Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

King Manuel’s Hopemelon
Rotondea lisbonicca

Bred by Dom Manuel II, the last king of Portugal, during his exile, this variety of hopemelon is particularly large and easy to grow. Easily recognizable by its purple-and-white aproximation of the Portuguese royal flag, it is also the most potent hopemelon easily available to gardeners. It might be advisable to start with a weaker variety like the Prince Charlie or Leo’s Oscar, since the King Manuel can produce sky-high, unrealistic, and dangerous hopes very easily.

Roswell Eclipse Pod
Feedmi seymourii

The most popular—and most dangerous—of the extraterrestrial pods first cultivated as ornamentals in the 1960s, the Roswell Eclipse will only germinate during a total eclipse of the sun (though cuttings can be taken at any time) and requires the fresh blood of sapient beings to grow. Most are satisfied with immature pods that require only a few weeks of blood; larger specimens are very dangerous and capable of hunting and devouring prey on their own. Do not listen to them if they beg for food; whatever they offer you, don’t feed the plants.

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Screaming witchweed
Vvitchiviparus eternus

Despite the name, the mature plant produces more of a moan than a scream, though some designer varieties can speak certain words in a variety of accents instead. Hardy up to 1000º but will wither from frost, strongly-presented hemlock boughs, and sundials. Long-period perennial that will regrow forever at intervals of 500-1000 years.

The Spriggler
Gonophorium maxidillae

Heirloom variety first cultivated in 882 BC, though its modern common name dates from the 1615 Congress on Malefic Growths. The Spriggler is a hardy vine that will provide shade and nitrate fixation, as well as woody if edible okra-like pods. However, in addition to needing water, bright sun, and pH-neutral soil, The Spriggler also requires one secret per day, whispered into its roots, for maximum growth. Try McSpriggans, a newer Scottish cultivar, if you have fewer secrets to give.

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“What’s with the cat?” Van said, gesturing at Mr. Squibbles.

“She and I have an understanding,” said Ashtar. “I give her some food and she gives me some warning. We split the rats she catches, and I let her use a feline pressure suit I found.”

“She?” said Van. “Mr. Squibbles is a she?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why the ‘mister’ then?”

“Because it’s hard to tell when they’re kittens,” Ashtar said. “By the time I realized he was a she, the name had stuck.”

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“Hey, HEY!” Van croaked, as Ashtar’s chokehold threatened to squeeze the life out of him. “Easy! I’ll tell you everything I know.”

Ashtar eased her grip a bit. “Talk,” she said. “You play nice, I like what I hear, I’ll let you live. But the second you’re more trouble than you’re worth, I will snap your neck and leave you two minutes of contemplation before you die. We clear?”

Van gasped as Ashtar’s grip relaxes a bit. “Crystal,” he said. “Can’t blame a desperate man for trying, can you?”

“No more than you can blame a desperate woman for not putting up with it,” Ashtar replied. “Talk. You’re starting to bore me.”

“Okay, okay,” said Van. “All the administrators abandoned Dome B a while ago. They took the last working crawler to Dome Q.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Ashtar. “How long ago?”

“A year, maybe two. The sols kind of blur together after a while, you know?” Van smiled weakly. “I don’t remember a Dr. Sheran Quiria specifically, but then again I couldn’t tell you the names of any of our admins even before they abandoned us to die.”

“You’re doing well.” Ashtar eased her grip a bit. “Now tell me what things are like in Dome B.”

“Where have you been, under a rock?” Van said.

“Dome A,” said Ashtar.

A hint of curiosity flitted across Van’s face. “You tell me about Dome A, I’ll tell you about Dome B.”

“Fine,” Ashtar said with a light squeeze to Van’s trachea. “Dome A is dying, and people there are fighting over scraps. The two biggest warlords each have less than a dozen guns apiece, and they’re fighting tooth and nail for the right to die last.”

“Sounds nice,” Van said. “There’s no law here in B. Not even any warlords. We’re all just scraping to get by. We get the occasional person from C or D, but no one from A.” He paused, then continued: “What do you care about this Dr. Quiria anyhow?”

“He’s my father,” Ashtar said. “Good enough for you?”

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Another beautiful day in Bloomville.

Red light filtered dimply through the dome, which was every shade of filthy both inside and out. The plants in the arboretums—and, increasingly, the ruins—were doing their job and keeping oxygen flowing, but just about everything else had broken down.

Ashtar Quiria sucked greedily on her electronic cigarette, letting the faux-nicotine solution wash over her. Even the synthetic stuff was getting hard to find, as there hadn’t been a supply ship from Earth in months, years. But resorting to an actual cigarette was suicide—the halon fire suppression system still worked, and an open flame was a great way to die. Even if it failed, a single spark could start a conflagration that would make the thin Martian atmosphere look awfully inviting.

Another beeeautiful day in Bloomville.

“Hey there, friend!” A figure emerged from one of the buildings on what was once the Main Street of Dome B. It was an ordinary-looking man, very well-groomed, and sporting a big giant smile.

