Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

“I’m dialing as fast as I can!” Carl cried. Each number seemed to take forever as the phone dial slowly worked backwards and pulsed out the digits after he’d entered them.

“Hello, this is central dispatch, please state the nature of your emergency.”

“It’s Sweeney,” Carl said, breathlessly, looking out his window at the farmland. “He’s trapped!”

“Slow down, sir,” the operator said. “Where are you, and where is this Mr. Sweeney trapped?”

“Rural Route 401 #2287,” said Carl. “Sweeney’s one of the guys around here. Runs and rents farm equipment, combines and the like. He’s not exactly a big deal around here, but…I guess, maybe a medium deal? He’s a personality.”

“I see,” the operator said. She did not sound particularly interested in either the urgency in Carl’s voice or his account of events. “And he was trapped…?”

“Oh. By a sinkhole that opened up under his tractor. Maybe from the rains? Darndest thing I e’er did see.”

“We’ll send someone out.”

“See that you do,” Carl said. “I’m paying him by the hour, and I’ll be darned if I’m paying him for loafing around in a hole.”

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A beautiful spring day ahead
Clear skies above, warm but not hot
We want to be out in it, feeling it
But the danger is still too strong
Watching birds go about their business
And seeds innocently sprouting
There are two things right now we fear
The first is sickness, deadening the lungs
Drowning on land, all alone, intubated
The second is old men, suits with servants
Telling us to die for their money

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Matt held up his phone, the recorder app running. “Explorer’s log, entry 1292. Our mission continues, though resupply remains limited. More and more of the worlds we encounter have hostile environments. I’ve had to increase to a Level II environment suit when I venture out to explore.”

Running his hand through the cupboard, he pulled out a box of expired Pasta-Roni and wrinkled his nose. “Rations are as low as morale.”

Looking over to Kevin, asleep on the couch, Matt continued: “My copilot has dealt with the situation by remaining in his hibernation chamber for increasing periods of time. That won’t do for me.”

He looked at the pile he’d started on the floor, made of of cut-up old raincoats and PPE material from the household stash. “I’m an explorer. I need to explore.”

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“There’s one of these ziggurats every 101.2 kilometers, equidistant around Rethymnon’s equator,” Brogan said. “A simple fractal pattern made up of repeating square tombs. There must be billions of aliens entombed in them for the structures to be so large.”

“And you know this how?” said Neilos. He exhaled heavily, momentarily fogging his suit’s helmet, from the exertion of walking in the thin atmosphere with his heavy load.

“It’s one of the great romantic mysteries of interstellar archaeology,” replied Brogan. “Who were they? What did they look like? Why come here to bury their dead?”

“Open the tomb and see,” Dragovic muttered. “Mysteries solved.”

“That’s not allowed. Grave-robbing and such,” said Brogan. “Once they realized these were tombs, the law said they’d have to leave them alone.”

“And what about us?” Neilos said.

“Neilos, I would break into King Tut’s tomb myself and throw him out of his gold coffin if it meant not dying on this rock,” Brogan replied. “I’m also hoping we’re near one of the things that was surveyed. Might be some equipment we can scavenge, or a castaway hut.”

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“It shouldn’t be that hard,” said Neilos. “Check in the database for ‘planet with incredibly huge ziggurats’ and you’re golden.”

“If we had the complete database up and running, maybe,” Dragovic said. “But with a static backup? It’s a matter of searching broadly and narrowing things down.”

“While we wait here to die of oxygen starvation or, if we’re lucky, actual starvation,” Neilos said. “Wonderful. Take your time.”

Brogan returned from the overlook and handed the binocs back over. “There’s no need to look any further,” she said. “I recognize the structure.”

Neilos slapped his suit’s gloves together. “Oh good, you’ve been here before. Tell us about the garden spots, the best places for a light lunch.”

“Does the name Rethymnon, or Kresijos IV, ring a bell?” Brogan said. “You’d have heard about it if you were up on your archaeological findings.”

“Please, skipper,” said Dragovic. “Just tell us where we’ve crashed.” He looked over his shoulder at the approaching storm. “Preferably before we die.”

Brogan gestured at the distant structure, rising over the windswept valley and extremophile lichens alike. “Those aren’t buildings,” she said. “They’re tombs, the greatest precursor tombs known to exist anywhere, and we’re about to be the first people to see them up close.”

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“If you wish for hot steel to course through your veins, Marjatta, then so be it.” Antero made to raise the Bloodblade, tensing to close the remaining distance separating him from his quarry.

Marjatta abruptly swept aside her cloak, revealing what had lain concealed in its folds: a short gun with a flared muzzle, made from the same dull and rune-encrusted steel. The pan was primed, the flint cocked, and her finger was in the trigger.

“Wha-?”

A deafening blast cut Antero off–literally. He tumbled to the ground as his torso went one way and his legs went the other.

“Only 140 people has to die to forge the Blooderbuss,” Marjatta said, smiling. “We needed way fewer sacrifices than you did, I think. But a gun made from blood steel that shoots bone bullets works just as well, wouldn’t you agree? Maybe even better.”

Antero weakly swung the Bloodblade from the ground, only to have Marjatta stomp on it, pinning the weapon to the blood-soaked earth.

“The Bloodblade means you are too close,” added Marjatta. “Foes can hit back. The Blooderbuss cuts them down where they stand, paces away, and here I am without a scratch.”

A rueful chuckle on his lips, Antero nodded and died smiling.

