Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

I had the oven on for maybe ten minutes. And then, at the first scent of burning petrochemicals, I looked around for the cutting board. It was nowhere to be found.

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I will tell of the history of Gilgamesh, he who knows all that has happened and has seen all the lands of the world, he who has seen all kinds of wisdom and knows the mysteries and has seen what is hidden. And then the murders begin.

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Laundreon
Evolves from Hamperchu, evolves into Dryerio

Pidgeomite
Evolves from Squibsquab, evolves into TNTeagle

Brasshopper
Evolves from Zincaterpillar, evolves into Magnetsquito

Flubug
Evolves from Coldeon, evolves into Pandemeon

Skeleking
Evolves from Ostearl, evolves into Emperictus

Potatoad
Evolves from Spudiwog, evolves into Masholotl

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“What do you mean, it’s a pisstery?” said Bill.

“Well, the drug test came back clean…but it also says that you’re a woman,” said Dr. Carruthers.

Bill looked away, blushing.

“So either you’re undergoing a spontaneous sex change, or you smuggled in some urine that isn’t yours,” Carruthers continued. “As I said before, quite the pisstery.”

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Tendrils of brown clawing at the setting sun were the first sign. People wrote it off as a little incoming rain, if they noticed at all.

The second sign was an odd smell, perhaps best described as a ghost that was once a tree. People noticed this; the sensitive felt their eyes water, and the barely felt scent caused the short of breath to huff a bit. Authorities, when consulted, insisted that nothing was amiss.

Finally, a veil descended upon town, like mist. It was thick enough that the first few cars to emerge from behind it had their headlights on.

No more came.

The people were found where they lay, curled up in bed, on their couches, slumped in chairs at restaurants. They had not been suddenly overcome; cars were pulled over, loved ones were tucked in. And, aside from a few at the very edge, and those who had been away, the entire population of 817 souls never stirred again.

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It sits there, galaxies adorning its brow, wrapped up in its horns. Birds with feathers of every color, save one, nestle in its long fur, a splash of paint amid a rainbow of earthy tans.

It sniffs you, gently. There is no malice in its deep eyes, no suspicion, but its claws are always visible. As are the furrows it has cut into the living rock.

Will it let you pass?

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5 minutes
Brubaker: It’s an ox!
Scipio: Nope.

17 minutes
Luchelli: I think it’s a tree.
Scipio: Nuh-uh.
Luchelli: A shrub?
Scipio: No.

35 minutes
Hojimori: Definitely a hedgehog.
Scipio: Definitely not.
Brubaker: Porcupine?
Scipio: Still wrong.

1 hour
Luchelli: Maybe a forest?
Scipio: Why are you so stuck on happy little trees? I’m not Bob Ross.
Luchelli: Because you’re using so much green!
Scipio: Could be abstract, could just be how it goes with wet on wet.

1 hour 22 minutes
Brubaker: It’s a landscape! Mount St. Helens.
Luchelli: Scipio’s technique could use work but I wouldn’t say it blows that badly.
Hojimori: Could be a very poor Mt. Fuji.
Scipio: IT’S NOT A MOUNTAIN.

2 hours 5 minutes
Hojimori: Those are definitely buildings.
Luchelli: It’s Milan.
Scipio: No.
Brubaker: Shouldn’t you have painted the buildings before the trees?
Scipio: It’s a technique I’m trying.
Luchelli: Or you’re changing what you’re doing because someone guessed it already.
Scipio: NO I’M NOT.

3 hours 44 minutes
Brubaker: There, it’s a path. I see it, it’s a path. Appalachian Trail, that’s what it is.
Scipio: There aren’t skyscrapers on the Appalachian Trail.
Hojimori: Raleigh-Durham. It’s Raleigh-Durham.
Scipio: It’s not.

4 hours 18 minutes
Brubaker: Central Park in New York City.
Scipio: Right! That’s right! You get the point.
Luchelli: Dammit, how are we supposed to tell the difference between Rome and New York when it’s all abstract?

