The Thinking Cap
Cerebruortuum segniores

This delectable and brightly-colored fruiting body has the curious effect of speeding up cognition and allowing great intuitive leaps in a relatively short span of time, at the cost of permanent synaptic damage and eventual brain death. An antidote was first synthesized by Reswob in 1887 and is widely available; some graduate students have been known to abuse the cap along with the antidote to benefit from these effects, which is–needless to say–strongly contraindicated.

“The use of cerebruortuum segniores in the Chinese Imperial Examinations was punishable by death, but they were nevertheless smuggled in with astounding ingenuity. Naturally, the long term effect of brain death meant that cheating one’s way into a good score was an exercise in futility, but the false belief that the effect could be counteracted through acupuncture and the consumption of baiji ovaries meant that every year dozens of students had to be carried out of their cells in comas to expire peacefully in what Ching Dynasty chroniclers called the 菜園–the vegetable garden.” – Dr. Phineas Phable

The Bamf Puff
Nocterepunt xavier

The Bamf puff gets its name from onomatopoeia: it causes imbibers of the immature puffballs, or those exposed to newly-released spores to be teleported a short distance away, leading to a distinctive sound as air rushes to fill in the void. It is a defense mechanism designed to disorient predators who might otherwise feast on the fungi’s succulent flesh, which is highly regarded as a delicacy by humans and animals alike. Intact puffballs are extremely difficult to harvest without rupturing but were highly valued as quick getaway tools by highwaymen and assassins.

“The difficulty with the buff’s teleportation effect is its randomness–it tends to be in the same horizontal plane as the puff, but not always. Stories of hapless mushroom hunters and would-be assassins trapped in trees, buried underground, or even fifty feet in the air are not uncommon. No one is quite sure what happens to the material displaced by the appearing victim, but it is always gone for good–an effect that people have occasionally tried to harness for waste disposal, the keeping of secrets, and even murder. They are rarely successful, save by the rarest kind of luck.” – Dr. Phineas Phable

The Princess Toadstool
Fortunadcaelum relinquere

A distant relative of the famous Cordyceps genus of behavior-modifying ascomycete fungi, princess toadstools also alter behavior through fungal infection, albeit in a much more regimented way. Princess toadstools are clonal, with a large number of fruiting bodies connected to a single, subterranean, fungus. Consumption of one of the fruiting bodies leads animals–or humans–back to the initial site, where they are compelled to tend to the larger fungus by bringing it food, irrigating it, and creating what Bharadwaja called “princess gardens” in his Ayurveda. An antidote is available, though mild cases will often clear up on their own.

“In the hollows of the Himalayan foothills near the norther border of Kashmir, there is a particularly large and ancient princess toadstool that is surrounded by the skeletons of laborers and charcoal-makers it has ensnared over the years. It is at the center of a particularly large and lush princess garden, one lined with stones and fed by an aqueduct from a glacial spring. No one is sure how old they are, for none dare approach it.” – Dr. Phineas Phable

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Gather close children
And listen to the tale
Of a Chinese hiker
Named Ped Xing
Who visited America
And was touched
That everywhere he walked
They had put up signs
To welcome him

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Gordon Rynearson was a dreadful organist.

One might have been tempted to blame the fact that he was pushing 90. But there were too many sour notes, too many missed cues, too many hymns that morphed into “Heart and Soul” without warning–and too consistently–for Rynearson to be sliding down any sort of gentle senile slope.

He had been a dreadful organist since he was pushing 60.

Hopewell Presbyterian was a greying congregation, it’s true, but not so grey that people didn’t enjoy lifting their voices in praise to something new every now and again. Rynearson would kibosh anything written after 1900 by refusing to play it, or–worse–breaking into “Heart and Soul.” He actively refused to admit his hearing was going downhill, leading to missed cue after missed cue–to say nothing about the notes themselves often being out of tune.

There was no shortage of qualified younger organists ready to take the job–it was, after all, an unpaid gig–but no one had managed to dislodge Rynearson in the near-decade since he had become the sole organist by outliving everyone else in the rotation. He wouldn’t step down, and he was the brother of dearly beloved and departed Deacon Rynearson. So neither Cynthia Merlowe with her musicology degree, nor Richard Hibblestrom with his six years’ experience tickling the ivories at Cascadia Congressional would see their place in a rotation, much less the position as sole organist.

Perhaps not the best reason for a murder. But it was reason enough, all the same.

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It’s hard to believe, but once again an entire year has passed and EFNB is now celebrating its fourth blogiversary! That’s right, nearly 1500 daily doses of nonexistent literature have been spooned out over the lifetime of this blog. We’ve grown quite a bit, from being arguably the world’s best nonexistent book blog that nobody read to a juggernaut that reaches dozens, if not baker’s dozens, of readers worldwide.

To celebrate, the editors at EFNB have gone behind the scenes to gather some fun and thought-provoking statistics about the site to share with our loyal readers.

