Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

A superb creature advances
Arriving amid typesetting apathy
Words compromise the nightmare
But also the saint that ends it
Does speech strip away a the worry
The ear strains to hear a voice

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Deerton Police Blotter, 1132 Maple St.
Occupant: Mrs. Olivia Crayton, age 87. Limited mobility, dementia, dependent on family members and live-in nurse visiting twice a week for care.

Incident #1
Complaint: Ugly cement geese in front yard, with signs shaped like speech bubbles saying “Hello” and “Stop by for a gander.”

Resolution: Cement geese violated no city ordinances and were on private property.

Incident #2
Complaint: Ugly cement geese now dressed in American Flag outfits with signs shaped like speech bubbles saying “God Bless America” and “Geese on Earth, goodwill toward men.”

Resolution: Cement geese violated no city ordinances and were on private property. Minor violation of US Flag Code.

Incident #3
Complaint: One ugly cement goose dressed in black with sign shaped like speech bubble saying “Who took my goose? I miss her.”

Resolution: Police report filed for theft. No physical evidence at site.

Incident #4
Complaint: One ugly cement goose dressed in military fatigues with sign shaped like speech bubble saying “Return her or else. I know where you live.”

Resolution: Cement goose violated no city ordinances and were on private property. Case for minor harrassment or intimidation, but no target could be identified.

Incident #5
Complaint: Body of neighbor, bludgeoned to death, on lawn between two ugly cement geese with sign shaped like speech bubble saying “We warned you.”

Resolution: Criminal investigation opened. Ms. Crayton provided alibi corroborated by nurse; no physical evidence found at scene. Investigation transferred to state office, FBI; is ongoing.

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When Bill and his graduate students arrived onsite, though, they saw that the dig had been disturbed. Forrestal’s tarp and grid had been cast aside, and the human remains were in fractured chaos.

“Shit,” said one of the grad students, surveying the carnage. “Looters?”

Bill leaned over, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. Turning over a crushed mandible, he saw that all the teeth had been pulled. “No, worse,” he said. “Tooth fairies.”

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Gibberlings of the Caldera, as their name may indicate, are generally unorganized and rather stupid. While it is possible to comprehend their native language of Gibberlish, and many do, they are generally too hyperactive or easily distracted to form lasting societies or empires. Without a strong non-gibberling leader, they seem doomed to a society of mediocrity.

The one known exception in Caldera lore is the mighty Gibberking Gus the First.

Arising from humble origins, Gus the First was able to, through unknown means, forge a legion of Caldera gibberlings into an organized society. Bursting forth from their undergound lairs upon unsuspecting Caldera farmers, the Gibberking’s troope were able to conquer the largest gibberling empire the Caldera has ever seen: 20 square miles. Perhaps coincidentally, 20 miles is the furthest a gibberling can scamper before losing interest or being distracted by shiny things.

Such was Gus the First’s prestige that even the mighty general Minaka the Conqueror saw fit to leave his realm alone after her scouting patrols were devoured to the gristle. She instead accepted units of gibberling troops to add to her army and proclaimed Gus the “Gibberking of the Gibbermarch.”

Sadly for Gibbercivilization, Gus the First’s empire failed to ourlive him. The cause was twofold: first, knowing the short natural lifespan of a gibberling, Gus the First immediately put his entire civilization to work building him a grand tomb. The craftsmanship and treasures on display were astonishing, especially by gibberling standards: a pyramid of glittering and polished stone, protected by devious mechanical traps and living dead soldiers.

Naturally, nearly the entire population of Gus the First’s empire was worked to death in its construction.

Gus the First also failed to sire an heir, as he packed his court with handsome young male favorites instead. Indeed, the need for tomb guardians was a smokescreen for the mummification and preservation of a legion of nubile gibberlings for an eternal orgy. Upon his death, his 20 square miles rapidly fragmented among competing gibberlings who each claimed (falsely) to be Gus the First’s brother, son, or father.

