inner workings. She learned how best to defeat it by stabbing deep at its soft spots even as she appeared to the Spaniards to be an ineffectual savage.”

“And…what happened to her?” Alan said, utterly mystified by Edith’s tone.

“Well, no one is quite sure. Some say she went into hiding, others that she married a priest. I have my own theory.”

“What is that?”

“It is that she learned all she could from those who would conquer her, used that information to destroy them, and then fell in with someone who shared her beliefs. And together, they raised a generation that would give way to another, and another, each stronger than the last, until the yoke of the conquestadors was thrown off for good.”

The music came to an end. Alan seperated from Edith. He gave her a bow, she a curtsey.

“A…delightful tale, Miss Carrington,” said he. He disappeared into the mass of cadets before much else could be said.

“Pity,” laughed Edith to herself.

On cue, the Hopewell Chamber Orchestra struck up a fresh waltz, and cadets once more went in search of ladies to dance with. Alan could be seen repeating presumably wild stories, complete with gestures, of Edith to his fellows.

But, as she made her way back to the wall, another of the cadets stepped forward. “Tell me, miss,” he said. “Are you familiar with the old tale of Arminius?”

“You mean,” said Edith, eyes glittering, “the German who got himself a Roman military education so he could smash Caesar’s armies at the Teutoberg Forest?”

“The very same. May I have this dance?”

“You may indeed, cadet,” said Edith. “You may indeed.”

Inspired by the song ‘Erendira’ by Hiroki Kikuta, released under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license.

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So we’re going to have a fairy tale. But it’s not going to be like your usual fairy tale.

For starters? No fairies.

Yeah, you heard that right. No fairies. None. I hereby banish all tiny winged people from my fairy tale. It’s only a fairy tale in terms of genre rather than the presence of any actual fairies.

Is your mind blown yet? Well it gets better.

You know where most fairy tales–and again, I must emphasize, there are NO fairies in this tale–are set? That quasi-medieval, idealized vision of old Europe? None of that for MY fairy tale. It’s going to be set in a decaying industrial area north of Leeds, a land blighted by the greed of mankind and in which nothing natural can live without a thorough stunting.

And the plot? Well get ready. Instead of princes and princesses, noble steeds and great chariots, there will be petty minicipal leaders, corrupt cops, and sputtering old Leyland autos that only the poorest can afford to keep on the road.

My fairy tale will be a grounded, gritty retelling of everyday people going about their everyday lives in a world that neither knows nor cares that they exist. Original, isn’t it? I bet you wish you’d thought of it first.

Inspired by the song ‘Far from a fairy tale’ by Hiroki Kikuta, released under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license.

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To Whom It May Concern,

I’ve long been known as a collector of fine miniatures, especially dolls. My day job as an investment banker has only ever been a means to look after my collection and its myriad needs, grateful as I am for my success.

I suppose a psychologist would have a lot to say about what my love of my doll collection says about me, about my relationship with my parents, about Annie and Christine in each others’ arms in that coffin built for two where I laid them to rest after the stillbirth. But I have found clarity and peace in my dolls, so who is anyone to judge?

While my collection is as broad and as deep as I have been able to make it, a few items have long since stood out. The ’03 Bechenbacker, Melodie. The ’17 wartime Umberto, Francesca. My 1897 handmade Gauche-Stillwell, Jessica, the absolute gem of my collection. Who could forget the porcelain beauty of Agatha, my Krinkov from the last pre-revolution batch in December 1916? And of course, the three dolls who are of such rarity and quality that I have never publically disclosed any of their details?

They have spoken soft words to me on lonely rainy nights, kept me company from dusk until dawn. They are my true family, my true friends, the only ones who ever have or ever will understand me.

Therefore, I hope you will understand why I have had to remove myself from all other spheres. I hope you will understand why there are seven gaps on the shelves of my collection. And I hope you will understand why, even after the passing of a thousand thousand years, we will never be parted.

