Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

Let me tell you of a vision that has been haunting my sleep of late.

On a barren plain, more lifeless than an alkali flat, I see a skeleton approaching me stark against a rising curtain of katabatic wind. There is a malevolence to that chalky wall, and a hint of fire deep behind it, that leads me to believe neither I nor the fleshless traveler approaching will long survive its coming.

The skeleton is garlanded with flowers, a chain upon its bleached brows and a bouquet clutched in one ivory claw. The blossoms are ancient and dried, though still colorful, and with the first stirrings of wind they were beginning to shake out their death-rattle. Only moments separated the flowers from scattering as butterfly dust on an isotope breeze.

I am rooted to the spot, too terrified either of the spectral traveler or my own impending annihilation to move. The bones turn to regard me as they pass at an easy walk, mummified blossoms rustling. “Do not be afraid,” it says, in a voice as thin and bleached as its double row of jutting ribs.

“I’m going to die here,” I say. In the dream, it is not so much a supposition as a certainty. “I have so much left that I wanted to do.”

Past me now, still making its slow saunter away from armageddon, the skeleton speaks some final words over its shoulder. “You and I have both existed,” it says. “We must both be content that, though we be cast down and forgotten, our existence was real.”

I wake up before the blast wave can strike.

How typical–how human–the need to be important to someone. To be remembered. Yet as I lay there, shivering between my sheets while rain smashes gently against the windows, I know that I have no answer to the specter’s assertion. What is there that I have done, who is there that will remember, when I am a generation in the ground?

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I have long known what people say about this old place. The antebellum grandeur is just a memory of a memory now, and the respectability Father brought to the place is headed for the dim mists of time as well. They only gossip about how haunted the old house is now, and about the things they think happened that long-ago April night.

You know, I had dreams once too, the same dreams I think Daddy had for the both of us. During the coming-out cotillion, why, I heard people say that we could make a go of it in Hollywood or even New York City. We had that kind of beauty, that kind of poise. People were talking about us, and that’s been the coin of the realm ever since Father’s father’s time.

Even during the trial, with you weeping in the box and me shedding my best crocodile tears from the gallery, it struck me how wonderful that was. People knew who we were. Even if those dreams of stardom and the big city were not to be, we were still being talked about.

I read the letters you sent from prison, even if I never replied. You didn’t say–because you didn’t have to–that when your sentence of thirty-to-life was up, you were coming for me. After all, only Zuzu Carroll and I knew where you really were the night Father died, and I think you’d have done just about anything to protect her and her family from scandal. Even if it meant taking the blame for those bare few drops of strychnine in Father’s medicine.

Zuzu died in ’85, as I’m sure you know; wasted away, the poor thing. The old house was let go for tax reasons after I declared bankruptcy; I still see it on my way to and from my job at the grocer’s. How that must have made you laugh, if you ever knew it before now, your sister working in wrinkled shame after it turned out Father’s fortune was a rickety cover atop a mountain of debt.

The place was empty until a few days ago. I knew you’d come here, and so you have. Oh, don’t give me that look. You should be thanking me. Once the knife has finished its work, there’s a bottle of Father’s old medicine upstairs, laced with enough morphine to put down a horse.

Don’t you see, my dear sister, oh don’t you see? I’ve made a machine that will keep us in living memory for as long as this ton stands. Good or bad, what does it matter? In death, we both get the immortality we craved in life.

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The queen of the wood looked on, the long, exposed bones of her sinuses glinting by the light of the robs that danced about her. Her eyes, pinpoints in the doe skull that served her for a temporary head, burned with intelligence.

“I have spoken the truth, as best I know it, and I have come before you with words of apology, as best I could speak them,” I added. “If you know the truth to be otherwise I beg your pardon; if you cannot accept my apology, I understand. But please know that I sought only to do what was best and speak my right words, as I best saw them.”

“Such politeness in your transgressions.” This time, her voice was ice crackling across the surface of a spring brook, the snap of a dry bough falling to earth. “Would that they sufficed. I appreciate your forbearance, but I cannot allow you to escape without punishment. All who would travel my wood must know that right words alone will not spare them justice.”

