Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

“Of course, of course, come in,” the old man said. “Lay your hat down and let me keep you awhile.”

The young soldier set his grey cap on the table. “Thank you kindly, mister,” he said. “Combat’s been mighty tough so far, not at all like they said it was gonna be.”

“I know that, son, I know that all too well,” said the old man. He laid a cup of steaming tea in front of his young guest. “I still have a few musket balls rattling around in me from the last great war.”

“In Mexico?”

“Oh no, son, the last great war, against a country that had half a chance of winning. Mexico was a sick man in an alley and we took his coat. I mean the War of 1812. I was there at New Orleans at twenty.”

Setting down the cup after a long drink, the young soldier looked to his host. “The yanks sure can shoot back, I’ll give them that. What did you think, fighting at New Orleans?”

“Well, I thought I was doing a great thing. Voted for my old general, Andy Jackson, three times. Wasn’t a perfect man–no such thing–but he had his priorities straight.”

“States’ rights,” the younger man said. “Defense of a man’s property.”

He was surprised at the glare he received in return from his host. “Now, I reckon you were barely born when Old Hickory died, but let me remind you of something he once said. ‘If a single drop of blood shall be shed there in opposition to the laws of the United States, I will hang the first man I can lay my hand on engaged in such treasonable conduct, upon the first tree I can reach.’”

Startled, the young soldier reached for his musket. “What is all this, then?” he said. To his confusion, he found that the weapon was nowhere at hand.

“This is Old Hickory’s vengeance on traitors, enacted sadly too late,” the old man said grimly. He laid the stolen musket upon his table even as the young solider drew a belly knife. He made it barely a few steps, though, before the weapon clattered to the ground along with its bearer.

“Don’t you worry, boy. You’ll still be useful to your rebel friends.”

The old man kicked open the door to the cellar, where the rendering pots were already boiling, the grinder awaiting its cargo eagerly as a puppy, the press ready for shaping soap.

Dragging the body downstairs, he eyed the uniform. Poor condition, but usable as scrap fabric. The rebel commissary agent paid handsomely for all of it, soap to butternut, with nary a question about where it came from.

That left the question of the slouch hat. No one would believe something like that hadn’t come from a soldier, not in those unprecedented times, so the old man kept them as souvenirs. He opened a side closet, the old root cellar, and tossed it into a hillside terrain of hundreds of gray hats

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Naturally, staff were quite forbidden to partake in any of the refreshments, as Lady Greene had a strict composting policy for her vegetarian, vegan, gluten-free, and cruelty-free soirées.

The cruelty-free part did not extend to the waitstaff, as they worked 8- and 10- hour shifts for each weekly party. And unlike the members of Lady Greene’s household, the waitstaff were provided by an external contractor, so no benefits, no overtime, and no breaks. OmniStaff LLC was a management company for independent contractors who waived basic human rights in exchange for exciting employment opportunities, after all.

Julio had first taken on the work because he was a committed vegetarian himself, and Lady Greene was famous as an international icon of eco-style and eco-cuisine. But whenever he looked at the supplies gathered for one of the parties, it was just depressing. A great, forbidden kale forest loomed in the walk-in freezer, so close but also out of reach.

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It wasn’t until the class had pressed their hands to the canyon walls and had them come away coated with pastel dust that they realized the true nature of the gully.

“It’s chalk,” Agnes said. “It’s all chalk, must be millions of pieces, every color of the rainbow. It’s not the light giving those colors, at all!”

“Of course a teacher would dream up a canyon of chalk,” John muttered, idly pressing chalky handprints onto his uniform jacket. “What’s next, a forest of pointers?”

One of the younger children squeaked in surprise nearby; they had inadvertently pried a piece of chalk out of the canyon wall and caused a collapse, with a landslide developing out of a thousand thousand colorful tubes.

“This place could collapse at any moment,” said Erik. “We need to move through and keep the little ones hands to themselves What was it the rhyme said?”

“Past hills of paper and deserts of slate, through fragile canyons to meet the gate.”

“Right. The only way out is through,” Erik said.

“And when we’ve finished, Teacher needs to take a vacation,” Agnes added. “No one should dream about chalk canyons unless they live in Dover.”

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“Prof. Yōgan Shinobu, from the International University Library of Lava.”

“Constantina-Evangelene Prokopiou, attached to the incident investigation team. You can call me Punkin, though; everyone else does.” Instead of responding to Punkin’s outstretched hand, the professor moved to open a large drawer.

“I was quite surprised to hear that a member of the incident team, even a temporary one like yourself, was coming to see us here,” Yōgan said. The drawer contained hundreds of labeled samples of dark igneous rocks, with notes on their age, composition, and method of collection. “Our methods are more geological, than criminological.”

Punkin opened her case and set down the sample within the tube. “We were hoping you could identify this,” she said.

Yōgan produced a pair of spectacles and examined the sample tube as proffered. “Hmm. Pahoehoe type, certainly, but something is off about the composition. Not enough silicates, perhaps?”

“Are you telling me, Professor, that you can’t identify it?”

