Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

Melinda’s voice was raspy. “You are…Mister Burgess, are you not?”

The former greenhouse was a warren of books and genteel tintypes, with a narrow path winding between them. Burgess could hear the squeaking of Melinda’s chair nearby, but could not immediately see a way to reach it.

“Yes, that’s right,” he said. “Your uncle spoke to you of me?

“Oh, no.” More rusty squealing as Melinda reoriented herself, sight unseen, to seek out Burgess amid the chaos. “Uncle is…terribly protective. I’m sure you noticed.”

Burgess rubbed the spot on the small of his back where Uncle Forrestal’s gun had been pressed. “I did indeed. But I am here because of your father.”

The squeaking, and the rasping, were closer now. “Uncle has told me of Father. I remember…little of him, but I am sure that he had my interests at heart when he left. Mother’s death at my birth was, I am told, quite the blow.”

Burgess snorted softly. The man the constabulary had fished out of the Thames had clearly only had his own at heart, judging from the betting slips in his pockets. “Well, Miss Forrestal, your father was, if nothing else, a registered barrister and the owner of not inconsiderable assets. If you are of age and of sound mind and body, you stand to inherit all of his holdings in lieu of your uncle, the only other next of kin.”

“I am quite sound of mind, thank you, Mr. Burgess,” croaked Melinda. She turned a corner into Burgess’s field of view, covered in a shawl, her twisted and thin legs beneath a blanket clearly unable to support her weight. “As for sound of body, well…I am told that, while she was in the early stages of bearing me, Mother was attacked and nearly killed by a flock of ravens.”

She cast back the hood, and Burgess recoiled in horror from the visage, far more birdlike than he had expected. Melinda’s beak clicked as she continued: “And, as those things do, it has…left its mark on me.”

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The ride had lasted nearly ten hours, with the last five spent under a black hood. Academy Award winning actress Ann Pense had won plaudits for her portrayal of a mentally handicapped, wheelchair-bound serial killer in 1944 Warsaw. But The Rusty Wheel was nothing compared to her most demanding role so far: interviewing one of the world’s most notorious fugitives and monsters.

After seeing nothing but the straws her escorts had shoved into the hood to allowe her to sip vegan gluten-free smoothies, Ann found herself seated in a padded chair. The hood was whisked off, and she found herself face to face with her quarry.

“Well, Ms. Pense, here I am,” said Vampire Stalin, fangs glistening beneath his impressive mustache, dripping with the lifeblood of the proletariat. “What would you like to ask me about my unholy armies of the people?”

“There’s been a lot of misconceptions about your drive for equality and dignity through vampirism,” Ann began, drawing on the list of questions she had memorized earlier. “So let me ask you: are you a saint?”

Inspired by this.

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The trek across the taiga had been a bruising one. Paved roads had run out a few hours north of Yakutsk, and the dirt tracks some hours north of that. John had prepared as best he could for this eventuality, but even with all his groundwork he found himself making the last part of the journey on foot, across game trails cut by reindeer across the lower reaches of the Verkhoyansk Range, the coldest place ever permanently inhabited by man.

By the time John had arrived in a small valley carved fromt he Range by an unnamed river, he was suffering from frostbite, saddle sores, and bites from the stinging insects that swarmed eagerly around him, desperate for blood in the short quasi-summer that was their lives. Deep within the valley, visible only from the place indicated on the map, was an old ostrog–a single-tower fortress within a mouldering palisade, erected by the earliest Russian explorers.

When he was nearer, the unmistakable resonance of Tuvan throat singing could be heard echoring through the forgotten valley. This was the place.

John found the Porok at the highest floor of the okrug, at a window that had once served as a lookout post, projecting the eerie sound into the world through dead lungs. The Porok was rotted and embalmed, like a badly preserved mummy with just enough flesh and sinew to hold together its bones and support the worn finery it sported.

“It’s beautiful,” said John. “The singing.”

The Porok did not turn to him. “It is the only sound that I can make that one might think came from something young,” it said. Its voice was raspy and choked with dust, the death rattle of an old general cut down in single combat. “And it serves as a beacon to those who, like you, have made the long trek north from Yakutsk.”

John was susprised that the Porok’s English was so intelligible, as he had extensively practiced his rusty Russian and Latin. “So I am not the first,” he said.

“Nor will you be the last.” The Porok now approached John. Its face was eyeless, its lips and gaping nasal cavity devoid of all but the most base of flesh. “To those who would seek the Porok out, the long trek is a welcome…filter. The cool climate also agrees with me, as you may imagine.”

It led John downstairs, throught the main room decorated with trinkets that others had brought in supplication. The pretty things, tapestries and china, were heaped in a corner. It was the utilitarian things that occupied a place of honor: a wind-up short-wave radio, a shake-flashlight, a water filter.