4 hours 19 minutes
Hojimori: It’s my turn next, yeah? Let me draw my card. Ohh goodness, I don’t know how I’m going to paint this.

4 hours 24 minutes
Scipio: Trees. It’s a forest.

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“Oh my God!” cried Leon. “It’s Metaphor Man!”

Indeed it was; Metaphor Man streaked down to the city jungle, a comet across dark clouds. The impact was a tiny tsunami, the superhero a wall between Leon and Nöel and evil.

“Who’s this chump?” said the lead mugger, deftly juggling his pistol between two hands. “It’s not Mondo Man. Think he’s bulletproof?”

“Your bullets are hollowpoint insults, raindrops on oilskin,” growled Metaphor Man, a pitbull in his element as he baited large, dumb bovines.

“Huh?” The mugger said, looking down the barrel of his pistol, which he had learned how to use from TV shows.

Metaphor Man glowered, a judge at an execution. “Your death is your birth, an unfortunate accident.”

The gun went off and the mugger crumpled to the ground. His companion, visibly shaken held his gun on the superhero. “Stay back!”

“You are a simpering kitten, the slightest sound blowing away the mirage,” sneered Metaphor Man, his voice deep and imposing whiskey-soaked gravel from a bar parking lot. “The ground, a magnet, draws your failure to it…just as the horizon is a siren’s call for the cowardly.”

Mugger #2 dropped his gun and ran.

“The police are flies, drawn to a stench you cannot conceal,” Metaphor Man cried after him. “A dog to its vomit, you return to them soon.”

“Thank you,” said Nöel, as a weak and weeping Leon cried on her shoulder. “You were like an angel. How can we ever thank you?”

“Your gratitude is sweet nectar, but your simile is a bitter salve,” grunted Metaphor Man. “You make your thanks palpable by sending the latter to its grave an unmourned corpse.”

“Huh?” Leon said through the sobs.

“He wants us to use more metaphors, sweetie,” said Nöel. “Thank you, Metaphor Man. You were manna from heaven on a day otherwise marked by biblical blood rain.”

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The tank’s heater burbled ominously. The first fish, the yellow one, was floating close to the surface.

“What do you think’s wrong?”

“No idea.”

The green fish was floating lower but steadier, its fins twitchier but still keeping it level.

“This one doesn’t seem quite right too. You think the heater’s broken?”

“It is making a kind of a sinister noise.”

The fish continued to swim about, the humans beyond them standing stock-still.

“I tell you, they shouldn’t be doing that,” said the yellow fish. “Just standing like that.”

“I know, I know,” the green fish agreed. “Let me turn down the heater and see if the humans get less lethargic.”

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“You think they got pilots in there?” Rube said, looking up. A skimmer was docking at the local tower as a second one pulled away.

“Nah, they’s probably got computers,” said Jon. “I mean look at ’em. No place for pilots.”

Rube squinted at the skimmer, its blocky and asymetrical form a familiar enough sight that he hadn’t really thought about it in years. “Maybe they’s small, or funny-shaped,” he said. “Somethin’s in ’em, because they pay us mind when they’d crash.”

A walker, its cargo container fully loaded and sealed, walked by bound for the tower. It paused a moment, scanned over Rube and Jon, and they both froze. Then, satisfied that they weren’t about to interfere, it continued on toward the tower.

“What about them?” said Rube after relaxing. “You think they got pilots? They sure do pay us mind when it looks like we might get in the way.”

“Didn’t even get its guns out, that one,” sniffed Jon. “An’ no, they gots computers too I think. They’s just got ’em fixed up to come down here, build towers, and haul stuff out of the ground to send up there. Cheaper that way I bet, and it means they don’t need to do anything to us if we don’t bug ’em.”

“Maybe,” Rube said. “Maybe. Whaddaya think they’ll do with that stuff up there? Whaddaya think they’ll do when there’s nothing else to haul outta the dirt?

“All I know,” Jon said, “is I don’t wanna know. They shoot us if we get in the way, so it’s no nevermind to them either.”

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