It seemed the more bright and neon and wireless the world got, the greater the distance was between ordinary people.

There was a park bench that offered a good view of downtown, from the skyscrapers to the bright channels of red and amber flowing about them like titanic jugulars. He’d sometimes come there on warm summer nights to linger and look, a speck among specks, with everything that had an off switch silent and cold.

He liked the park because it was safe, regularly patrolled by the expensive kind of Department of Public Safety drones, the ones that had a real person behind them instead of a computer program. There weren’t many augmented reality pop-ups either–the programs that appeared to walk in the real world but existed only in his shades. If he hadn’t needed them for GPS and vision correction, he’d have done away with them altogether–being accosted by the insubstantial and the unreal was a stiff price to pay in order to cut down the monthly fee.

At this distance from the city, though, there was nothing but silence, light, and motion. It was profoundly lonely, profoundly disconnecting, but profoundly beautiful. The speck among specks preferred that kind of solitude to being alone in a crowd downtown. Ordinarily he was alone in doing so, with only a few dog-walking drones and DPS UAVs for company.

This time, though, someone else wandered into view below him on the gentle incline of the park slope a few hundred yards away. Without the shades she’d have been a blob of colors in motion, but with them she was clear as a bell: tall and slim, hair so light as to be practically pearlescent in the moonlight, wearing what might have been a slip or a formal dress. Even though a pair of heels was clasped in one of her hands, she was still walking on tiptoes.

It was a comforting sight, a little bit of humanity peeking through the mess of concrete, steel, and lightwaves. He noted with some pleasure that the girl seemed to be looking out on the city much as he was. She was still a million miles away–the city papers were full of people being maced and arrested for saying “hello” in the wrong way–but the mere sight, the mere thought, was a comfort.

Then, as he watched, the girl slipped free of the pull of gravity and began to float heavenward, dress billowing and arms spread. He pulled off the shades in amazement, but the blur of ascending light remained–she wasn’t augmented reality, at least not of any type he’d ever encountered before.

That shouldn’t be possible
he thought, shaken. Even in this age of UAVs and drones, things needed wings or fans or something to fly. He felt a sense of eerie beauty and maddening confusion wash over him, perhaps the strongest feeling he’d felt in many long, lonely, and dour months.

An even stronger feeling came next: he had to follow her.

Inspired by this song and image.

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As discussed in the academic paper “From Concealed to Canon in 10 Years” from the monograph Neglected Voices (Southern Michigan University Press, 2011), the meteoric rise of the author Sarah Lincoln Camden among literary critics is in many ways unprecedented. While there are many authors who were all but unknown in their own lifetimes, like Emily Dickinson, they only ascended to their favored place in the literary canon–those works considered essential to a literary education–after decades of study and a gradual increase in popularity.

In contrast, Camden’s nonfiction writings and short stories were appearing in college curricula and reading lists less than five years later. “As far as I’m concerned, Camden is canonical already,” was the riposte of a famous literary critic when asked about it. “I don’t know of a single 19th-century American literature course that isn’t using at least one of her writings, and it’s on every comprehensive exam reading list that our department has prepared since 2007.

Naturally, part of that appeal comes from her life story. Born ca. 1888, the illegitimate daughter of a New York businessman and his African-American maid, Camden represents an intersection of racial and class issues that have long fascinated academics and students of history. Her education–according to her writing, provided for by her otherwise absent father–lends a probing, progressive, and intelligent angle to the writing that is often absent from contemporary perspectives regardless of race, class, or sex.

But far beyond that, the nature of Camden’s journals, stories, and other manuscript fragments are notable for the absorbing quality of their prose. “I was sucked in from the very first,” said academic Dr. Chris Stevenson, who helped unearth the writings buried in an obscure and forgotten archive. “The stories, the essays, the journal entries…not just windows on a less equitable time, but riveting reading in their own right.”

In short, Sarah Lincoln Camden is enjoying a remarkable rise to the fame and literary prominence that eluded her in life, all the more remarkable for coming over 120 years after her death.

