Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

“Miss Betsy, Miss Betsy!” the little girl tugged at her teacher’s arm.

“Yes, what is it?” said Miss Betsy, indulgent but exhausted after the child’s constant barrage of questions.

“Why does our class have four Donalds, three Hillaries, two Marcos, and five Teds?”

“Well, you see, it’s because you kids were born in 2016,” said Miss Betsy.

“Why does that matter?” asked the girl.

“People often name their children after candidates they like, and there are an awful lot of candidates in an election year.”

“Oh,” said the girl. “I don’t like that. I wish our moms and dads were more creative.”

“Why do you say that, Berniesandersia?” said Miss Betsy.

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III. The Sigil Cannot be Removed

To: xjsp@unm.edu
From: millerdemolitions@gagglemail.com
Subject: Re: Work Order #19832203

Dear Mr. Richat,

I regret to inform you that Miller Demolition has decided to terminate its contract to remove the concrete roof slab next to your rooftop air conditioner. Your payment, minus deposit, will be returned via bank transfer just as soon as our assistant can process the paperwork.

This isn’t any fault of your own. We lost two men to workman’s comp, as you know, and Stevens will likely never get the use of his arm back. Three jackhammers and two cranes in the scrap heap already mean we are losing money on our bid.

I wouldn’t stay in that building one moment more than you have to. Not with that thing on the roof. Let me know if you want to move and we’ll cut you a good deal–at cost. Just so long as your people take out everything before we rig that place to blow–my men aren’t going back up there unless it’s to implode it to hell.

Mike Miller, Jr.
Owner/Operator
Miller Demolitions

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II. The Sigil Cannot Be Altered

“Well, I don’t know if I believe what they’re saying, but we’ve got to clean up this mess.” Aimee, a Valid Trauma Scene Waste Management Practitioner for Soulshine Crime Scene Cleaners.

“It’s not our job to believe or not,” said her supervisor, Courtney, a Valid Trauma Scene Waste Management Class II licensee. “Maybe the janitor killed his friend and then himself or maybe the aliens set it up. Either way, we’ve got three gallons of blood to clean up.”

“Hey,” Aimee said. “Did the work order say anything about this?” She pointed at a strange symbol spray-painted on the concrete, visible beneath droplet sprays of dried blood.

“Hmph.” Courtney pulled a Sharpie from her overalls and drew a looping curve beneath a place where two orbs intersected. “Well, whatever it is, it has a dick now.”

“What?” said Aimee. “You didn’t draw anything.”

Courtney drew the pen across the pavement, leaving an oily black line. “Pen’s working fine,” she said. “Probably just didn’t have any ink flowing.” But her second attempt failed as well; the Sharpie resolutely refused to work.

“Let me see it,” said Aimee. “I think I have an idea.

Courtney, simmering, handed over the pen. Aimee uncapped it, licked the tip…and drove it deeply, forcefully, into her supervisor’s left eye socket.

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I. The Sigil Cannot Be Reproduced

Bill squinted. “I think it looks like a…I dunno, a star in the middle of three half-moons,” he said, jabbing his power washer’s nozzle at the symbol.

“No, it’s more like a diamond on a four-leaf clover,” said Bob. “I can’t believe someone would go to all the trouble of coming up here just for…that.”

“Whatever it is, somebody went to a lot of trouble to spraypaint it on the roof. I want to get a picture of it before we get started.” Bill hauled out his phone and snapped a picture. Then, squinting, he snapped another.

“What’s the matter, Bill?” said Bob. “Need a tripod with those shaky hands of yours?”

Bill held up his phone for Bob to see. He swiped through the series of pictures he’d taken, all of which seemed to be of featureless concrete.

“Huh,” said Bob. He retrieved his own phone, which was a model newer than his compatriot’s. Snapping a few of his own shots, he saw them to be similarly blank. “That’s weird. It won’t take.”

Shrugging, Bill turned on his power washer once his phone was safely away. As he was hosing down the symbol, he felt something tricking down his face. His hand came away scarlet.

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When Tinuviel woke up she wasn’t just in jail. She wasn’t just in a cell in the deepest part of the Welkor’s Light fortress. She was also in the body of a goblin.

“I asked you what we could do to keep from being possessed out of our bodies,” she cried. “Hours ago! But did anyone answer? NO!”

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It’s been a momentous six years and as we close in on 2,200 posts overall, we thought we’d leave it to some of our most prolific contributors from the last few years to share their experiences of publication with EFNB.

Axton Wales
(Krane Wupinov, Half-Orc Bard, The Vallia Battlements Halfling Toss)

If it weren’t for the editors at EFNB, I wouldn’t have an outlet for turning my D&D adventures into fiction. Nobody takes roleplaying fiction, especially from players who don’t exist. There’s some kind of bias against nonexistent players playing a nonexistent adventure, just because it’s nonexistent two levels deep.