Sincerely,
V. Dolen Loveless

Inspired by the song ‘Love of Seven Dolls’ by Hiroki Kikuta, released under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license.

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“I love this waterfront. Nobody does a riverwalk like the Europeans.”

“It probably wasn’t as romantic a hundred years ago when this was all pollution and ooze.”

“Still, look at it now. All that stonework…ships in the river…everything is so clean and orderly.”

“Just like the stereotype of France, I’m sure.”

“Can’t you just enjoy the experience? Look at that sky! Look at those buildings!”

“No, I can’t. And I’ll tell you why.”

“Why?”

“See that aviary over there? Those birds have been staring at us through their old-timey bars since we got here.”

“Probably just looking for a handout.”

“No, that’s not what scares me at all. One of them has something in its beak.”

“What is it? I can’t quite see.”

“It looks like…the key to a Renault. What kind of car did we rent again?”

Inspired by the song ‘Heckle and Jeckle’ by Hiroki Kikuta, released under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license.

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“You all know me as a consciencious woman, and I intend that to be the case into my reign,” said Charlotte. Though not yet officially invested as Queen of Anjion, she posessed the Privy Seal and the full backing of the Estates of the Realm.

More importantly, with her parents both the only child of only children, and her brother dead in a shallow foreign grave, Charlotte was the only claimant to the throne who was not also a noble from the hated rival kingdom of Burgevy.

The garden party, amid the magnificent topiary that had been the passion of Charlotte’s father King Gordon, was the first chance for nobles from the First Estate to meet and speak with their young new queen.

“The military adventurism of my brother Sebastian is at an end,” Charlotte continued. “My ministers have just inked a proposal for a lasting peace between the Malmidites and ourselves that will include the return of hostages and the bodies of the dead in return for a small indemnity.

“Truly, yours is an enlightened reign to be,” said the Earl of Salaman. “We, the nobles of the First Estate, stand ready to advise her majesty on all matters of import.”

“Ah, yes, that,” said Queen Charlotte with a delicate smile. “It’s come to my attention that there has been quite a bit of jockeying for…influence…in my court. I want it understood that the final decision in all such matters will rest with me.”

“Surely her majesty would be more comfortable with a firm male hand on the rudder of the ship of state,” said the Marquis D’Undine. “We would not seek to have the full weight of administration resting on such delicate shoulders.”

“Of course you would,” said Charlotte mildly. “Which is why you are going to trim this entire garden this afternoon.”

“I…I beg your pardon, majesty?” stammered Marquis D’Undine.

“With your sword,” Charlotte added. “My father, King Gordon, found his greatest inspiration in statecraft from his topiary and flowers. I trust it will be just as inspiring to your lordship.”

“Your majesty, I must protest,” said the Earl of Salaman. “Asking a member of the first estate to do such a thing with his sword of state? That is unheard of. Uncalled for!”

“You are quite right, my lordship,” said Charlotte with a quiet curtsey. “You will assist the Marquis in his cultivation, and I will assign a few of my Life Guards to oversee your efforts and ensure that you do not neglect your education.”

Before any more protests could be uttered, Queen Charlotte was away, moving with a brisk step.

“If they protest or try to escape, see that they trim the black poisonwood next. Without any gloves. The blisters will serve as a reminder of their lesson today.” In a singsong voice, Charlotte continued: “Now, let us away to the piano for a jaunty tune.”

Inspired by the song ‘Queen Charlotte’ by Hiroki Kikuta, released under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license.

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The ancient seal cracked open, metal groaning as gears and pistons long since seized were brought shuddering back to life by pure mechanical force.

One was still under heavy fire from the Guard, who were trying their best to flush her out with hand grenades. Only the quality of the elder machines’ manufacture kept her safe, as the high explosives and shrapnel didn’t even cause a dent.

