Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

The mirrormoth, Anklodytes swingerii, is so named because of its curious habit of being attracted to mirrors. In the presence of a mirror, a mirrormoth will continually bump against it, ignoring all other stimuli if possible and failing to eat or drink, until it dies from exhaustion.

The mechanism for this behavior is believed to be related to the also poorly understood attraction that most other moths have to lights in the dark. Mirrormoths ignore lights in favor of mirrors, though there must be at least some light–they will ignore a mirror in a totally dark room, as proved by Forrestal et al. in 1987. Mirrormoths also display a marked preference for silver mirrors made prior to 1900 for unknown reasons, gravitating to them 97% of the time when offered a choice.

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“The blood test confirms that it’s a genuine Aptenodytes forsteri, an emperor penguin. Adult female, probably less than ten years old, somewhat dehydrated and malnourished but otherwise in good health.”

“That is a spectacularly unhelpful answer.”

“What more do you want? They were kind enough to send along some dietary tips for addressing the dehydration and malnourishment.”

“I mean, yes, that is very helpful, but what does it do to answer the question of what this impossible penguin is doing 1000 miles from the coast, 2000 miles from the nearest zoo that breeds them, and 10,000 miles from its native habitat?”

“Not a lot, yeah.”

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“You’ll be of no use, Vespertillus, once my new minion is released!” cackled The Twiddler.

“You’re insane, Twiddler!” cried Vespertillus, readying a gas grenade from his megabelt.

“Am I?” The Twiddler said. “Reserve all judgment until you see the fruits of my early-bird investment in GigantoCorp: an absolutely massive bat!”

From its hidden perch up above, the absolutely massive bat stirred, raining guano down upon the combatants below.

“Oh. Ew.” Vespertillus said.

“That’s just the beginning, Vesperterriblus!” shouted The Twiddler. “To my absolutely massive bat, you’re just an insect snack! It will devour you whole!”

The absolutely massive bat stirred again.

“Kill him!” The Twiddler barked.

Nothing.

“Wha…?”

“Foolish Twiddler,” Vespertillius said, hurling his gas grenade. “It’s two-thirty PM. This chonkster won’t be ready to eat for hours.”

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After the settlement had cleared in 1977, Uncle Harvey had decided to dedicate his life to disco entirely. With a good part of the proceeds, he bought a roller rink on the outskirts of town and did his best to turn it into a shining beacon of light and music on a hill.

It worked for a while, as Chris had found through newspaper clippings, but eventually the disco craze had faded and after a flood in 1985, the roller rink was open less and less frequently. Uncle Harvey began closing it on weekdays, then on alternate weekends, and starting in 1989 the rink was only open by appointment for special events. Business contined to dwindle, and the last reference Chris could find was an announcement in the Seminole County Pioneer about a birthday party there in 1994. Chris recalled going at various times before losing interest, but couldn’t pin down any dates.

Things had gotten more dire from there. To his credit, Uncle Harvey had never let the roller rink’s interior fall into disrepair. Even as the outside became overgrown, even as he sold his house and moved into a cobbled-together suite of rooms in the back, the main floor was kept spotlessly clean. In fact, obsessively cleaning and maintaining the space seemed to have been the focus of Harvey’s remaining years, with the occasional contract work by an electrician or other specialist.

The interest on the remaining settlement was just enough to cover rent and taxes, and together with EBT stamps, Harvey had sustained himself until a bad fall in 2020 had led to him contracting coronavirus in the hospital and passing away.

Chris, as the last and only remaining child of Harvey’s line–the only child of the only child of Harvey’s sister Beatrice to survive to adulthood–inherited the rink. Even in its dusty state, years behind on basic maintenence, it was a small piece of disco remaining in an otherwise un-funky world.

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Wide shot of a holiday shopping melee, with a large number of shoppers fighting over the latest hot toy of the season.

LADY CUSTOMER: Oh no! Little Brayden wants a web-enabled Hyperman figure for Jesus Day, but stock is limited! My precious male heir deserves only the best in everything from fashion to accessories, but I lack the wherewithal to do anything about it!

SENSEI KAREN jumps in from off-camera with the bang of a gong, dressed in a PINK GI.

SENSEI KAREN: What ho! A privileged youth being deprived of anything? Not on my watch!

LADY CUSTOMER: Wow! Sensei Karen! But it’s impossible for me to fight my way to the head of this crowd!

SENSEI KAREN: Nonsense! These plebians will be no match for my patented Elbow-Fu!

LADY CUSTOMER: Elbow-Fu? Tell me more!

A MONTAGE begins playing of SENSEI KAREN violently elbowing poor people out of her way, while she speaks in VOICEOVER.

SENSEI KAREN (voiceover): Elbow-Fu is the patented self-defense technique for upper-class and privileged women! Using only your elbows, harsh language, the warm blanket of white supremacy, and ever-present threats to unleash a militarized police force, you can defeat foes ten time your size in order to get what you are owed.

The MONTAGE continues, now with SENSEI KAREN’s comments audible. Each crushing ELBOW ATTACK is punctuated by a matching COMMENT.

SENSEI KAREN: Do you know who I am? I want to speak to a manager! I know my rights! I will report this to the police!
“You’re ruining my Jesus Day!

The scene switches back to the LADY SHOPPER.

LADY SHOPPER: Wow, thanks, Sensei Karen! With your patented techniques, I’ll fight my way to the front of this line in no time!