In Ashtar’s recent experience, there were only two people in the failed colony that smiled like that. Peddlers, and robbers. She put her hands behind her back, one hand wrapping instinctively around the taser pistol she kept in the small of her back.

“Hello,” she said calmly, evenly, coolly. “I’m looking for Dr. Sheran Quiria. Scientific administrator for Dome B. If you’ve seen him, then we have business. If not, you’d better just mosey on.”

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I keep having dreams in which I need to sneak through someone’s house to get from point A to point B.

It makes dream-me really nervous.

Last night I got caught for the first time.

A guy pulled a gun on me in the dark, demanded to know what I was doing in his house.

I told him I was just passing through.

“Pass on through then,” he said, resigned.

I wonder if he knew that shooting me meant ending his own life, there in the dream, such as it was.

I must have known, since I wasn’t terrified.

I still couldn’t tell you why my route down that overgrown old street took me through so many houses.

Maybe there’s some deeper meaning to me sneaking through my own subconscious.

A subconscious ready to pull a gun on me for trespassing.

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This is from the recollections of Le Aauin, explorer of the dreamscape, as transcribed by Ad Dakhla beneath the gaze of perfect, immortal Vloles set upon the Dreaming Moon.

Most fortune seekers head south from the Black City of Korton, seeking the Silver Sea, and thence the Dead River and the hoped-for path to the Dreaming Moon. I eventually turned my sights south, as well, but there is far more to the dreamlands than that. Another theory holds that the true answer to the nature of the dreamlands, of Vloles, and of life eternal, lies northwards.

I won’t go into the journey that lies ahead for those who are willing to set off from Korton and cross the plains of Laïs beneath the deadly light of Køs the Cruel Star. But at its end lies the city of Insbara, which exists almost entirely to support those who enter its labyrinth. Ask anyone in the city about it, and they will tell you–while trying to sell you food, shelter, and supplies–that the center of the labyrinth contains the word of Vloles, carved in a steady hand.

Who needs to reach the Dreaming Moon to uncover the truth, when it has been written down so carefully for them?

The labyrinth is dark, featureless, onyx. I explored only its uppermost chambers out of curiosity, and soon found it to be a profoundly deadening place. Cut off from light, from all but the loudest noise, and the little details which attend life on the surface, and you slowly find yourself going mad. The non-euclidean contours of the place are the shadows of madness. Nothing, from singing songs to making maps, lessens this feeling of alienation. When it became too much, I left.

The citizens of Insbara received me graciously, and informed me that I had been gone a week.

The labyrinth is a fate worse than death: the further you go, the slower time moves for you. There are explorers down there, still eating the food they bought from dead men centuries ago, still winding their way to the center of that cursed place. Seven lifetimes or more of that misery that I felt for just a few short hours–or weeks–is not something I would wish on the most evil being in all creation. Perhaps perfect, immortal, inscrutable Vloles finds it amusing–the answers are there, writ in crystal eternal, but forever out of reach

I asked an Insbaran what they thought awaited at the center of the labyrinth. “A circle of men,” they said, “hundreds if not thousands strong, frozen in time like fish in a winter river, damned not only to never reach their prize, but never to even see it, for they will be blocked by the bodies of others who have failed before them.”

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The period that came next, after the brief flowering of plenty, came to be known as the Junior Deprivation. Not as serious as the decade-long Senior Deprivation, that had seen whole cities depopulated and kingdoms crumbled, but enough that the people knew want and fear again. Some were grateful that things had not gotten quite so bad; others were fearful that the Deprivation would deepen and there would soon be nothing left of them. They increasingly turned to demagogues and charlatans who promised quick returns to prosperity, or a permanent banishing of the Senior Deprivation.

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Welcome to a EFNB 10th Anniversary Week special announcement! While reading my work to write sequel entries, it seems I accidentally posted two entries on February 21, 2010. So I am time-shifting this decade-old entry, originally published 2/21/2010, ahead in time and adding this note for the purposes of consistency. Enjoy a blast from the past!

Violet sighed deeply and leaned back in her chair. The best weekends, she thought, were the ones where you have nothing hanging over your head. Damocles could have had a relaxing weekend if he’d been able to get rid of his sword for two days, and Violet had managed to get rid of hers.

Or so she thought.

The telephone rang, and her eyes flashed in annoyance. “Should have disconnected it,” she muttered, pulling herself reluctantly from the seat and making for the phone line where it met the wall.

The answering machine whirred into action, blaring out a message until cut short by the pulled line. “Violet, did you forget? You were supposed to—”

Welcome to EFNB 10th Anniversary Week! This entry is a sequel to one posted ten years ago on February 27, 2010.
The pounding on the door grew louder. “Mr. Orleans? Is everything all right?”

Rich looked desperately back and forth, from the door to the crumpled form of Bernard Orleans in his large leather chair, to the neat bullet hole in the wall.

“E…everything’s fine,” Rich cried out, in his best imitation of Orleans’ aged and irascible wheezing.

“Glad to hear it. Open the door! The shareholders are here for their meeting.”

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