There’s only one problem: Sarah Lincoln Camden does not and never has existed.

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The accident victim was by the side of the road, dazed, when the office found him.

“Are you the one who was calling?”

“Yes. Yes, officer, yes.” The victim was clearly disoriented, possibly in shock.

“Calm down, calm down. Are you all right?”

“I…I think so,” said the victim, his breath misting the late fall air.

Close inspection showed a possible broken leg and a bit of foamy blood near the mouth. “No, you took a good hit, son,” said the officer. “Stay calm while we wait for help to get here. Did you get a look at what did it?”

“No, not really,” the victim said. “It came out of nowhere, so fast, there wasn’t time to do anything…”

The officer looked down the road. The signs were all there, telltale marks of a deer-car collision. “Did you see where it ended up?”

Wincing, the victim seemed to think deeply. “I think…I think it ran away.”

From down the road the officer could hear his compatriots arriving. He left the delirious victim for a moment to speak to them.

“Is it another…?” one began.

“Yes,” the officer said. “Another collision. Car came out of nowhere and hit the poor boy.”

“Well, we’ll see what we can do for him,” the officers of the Deer Police EMS Unit said. “But if the car comes back for us, we’ll have to scatter into the woods or freeze so it can’t see us.”

The responding officer nodded wearily, his horns dipping with his head. “Rules of the game,” he sighed. “Rules of the game.

[Soft music plays. A middle-aged MAN in a sport coat is in his kitchen, preparing a meal. He closed his fridge door and addresses the camera.]

MAN: Sometime, you want to get the most out of life. I know I do. But it was becoming difficult to maintain my lifestyle and family life due to my condition, which sometimes left me disabled for hours, sometimes days at a time. But that was before I talked to my doctor about Selenia™.

[The shot changes to a colorful pastel medication box with a beautiful butterfly on it.]

NARRATOR: Selenia™. For your mild to severe rheumatoid lycanthropy.

[A young WOMAN catches a soccer ball from offscreen and laughs.]

WOMAN: My mild to severe rheumatoid lycanthropy made attending my kids’ games an impossibility the day after an attack. The clothing repair and replacement costs were outrageous. And my family had to chain me up in the basement once a month after Uncle Anthony was slain. But no more. Thanks, Selenia™!

[The Selenia™ butterfly glides past her, and continues into a new scene with JAZZ MUSICIAN playing a solo in an intimate club setting.]

JAZZ MUSICIAN: Ever since I was gored by the Were-Razorback of Catullus Parish, my mild to severe rheumatoid lycanthropy has led me to attempt the brutal killing of friends and loved ones at least once a month, and infected dozens if not hundreds of others.

[The Selenia™ butterfly flits around JAZZ MUSICIAN’s head and he smiles.]

JAZZ MUSICIAN: Now I can hit the high notes in style. Thanks, Selenia™!

[The scene shifts between shots of other young, healthy people enjoying strenuous activities with the occasional shot of someone older engaging in a typical retiree task as the Selenia™ butterfly visits them all.]

NARRATOR: If you suffer from mild to severe rheumatoid lycanthropy, ask your doctor if Selenia™ might be right for you. 66% of patients in a double-blind study reported decreases in the length and/or severity of episodes after taking Selenia™. Side effects include irritability, excess body hair, semi-permanent fangs, mange, partial metamorphosis of extremities, chronic halitosis, heartworms, and lifeforce unraveling. Warning: Selenia™ carries some risk of The Blood Death. Do not use Selenia™ if you are on blood thinners or other coronary medications as serious and sometimes fatal episodes of The Blood Death have been reported. Talk to your doctor immediately if you notice any sudden personality changes or sudden cravings for exotic rare meats like emu, as this may be a sign of a rare but serious side effect. Do not use Selenia™ is you are nursing, pregnant, or may become pregnant, as it may cause mothers and offspring to develop Acute Metamorphic Dysplasia (AMD). People who do not suffer from mild to severe rheumatoid lycanthropy must not take Selenia™, as it carries a slight 100% chance of causing the condition in otherwise healthy adults and children interested in becoming adults.

