Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

Some think that they are evil canines who mad a pact with dark forces to assume human shape as they please, and accuse them of having a penchant for murder and mayhem. Others hold that they are humans bearing some ancient curse which condemns them to the level of beasts.

Somewhat surprisingly, few have actually asked a jackalwere what they think. Those who have are, admittedly, usually blown off, as jackalweres are known to be skittish and slow to trust at the best of times–and not without reason, given their long history of persecution. The most anyone has learned is that jackalweres consider themselves a new verse of an eternal song, sung in harmony.

Jackalweres resemble large canines–jackals, coyotes, wolves, or even domestic dogs–but take a considerably longer time to mature. Most wild canines are adults after roughly one year, but jackalweres take 13-17 years to mature. At any time, a jackalwere can choose to assume the shape of a canine or a human, and older jackalweres are able to assume a hybrid form combining features of each. The transformation is quite rapid and involves magical means, with many jackalweres able to conjure illusory clothing or collars as well.

Another skill that a jackalwere possesses that sets it apart from other creatures such as blink dogs and werewolves is that they possess a limited form of telepathy and psychic suggestion. This allows jackalweres to make themselves easily understood in any language, if they wish, and to implant transient false memories to allow them to blend in.

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

“We’ve delayed this meeting several times, and been able to provisionally enroll Haven, but the Right To Sapience Act requires a full interview by the end of the semester and the clock is ticking, Mrs. Powell.”

“Is it really that big of a deal?” Eileen said.

“Mrs. Powell,” said Principal Shasa. “My predecessor resigned rather than enforce the Right To Sapience Act. We have some leeway, but if Haven has not been interviewed by the end of the semester, we will be uable to enroll her for the spring.”

“Can we do it over the phone?” sighed Eileen.

Shasa shuffled some papers on her hand. “We can get some basic questions out of the way, I suppose, but part of the interview will have to be done in person. Number One: is Haven now, or has she ever been, possessed by a demonic spirit that has altered her appearance or behavior?”

“You have got to be kidding me,” Eileen said.

“I am reading the questions verbatim from the statute.”

“No, she has not.”

“Number Two: is Haven now, or has she ever been, an otherworldly creature, in whole or in part?”

“No.”

“Okay.” More papers rustling. “Does Haven now, or has she ever, associated with anyone known to the state to be an otherworldly creature, or one possessed by a demon?”

“No.”

“Very good. We’ll have to speak to Haven for the rest, but that is something I can give the DoE at least. Oh, and the examination.”

“Examination?” Eileen said, hesitantly.

“Naturally, the state can’t simply take your word for it. The Department of Health offers a minimally invasive examination to confirm that your daughter is neither otherworldly nor possessed.”

Eileen abruptly hung up the call before Shasa could proceed.

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

With the repeal of Sonox v. Charleston by Graves v. Sapient Services, the rights afforded to non-human sapients immediately became an open question. The previous case law, Griffith v. Eldryth from 1915, stated that only male human citizens were subject to constitutional protections as envisaged by the Framers, and while precedent since then had gradually extended further protections and rights to female human citizens and children, the Graves decision essentially kicked the ball back into the individual states.

South Carolina, Mississippi, Montana, and Florida had all passed “trigger laws” which went into effect as soon as Sonox was overturned, broadly restricting the rights of non-human sapients–and, indeed, refusing to acknowledge any other sapients at all. The “theoretical” basis for these laws, the Florida statute written by the Liberty 4 All Foundation, was that human beings were the only sapient beings in the world, and that anything else that appeared to be sapient was either “otherworldly” or “possessed.”

Sapients deemed “otherworldly”–the Florida Right To Sapience Act refers to them as “demons”–were stripped of all rights and could not own property, engage in employment, vote, or possess currency. All such property and currency passed to whomever had previously held it, or the state government if no such person could be identified. For instance, a satyr named Owpun, declared “otherworldly,” saw his property revert to the ancestors of the family he had purchased it from. Another, involving a centaur known as Oates, saw a network of stables and animal husbandry education programs seized by the state–Oates had created them, therefore there was no prior owner.