“I know why you have come,” said the Porok. “All is known to me, always, forever. It is my curse and my gift. However, I long ago made a pact with myself, and with the Ancients measured against whom I am but a zygote. I only act on that which people say, rather than what they think or what they are.”

“Very well,” said John. “I will give you your gift and tell you now, if it please you.”

“Do so,” croaked the Porok. “But be warned: once you speak, your lost is cast, words set forever in stone. You may leave now, safely, or stay an evening to fortify yourself. But once you speak, you will face the consequences. Your request may be granted, yes. Or I may tear out your throat for your insolence. In asking, you accept this. Do you understand?”

“I do.” John set his jaw. “I will proceed.”

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Lady Scylla sat in an old oak chair at the head of the table. It was ornately carved, solid after even a hundred years of life and twenty-five of neglect. The lumber barons of Deerton had known their business.

And Lady Scylla knew hers.

“To me, my faithful,” said she, rubbing softly on the amber gem that hung around her neck. “To me, my unwinders of the world’s webs.”

A chair at the far end of the table was suddenly occupied. It was Pate, digging into the magnificent and ever-enduring feast laid out by Lady Scylla, as was his wont. Saved from a place that had starved to death, he was always hungry even though he did not need food.

“Bah,” Pate snorted. “Midwestern food. Bland enough to make British cooking jump like fireworks in the mouth.”

Much closer to Lady Scylla, on her left, a chair scraped at it was turned backwards. Touchstone, who had named herself from a play that he had never read, cackled. “It’s been too long,” she laughed. “Too long since we heard the call.” She had been born in a stultifying town that had withered away in its own seriousness; her first laugh had been its destruction.

And finally, at the foot of the table…Nyx. It had been a crisis of identity that had torn apart Nyx’s home, and so Nyx had none. No form, no shape, no gender, only what Nyx assumed, as long as Nyx saw fit to assume it.

“You’re a gorilla tonight, Nyx,” chuckled Lady Scylla. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m hungry,” laughed Nix. “And I wanted to see if I could get a reaction out of you.”

“And so you have.” Lady Scylla clapped her hands together. “Now then, my friends. To the task at hand. Let us discuss how we will go about sucking the marrow from this place.”

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The birds parted on either side, as if Lola were somehow unpalatable to them. They squawked and flapped but otherwise allowed her boots to crunch over the hard-packed snow of the frozen lake.

Lola did her best to remain nonchalant, hands in pockets. The bitter lake wind tore at her unbottoned jacket, but she dared not make the move to bundle up. The geese honked at her, outraged, but in a small miracle not one bit of down escaped from them to touch or even approach her.

The sullen, rotting tower of the Baikash refugees with its tattered banners and faded signs, slowly began to sink below the treeline. As Lola continued her trek, some of the geese keeping pace while others fell back to look for stragglers.

As Joyce had said, and as the occasional bleached bones on the ice attested, the birds’ feathers were highly toxic and being near enough to be nipped could impart a fatal dose of ionizing radiation in moments.

It was a long way, an awful long way, to the orange dot on the far shore.

Inspired by this.

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PERSONAL INFORMATION
Full Name: Xasa Barcolian
Gender: Female
Galactic Security No: XXX-XX-1977
Date of Birth: 17/32/28 ABY
Place of Birth: Socorro
Race: Corellian
Ethnicity: Bharhulai
Settlement of Birth: Cjaalysce’I
Religion: Church of the Force (Reformed)
H-mail Address: xasabear@laptinek.hol.soc
Permission to Contact Using Spacebook? No
HoloNet No: 46703839741437
Mailing Address: 1981 Solview Terrace, Vakeyya, SO
Father’s Name: Dolo Barcolian
Mother’s Name: Cinda Barcolian

ACTIVITIES
Fighting Gundarks Women’s Smashball
Fighting Gundarks Women’s Swoop Team
Fighting Gundarks Women’s Banthaquestrian
Fighting Gundarks Cheertrooper Legion
Church of the Force YoungLife
Droid Club

APTITUDE SCORES

Jon Yosarian Jr. High School
Core GPA:: 2.44/4.0
Overall GPA: 2.81/4.0

Galactic Aptitude Test (GAT)
Galactic Standard Speech: 16/36
Galactic Standard Reading: 17/36
Science: 27/36
Mathematics: 26/36
Force: 37/36

Standard Galactic Test (SGT)
Verbal Reasoning: 580/1127
Mathematical Reasoning: 1058/1127
Force Reasoning: 1130/1127

ESSAY
Part of going to college is expanding who you are and findinf your dream. I know that i need to expad my horisons and chase after my dreams. My dreams are to be a profesional Cheertrooper and also a pro swoop racer. Im not so silly that i dont have a plan after that, i want to be a drod designer for Cybot Galactica. My droid will be the firsst to win the Galatic Art Cup. In closing, whil i dont know what i want to major in yet, it has been a journey of making my dreams and myself as a persin. My gradez do not reflect who i am as a person, i am more than a set of numbers. Thank u for your time, may the frce b with u, and GO BANTHAS!!!!