[The Selenia™ butterfly comes to rest on the Selenia™ box.]

MAN, WOMAN, JAZZ MUSICIAN: Thank you, Selenia™!

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Brick and wrought-iron fenced, abandoned, overgrown, the park lay amid urban back ends, ringed with loading docks and gravel parking lots For Employees Only. Nobody could recall its name, being listed simply as “park” even on the earliest surveys of town from the 1820s. The brickwork and iron were probably a later addition, likely from in or near the Gilded Age, but again no contemporary records of any such improvements exist.

When the downtown area was still largely open, it was apparently a popular destination for constitutionals. Photographs from the city archives clearly show this sort of use ca. 1875, before the bricks were installed, and in 1887, afterwards. Once the downtown area began to grow, though, its location ringed by four main thoroughfares became a liability. Storefronts sprang up on the street, blocking off the line of sight between the road and the park, and it was eclipsed in both literal and figurative terms.

Now, whenever someone stumbles on the park, it’s usually late at night following a bender on one of the bars nearby. The crumbling brick and wild, gnarled trees do give the area an aura of menace, it’s true, and more than one dare has been given to spend a night under those ancient and ill-tended boughs. As far as can be ascertained, no one has followed through on it.

And, all things considered, perhaps that’s for the best. For if the true nature of that weedy enclave were ever known, surely the complacent cloud that often hung over downtown would be swiftly and brutally ripped away.

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Officer Caruthers rubbed the back of his head. “Chief Strong has brought in an…outside advisor.”

Detective Gorrister sighed. “Strong and his outside advisors. This isn’t another radio psychic, is it?”

The apartment door nudged open, and a large man waddled in. He was dressed in Lincoln Green, and his greasy dark hair was thin in front and long and flowing in back, as if it were being grown out for a comb-over. “Hardly,” the man said. “Like any expert, I am here because of my overwhelming knowledge of and appreciation for the applicable lore.”

“Sherman Gregward,” Caruthers said. “He helped us out with that hostage situation a few months ago.”

“Please address me by my true name, Sherwood Greg, if you please,” intoned the man. “Collector, scholar, dungeon master, level 24 elven sorceress, head of the Council of Twelve, and overall coordinator for Nerdicon. Pre-registration for Nerdicon ’13 begins next week, and I’ve got plenty of plus ones if anyone’s interested.”

Gorrister gripped the bridge of her nose. “And what, exactly, do you bring to the table, Maid Marion?”

Sherwood Greg walked to a nearby end table and slapped down a thick deck of worn cards. “That’s what I bring to the table,” he said.

“A deck of Magick: Battle of Warlocks cards?” Corruthers snapped. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“You tell me, detective.” The corpulent collector cut the deck and revealed a card called The Multiphase Fleshwalker. It depicted a beautiful woman with one leg and one arm denuded of flesh, drawn in a quasi-realistic fantasy style, with the following text beneath it:

Strength 6/Defense 6
Costs three cornfields to activate
Restore one life to casting warlock
Protect casting warlock from life damage for one turn when rotated
Once rotated, may not be used unless caster rotates an additional six cornfields
“They restore one’s flesh at the cost of their own, and are always looking for a lifeforce to drain to restore the beauty they so desperately crave but never attain.”

“Holy shit,” said Caruthers. “It’s just like the murder.”

Sherwood Greg nodded toward the mutilated corpse behind the two officers. “Looks like someone is desperate to restore their life points,” he said.

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Before the Divinity convened the Council of Conjuration in 1725 and abolished magic, incanation, cantrip, and overt miracle from the world, many who had studied the arcane had chosen to impart some (or all) of their innate magickal energy into inanimate items. The most powerful of these were rounded up by the priests, ministers, imams, and other authorities who made up the Council. Items such as the Endless Soup Tureen of Tiruchirappalli, the Eviscerating Epee of Saint-Étienne, and the Cursed Calabash of Canton were confiscated and transubstantiated.

