Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

This moment isn’t worth
The wistfulness it brings
So alone at this juncture
Trudging among skeletons
From the intolerant earth
The machinery mutated
Beyond all recognition
In a space betwixt realities
Who will tend to our tombstones
Never acknowledge the damage
Someone who grossly overstates
Their own worth has caused
A view you paid dearly for
The catharsis of melancholy sadness

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“Tell me about it,” I said. “Describe what you’re feeling.”

Neltoq inclined his head. “It is like…” He trailed off, and for a moment there was just the sound of his reedy breathing.

“Go on,” I said gently.

“Imagine a song you have never heard, but one which you nevertheless know by heart,” said Neltoq. “You hear it distantly, as if borne on a summer breeze. As much as you desire to hear it, you hold back out of fear.”

I could only nod my head.

“How else might I describe it…?” Neltoq closed two of his eyes to re-moisturize them. “Perhaps…you see an old lover from a short distance away. You want to cry out to her, but at the same time you dare not. It is too dangerous. There is too much pain. Instead, you feel the embers of what was, what could have been, stirring deep within you.”

“I didn’t know you were a poet, Neltoq,” I said.

“It is an avocation I hve been studying,” he said. “It is a tradition among the Ultoq to compose a final testament before the metamorphosis. I have long thought that I would prefer for mine to be a poem. My scientific work will speak for itself, but it contains none of my soul.”

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“You lied to me,” I said. “Neltoq isn’t contemplating suicide. He’s contemplating metamorphosis.”

Gelb spread his fingers wide, shaking them in a mock version of jazz hands. “You got me, kid. Lock me up for fibbing.”

“Why?”

“The Project, of course,” said Gelb. “Don’t put on such naivete. It doesn’t suit you.”

“What about it?”

“Neltoq is a chief architect of the Project. It would take decades for someone else to familiarize themselves with his work, decades that we might not have.” Gelb pulled a cigar from his desk and held it under his nose, savoring the illegal odor. “And before you go trying to rat me out to Albert or Mil’Raq or the Supervisor, keep in mind that I was doing as I was told.”

I knocked the cigar out of Gelb’s hand in a gesture that surprised even me.

“Pick that up,” he said darkly. “Right now.”

I folded my arms.

“Fine.” Gelb stood up, waddled over to his cigar, and fetched it. “Have a tantrum if you like. But you can’t deny that Neltoq is an asset to the project as a juvenile Ultoq. What is he as a sessile sponge on the ocean floor?”

I didn’t say anything. Honestly, I couldn’t even think straight.

“So tell Neltoq to get off the grinyth if you want, counselor,” said Gelb. “But do so knowing that you’d be fatally undermining the Project.”

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“You’re up.” Gelb Harrington jerked his thumb at the door. “Neltoq Adjooshian. Ultoq, male, 40 solar years old.”

“Ultoq?” I said. “I haven’t trained with them! I don’t have the…the necessary background to even begin to-”

“Yeah, I know. You handle Type G organisms only, with Type Q in emergencies.” Gelb was smoking again, in defiance of regulations, and let the ash build up at the end of his cigar. “But Albert is out today. Last minute. Grandmother. Very sad. You’re up.”

“Surely Mil’Raq could-” I tried again.

“Spoken for. Listen, it’s not my first choice, but I’ve done my homework. You’re it.” Gelb noticed an empty cup in my trash, he scooped it up and let the ashes begin fluttering down into it.

My assistant pinged as Neltoq’s file was uploaded. “It says that he’s considering ending his life,” I said. “Really? He’s suicidal?”

“After a fashion,” Gelb said. “He’s also one of the key scientific advisors on the Project. Let me be clear about this. Crystal. Under no circumstances is Neltoq to end his life, do you understand? He is too essential to the Project to be let go.”

“Now you know that I can’t promise that,” I said. “Counseling is a varied field. While it’s inadvisable for humans and most other Type G organisms, some like the Oeilverti can suffer irreparable damage to their genome if they don’t self-terminate by their sunset date. And of course the Type Q-”

“Save it,” barked Gelb. “Your appointment is in 15 minutes.”

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Wild mobs lined the streets of Strelsau, shouting and jeering at the motorcade as it wound by. Ruritanian troops, the royal insignia on their uniforms covered by bright red bands, escorted the armored truck, though they were clearly more interested in fraternizing with the crowd than keeping them in check.

Once the motorcade reached the Tarlenheimplatz, the central plaza of Streslau beneath the imposing walls of the old White Palace, it stopped and disgorged its passengers: King Rudolph VI, his consort, and the Queen Mother, Flavia of Elphberg. They were accompanied by their staff and other minor dignitaries. The guards in the truck, former members of the crack Hentzau Brigade, took their task more seriously than the others and kept the masses at bay. The royals and their retinue were led to a dais that had been erected against the walls of the White Palace, where a microphone and motion picture cameras has been set up by order of the Commissar for Public Affairs.