REVIEWER COMMENTS
–Very poor core GPA
-Pukey essay
-AGT/SGT scores show strong ‪‎Dark Side‬ leanings
-Recommend admissions deferral at this time

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She was my very first
My poor darling girl
She wore red so you
Couldn’t see the rust
Devouring her edges
Or the brake fluid
Streaming from her
Opened veins

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“We’ve passed this same rock seven times, maybe eight.” Winnie racked the action on her rifle, ejecting a brass that she nimbly caught and reinserted. “I can handle what I can shoot, but this place…”

“They said the woods were…tricksy, that they went back on their word,” said Caprice. “They needed to be sure whoever came here wasn’t just strong or lucky.”

Walking along another path, fifteen minutes more saw them deposited back at the clearing with the large carved boulder. Winnie took a shot at it in anger, chipping a few bits off. “How can woods have a word to give, anyway?” she cried. “They don’t have mouths!”

“That’s a good point,” Carpice said. A moment of contemplation followed. “What do you suppose will happen if, whenever we come to this rock, we go back the way we came?”

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One day, Edna Lloyd woke up and found that she didn’t exist.

It was a little strange for her, as she was quite used to existing. In fact, she had existed a whole lot; as one of the few Ednas who were younger than 60, her name alone got her a good deal of recognition. Her job as a barista with an art history degree, though not uncommon, also gave her a good deal of existence. People tended to recognize her on the street after buying only a single cup of coffee from her years ago.

And yet, when she woke up, no one remembered her.

“Hi, Ms. Callahan!” Edna said to her next-door neighbor that morning, a divorced mother of two who was always smiley despite screamy babes in arms.

“Do I know you?” Callahan said. “What are you doing in that apartment? Nobody lives there.”

Edna nervously laughed it off. Ms. Callahan did have a warped sense of humor from a steady diet of Boomerang and Cartoon Network after all.

At the back door to Stubb’s Coffee, though, Edna began to get a little worried. Harry, the manager and barista-in-chief, wouldn’t let her in. “I’m sorry, this entrance is for employees only,” he said firmly..

“But I am an employee! I’ve worked here for five years!” Edna cried. “Look, I’m wearing the uniform and name tag! I work the eight to three with Sharise!”

Harry did not budge. “Sharise works the eight to eleven alone,” he said. “I really need to hire someone for it, but not someone who obviously works for another Stubb’s.”

“But…but…”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said. “Much as I need the help, this is kind of creeping me out. You need to go.”

Edna wound up sitting on the curb in her Stubb’s uniform, vainly crying out to people she recognized. She had a good memory for faces, one that had served her well for barista tips and art history statuary exams alike.

Only one person responded. Dressed in a chic suit, he nevertheless had every visible part of his body covered in menacing-looking gangland tattoos. “You having a problem, miss?” he said. “Everybody forgetting that you exist today?”

Though his appearance was menacing, his voice was soft-spoken and kind. And, on closer inspection, Edna could see that the tattoos were done in a gangland style they read “Enlightenment,” “Information,” “Culture,” instead of “Neva Die,” “Thug Lyfe” or “Blips 4 Eva.”

“Yeah,” said Edna.

“It happens,” he said. “It’s not common, the memory prion, but it’s voracious. You’ll be seeing a lot of selective amnesia before the day’s out.”

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Light and Darkness met, as was their wont, at dawn.

Light was effusive, ebullient, cheerful. It brought out the beauty in things, warmed others with its presence. But it was also guileless, intrusive, penetrating. It could not understand those that were not like it, and its radiance knew not tact nor diplomacy.

Darkness was grim, restrained, dour. It masked imperfections, brought all to equality, knew subtlety and grace. But it was also cold, aloof, decietful. It could not understand those that were outgoing, and its cloak of shadows hid both the shy and the evil.

They were lovers as much as they were opposites. Their first child, Sunrise, took after her mother. She warmed and nourished even as she was gentle and tactful with the shadows she rolled back. Their second child, Sunset, took after his father. He cloaked the weak and fearful even as he allowed those with sunnier dispositions time to wind themselves down into sleep.

Theirs was an affair of opposites who could never quite get along. Light and Darkness would always quarrel when they met, but in the presence of their precious children they could, briefly, find in themselves the love and mutual respect that they had always carried.

In time, they bore a third child, Eclipse. It was Eclipse who inherited the transience of shadow from Darkness but the bursting speed from Light. It was Eclipse that had Darkness’s retiring nature but Light’s showmanship. It was Eclipse alone that could bring the parents together at midday or midnight. It was Eclipse alone that renewed their quarrels and exacerbated them.

It was Eclipse alone that could bring about the end of their world.

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