However, the Council’s bylaws explicitly allowed those artifacts not confiscated to continue in their function as long as their powers remained in a sort of grandfather clause. Reportedly the Purifying Pit of Pradesh, which cleaned the water used by an entire city, had persuaded a Councilman to press for this clause; the others, mindful of similar cases at home, agreed.

For many years, such grandfathered pre-Council artifacts were highly sought-after, and none moreso than the legendary Last Cantrip of Harry Culbertson. Culbertson, the legendarily lazy and laconic master of the last functioning magisterium school in Britain, had reportedly imbued a single object with the greater part of his formidable powers. He’d hidden it shortly before his death from hypergout in 1717 and many a treasure seeker had wasted a life in pursuit thereof. For what other than an artifact of immense power could have consumed the better part of the old arch-wizard?

That was the thinking, anyhow, until 2002 excavations near Cavendish Square to expand a parking garage unearthed a metal casket bearing Culbertson’s name and a magical seal. The seal was broken using modern magic (12 kg. of C4 from the Royal Engineers), and the legendary Last Cantrip of Harry Cavendish was revealed.

It turned out to be an indestructible pillow that retained its shape and fluffiness regardless of any external force. Apparently the legends regarding Culbertson’s love of leisure had undersold the matter a little bit.

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Let us now consider the nature of truth. Relativists claim that truth is highly subjective; each man may have his own truth which is completely separate (and even in opposition to) the truths of others. Essentially, they argue that anything a human being sees, feels, or believes, has an element of this personalized, relativistic “truth” to it.

However, we must concede that there are thing that human beings cannot see, hear, experience, or grasp. A human may never see infrared or ultraviolet light, for example, or touch an atom. And there are things that we cannot grasp, if only because of the sheer limitations of biology. Just as a cockroach will never be able to grasp the concept of a pneumatic drill, there are–must be–things beyond the pale of human experience. We may even be aware of them–just as a cockroach would notice and avoid the noisy, spinning pneumatic drill–but their governing mechanics are beyond our grasp.

Thus, there must be things that cannot be assigned a relativistic truth, because they cannot be experienced or grasped by a human being. We can therefore divide all things into two groups: those which may attain a measure of relativistic “truth” through human experience, and those that cannot. The former group is as true as relativism allows anything to be, and the latter is as false. To wit: if a thing cannot be experienced, and cannot be grasped, it is outside the pale of human experience and may as well not exist.

We can therefore say, even allowing for the most liberal relativism, that some things are true and others are false. That we cannot name the falsehoods is irrelevant–were they things man could name, they would be things within his pale, and therefore “true.”

Working inward from this, let us now consider the category of “true” things established above. Suppose something can be experienced and understood to be true by a human being, yet it never is. Suppose, out there in the cosmos somewhere, that there is a sensation waiting to be had by the human race. There is a creature in the deepest ocean that will never be seen by human eyes or touched by human hands. We can conceptualize its existence in the abstract, perhaps, but it is not “true,” since it has never been subjected to the lens of human interpretation.

We can therefore see two cases of falsehood: those things which cannot be experienced and understood, and those things that can but never will be. Add to this a third: if an object that humans interact with–and is thus considered to be “real”–can be perceived in different ways by different people, each of those interpretations would be equally correct, according to relativism.

Take for example the cinder block in my wall, which many people have experienced over the years. It is cream-colored now, but may have been other colors in the past…and of course, each person would see it differently, since some may have been colorblind, and there is no guarantee that two people seeing “cream” are experiencing the same color. The “true” color, if such an objective fact could exist and be known, might be purple with hot pink stripes.

