Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

Whispered in the labyrinth of cubes
Watercooler talk without the cooler
“That one’s put in her two weeks, you know.”
It’s said with distaste, with venom adrip
“They are a traitor for leaving” is clear
Or is it just because you are jealous
They’re fleeing the corner you’ve painted
Your life into, and you would do anything
To join them if you only knew how

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No one should throw books away, you say
They are an object, sacred, a shrine
Knowledge in its purest form
Even as covers splinter and spines break
Pages flake and tear, discoloration creeps
So will you take them, I say, these books
Will you give them a home and a shelf
Falling apart though they are
But no, there is no room, not for you
But somebody must want them
Somebody will take them
Surely

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Every day we all look out
Feeders full, binocs ready
They are coming northward
Along the ancestral roads
As yet unbroken, if frayed
Anthropocene not yet their doom
A warming world not yet finished
First of season a flittering delight
Last of season too sad to contemplate
I try to look up at the sky
To take in the song
As if I will never hear it again

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You cannot start
Anything serious
On April first
It will always
Be taken for
A joke, even
If it is in
Deadly earnest
Which is fine
If you have a
Choice, but
What a truly
Terrible day
To have an
Unexpected
Thing happen

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The Most Excellent Order of Retired Pirates (MEORP) had its annual convention in the place that was most naturally suited to high seas robbery, lawlessness, and acts of savagery: Florida. While the keynote speaker, Redpatch Ockham, was considered a major ‘get’ for the event, most of the retired buccaneers and pensioned pirates were there for a glimpse of Captain Charles “Crackerjack” Jackson, who had retired undefeated after winning both naval battles, infamy, and the Mr. Beard Universe title five years running. Reclusive in the extreme, no one had seen Crackerjack since he’d retired, and outside of a short audio interview with FPB on the event of his quartermaster Blondbeard’s death, had made no public statements either.

The furor quickly grew into a scandal when Crackerjack arrived via chartered limo…without his trademark calico three-shade beard. Not even a mustache! Crackerjack was as clean-shaven as his sixth wife who accompanied him as his handler, his face and pate as shiny as the hook which replaced his left hand. Relaxing in the convention’s green roon in a Hawaiian shirt, white knee socks, and sandals, Crackerjack was deluged by reporters looking to scoop each other on the fate of his famous facial hair.

“It’s quite the scandal, isn’t it?” one asked.

“Why, not at all,” chuckled Crackerjack. “I’ve simply chosen to wear an invisible beard so as not to scratch my beloved’s face, that’s all.”

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“You specified that you did not care whether your house was painted by a human or a matibrush. Is a matibrush acceptable?”

“Y-yeah, I guess so. I wouldn’t have said I didn’t care if I did.”

“Wonderful. The matibrush will arrive between 10:00am and 1:00pm tomorrow. You will not be required to interact with it, and our automated vehicle will provide it with all the paint and ladders that it needs.”

“Will it…will it be wearing clothing?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Will the matibrush be wearing clothing?”

“Sir, clothing is not necessary for the operation of a matibrush. It may, in fact, get in the way and accumulate paint.”

“I would still…I would really appreciate it if the matibrush wore clothing. Just for my sake.”

“One moment.”

“O-of course.”

“Okay, sir, it looks like we can accomodte your request. What sort of clothing would you like the matibrush to wear?”

“I..I beg your pardon?”

“You said you wanted the matibrush to wear clothing. What kind of clothing would you like it to wear?”

“Uh…a pair of shorts would be fine, I think?”

“Very good, sir. The matibrush will arrive tomorrow wearing shorts.”

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A cartoon character printed onto a helium balloon had escaped from the bunch, and was wriggling its way up to freedom, the mesosphere, and death. Even though the cartoon’s painted-on smile was unchanging, its bugged-out eyes, molded parts of the balloon in their own right rather than a simple sticker, seemed to have a wild gleam of freedom within them.

It was free. It would perish in the freeing, of course, and leave a mess of mylar shrapnel as its toxic legacy. But it didn’t matter, not now, not yet. I wondered, as I watched, what it would be like to behold the unfolding view below through its balloon eyes.

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“Now, the real trick to transubstantiation, the conversion of a living soul into an inanimate object, is that the quality of the source affects the quality of the object. You’ll practice on base creatures, of course, but you’ll soon find that they produde mundane items of little worth and marginal utility.”

“It takes a sentient being to produce a truly effective item, and it goes without saying that those are harder to come by. While there are a few in their declining days or the grips of despondency that volunteer, and a few more at death’s door that are signed over by kin for the bounty, the majority are criminals and prisoners.”

“Even then, you’ll find that the more exceptional the person, the more exceptional the item. That’s why enemy officers are prized so much – they tend to be a cut above the rest in terms of intelligence and ability. It’ll be some time before you are even allowed to observe such a transubstantiation, let alone perform one, but that is the way of it.”

“And, of course, the end goal—one that few will reach, admittedly—is to take a truly exceptional being and craft it into a once-in-a-lifetime item. If you’re ever privileged enough to see General Niot in person—and smart enough to keep your mouth shut and your eyes open—you’ll see he carries a truly remarkable saber. It was made from his opposite number, the enemy in command at the Battle of Ediug, and can cleave a man in twain with the flick of the wrist.”

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Scoct fired up the gaselocity, hoping that it had enough power to slice the voidcave fruiting body so that he could take a slice with his vodka. The mushroom was not flavorful, but it was nutritious enough to take the place of bread and stand tall alongside the fermented potatoes of subterranean vodka.

Naturally, it wasn’t the gaselocity’s intended use. Scoct was quite sure that its makers meant it for nobler purposes than as a glorified still. But if there was one thing about the human spirit amid adversity, even driven into the inhospitable underground, it was that there would be booze made and booze consumed. No matter how illegal it was.

Scoct knew full well that, if caught, he would be subject to confiscation and flagellation, the gaselocity returned to the factory with the balance of his debt still outstanding, and the ire of the Religious Guard’s truncheons visited upon his backside. But he didn’t care.

The human spirit, and the gaselocity operated beyond the specifications of its operations manual, would provide.

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