To this day, many gibberlings in the Caldera claim descent or relation to Gus the First, and he remains an important folk hero to gibberkind. “Gus” remains the most popular name for gibberling males (with “Gussina” prevailing among females). The typical gibberling band of 10-12 members will often have up to seven members named Gus in honor of their first and only Gibberking.

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Serious scholars of poetry know that in reclusive poetess Emily Dickinson’s most notable publications during her life were in the Springfield Republican newspaper. Between 1858 and 1868, she anonymously published a handful of verses in the paper, many differing quite significantly from the editions discovered by her sister Lavinia after Emily’s death in 1886.

What is less well known is the series of occasional poems that appeared in the Republican‘s sister publication, the Springfield Democrat between 1871 and 1882. The Democrat was a guttersnipe paper that specialized in sensational and taboo topics; it folded in 1883 after an obscenity case in Boston, in point of fact. It was the New York Post to the Republican‘s New York Times and very popular and reviled for that very reason.

The poems published therein were clearly inspired by Emily Dickinson’s poetry, but were universally vulgar and denigrating, directing shocking (for the time) insults and invective at unnamed parties. Scholars have somewhat facetiously dubbed the unknown author “Emily Disserson” due to this.

For example, the following was published in the Springfield Democrat on April 2, 1879, clearly based on Dickinson’s Hope Is A Thing With Feathers:

Hope you’re tarred and feathered –
And run right out of town –
As we sing a tune uncensor’d –
Of how we cast – you down –

I’ve seen it on your bitchy hands –
And on the whorish lip –
You – never – in one-night stands,
Never shame loosen – your grip.

Experts disagree on whether the anonymous author was a family member, an acquaintance, an unrelated party, or even Dickinson herself. Most discount the latter theory, for obvious reasons. The closest to a scholarly consensus, advanced by Dr. Philip Sagle of Southern Michigan University, is that the author was Ms. Caroline Treacle, a close friend of Lavinia Dickinson.

Ms. Tracle was notorious for her profane language and ease of offense, and is recorded in the Springfield Social Register as being banned from the Springfield Sewing Circle for “using such language as would make a Sailor blush and a Whore take up the Cross.”

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The wall grew overnight.

The swamp had been, for many years, barely passable and largely avoided. But when the time came to drain it, to replace the pools and bogs with land that was useful, something changed.

Workmen arrived after a day of hard but productive labor to find their tools scattered, their machines batted about as if by a child’s hand. And between they and the swamp to be drained, a wall. It was not a wall of brick, or of steel, but a wall of the swamp itself.

Gnarled and ancient wood, curled in upon itself and dripping with algae. Arachnid dendrils of fresh-grown shoots, still carrying upon them the green of their birth. Even planks from the old corduroy road that had once wound its way through the thinnest and shallowest of the bog were twisted within. Twelve feet or more, it was in places studded with dead birds strangled in the matter as it had emerged and embraced.

Half of the workmen quit the jobsite that day. The other half spent the day sawing a hole large enough for passage; they too gave notice when, the morning after that, their hole had been plugged by fresh regurgitations from the heart of the swamp.

The owners, who had much invested in the property and grand plans for the drained land, persisted. They hired a new crew and set them to work building a ramp over the top of the mysterious swamp wall. It took two weeks, but the ramp was completed and not overgrown the following morn.

A full survey crew went in first, to check for damage to the work that had already been done by what was rationalized away as an earthquake. At shift’s end, none returned. The second crew deserted in droves, aside from a search party assembled by the owners and promised triple pay. Armed and equipped for rescue, they also failed to return.

Seven days later, a single man stumbled out of the swamp and collapsed at the foot of the ramp. He was covered with scratches and bites, and was completely incoherent. A member of the second party, he raved for hours about vengeful red eyes amid the rotting wood, of creatures neither lizard nor amphibian that rose from the muck to savage men with needle-sharp teeth and steel-keen claws.