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Antero strode through the mists of battle, bearing in his arms the Bloodblade. He kept it limber, his fingers tight at the top but loose at the bottom, to enable swift and brutal strikes with the dull red metal, suffused with runes that glowed a bright ochre.

“360 men died to make this blade,” Antero said.

Marjatta did not stir beneath her cloak, even as the furious winds of combat raged about her and Antero approached armed and menacing.

“We drained them of every last drop of their blood, boiled it down, and forged it into steel.”

“Then it’s true what your masters say,” said Marjatta. “A man can be forged into anything with the right tools.”

“Quite so,” said Antero. “But the Blood God is not merciless. He demands sacrifice, but not slaughter. You may submit to him and yet live. Or if you prefer, you may flee.”

“Very kind of you. But I choose the third option.”

“To die?” Antero was a handful of paces away now. “Well, I can oblige you if that’s your wish, but I had rather hoped you might live.”

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Bushmill™ Irish Whiskey

Writing Irish: Selected interviews with writers from the Irish literary supplement by James P. Myers.

It’s been said that great sadness and great libations make great writers, which may explain the many titans of literature that have come from Ireland, both Northern and Republic of.

Chardonnay

A New Ballad: The Bottle of Wine and Butler, author unknown.

Drinking songs have been big for ages, but after the invention of the printing press, songs of all kinds became big business, and were printed and sold in huge numbers. The actual musical notes were published starting in the 1850s, and were the most popular entertainment you could buy until recorded music arrived.

Hummus

Falafel Nation: Cuisine and the Making of National Identity in Israel by Yael Raviv.

Who owns a food? Who gets to say what is, or is with it? Everything, from humble chickpea spread on up, comes from somewhere and says something in someone’s eyes. But who decides?

Sweet Tea

Sweet Tea: Black Gay Men of the South edited by E. Patrick Johnson.

Many northerners have never heard of sweet tea, never seen it, but it is there all the same, visible or invisible. The same is true of our people; you may not see them, or hear of them, but they are there, and they are worth celebrating.

Pinto Beans

New Border Voices: an Anthology edited by Brandon D Shuler.

We say that certain foods and tastes are “south of the border,” but the plants themselves know no borders. They grow where they grow, and it’s up to us to make meaning, and meals, from them.

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Red wine

French wine: a history by Rod Phillips.

People enjoy wining about how nothing quite stacks up to a snifter of Merlot from Bordeaux, but how is it that France developed its mastery of sour grapes? And can any of us Yanks really tell the difference between a good red wine and melted popsicles without reading the label first?

Coffee with Italian Sweet Cream

Popes, peasants, and shepherds: recipes and lore from Rome and Lazio by Oretta Zanini De Vita.

What makes Italian cream, Italian cheese, Italian bread worthy of that designation of origin? History, religion, and a healthy heaping of traditional recipes, that’s what.

Chocolate

Chocolate: A Global History by Sarah Moss.

How did a bitter drink of Native American kings become the world’s favorite sweet? What steps lie between the humble cacao bean and the processed bar of chocolate we smoosh into a s’more? Unwrap these questions and more with this handy volume.

Mashed Potatoes

The Vortex: A Novel by José Eustasio Rivera.

The Irish are most associated with potatoes in pop culture, but few know that spuds are native to South America, which has the most spudiversity of anyplace. But like the rubber trees of this epochal Columbian novel, the natural riches of South America ferment a potent brew of exploitation.

Coffee and Pie

A Broad-Side Against Coffee, corrected and published, as very proper for this age by J.H.

Once upon a time, coffee was extremely controversial and seen as a moral and religious failing—something blamed in no uncertain terms on far-off and dangerous foreigners. Who knows what we, today, turn up our noses at in righteous indignation that may one day be accepted? Preachers on their second cup of the day would do well to take note.

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Golden Flake™ Vinegar and Salt Chips

Crunch: A History of the Great American Potato Chip by Dirk Burhans.

While eating them is a snap, the history of everyone’s favorite sack of spuds is as warped, twisted, and green as the weird chip left in the bottom of the bag. Remember: you can’t read just one.

Crab Legs

Fishing Yesterday’s Gulf Coast by Barney Farley.

Scuttlebutt has it that this legendary fishing guide had claws for alarm when he realized that the commercial shrimp and crab fishing boats were destroying his beloved waters. Follow his journey from consumer to conservationist as he tackles a problem that’s even worse today than in the 1960s.

Orange

Squeezed: What You Don’t Know About Orange Juice by Alissa Hamilton.

Dive into this pulp romance and learn the sweet and sour truth about the ‘healthy’ beverage that is America’s main squeeze. Just don’t blame us if it’s a seedy story.

Tacos

The informal American city: from taco trucks to day labor by Vinit Mukhija.

The best tacos come from unregulated street trucks; the best bargains come from untaxed garage sales; the best Gucci purses are fakes spread out for sale. But why is this, and why is the trend accelerating in large American cities? We’re in a time of uncertainty for these very cottage industries, and if we’re not careful, the venerable taco truck may go the way of the dodo truck.

Vegetarian mezze

The vegetarian crusade: the rise of an American reform movement, 1817-1921 by Adam D. Shprintzen.

While we tend to view leafing meat off the table as a recent innovation, many utopians in the 19th century were all-in on their own form of green movement. What brought on this first wave of vegetarianism, and why did so many vegetopias fail within their first few years? We know you’ve bean curious.

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