If a person saw it like that, if they saw the purple block, that impression has gained the status of “truth.” Yet suppose no one ever sees the cinder block as purple. Suppose that, from the moment it is cast until the moment it is crushed into dust–its “existence” as experienced by people–no one sees it as purple. No one sees the block to be their conception of the color purple, or the “true” color as you prefer. It can then be said that someone claiming that the block is indeed purple is telling a lie. No matter what color they believe purple to be, if the block does not appear that way to them or anyone else, ever, then the block can for all intents and purposes be called “not-purple.”

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Keith and Madelyn were strolling along the back way to Henry Hall, which they favored more for its light traffic and lack of freshmen than its scenic view of dumpsters in semi-decorative brick enclosures. Madelyn was complaining loudly about Dr. Wojtecki’s grading practices when Keith interrupted her.

“Look at that,” he said. “That pile of Nerds and pink Tootsie Rolls as been on that ledge since Halloween.” The candy was sitting in one of the brick “windows” that semi-decorated a dumpster alcove.

“You’d think a campus full of starving freshman working on their fifteen would’ve finished it off even dumpster candy long ago,” said Madelyn. “Like ‘Halloween night’ long ago.”

“Well everyone was too busy getting falling-down drunk while dressed as a skimpy nurse on All Hallows itself,” said Keith. “And probably hung over with a volatile mix of candy and cognac swirling in an otherwise empty stomach.”

“That explains a day, maybe. But over a month?”

“Think about it. After a few days hungry people notice it but they’re like ‘why hasn’t anyone eaten that yet?'” Keith said in a bad falsetto. “They conclude there’s something wrong with it. And the odd little kid that comes by who wouldn’t care is helicoptered by parents still fretting over the latest razor-blades-in-candy-apples urban legend moral panic.”

“Well, I’m going to give it a good home,” Madelyn said. She reached for the small pink pile.

“Are…are you sure about that?” Keith said, suddenly anxious. “It has been out in the elements for a long time. And despite my jokey tone a minute ago, some of that stuff could have a basis in fact.”

“Oh, it’s not for me,” Madelyn grinned. “It’s for Dr. Wojtecki. Never saw a piece of candy he didn’t like. And never met a substitute he does.”

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“Oh, shit,” Mellany said. “It’s Carter.”

“Look the other way and maybe he won’t see us.” Susyn turned and tried to ease herself to the outside of the bloodmobile line without losing her place.

“Mellany! Susyn! What are you doing there?” It didn’t work. Carter, looking as disheveled and unstable as he had in their tutoring group, approached the line waving his hands. “Why are you lining up for the vampire bloodmobile?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Susyn sighed, without facing him. “They always need blood.”

“Also we’re in a blood race with Sigma Qoppa Phi,” Mellany added. Susyn bopped her for making them look shallow in front of the handsome line handlers.

“Don’t you see? The bloodmobile is just a front for vampires to satisfy their demonic bloodlust without drawing attention to themselves! And we line up to be part of it like suckers!”

“Oh God,” Mellany winced, visibly pained. “More of your paranoia, really? Go yell at some other line.”

“Yeah, I hear the lunch line is really a cannibal plot to fatten people up,” Susyn added.

Carter continued his gesticulation. “Not until people wake up and see the truth!” he yelled. Turning to the line of people leaving the bloodmobile with choc’late chips and juice, he continued: “Are you happy with yourselves? You’ve sold yourself to the nosferatu overlords for cookies! Bloodwhores, all of you.”

“That’s just sad,” Susyn muttered to Mellany. “Just do your best to ignore him.”

Turning to the bloodmobile itself, Carter rolled up his sleeves and held his wrists forward. “Bet you’d love to get what’s in here, wouldn’t you? Full of AB positive, the vampire special reserve! Bloodsucking freaks!”

Inside the driver’s cabin of the bloodmobile, on the right side of UV-screening tinted windows, Count von Saugen glanced outside. “What’s all the fuss about?”

“Just another wacko,” said Archduke Bluttrinker. “Here, try this glass of B negative. It’s a 1989 vintage with excellent color and bouquet.”

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