On the other hand, Sapients deemed “possessed” were deemed to have rights and could own property and engage in employment once the state had “exorcised” them to its satisfaction. For instance, a number of elves were allowed to keep their homes and businesses in Billings once they submitted to an exorcism ritual and clipped their ears with the assistance of a local cosmetic surgeon. The existence of short-statured humans made it unenforceable to require Dwarves were required to undergo an exorcism, shave their beards, clip their ears, and even then it was generally accepted that only those above 4’8″ in height would ever be accepted.

Burt Vespin, billionaire playboy, stalked the Vespertillius Cavern, looking for information on The Twiddler and his confederates in the Puppeteer Gang. Their last caper, with the Very Large Bat, had failed, but he knew it was only a matter of time before they struck again.
“Perhaps, Master Burt, the answer is to think like they do,” said his loyal manservant, Frederick.

“Think like a mentally ill freak in a costume?” scoffed Burt. “That’ll be the day.”

Frederick cleared his throat. “Yes, well, the stockholders for VespinTech are here with the quarterly financial statements. Perhaps it’s time to place the bat hobby on hold and see to pressing matters?”

“VespinTech is the hobby,” Burt muttered. “This is what really matters.”

“Yes, well, it also generates no income, as you refuse to license your likeness and allow bootleggers free reign,” said Frederick. “Perhaps just a little bit of business, at least until the bills are paid?”

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

If we continue to fragment our wilderness
Our cryptids will lack places to hide
They might then evolve into smallness
And begin letting themselves inside

A compact sasquatch lurks in the kitchen
Flatbrush pixies are on the lanai
Mothmen orbit floorlamps in the den
Chubacaprae in the garage wave goodbye

If we don’t want them in our spaces
If we wish to bid them goodbye
Perhaps it’s our turn to downsize
Before the very last forests will die

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

“Now, Janey?”

“Yeah, Dad?”

“I need you to tell me what, exactly, you put in the gene splicer, okay?”

“Umm…some crocodile pieces…your weird bird fossil…and some of my bubblegum.”

“Is that why there’s a sticky creature with wings and sharp teeth eating everything at Daddy’s birdbath?”

“It’s called a bubblegumcrocodileopterix, and it’s splendid.”

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

Let’s face it, we’ve all been there: a well-meaning relative, or even a liberal whom you are not allowed to kill in this so-called democracy, has offered you a salad. And for whatever reason, you can’t throw it back in their face and demand red meat like a true American should. What do you do?

We’ve all got our solutions. Hiding the salad, Cutting it into smaller pieces so it looks eaten. Smuggling leaves onto others’ plates or back into the basket.

But no more!

Thanks to the revolutionary new Pants for Salad™ system, those days are over! Now you can hide your salad in a special pouch that slips down the front of your pants and store it safely for later disposal. No mess, thanks to our patented leakproof lining, and no awkward laundering like competing products, because Pants for Salad™ is disposable!

Simply choose the size and capacity you need, install before any meal you think might involve salads or liberals, and voila! You’re good to go. And with the new Pants for Salad™ DX, even salads that are dripping with dressings or festooned with croutons can easily be secreted away. And don’t forget to try our new Pants for Meats™, a revolutionary complementary product that allows you to smuggle fine smoked meats into gatherings of vegetarians or Democrats without having to worry about them canceling you!

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

“Look!” the guards at Chateau le Barre cried, pointing toward the roof, which was bathed in the light of the full moon.

“That is correct, fools!” cried the masked figure, clad in blue, that stood atop the peak. “It is I, the Phantom Phaunterplook, and I intend to spirit your captives to safety!”

“Hang on a tick,” one of the guards shouted back. “What the blooming hell is a ‘phaunterplook’ exactly?”

“It’s a kind of flower,” The Phantom Phaunterplook shouted back. “It’s in the aster family. I’m going to leave one at the scene of my triumph here as a calling card.”

“There’s no such flower!” another guard cried. “I studied botany for two years!”