“I assure you I can, though anyone who is capable of identifying a lava sample by eye is less a scientist than a magician,” said Yōgan. “But as you can see, our collection is quite comprehensive, and I am certain that the proper tests will show this sample to be quite unusual. Where did you acquire it?”

“Apartment 339, the Regency Apartments West, Chicago, Illinois,” Punkin said. “It filled the room and incinerated its contents, and occupants, in seconds one week ago. The incident investigation team needs to know how, and why.”

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All around, on the other side of the decorative tanks, swirled a glowing, purple starfish forest.

“Transgenic. We spliced in bioluminescence genes from an anglerfish.”

Looking up, DuBois saw the figure of Dr. York on the walkway, still holding a wine stem from the party.

“Why not just display the anglerfish?” DuBois said.

“We’d need to make the enclosure a foot thick for the right pressure,” York replied, “and before you ask, putting fresh genes into anything with a backbone makes people nervous, so we couldn’t just adapt them to the lower pressure. Starfish, though? No one cares.”

“You and the team have created quite the attraction here,” DuBois continued. “The LagoonPark CEO sure thinks it’ll save his company, or at least let him keep using ‘lagoon’ in the name without resorting to running the coasters under a waterfall.”

“Off the record, I sometimes worry that’s all the LagoonPark people see in us,” said York. “As a cash cow, good for purple glowing starfish and some mildly interesting transgenic patents they can sit on.”

Dubois looked out over the bioluminescent echinoderms. “Makes a good five-second clip for the 24-hour news cycle, anyway.”

“Come on,” York said. “I’ll show you something we’re cooking up that isn’t quite ready for the grand opening. You’ll like it.”

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The tales they shared in Simnel, those who sheltered in its walls

They were taken down by others who had survived the city’s fall

Huddled in the armory, their nervous tales did ring

But once the battle ended, their tales began to sing

Repeated oft and spread throughout the land of Pexate fair

There soon were calls to honor them, the sword-tale spinners there

A book they made, a weighty tome, to preserve their reverie

But that, I think, is not what you have come all this way to see

The armory also commissioned a blade, ornately wrought and fair

And inscribed upon its metalwork, all the tales-tellers who were there

Never meant for battle, to this day it hangs upon a wall

Reminding us from most to least, there’s steel and sharpness in us all

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When presented with the prisoners
The general refused their pleas
Honorable deaths were not forthcoming
Cruel fates in word and deed

The general did offer up
The sharpest blade he knew
For prisoners to die by
Whilst perhaps sparing a bare few

They agreed to what he offered
Thinking it a noble thing
But then he led them to the wasteland
And the irony did sting

The wind’s blade is, the genral said,
The sharpest that I know
Without food or shelter I leave you
To feel its bitter blow

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The identity of the Tinker of Gizan is not wholly known. Some say that he was a halfling, one of the very last of his kind upon the world before their line failed. He may also have been a mule, perhaps a dwelf. Some even say his creations could only be explained by descent from the legendary gnomes, who are said to live fathoms below the sands of Naïx.

Perhaps he was just very clever.

In any case, the Crimson Empire had to contend with his inventions when they took Gizan. Automatic magazine-fed crossbows, Trebuchets with pinpoint accuracy. A foul mixture that burned even underwater. But the mechanical swords that armed the elite Gizan troops are his best-remembered.

Though none survive, Imperial sources claim they could be used as a shortsword or unfolded into a short spear, with some wilder stories of spring-loaded tips powerful enough to kill a man.

In any event, the Tinker died the day after his city fell. Brought before the Crimson General and ordered to serve the Empire, he refused and was summarily executed-a fate he eventually shared with the Crimson General, who had been ordered to take him alive.

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When the time came to face Muolih the Spreading Darkness in battle, the Creator girded Itself with raiments that were far beyond mortal ken. For armor, It wore mountains like scutes. For a cloak, the shining Inland Sea was drained. And for a sword, the Creator plunged Its hand into the sands of Naïx, drawing forth a blade of meteoric glass.

Against this cosmic arsenal, Muolih had arrayed himself in armor carved from the very moons themselves, with a cloak of the night sky. He bore into battle a great falchion, forged in rivers of iron by erupting volcanoes.

They fought their duel over Naïx even as their armies clashed below. Men and elves, orcs and goblins, ogres and dwarves, and even still others who have now passed from living memory. They all died together as Muolih and the Creator’s twin blows slew them both, and brought ruin to all that lay below.

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In a remote oasis in sandy Naïx, three lost travelers gathered: an itinerant dwarf, a nomadic desert elf, and an orc follower of the Hamurabash. While awaiting rescue, they took to comparing their philosophies to pass the time.

“Look at that stone there,” said the elf. “The Eternal Way of my people tells us that every stone can become a mountain if it improves itself.”

“Nonsense,” the orc said. “The Hamurabash is about what is, not what was or what might be. The rock only matters inasmuch as it is remembered, celebrated.”

They both turned to the dwarf, who had remained silent. “What say you, then, of this stone?” asked the elf.

“Surely your dwarvish dualism has some keen insight,” the orc added.

In response, the dwarf took up his sword and sundered the stone with a single blow.

“There is your dualism for you,” he growled. “The stone was there, and now it is not.”

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