The Commissar himself, Michael Hentzau, was waiting with a hand-picked battalion of Ruritanian Revolutionary Guards. He smiled and nodded at the deposed King, who said nothing, before turning to the microphone. The crowd quieted to hear his words:

“My fellow citizens of the Ruritanian People’s Republic!” he cried. “We, the people, who have freed ourselves from the reactionary yoke of the bourgeois, unelected monarchy of the so-called House of Elphberg, have gathered here to pass judgment upon the same for their crimes!”

The crowd hooted and hollered; Hentzau let them have their fun for a moment before he pressed on: “The sentence, confirmed by the People’s Commissariat, reflects decades of oppression, the massacre of peaceful protestors at Zenda chief among them. It has decreed that, for their crimes, the so-called royal family is to be executed immediately!”

At this, King Rudolf VI shouted and attempted to speak, straining against the Revolutionary Guards holding him back.

Hentzau dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “They have had ample opportunity to defend themselves, my friends. Now, the sentence is to be carried out immediately! Here, under the walls of the White Palace which for so long has symbolized their oppression, the so-called House of Elphberg will pay for its crimes with blood, and the ultimate symbol of their oppression, the bullet, will finally be used against them!”

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The old woman squinted at them. “Raw eggs,” she said. “Raw eggs and not having a man around the house. That’s how I’ve done it.”

“Done what?” Luciano said.

“Lived to this ripe old age. Lived to be 116 years old. That’s what you came to talk to me about, isn’t it?”

“It could be something else,” volunteered Giovanni.

“Oh yes, you came to interview this old bat for something else. I’ve lived in this town since I was born and nothing interesting has ever happened here. So I tell you what I told everyone else: raw eggs, and no boyfriends.”

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It sits there, 25 feet above the ground.

The Elder Shroom.

It has been there since the earth cooled. The tree on which it seems to rest grew into it.

To see it is to behold the universe from the outside. To touch it is to feel the tingle of the pin on which the world turns. To taste it is to die, but also to transcrend.

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Across
01. Where you buried the body.
02. “__________, your son’s real father.”
03. An unknowable field sown with rusty blades.
04. Notable Canadian war criminal.
05. “__________, rhymes with month.”
06. The last speaker of Yanguia, a tongue never heard by the West.
07. The 666th unspeakable name of the Emperor of the Night.
08. Carcosa, a city in __________.
09. Stately Virigina home larger on the inside.
10. Second president of the Confederate States of America.

Down
11. The sound of a scream in a vacuum.
12. Her last words to you.
13. The 168,334th digit of pi.
14. Experimental wingless airliner.
15. The true mortal author of Revelations.
16. He is coming.
17. __________, the beast we all fear to name.
18. One syllable that leads to madness.
19. The sigil of the gibbering moon.
20. “__________, my home on Jupiter’s surface.”

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1. Boarding is like unto a gold rush. You are prospector staking a claim in virgin territory, the overhead bins. Remember to place your roller bags sideways to claim as much real estate as possible, and don’t hesitate to close the bin early to stake your claim. This does not have anything to do with Republic Airlines’ aggressive pricing scheme for checked luggage.

2. Boarding is by zones. All passengers are put in Zone 7 where they will compete against one another for seats and space like the animals they are. You may be upgraded for a small bribe. Nervy people who attempt to board for an earlier zone have a 50-50 chance of being allowed to plane or being pulled aside for aggressive “additional screening” including a full body cavity and full body fluid search. Test your luck!

3. In a continuing effort to make 1990s comedy routines about airline food look extremely quaint, Rebublic Airlines now operates under Movie Theater Rules. Outside food and beverages will be aggressively screened for, and violations will be punished with the full force of TSA agents working with us in collusion. This does not have anything to do with Republic Airlines’ new aggressive pricing scheme for snacks.

4. First class passengers have paid for their status in desperately needed hard currency. Coach passengers may not look at first class passengers or speak to them without recieving permission. Coach passengers are required to move aside for first class passengers. The penalty for accosing a first-class passenger is death unto the third generation. First class passengers may kill coach passengers they deem unworthy of life so long as they are able to pay the wergald.

5. Due to Republic Airlines’ aggressive new payment scheme, all pilots and flight attendants are former employees of Aeroflot, the Soviet Union’s premier airline for the major duration of the Cold War. Russian-to-English dictionaries and interpreters are available if requested in advance in writing. Please report any attempts to push the aircraft into the flight performance envelope of a MiG-21 all-weather fighter-bomber, as there have been issues in the past.

Thank you, and have a pleasant flight!

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I’m trying to think of a good pun about sperm, but nothing is coming.

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