Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

You’ve seen them out there, many times. Neglected, abandoned, and confined, denied the life and the care that they so desperately need. We’re asking you to take a moment to think about them.

We are, of course, talking about RVs.

Many people will, on a whim, go out and buy a small pop-up camper. They are small, cute, and seem like the perfect family companion for long road trips. But people do not realize what adopting a young RV entails. Soon, that small pop-up camper may give way to a rambunctious fifth-wheel and eventually a full-size silverback Airstream. Some families, unprepared for the burden, simply chain up their RVs in the back yard and abandon them, which is dangerous to both the RV and to its family.

This summer, please remember: do your research first. Think about whether your lifestyle can truly accommodate an RV before adopting one. And remember: adopting an RV is for life.

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“What have you got for me this time?” asked Brigadier Curnow. “Something better than that dolphin who wouldn’t shut up about tuna, I hope.”

“Oh, much better,” said Professor Ettinger. “Using a sophisticated neural net as well as sensors that track heat, light, and pheromones, we have been able to communicate with the world’s largest, and therefore wisest, organism.” He pressed a button, and the blast shield slid down so the brigadier could see into the next room.

“There’s nothing there, Ettinger,” said Curnow. “Have you lost your mind?”

“No sir! Look more closely.”

Squinting and putting on his bifocals, the brigadier was able to see a small speck on the floor. “Erm…what is that, exactly?”

“That is Queen 10^417-A, a Linepithema humile, better known as an Argentine ant. She comes from the largest ant supercolony in the world, which spans three continents. Thanks to mechanisms that we don’t entirely understand, she has access to the processing power and collective memory of every member of every supercolony–approximately 306 trillion ants.”

“Hmph,” Curnow said. “Very well then, what does she have to say to me?”

Professor Ettinger pressed some buttons, translating Brigadier Curnow’s message for Queen 10^417-A. A moment later, a synthetic human voice translated the ant’s reply in an even monotone. “There is a termite colony at 18° 35′ 2.904″ S, 49° 50′ 9.7434″ W. Kill them and bring me the head of their queen and king as proof, and I will give you the answers you seek.”

“Is that bug…blackmailing me?” said Curnow.

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“So we have to ask ourselves, then, who would benefit from Podoboo’s death?” said Sherwood Greg.

“Spyderwebb, clearly,” said Captain Strong. “He’s the world record holder, you said. If this Podoboo guy stood to break the record today, there’s your motive right there.”

“Speedrunners aren’t like athletes,” Terra said. “There’s no endorsements. No money. Podoboo and Spyderwebb both have day jobs. And even if that wasn’t true, who’s to say someone else wouldn’t have broken the speedrunning record tomorrow?”

Strong shrugged helplessly. “I’ve investigated murders over taco seasoning before, kid,” he said. “Virginia, my wife, has a friend who was physically assaulted over the last jar of kabuki makeup at a costume shop.”

Greg cocked an eyebrow. “You’ll have to tell me about that sometime, Captain.”

“No, I won’t.”

“But Terra’s point is well-taken,” Greg went on. “Speedrunners tend to be a fraternity of enthusiasts, and any competition tends to be friendly. But there was the altercation yesterday.”

“Yeah, Podoboo’s team lost a speedrun relay pretty badly,” said Terra. “There were thousands of dollars on the line.”

“Ah!” cried Strong. “Now we’re talking.”

“Thousands of dollars for charity, Captain,” said Greg. “Podoboo’s team lost nothing but their pride. Nerdicon is, at its heart, a charitable event after all, which sets us sharply apart from those pirates and swindlers at SciCon.”

“So what you’re telling me is, no one that has a motive could have gone through with it?” Strong sighed.

“Or perhaps just that things are not as simple as they appear,” said Sherwood Greg.

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“Don’t fall for it,” the English major said. “It’s a trap.”

The long 18th century British novel opened itself and seductively flipped a few pages. “I’m written with gratuitous Latin and French, my views on domesticity are problematic at best, and very little of substance happens over my 800 pages.”

“I CAN’T HELP IT!” The English major fell upon the work with both hands, only to find them both bound by sticky secretions as the novel–now revealed to be the lure for a predatory plant lingering just out of view–drew them up to be consumed.”

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“We have tamed this wild land, made it our own. But the time has come to find new challenges. These colonists we scatter to the winds will be the next generation of our civilization. Go forth in peace and find new worlds to conquer!”

A moment later, Alonzo sneezed violently.

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Our parents’re fond of telling us
How they stopped an unjust war
How strange nobody kicks up a fuss
Now that they’re starting more

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I woke up in a cold sweat. It was just past dawn, and light was starting to come over the hills. I stood up and looked out my bedroom window. The old tree was still visible on the hill there, as it had been for decades, with the sunlight streaming through its leaves, casting shadows that looked like words.

I was sure that my dream had been just that, the passing fancy of an unconscious mind. Elizabeth surely did not exist, and never had.

But I needed to be sure.

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The leaves told me that the tree was planted by a woman named Elizabeth. She lived in the area, but her full name was unknown. The leaves also say that she disappeared when she was very young. Her disappearance meant nothing to me then, but I had a sense that we might meet at some point in the future.

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In my dream, I came across a tree, perched atop Hollow Hill outside of town. Each of the leaves was brittle brown parchment, inscribed with printed letters. The long “s” and faded sepia ink were like something out of Shakespeare.

A blast of cool air swept by, and a handful of the papery leaves. I reached out, took one, and with difficulty began to read what was inscribed on its surface. It was a hand at once centuries old and just a few months.

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You are an author working on a novel. You are researching its setting in a rural town. You enter town to interview people, only to find that the town is not what you expected. It is dull, plotting, and unpleasant.

You leave town and head back home. If you had stayed, your story would have been less interesting, filled with staid character. But since you have left, the reader has no reason to care about any of them anymore. They are forgotten. No, worse than that: they never even existed.

The story will be just as good without them in it, you tell yourself. This is how an author should always approach writing novels. Leave out all unnecessary details and focus on the main character’s thoughts, feelings, actions and what he or she thinks at the time.Then write the rest of the book from those points of view. This way, you can concentrate on developing your plot and not worrying about characters who don’t matter to you.

But still, they haunt you. Those characters that never were, less than nothing, cheated out of even an existence on the page because they were too dull for life. It would make you angry, if you weren’t so sad.

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