Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

“I apologize for the meanness of my hospitality,” said the old man. “But it is quite the process to serve a spirit a hospitable high tea, as they deserve.”

“Tell me, what is the long and short of it?” the shade inquired, politely.

“Well, first, I would need the ghost of a teapot. Surprisingly difficult to procure. One might think that all teapots that have been tossed out in the rubbish would have ghosts, but no, as long as they still work in the slightest there is no spirit that has left them.”

“Suppose you took a teapot and destroyed it,” offered the spirit.

“Aye, that would do it,” agreed the old man. “But that would bring about a vengeful ghost of a teapot, you see? It would be disquieted, resist the pouring. Perhaps even evil. No, we’ve to find a teapot that breaks after a long life of warmth in a loving home, but one that isn’t for the rubbish. That’s rare enough. But even then, not every teapot rises after it has poured its last.”

“You speak with great authority,” the spirit observed.”

“Aye, well, for many years it had been my pleasure to serve a spectral high tea to those spirits that found their way here. That is, until an infernal poltergeist broke my ghost teapot.”

“If I may,” the spirit inquired, “from whence does the ghostly tea come?”

“That’s a long tale for a strong stomach,” the old man laughed. “I’ll tell it, but believe you me when I say you’re better off not knowing.”

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Hooray, hooray, hooray
It’s Capitalism Day
Where everyone buys and sells
The workers in retail hells
An unhealthy amount of the year
Is fiscally spent right here
We should probably pull it back
But it might break the economy’s back
So we dash and we spend
Right up to the end
When the world is consumed by flame
But we shall take no blame
Hooray, hooray, hooray
It’s Capitalism Day

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“The object is clearly artificial, but it is radiating virtually no waste heat despite its size,” said Kiril. “Our instruments are not equipped to properly observe something of this nature, but I can make some guesses. If needs must.”

“How’s this for a guess?” said Josef. “How big is it?”

“Ten thousand kilometers diameter, at least,” replied Kiril.

“Impossible,” Alexei whispered.

“That’s what I myself said, especially given the lack of readings from the object,” said Kiril. “However, there is a simple way to confirm it. We can adjust our course and enter orbit around this unknown object.”

Alexei looked toward Josef. “It’s your call.”

“We already know where Neptune is. It’ll be easy enough to find again. Make the course adjustment.”

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CARL: This is Carl Drake, play-by-play commentator for NBS Broadcasting, coming at you live from the 2023 Squirrel-Off at the University of Northern Mississippi

TOM: That’s right, Carl. This is Tom Hicks, color commentator for NBS Broadcasting, and for those who are just joining us, the Squirrel-Off is an event in which squirrels, geotagged and named by university donors, compete to build the largest and most impressive dwelling before the cruel snows of winter.

CARL: It doesn’t seem like the sort of thing that needs play-by-play or color commentary, but the check cleared, so here we are.

TOM: That’s right, Carl. Right now, the clear favorite is Dr. Drey, who has been building a handsome nest in the big dead oak tree next to the chemistry building. Longtime viewers will recall that Dr. Drey was our runner-up last year, and he is currently favored to go all the way after last year’s champion, Nutty By Nature, was creamed by a Buick during the postseason.

CARL: I have heard that Nutty By Nature’s son, Manger Danger, is trying to make a run for the title despite struggling with a parasite infection all fall. But I have to say, this is not looking like his year.

TOM: That’s right, Carl. Manger Danger has a drey in the maple between the library and human resources, but it is poorly situated and in a young tree unlikely to bear significant weight. Pretty good indication that the mange is affecting the kid’s judgment. I’m thinking that if any of the up-and-comers are challenging Dr. Drey it’s going to be Peanut Brutha or perhaps Cashew ‘n Carry. Thoughts?

CARL: Peanut Brutha has a good-looking drey outside the admin building, but has not been seen in over a day. It could be that he has joined Nutty by Nature in his fate, or been carried off to rodent valhalla by our resident spoiler, Hawk the Slayer. Cashew ‘n Carry, though, might get a look in.

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“Did someone call for a bard?”

Swotham looked up, and saw, silhouetted against the bright sky, two figures dressed in rich garments. “Oh, no!” he cried. “No! Anyone but…”

“Sir Nick of Elback!” the first figure said, stepping forward and strumming his electric lute.

“Sir Lincoln-of-the-Park!” the second said, belting the words out in a grungy tune.

“You two stink,” muttered Swotham. “Nobody likes you anymore.”

“Well, now that Sir Vana d’Nir is gone, we’re all you’ve got.” said Sir Lincoln.

“That’s right,” echoed Sir Nick, playing an out-of-tune chord. “Hit it!”