Lucy Y. Shantell
(The Mercenary Goblin, In the Name of Gob)

It’s hard for nonexistent authors to break into any genre, let alone crowded genres like fantasy. So I’m very grateful to EFNB for accepting the manuscript for my novel. I could have done without them chopping it up and publishing little bits of it out of order and therefore scuppering any chance of publication anywhere else, though.

Altos Wexan
(Ode to a Third Place, The Muse of Goo)

I’ve been with EFNB as a publisher since February 2010, and I’ve found no one more amenable to the type of fiction and essays I regularly write. They are a joy to work with and I can’t recommend them highly enough. But while we’re on the subject, guys, do you remember when you promised to stop paying me in imaginary money? Any movement on that front? Rent is due soon and I can’t sell much more of my blood.

Lila-Jenny Swanson II, editor-in-chief, Hopewell Democrat-Tribune
(L. R. Badeau on Being a Full-Time Unicorn [edited], Benchwarming in the Bleachfields)

The Hopewell Democrat-Tribune has had a content distribution agreement with EFNB since 2013, and ours has been an excellent partnership thus far. Nonexistent newspapers serving nonexistent municipalities have been hit harder than most by the economic downturn in the industry. By getting our content out there, EFNB has allowed our staff to continue pushing our progressive, inclusivist, pansexualist, and pro-formican viewpoints in a new age. Best of all, their pay for authors is exactly the same as The Huffington Post: absolutely nothing. Very competitive rates for such an upstart publication!

Klaus Ulrich Baden, Vice-President for Bloggery, GesteCo LLC GmbH
(Depression Werewolves [approved for general release], Cerebral Outsourcing [co-edited])

On behalf of GesteCo LLC GmbH, I am authorized to transmit the following statement, on the condition that it be understood heretoforewith that any objectionable opinions therein are solely my own and do not reflect an official position of GesteCo LLC GmbH. Official statement follows:

Thank you!

This concludes the official statement. Please note that any use of this statement outside of the context proscribed in the Explicit Transmittal Agreement is a breach of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act and will be vigorously prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. This statement is intended for viewers in Region 1 only and will not work on Region 2 computers or internet browsers. This content has been voluntarily blocked in China by mutual agreement of GesteCo LLC GmbH and the People’s Ministry of Truth. All rights reserved in perpetuity.

Anonymous
(A Writer’s Razor, Snarky English Major Haikus)

How did you get this number?

Catherine Vennari
(The Secret Plumage, The Raven’s Inheritance)

While there are many fine publication opportunities for connoisseurs of the dark, weird, strange, weirdly dark, and strangely weird, EFNB stands head and shoulders above the rest. Why? One simple reason: I suspect they are a shadow cabal of pigeon-computers networked into a gestalt whole.

Ari Penfield-Cuff
(Jane vs. the Megafrog, Ednesia)

Sometimes I just get the urge to write stuff. Not even writing, more like saying it straight onto paper. No filter. Just let te story flow out, even if it’s about dish soap or kangaroos. It’s just a thing I’ve gotta do sometimes, like breathing or composting or compositing or light murder.

Wait, I was published?

Andrew A. Sailer
(Why I Hate Reboots, The Best and Worst of Bond)

Thanks for publishing my rants. I doubt you’ve gotten much money out of them, but it counts as anger management according to the terms of my suspended sentence, so it’s all good.

Lynn Ruelle Badeau
(Happy (Belated) Unicorn Appreciation Day 2016!, L. R. Badeau on Being a Full-Time Unicorn)

Many sparkles to you on this joyous day!

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They had arranged, long before the seige began, that the golden arrow that formed one of the hand on the great clock tower would be their signal. Each day, she walked near the high castle walls near a copse that was well within arrow-shot. Each day, he took an arrow and shot it over the battlements for her to find.

If ever it was the golden arrow that had been loosed, things would change.

One day, just after crossing the old stone bridge and in eyeshot of the castle, she found the golden arrow in a field near the trees. It had not flown well, as it was designed to be a timepiece rather than a weapon, but the meaning was clear.

Returning to the village, she roused the people against the occupants of the keep. They had betrayed their charge, the one who they had been meant to protect, and his life was in danger. Forming a makeshift militia, they marched on the works.

The ensuing battle was brief but fierce, and left the keep in ruins with its walls crashing down. In the chaos, she was unable to find her beloved and feared that the citadel had fallen too late to spare his life. It was not until the dead were lined up for burial that she saw him, among those who had been felled by the first charge. He had died in defense of the keep, never knowing that his love had been at the head of those sacking it.

And the golden arrow? No one ever learned who had fired it, but many years later an order for the young lover’s execution was found in the files of a royal magistrate. Aware of the signal, it is likely he had one of his own men fire the fatal shot, knowing full well that the young man would likely perish in the battle to come.

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Controversy continued to swell around the Hopewell Public Library today, as protestor appeared for the third day in a row. Numbering more than 200, they are demanding reforms and justice.