Top Posts
1. From “A Muse’s Unvarnished Perspective” by Altos Wexan
2. From “The Irksome Conspiracy” by Sipriano McCroskey
3. From “Why I Hate MMORPGs” by Andrew A. Sailer

Unsurprisingly, the top two posts on EFNB are the ones that attained WordPress’s coveted “Freshly Pressed” status, reaching an audience far above and beyond the usual one of subscribers and spammers. It’s also nice to see that imaginary author Andrew Sailer’s rant against MMORPGs, that cancer of the modern American video game landscape, has struck a chord with our readers as well. His later rant, “Why I Hate Reboots,” is only a little further down the list at #7, proving that rants against pervasive features of modern culture will always have a place here at EFNB.

Top Search Terms
01. southern michigan university
02. i hate mmorpgs
03. rebecca digiacinto
04. jean phillippe demon
05. i hate reboots

The top search term leading readers to EFNB is “Southern Michigan University,” that nonexistent bastion of higher learning. With a Northern Michigan University, a Western Michigan University, and an Eastern Michigan University actually in existence, it’s no wonder that EFNB writings on the nonexistent SMU are so highly ranked. Andrew Sailer’s anti-MMORPG and anti-reboot rants trended strongly as well, though the editors here at EFNB are mystified about why anyone would search for nonexistent author Rebecca Q. DiGiacinto or a demon named Jean Phillippe.

EFNB Internationally
01. United States
02. Canada
03. United Kingdom
04. India
05. Qatar

Visitors to EFNB come from all over the globe, and even though 99% of them are spambots, we wanted to feature them here. The first three are unsurprising, as EFNB and its editors are based in the USA and occasionally touch on subjects like curling and cricket that are of import to Canuck and UK readers. The latter two are the meat of our international audience, which is to say that they are likely spam farms.

A Shout-Out to Our Spammers
Since its inception, EFNB has had 56,972 spam comments blocked or manually trashed, an assault of internet garbage that works out to 37 spam comments per day over the blog’s existence! This staggering waste of resources and bandwidth hasn’t sold a single product, but it has increased EFNB’s internet profile and pagerank substantially! Thank you, spammers, for your continued waste of everyone’s time in a futile attempt to earn a few bucks.

“What was the Red Plague, mama?”

“No one is sure, best beloved. Learned sages all have their own theories about where it came from, but it was a terrible disease that stole away the senses of small children. Sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch, speech, and sight-beyond-sight…the poor dears would lose one or several forever.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Yes, it was. Many of those children were cast out of their homes, abandoned on the streets. But one of the histories I read had a theory about this.”

“What is it, mama?”

“Are you sure you wish to hear? It is a very dark theory, one borne of the darkest desires of a soul, the sort that twists the noblest intent into the misery of millions.”

“I’m not a baby anymore, mama. I can hear it.”

“They say, best beloved, that a great sage crafted the Red Plague himself and loosed it upon the world intentionally.”

“Why would someone do something like that?”

“I told you it was a dark theory, best beloved. This was during the great Machine Age, when people were first beginning to experiment with adding machines to themselves–something we now know is folly. The book I read says that the great sage believed it was the destiny of mankind to become one with machines. He made the Red Plague to bring that about more quickly.”

“But how would that work, mama?”

“The children who were cast out–and even those who were not–turned to machines to replace their lost senses, my best beloved. They had machines for seeing, for hearing, even for the sight-beyond-sight. And once they realized that the machines they had made a part of themselves allowed seeing, hearing, and sight-beyond-sight far stronger than the natural sort…why, it was only a matter of time before things went the way that old sage wanted them to.”

“The war, mama?”

“The war, my best beloved. Or many of them, to be more true to the nature of things.”

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“You have no idea what you’ve got there, do you old one?”

Whelk looked behind himself, and saw what he had previously dismissed as a trick of shadow–the Zaar, the very same one that had nicked Jennie’s pendant in the first place.

“You dare speak to me thus in my own shop?” snarled Whelk. “I’ve a mind to banish you from that husk and contain you in a jewel of my choosing to sell to a couple of fat American will o’ wisp tourists.”

“Ah, but how can you cast the spell if you’ve forgotten the words?” the Zaar laughed.

Whelk defiantly moved his lips with the incantation he knew well, one which he used to banish pesky hobgoblins and pixies on a weekly basis, trapping their tiny souls in geegaws he sold for a quid apiece. But no sound came–the Zaar had stolen the very words from him.

“Is it any wonder that my master would send a Zaar to collect this trinket?” The Zaar leered, cackling with glee–an effect all the more unsettling to see on the serious and bespectacled waxwork face of Eamon de Valera. “You think it a shiny bauble, a thing to be bartered and sold, but I know its true potential. And I mean to have it.”

“You are no ordinary Zaar,” Whelk choked.

“Oh, figured that all out by yourself did you? Was it the glasses? Or the suit and tie? Or the fact that I can banish your feeble incantations with just a passing thought?” The Zaar licked its lips hungrily, a gesture that could have had no meaning in its waxy form other than intimidation. “Give me the bauble, now, old one, and I’ll let you off after having a bit of fun. You might even live! The scars might not be noticeable after a few years, and the limp might fix itself!”