In such a confined space, the concussions were enough to make One’s ears ring, and she could Three’s words in the muffled echoes that filled her head. “There’s nothing up there but death. It will be the end of you, don’t you see?”

Another shriek of long-dormant girders. One recalled what she’d been told by Two and pulled the dark welder’s goggles down over her eyes. Seconds later, the seal parted and a torrent of pure white light spilled from the widening gap.

This was too much for the Guard, it seemed. They abandoned their assault in a frenzy of terror, throwing down weapons, casting off helmets. One’s salvation, it seemed, was their damnation.

Fearlessly, she moved into the breach.

Even with the goggles, the light was at first overpowering, a solid wall of white that swallowed all nuance, all color. But gradually, as eyes long-used to the underground adjusted, new hues appeared. Greens and blues, browns and greys…

And the air. So fresh and clean and pure, without a hint of diesel fumes or ozone.

As more things became clear, One stumbled to the top of a small crag and looked around her. An entire world, just like the ones in the picture books, was open around and above and below her. The sheer openness was such that she swayed giddily and queasily, but One didn’t waver.

“This is my world now,” she said softly. “Mine to explore, mine to cherish…mine to share with the others.”

Inspired by the song ‘1 plus 1 equal 1’ by Hiroki Kikuta, released under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license.

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Nano Poblano Blog Hop Basics:
1. Wait until you are tagged, then add a new post on your blog with these rules, the story so far, and who’s been tagged.
2. Title and tag the post as Nano Poblano Blog Hop Story 2015.
3. Add at least one sentence to the story.
4. Pick another Pepper from the blogroll to tag (preferably one who hasn’t already been tagged).
5. Add a link to your chosen Pepper’s about page (so they get a notification that they’ve been tagged) to the tagged list below.
6. Pass the story along within two days of getting tagged.

The Story So Far:
Eli stumbled into the compartment, flush and out of breath, and took the only available seat next to an old woman and a child. After months of planning, he suddenly had a bad feeling about this and stood right back up again, but at the same time, the train started moving.

There was no going back. As if to accentuate the point, the jerk of the train starting thrust Eli into his seat. Was he doing the right thing? Was he doing the wrong thing for the right reasons? Eli didn’t really know. What he did know was that the old lady had fake teeth that hadn’t been cleaned in a while, and the child reminded him of all the scary movies he’d seen about children. But that was besides the point. Eli was on a mission. Kind of.

He cringed, wishing he had planned this trip differently. The train ride lasted a full hour, plenty of time for things to go wrong when split-second timing was needed.

A droplet of sweat beaded at the end of Eli’s reddened face as he tried to catch his breath. Luckily, the old woman seemed to be busy telling the child a long and rambling fairy story. She hadn’t even noticed her fellow passenger.

Eli meant to keep it that way.

Tagged:
Fish of Gold
A Disquieted Mind
tj6james6
Excerpts from Nonexistent Books
I hereby tag: NotAPunkRocker

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Lola’s boots crunched on the new snow despite her efforts to be quiet. She wasn’t even supposed to be awake yet, much less outside, much less with the keys to the aerosled. It was a dangerous enough machine when it was working properly, but the stiff winds that howled down the frigid plains risked upsetting the vehicle at every turn.

The thing Father failed to realize, though, was that the aerosled was also by far the most fun thing in the settlement during winter.

The storage shed creaked open, revealing the aeroled resting on its wooden skids, keeping the skis from direct contact with the frozen ground. Lola carefully replicated the steps she’d seen Father and Grandfather do a hundred times: putting in the winter oil, loading up the special starter, and then easing the aerosled off its skids and onto the fresh snow before cranking the propeller. The din would surely wake everyone in the house, but Lola didn’t care.

She was past that now.

As the propeller sputtered to life, Lola hopped in the cockpit and took the controls. She grinned, frigid air in her face and hair spread out in a halo around her, as she steered onto the frozen lake.

Inspired by the song ‘Vivid’ by Hiroki Kikuta, released under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license.

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