“Lay your punishment upon me, then,” I said as bravely as I could muster. “And I will tell all who will listen.”

“Will you, now?” Amusement in her voice, like a playful wind among the boughs. “We shall see.”

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“You said that the bamboo you planted wasn’t your fault, and that I’d just have to suck it up if it spilled over the property line.”

“But-”

“And that’s why I planted kudzu. I keep it trimmed on my side; you’ll just have to suck it up.”

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The shoots grow
Knitted together
Of cellulose strands
Sugars made real
Water made woody
The shoots grow
Too quickly by far
To be cut back
Only a fool
Would ever
Try

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Olga the Barbarian wiped “Womp Rat’s” spit off her face.

“It’s the traditional Githyanki greeting,” said “Womp Rat.”

Olga lobbed a juicy glob right back in his face. “Let me return the greeting.”

The halfling commanded the cell with the same intimidating presence that had made “Womp Rat” run off crying into the corner. “My name is Adenan,” she said, “and I am the mayor of Valia.”

“And you have just passed another test,” the githyanki leader continued. “Your glazed baby gibberling, stunned side of dretch, and imp a la mode had all been poisoned. The fact that you are sill alive means that you passed. You’ll have to forgive us our subterfuge, but since we turned away from the Lich Queen no fewer than a dozen imposters have attempted to join our ranks.”

At the feast’s conclusion, the githyanki–and the disguised party–all stood up. Except for one githyanki jailer, who remained seated until he slumped over dead.

“Put yourself in my shoes,” said Denny. “If you saw your entire team get captured, and then a githyanki said to trust them just a little while after you stabbed their jailer to death over dinner, what you do?”

Skeletonio cast a knocking spell this time, and the cells all sprang open. Their occupants, from Olga the Barbarian to the Yellow Planeswalker to the strange dirt-obsessed digger man, sprang forward in anger.

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The first time we turned the lights out and I saw the bioluminescent speckles along the back of that frog, I had a thrill like I’d never felt before. Seeing those glowing spots seemingly dancing through the darkness of their own accord, by an amphibian who seemed blithely unaware of her importance to the team…I’ve never felt anything like it, before or since.

Perhaps if I’d know where that road would have led us all, I’d have felt something else: raw dread.

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So it was finally agreed, and the crown set upon the candidate’s brow. Some might have questioned the notion of giving the crown to the late King’s pug dog, but none could argue with the results. The prime ministers and the cabinet ran the country without interference. The monarch was present at every major ceremony, and never had a gaffe. He was, in every way, the perfect, silent king.

But he had been fixed, and after seventeen years the end of his reign was nigh without an heir in sight.

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This week, Excerpts from Nonexistent Books published its 3000th excerpt. Over 8 years, we’ve been able to post a story every day (with occasional light cheating to fill in holes), and now we’re proud to say that there is now an EFNB excerpt for every year of human history since the development of civilization in the Nile river valley.

The nonexistent editors, nonexistent staff, and nonexistent contributors here at EFNB would like to thank all of our readers and commenters for helping make this great literary experiment an ongoing success. Here’s to 3000 more stories that never existed!

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Bedknobs and Broomsticks Monthly
This glossy rag is packed to the brim with tips on keeping your housekeeping and transportation enchantments humming! No modern witch should be without it. Now available digitally on your crystal ball of choice!

Home & Cauldron
The bitter rival to Bedknobs and Broomsticks Monthly, but why not have them both? With a greater focus on enchantment in the kitchen, this periodical will keep your witchy meals filling and non-fatal.

Familiar Circle
Keep up with the world of familiars, from black cats to psuedo-dragons, with this useful publication. Veterinary tips, debugging, summoning, and more are at your fingertips every month!

Enchantment Weekly
Tap into the glitzy world of high-profile celebrity witches! Every week, all the latest magical gossip is right there in your inbox. Who’s enchanted with who? Whose ex has cursed them with frogmouth boils? The answers are inside!

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