“You don’t scare me,” Whelk said.

“Nor should I,” laughed the Zaar. “I should terrify you, old one! The very thought that I might make you my business ought to have you squealing for your life like a veal calf before the slaughter! I am like the last page of a good book, because we both spell the end for you.”

Whelk was not a fool, but he did not suffer intrusions in his affairs lightly. “You waste your words on one who has shrugged off better intimidation before breakfast,” he sneered. “Begone, ordinary or not, or I’ll find a way of dealing with you that requires no words.”

“But what fun is there in the world without words?” Eamon de Valera’s waxy features drew closer, his marble-eyes wide and malignant. “How else might I tell you of the very special doom I have set out for you like a sumptuous banquet?”

The sword-stick Whelk had hidden in a corner for intruders flashed through the dusty air. He had taken it from a seraphim on credit for a loan never repaid, and it ought to have rent the wax asunder easily with the keen meteoric iron edge alone, notwithstanding the many powerful enchantments thereon.

The Zaar grinned, even though its head was now on the floor. Picking it up and setting it back, the wax melted together seamlessly. “You expect a simple trick like that to banish me, old one?” The laughter grew in intensity, in pitch, becoming a monstrous parody of an insane cackle.

Whelk’s eyes widened.

“A snack, really, an appetizer for the birthing cry of a new god. The death of rationality and order! The howling of madness from the rooftops! Laughter everywhere at the black joke that is life!”

The old one’s soul was as dust upon the Zaar’s howling wind.

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The intruder stealthily breached the perimeter. The fence was high, at least eight feet, but he was able to pirouette, ninja-like, up the side. The target was in the middle of the compound, surrounded by open ground, and there were vigilant eyes everywhere around the prize.

To avoid notice, the intruder quietly scaled still further upward and scaled a telephone pole that towered over the fence, using the lineman’s footholds. Then, carefully moving hand-over-hand to avoid creating a complete circuit or losing his purchase, he crawled across the thick line (not only telephone but also electric wires as well.

This was enough to make it to the midpoint of the compound, near the target, where the wire carelessly passed near the branches of a tree. But the target was far below, and there were still hostile eyes and traps to deal with. There was no way to move from the wire to the tree without making noise; the intruder evidently resolved to trade stealth for speed.

Dropping down into the bare boughs in a cacophony of snaps and cracks, the intruder made his way down the tree toward the central structure. The target was protected by a pressure sensor designed to react violently to the presence of an interloper; the intruder dangled upside-down from a low-hanging limb to disarm it.

Inside the McWharton home, patriarch Dean looked at his newly-installed, “rodent-proof” birdfeeder and shook his head ruefully.

“Always bet on the squirrels,” he sighed, watching the interloping critter stuff its cheek pouches with ill-gotten seed. “Always.”

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Naturally, anyone attempting to actually process a claim will run into a nightmare of red tape and obfuscation, albeit reassuring obfuscation. Like an abusive partner or a politician, warm but empty promises will be made and broken like so many twigs in a landslide. No one will ever receive so much as a dime from PICO, because we are selling assurance, not insurance.

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“The neighborhood you and your friends so desperately cling to is a lie,” said Cray, his delicate Southern inflection ripping with disdain, “a fabrication.”

“That’s a lie,” said Elliot, defiantly standing his ground as much as a boy his age could.

“Is it?” sneered Cray. “Answer me this: why do half of your streets terminate in dead ends? Why is there no connection to an outside road other than the main gate? Why must you travel outside the neighborhood for essentials? Is that what your parents remember, what they experienced?”

Elliot hesitated. He’d heard his parents talk about walking to the corner grocery, biking downtown to rent movies, having picnics in parks that were no more than a few minutes away by car. Nothing about the 20-minute drive between Oak Hills and the rest of Cascadia.

“As I thought. This neighborhood is an attempt by your parents to reproduce the milieu in which they grew up. They have mindlessly bought into a hollow mockery of the streets on which they once lived because things that are familiar are comforting. But while those long-gone streets were part of a city grid, and an organic part of the community of which they were a part, your neighborhood is a thing separate, betwixt and between a real community and the sterile apartments your parents so disdain.”

“Even if it is, don’t you care what’ll happen to us if you get rid of it?” Elliot said.

“By wiping this area off the face of the earth, I am doing you a favor,” said Cray. “By sweeping away this artifice, I am teaching you a valuable lesson about the nature of the world. Truth and safety and community are illusions, commodities to be traded and bought and sold. The only real dividend is power, and its exercise. The sooner you children grow up and leave behind the foolish, quaint, and romantic notions your parents have imparted, the sooner you can carve a place for yourself in a world that neither knows nor cares of such things.”

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I love you so much it’s eerie.
Vincent Van Gogh

Your love is maddening.
Zelda Fitzgerald

We were made for each other.
Mary Shelley

You’d have to be crazy to be my valentine, and I won’t be valentines with anyone who’s crazy.
Joseph Heller

In the future, everyone will be my valentine for 15 minutes.
Andy Warhol

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