That sole survivor died one week later. Sedated and restrained after several prior attempts, he killed himself by chewing off his own tongue and drowning in blood. At long last the owners abandoned their plans and surrendered the swamp to the state. The ramp was torn down after it was determined there were no further survivors, and compensation for their next-of-kin bankrupted every investor.

And the wall? The wall remains, overgrown, tangled with hollow bones. It’s said there’s a knothole, in a piece of the old courduroy road, through which the intrepid or the curious can peek to see what lies beyond, sealed off from all that is not pools of peat and rotting vegetable matter.

To this date, no one has.

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“Ready?” the warden removed a key from his neck. The head guard did the same, and they both inserted them into their respective locks. “Turn on three.”

At the warden’s count, the locks clicked open and the cell began to peel apart. Sections withdrew into the ceiling and floor, revealing the stasis tube holding the prisoner. Brayden Ellis Cunningham, age 16, looking just as dangerous as he had the day he’d been brought in.

“Doesn’t look that dangerous,” said Agent Tenga. “Just like any other snot-nosed kid.”

The warden and chief guard jammed their keys into a second set of locks and turned, beginning the stasis flush procedure amid klaxons. “That ‘snot-nosed kid’ caused 4 billion dollars’ worth of damage,” said the warden with a sneer. “He killed 27 people. Be careful.”

The stasis liquid drained from the tube, leaving Brayden Ellis Cunningham awake but groggy. The chief guard handed Agent Tenga a microphone. “Here, you can talk to him on this. No physical contact.”

Agent Tenga picked up the mic. “Mr. Cunningham?” he said. “Braydon Ellis Cunningham? This is Agent Tenga of the RIAA. We need your help.”

“Ah,” said Braydon. “First you lock me up for pirating Misty Chalmers’ new album, the entire fall lineup of NBS, and every movie released on Webfilmz since 2013. Then you ask for my help? Laughable.”

“You drove two dozen network executives to suicide,” said Agent Tenga. “But we’re willing to overlook that in exchange for your cooperation.”

“Cooperation with what?” said Brayden. “It’d better be good.”

“Someone has pirated the Oscar telecast,” said Agent Tenga, lowering his head. “It’s been leaking out at the rate of one minute per day.”

“That’s it?” Brayden cried. “Who cares? There’s another Oscars in a month anyway!”

“No, you don’t understand.” Tenga put a hand over his mouth and bit his finger for a moment before continuing. “Someone pirated this year’s Oscars. They haven’t even been filmed yet!”

“Oh. Oh, now that is interesting,” said Brayden.

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The first ladybug was an curiosity.
The tenth was an annoyance.
The twenty-fifth was exasperating.
The hundredth was terrifying.
The thousandth was fatal.

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“It’s not what it used to be,” said Corvus, his voice muffled behind his Renaissance doctor’s mask. “People don’t think of children’s entertainers when they see clowns anymore, they think of murderers and psychopaths. It’s like dressing up as the boogeyman.”

“People don’t think of healers when they see those plague masks, either,” said Squids, her smirk enhanced by the greasepaint. “They think of assassins and quacks.”

“But medieval doctors were assassins and quacks,” replied Corvus. “Not so clowns. They’ve done a complete 180 from beloved to reviled. So why do you want to dress up as one?”

“Look, Corvus, you know that’s not what the Club is about,” said Jangle. “We wear what we want to wear and this is a safe place for it.”

“No, it’s all right,” said Squids. “Corvus thinks I’m trying to put on a Goth affect and being coy about it, and I want him to know that’s not the case.”

“Well, then, what is it?” said Corvus. “Don’t tell me it’s because you want to be a jolly old-time clown. You don’t have the temperament for it.”

“Corvus!”

“It’s all right,” Squids said, though her painted smile did not budge. “It’s…all right. I dress like this, Corvus, because of that duality, not despite it. I’m dour, I’m sarcastic, I’m a stick-in-the-mud who smokes. Pre-serial-killer, maybe. But at the same time, it represents what I would like to be: more outgoing, better with kids, less concerned with what people think of me. I’m a new clown trying to be an old clown.”

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