“I’m just saying,” said one protestor, “if these librarians were wearing body cameras, none of this would have happened.”

“It’s shameful,” said another. “They’ve been mistreating patrons for years, it’s only now that we’re starting to wake up.”

At issue is the shushing of unarmed patrons and the assessing of fines in a discriminatory manner. Nine patrons have been shushed since the first of the month, with witnesses and cell phone video seeming to show that the unarmed patrons were shushed despite no detectable noise level. All of the nine were patrons like teenagers, creepy older men, or middle-aged busybodies–all groups that have alleged targeting for mistreatment.

“They shushed me the other day because the other patrons could hear my Nickelback through my headphones,” said one protestor. “That’s straight-up Gestapo treatment, man!”

“I got shushed because I kept asking that cute librarian for her phone number,” said another. “What is this, Soviet Russia?”

Protestors also allege that librarians have been assessing fines in a way that is judgmental and discriminatory. Users from the above groups say that they have been singled out for fines for simply not returning items on time.

Pressed for comment, the Hopewell Public Library has declined to issue a statement at this time, pending a press conference to be held tomorrow at 2:30 EST. This has not muted calls for the librarians in question to be prosecuted and for the State Librarian to resign.

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Weather Complaints – This full-bodied whine is a 2010 vintage from Great Britain, one of the coldest winters on record. It has notes of honey and a pleasant, oaky finish, and is best paired with a light, summery dish such as our salad or souffle.

Traffic Grousing – A 2009 whine from Los Angeles just outside the Napa Valley, famous as the worst traffic in the known world in countries where painted road lines are respected. With bold, bitter essence and a full-bodied taste with hints of ash, it serves as a tart balance for a sweeter dish like our famous honey-roasted pork.

Behind-the-Back Smack – One of the most common whines in the world, this vintage is from 2010 in Washington, D.C., where the smack talk is bigger and bolder than the whine you can find in your local grocery. Pair it with our hearty German cheddar soup.

Queue Quips – If you’ve ever waited for 10 minutes in line only to have them open a new register for people that have been there 30 seconds, you’ve tried this type of whine. Our fine vintage is a 1999, with the extra oaky overtones and nuances of toast that come from waiting in line for Y2K snake oil. Pair it with a light appetizer from our menu or fish.

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The sound of heavy hooves, swords on steel, and arrows intensified on the other side of the gate, building to a cacophony of battle as Kohb counted to ten. As soon as he reached the end of his count, he raised a hunting cry to the gate guards, who took it up and cried over the wooden battlements. It was repeated on the other side, so Kohb pounded on the gate as a signal to open it.

As the Ochre Gate had sprung open on a counterweight, so too did the Azure Gate before Eyon and his friends. Sir Kohb spurred his horse onward, followed by Gullywick and Myn. A handful of Gattne riders sallied forth with them, a dozen riders all told, and they burst out of the gate into the blinding sunshine to find chaos outside.

A swarm of riders coalesced around them; it was difficult for Eyon to see with the jarring up-and-down of hard riding, but the men were definitely wearing the bright crimson of Varrett and bearing its sigil, the Leaf-on-Shield. Through gaps in the mass of men and horses, though, he could see the Ioxans’ hammer banners approaching at a rapid clip. Arrows flew between the two groups as the few mounted archers on either side let fly, and after hearing a war cry sounding on his left and being answered on his right, Eyon realized that the pursuers were trying to surround him.

Above the din, he could hear Delra of Ioxus shouting at her troops, exhorting them to tear the Varrettans apart to avenge her twin humiliations. “A gold sovereign to any of you who brings me so much as a scrap of that boy’s flesh!”

“Keep up the pace, you louts! We’re lighter than they, but they’ll rip us to shreds if we let them engage!” shoutedd Sir Kohb. Then, softer: “Still so eager to be king now, hearing that woman telling them to tear you limb from limb for gold?”

“No one would be shouting something like that in my kingdom,” Eyon replied.

“Hmph. Every king, every kingdom, needs someone shouting that,” the knight said breathlessly. “You’d be no different.”

“When my kingdom becomes the first, I’ll make sure you have a better position.”

Sir Kohb rolled his eyes. “Ho there! Keep those Ioxans at a distance!” he cried.

His men, armed with short lances, jabbed them at the baroness’s horsemen. The Ioxans responded in kind, and Eyon cringed as he saw one of the Varrettans hooked off of his saddle and flung beneath the hooves of his fellows with a terrible cry. A mounted archer galloped next to Kohb’s horse, taking careful aim with a short bow before losing an arrow up and over both of them and another Varrettan besides, landing firmly in the flank of an Ioxan horse and tumbling both it and its rider to the dry Gattnean plain.

“How much longer?” Eyon said, looking away from the sight. “Until we’re safe in Greywacke Wood?”

“Only about an hour,” Sir Kohb said. “Assuming we can keep this pace. If we can’t, it will all be over much, much sooner.”

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