Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

Four months later, just after his niece’s birthday party, the emperor sent a contingent of men to check in on Szolnoky. Annoyed, he gave orders for them to recover the artwork if complete or the payment if not. The artist, however, proved elusive—in fact, he could not be found at all. Now livid, the emperor dispatched a unit of jaegers to find Szolnoky no matter the cost. And find him they did, in a secluded cabin in the mountains, many hours from the nearest village. Few of the villagers would talk about the artist, much less admit to seeing him, and the jaegers soon found out why.

Szolnoky was in the midst of the emperor’s commission–it was about half painted. But there were no pigments, no ink, no oils. Only a pathetic and half-dead prisoner, chained next to the foul remains of his dead predecessor. Szolnoky would, every so often, dip his brush in the man’s open wounds, and healed incisions covered the man’s forearms and back.

The portraits were, in fact, painted in blood.

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In the latter days of the empire, after the great compromise but before the Emperor lost his only son and heir, it was common to compare the empire and its peoples to the greatness of the past and to find it wanting. The great painters, musicians, and other luminaries who had once established the imperial lands as a beacon of enlightenment and civilization seemed to depart for other lands as soon as they arose.

For a time, many named the painter Szolnoky László was cited as a counter example to this. Hailing from a noble but relatively humble lineage, he worked only with shades of brown in contrast to the vivid colors favored by other artists of the time. His works, impressionist but representational, showed a true mastery of his limited color palette, often appearing more vivid and energetic than their mere colors should suggest.

Szolnoky, a self-professed perfectionist, worked in seclusion in the mountains and took six months to a year to finish a commission. Nevertheless, nobles from all over the empire sought out his services, and eventually the Emperor himself contacted Szolnoky for a birthday gift to be given to his niece. The artist agreed, but either did not notice or disregarded the unusually tight timeline of three months for completion.

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“I was cast out,” the thing croaked, through strained vocal cords greased by salt and embalming oils. “They take whom they wish from the tombs of old and raise them to work alongside the newly embalmed.”

“So why did they cast you out?” I asked, shuddering as the desert wind spiraling off a nearby dune filled my nostrils with the creature’s grave scent.

“I did not obey,” it said. “Most of the others remember nothing of the before, or are afraid. Those of us who do remember and are not afraid are cast into the sands. I have been wandering for I know not how long.”

“And who were you? In the…before?”

“That, I will keep to myself if you do not mind, stranger. It is unbearable to think about.”

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It is a place hungry for color.

But this hunger stems not from a desire for beauty, or variety. It is, rather, the very grease that makes the wheels of that grey place turn. It lures color there, through its subtle means. Curiosity, greed, even lust. And then it sweeps away the path back, bars the door, and waits.

Slowly, every so slowly, the colors are drained to grey and the life to a husk. The grey seeps into even the most vibrant colors, and then they are part of the grey, forever lost in the infinite shades as the boundaries creep out a little further into a colorful world.

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“She never accused them of it, and those prison guards never bragged about it either, and they weren’t the type to keep their mouths shut when it came to roughing up civil rights protestors. No, I think that back then, rape was just too delicate an atrocity for anyone to talk about. But we aim to change that, and visit some justice upon them.”

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I saw a method in the wind, a face in the trees, an intelligence in the light. Keen thoughts beyond the ken of mortals peered at me from behind the glinting eyes of an owl set high in a cypress. Wood arms spread wide, the scene welcomed me against a cloak of leaves and a staff of straight pine.

“What would you have of me?” I asked.

The answer was in the wet warmth of the ground, the steam of a hot day bleeding into the night, and the chorus of insects that rose above it all: go forth and burn those who would defile me in this place, my home.

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An old man publishes a book of poetry
Reflections on youth, nature, retirement
He sends copies to local libraries for free
Another old man greets shoppers at the door
Wishing them a happy Walmart experience
His reflections unpublished; no time, no money
In a hundred years, when people look back
Which would they rather have read?

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Three-sectioned luxury couch
Free to anyone who wants it
Used only a few times
In a midtown apartment
Paid for by parents
For their college student
Claim it anytime you want
From the dumpster

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The Book of Life
The single tome
Holding all the
Mysteries ever
Pondered over by
Mortal minds
Sits for sale
On Amazon.com
For one cent
Free shipping
Unknown binding
Unknown language
Great deal!
If it is sold
Jeff Bezos gets
.00001 cents
Has he already
Read the book
Or is he actually
Writing its sequel

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“Behind every mouse, there is another mouse who profits from its labors and even its death.”
-Ide proverb

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