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It was then that the Four Nations of the Food Pyramid received their names and their powers:

The Protein Nation, with vast nut and soy fields and mastery of the art of proteinbending.
The Carbohydrate Nation, with amber fields of grain and rice, masters of carbbending.
The Fat Nation, home to mega dairy farms and the practitioners of fatbending.
The Sugar Nation, oldest and in many ways the most powerful, who learned the art of sugarbending.

Soon after their formation, though, struggles for supremacy began in the Diet. The nations would form coalitions in an attempt to destroy the others, shunning the Fat Nation or the Carb Nation, for instance. Eventually, the Diet was broken, and the nations all attempted to find an equilibrium of their own. It was then that the Sugar Nation, and its leader the Empress Glucosia, made their play for total supremacy.

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Chick pointed at the ostrich that had charged Sammy. “Now we call the big male War, on account of his insatiable appetite for violence and bloodshed. Don’t you ever turn your back on him, or he will disembowel you with them dinosaur claws of his.”

“Why is he on display then?” cried Sammy.”

“Well, folks like him. Big ole ostrich attacking the gate is as close to a thrill ride as we got here.” Chick Spat on the dusty ground before continuing. “War is mated to the big female over yonder, who we call Famine. She gets that name on account of hos she steals food for everyone, even her own kin, such that some of her chicks done starved to death in her care.”

Sammy shuddered. “Do I even wanna know about that other female, the one that’s lying down with half her feathers missing?”

“Probably not,” replied Chick. “The smaller female is Pestilence, so named because she has what you’d call a predisposition to serious illness and injury. She’s suffered from salmonella of both the typhimurium and enteritidis varieties, chlamydia with the notable factoid as being the first bird in North America ever so diagnosed, avian mycoplasmosis despite a vaccination to the contrary, and of course good ole avian influenza. She’s also broken both legs and both wings, though never at the same time.”

Wincing, Sammy pointed at the other, smaller, male bird. “Death, I’m guessing?”

“You have guessed correctly. Last one is Death. We call him that on account of he dies, frequently. See, War and Famine is a mated pair, so any other male is naturally gonna try to shack up with Pesty. And given the wide variety of pathogens swirling about her at any given time, he usually punches his time card. This is Death XIII, and you’ll note he ain’t lookin’ too good, so we already got Death XIV lined up and waitin’ in the wings, so to speak.”

“My last question is…why?”

Chick grinned. “Because they’s cheap, Sammy. I dunno if it’s crossed your notice, but this ain’t exactly the Central Park Zoo here. The budget is the bare minimum to get Mr. Lysander his pound of flesh and not a penny more.”

“It can’t be up to code.”

“Oh, it ain’t. But let’s just say Mr. Lysander ain’t never had a proper inspection and leave it at that.”

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Of course, over time, with more and more patches overlaid on top of the original fabric, it became harder and harder to discern what the plush had once been. Its own insistence on the placement and shape of patches meant that, over time, it assumed a shape that was rather different from its original plush form. It’s fair to surmise that the tailor and his wife, being old, naïve, and nearly blind, had failed to notice the increasingly violent demands and behavior of their creation.

But when their hut was destroyed in a massive fireball, and a dragon of patches rose above the smoldering wreck with a roar that proclaimed its lordship over all in the town and their valley, it became a larger problem. For no sword could cut the patches deeply enough, no arrow could pierce them to any vital spot, and while the patchwork dragon was theoretically as vulnerable to oil and fire as any other cloth, its immense size and the beating of its great wings meant that few embers survived long enough to set it alight.

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Fresh off the discovery of Smallfoot, it was discovered that nearly every cryptid had co-evolved with a smaller, pint-sized cousin that was much better adapted to surviving and thriving in a dangerous human-dominated world.

Smallfoot of the Pacific Northwest shared the southern part of its range with the Fresno Duskcrawler. The Flatshrubs Monster rubbed elbows with the Mothboy of West Virginia, while Bessie the Puddle Ness Monster frolicked overseas.

Even knowing that, nothing had prepared Torvald to find a cryptid in his cupboard.

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“The code phrase is ‘Octopus finds a ukulele in a haunted house.’ Make sure you memorize it.”

Oscar turned the phrase over and over in his head. How the devil was he supposed to remember something so nonsensical? Visualize, Bowyer had said. Visualize. That was the secret.

Frowning, Oscar tried to visualize the scenario. How did the octopus get into the haunted house? It needed water to breathe. Maybe it had hopped off an aquarium truck? Perhaps it WAS the ghost.

No, no, that was too complicated for a mnemonic. The haunted house was on a cliffside, Oscar decided. It had fallen into the sea, along with all its contents and all its ghosts. An octopus had slimed in, dodging the now-drowned phantasms, only to find and curiously pluck at the waterlogged strings of an old ukulele.

“All right, can you repeat the code phrase back to me?”

Oscar was jolted out out his visualization abruptly. “Oh, uh…ukulele finds a haunted house in an octopus?”

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