SENSEI KAREN points at the camera as the LADY SHOPPER wades into the melee.

SENSEI KAREN: If you, too, would like to unlock the powers of Elbow-Fu, register for a free starter class at the Sensei Karen’s Dojo near you, or sign up for our online classes! Sensei Karen’s: Get What’s Coming to You™!

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Q: What did the submarine say to the battleship?

A: Sank you very much!

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Eugene “Gene” Howard ran the stockroom of the Southern Michigan University bookstore–itself a branch of Beale & Bonn’s Booksellers LLC GmbH–as a second career. His first, as assistant manager for shipping and receiving at the K-Mart in town, had been a casualty of the subprime mortgage crisis, as had been his own subprime mortgage and his 401k. Gene had been left with basically the clothes on his back, the contents of his home in a series of storage lockers, and a mountain of foreclosure debt.

Retirement wasn’t gonna happen. Ever. So Gene took advantage of the fact that he was in relatively good health with logistics experience to get a job that had basic health care, his wife did the same, and they were both crossing their fingers to run out the clock without a catastrophe. Their daughter, Marley, was already in college working on accumulating her own pile of debt, so that left the B&B stockroom and the fact that Gene could work weekends for time and a half.

He didn’t resent it–far from it, in fact. Moving would have been even more ruinously expensive, and B&B had saved his finances after a humbling six months working openings at McDonald’s and closings at Walmart. Still, the drudgery of the work took its toll on him. Gene had relished the unpredictability of freight shipments at K-Mart, the thousand tiny crises that made each day different from the last. B&B was, by contrast, entirely to predictable. The freight arrived every day, like clockwork, and was all the same size. There were no surprises, and in the rare event that he met a customer, there was little he could do for them.

So Gene took his pleasure where he could get it, and that was in remainders.

B&B remaindered both textbooks and its trade books, usually when new editions came out. Gene’s job was to strip the books by tearing their covers off and then discarding the text block. His predecessor had set the “stripped” books out in the break room for people to take home, but Gene believed in the letter of the law, and those books went in the dumpster. Sure, some people whined about it–Gene’s part-time assistant, for one, was always on about saving the books. Gene responded that he was welcome to pick them out of the dumpster.

But the sordid fact of the matter was that Gene enjoyed the act of stripping and throwing the books away. The crack of spines, the snap of bindings, the way the books arced through the air when he hucked them at the dumpster which lay just off the loading dock…that was where Gene found a not insubstantial part of his joy. Who cared about what was in the books? Not like they were limited editions. No, they found their ultimate and only purposes as dissections, as missiles, as one of the only things that brightened Gene’s ditchwater-dull days.

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Do YOU like good old-fashioned milspec food, just the way your drill sergeant used to make? Do YOU long for the taste of military-issue food so much that you’ve tried making your own MRE (meal, ready-to-eat)? Does YOUR idea of grocery shopping involve a stop at the army surplus store?

Then have WE got a dining experience for YOU!

Come on down to the Salivation Army, where military-grade food is a way of life. Whether it’s throwing beautifully marbled meat into big cauldrons until it turns gray, cooking chocolate that tastes a little bit better than a potato, or astronaut-style ice cream that’s out of this world, we’ve got you covered! Military veteran up for a trip down memory lane? Current serviceman or woman on leave? Military brat looking for a taste of the old base commissary? Wherever you’re coming from, the Salivation Army has the best in rehydrated potatoes waiting for you at our endless buffet.

There’s the right way to cook, the wrong way to cook, and the Salivation Army way to cook. Join us today!

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“Well, best as we can tell, the decedent is one James Lee, owner and CEO of TruTrail Navigational Products LLC GmbH,” said Wells, her eyes flicking between her phone and the man’s license.”

“Techbro,” Turner said, his contempt evident even behind the mirrored shades he preferred as sheriff. “What can you tell me about TruTrail?”

“Well, according to their social media,” Wells read, “TruTrail, and I quote, ‘seamlessly integrates cutting-edge AI-driven technologies to revolutionize spatial intelligence, optimizing dynamic routes with precision, and fostering a paradigm shift in personalized navigation experiences for the modern era.’ It is accompanied with a picture of a man in a jeep looking at a screen.”

“That’s a lot of words all right,” said Rodriguez. “Fancy ones too. Hang ’em in the front window and watch the young ladies wear ’em to the cotillion.”

“Yes, but what does it mean?” said Turner.

“It looks like they were a GPS company,” Wells replied. “They were working on a new GPS system, which I expect is the unknown widget that we found, in pieces, complicating the identification of the decedent through facial trauma.”

“I guess it didn’t work very well,” Rodriguez chuckled. “Our witness there in the picnic area on the bluffs said that our man drove onto the logging road and then straight off the cliff. Remind me to check my immediate family members for any TruTrail units.”

“You don’t suppose…” Turner said, looking down at the wreckage 375 feet below. “Nah.”

“Suppose what, Sheriff?” said Wells. “You know we’re all about supposing, especially when this is the goriest case we’ve seen since the knife salesman got run off the road.”

“Yeah, suppose what?” Rodriguez echoed. “Don’t sit on it, Bill.”

“That gobbledygook you read said it was AI-powered,” mused Sheriff Turner. “What if it killed its creator and made things look like an accident?”

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A holiday tree glistens closely
Lighted garlands are hung up nearby
Live pine boughs all sag with baubles
The lights mimic stars in the sky

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