“Well, I studied it for six,” the Phaunterplook retorted. “And trust me when I say the phaunterplook is a real flower. You might know it as the genus Anagallis, the chaffweed, or the swizzlechud.”

“You made those up!”

“I did not! The Dutch also call it the vanterplüken! Look, I have a boquet of them right here!”

“Those could be silk flowers for all we know!”

“Look,” sighed the Phaunterplook. “Are you going to raise the alarm or not?”

“Are you going to raise the issue of you naming yourself after a fake flower or not?”

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

“Lumpomancy?” cried Gregor. “What can I do with lumpomancy? I want the gift of a cooler -mancy. What about pyromancy?”

“I’m sorry, Gregor,” Counselor Iort said. “Your Magical Aptitude Score in pyromancy was only 17. That’s not even enough to prevent you from working in a match factory.”

“How about technomancy?” Gregor said.

“15. Don’t fool with any complex machinery unless you have the proper tools and two years’ technical training.”

“…and my score in lumpomancy?” Grego asked, miserably.

“97. Since the scores are based on percentiles, this means that you are better than lumpomancy than 97% of the magically-gifted population. I think you should seriously consider it as a career.”

“Doing what,” Gregor mumbled.

“Well, most lumpomancers work in ore processing, identifying and moving lumps of raw ore. If you were a bit more gifted in life magic, there might also be room for you in a magical oncologist.”

“What’s my life magic score?” said Gregor.

“10,” replied Counselor Iort. “Frankly, any lower than that, and I’d expect you to be dead. No, my boy, I’m afraid it’s ore processing or nothing for you.”

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

“Stripe Wiggly T is the real breakout character from ‘The Wibbly-Wombles,’ so he would be a perfect spokesman for your product,” said Mr. Cabinet, the network executive man. “The word ‘tea’ is right there in his name, after all. Shall we start the negotiations at, oh, say a million?”

The high-backed chair, which had been facing the window, swiveled to reveal the enigmatic Mr. H. M. Wigglesburgh, Esq., the mysterious, reclusive, and eccentric founder and owner of Wigglesburgh Teas. “So allow me to summarize the proposed transaction,” Mr. Wigglesburgh said, his long gloved fingers steepled, his face unreadable beneath his bright top hat and above his ruffled ascot. “Based on some perceived similarity of name, you wish me to hire your children’s television host—and actor—to peddle your wares. To children.”

“Absolutely,” said Mr. Cabinet. “I’m glad we could come to an understanding.”

“Here is what I understand,” said Wigglesburgh. “Children are not an ideal market for tea. It is often too hot for them; they might injure themselves. They prefer it cold, with milk and sugar, all of which are anathema to my fine teas. Now, this is not the children’s fault, Mr. Cabinet; rather, it is yours for having the temerity to suggest such a matchup in the first place.”

“Come now, Mr. Wigglesburgh,” said Cabinet. “Perhaps we could knock the price down to half a million, on account of your moral objections. But I’ll have you know that Butterglut Tea is on the hook as well, and if Stripe Wiggly T isn’t working for you, why he’s working for them. The children will burn their poor little tongues no matter what.”

“Butterglut,” said Mr. Wigglesburgh. “Tell me, Mr. Cabinet, have you ever seen my magnificent vats of Earl Grey, our best seller?”

Without waiting for a response, he touched a control at the arm of his chair that abruptly clamped Mr. Cabinet to his chair and tilted him forward, even as a trap door opened to reveal the steaming vats of Earl Grey below, worked by the tireless Tea Weasels.

“Okay, okay! I take it back! My client is not for sale to teamakers!” Cabiner shrieked.

“Are you sure?” said Mr. Wigglesburgh, examining his nails. “Even Butterglut? I’d hate to be accused of unfair practices.”

“Yes, of course, please!” Cabinet howled.

“Very well.” The trapdoor shut, and the testraings vanished as the chair tilted back. “But do remember the agreement we have made here today. If you do not, the price will be…steep.”

• Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!