Pondering the Existence of Shadows

Nobody is the absence of Somebody. Therefore, he doesn’t exist. Nothing is the absence of something. Therefore, nothing doesn’t exist. Shadows are the absence of light… Does this mean that shadows don’t exist either?

Shadows are the nonexistence of light.

What do you think? Leave your opinions and conclusions in the comments below these words.


I’m just going to unceremoniously shove a link to our book, Slugventures: The Adventures of a Slug, here, in the hopes that you will hopefully check it out.

More of Nobody’s Antics

Nobody carried a large vat of corrosive acid and a handful of fine jewelry as he stumbled up the drive to Arachnid’s house. He slipped inside the front door into the foyer and gently set the vat down onto the plush maroon rug that covered the polished gray floor.

He tossed a carved pewter ring into the corrosive acid and smiled as it dissolved into nothing.

Nobody stepped back a step to reach for the delicate gold earrings from the pile of jewelry that he had set on a nearby table, but he tripped on the edge of the rug, disturbing the vat. Some of the liquid inside sloshed over the edge, falling in two perfect puddles on the rug.

Nobody shrieked, thinking about what Arachnid would do to him for ruining her rug. He ran to the garden and plucked a towel from the tree they were growing from and hurried back to the foyer, where he began dabbing the rug, sweat dripping down his nonexistent brow.

A spider crawled up his shoulder and whispered to Nobody, “What if it soaked through the carpet?”

A few moments later, the same thought occurred to Nobody and he peeled back the rug to reveal the bubbling surface of the wood. Nobody shrieked again and he tried to wipe it down, but it did nothing.

To prevent further spillage, Nobody heaved up the lid of the vat to seal the corrosive acid away, but drops of acid from the lid fell to the rug.

Nobody yelped and ran to the garden, where he picked another towel, and ran back to the foyer. He flung back the rug to wipe away some of the bubbling acid, but in the process of doing this, he had knocked over the entire vat onto the rug.

Nobody threw the grand piano and the umbrella stands that were on top of the rug across the room and rolled it up—the rug, not the umbrella stands—before running to the garden once again to once again pick a towel off the tree.

He tried to wipe the acid off the floor, but it didn’t seem to work and instead made it worse and he deemed Arachnid’s ash-gray floors irredeemably destroyed. He started to sweat profusely, convinced that Arachnid would have him assassinated in his sleep.

At that moment, Arachnid breezed through the front door. She took in the state of her foyer and said, her voice dangerously quiet, “Get out.”

Nobody took the remains of his acid and hurried out the door. Arachnid flung the remaining jewelry after him, a diamond ring hitting his head.

She slammed the door and stalked to the library to go read a book.

But, of course, dear nonexistent readers, in case you were worried, Arachnid’s foyer was completely intact, as Nobody had spilled corrosive acid on the wooden floors.

Who is Nobody?

If Nobody were to ask, “Who is Nobody?”, I would answer, “Nobody is not Somebody.”

But if you, dear nonexistent reader, were to ask, “Who is Nobody?”, then I would answer, “Nobody is not Somebody.”

Because for once, the only time that I can’t remember, I would answer Nobody truthfully because Nobody is no one and nothing and he is definitely not Somebody. You may then ask, “But if Nobody is not Somebody, then who is Nobody?”

And I would repeat, “Nobody is no one and nothing. He has no form, no character, no personality. Nobody is, in fact, the absence of Somebody.”

“Then who is Somebody?” you ask.

“Somebody is the counterpart of Anybody,” I answer.

“But who is Somebody?” you ask again, slightly exasperated.

“Somebody is someone,” I answer, tired of your tiring questions.

“What does that even mean?” you ask.

I shrug. If you are unwilling to understand, I am unwilling to explain. But Nobody is a complex… something.

“Who is Nobody?” you try again, unsatisfied with my half-hearted answers.

“He is no one.”


Imaginary Q&A

The following Q&A is completely imaginary, which means it never happened. If you were to ask, “Whose imagination is it?”, I would answer, “Why, yours, dear nonexistent reader.”

“Is Arachnid your real name?” Nobody asks.

“Of course. When Spinette and I were born, our parents immediately knew that we would grow up to become spider-themed authors and named us accordingly.”

“Where do you live?”

“I can assure you, Nobody, that I live in this universe, or the next, or in Somebody’s imagination,” Arachnid answers, slightly bored and highly annoyed.

“How long have you known Spinette?” Nobody asks. He falls off his seat after asking this question and lies on the floor at Arachnid’s feet.

Arachnid sips her cranberry juice, unsurprised at his poor coordination, and answers, “Not longer than I can remember.”

“How old are you?” Nobody inquires from the floor. He picks up a spider and lets it crawl over his hand.

“Why do you ask?”

“Why does Anybody ask a question?” Nobody replies.

“Because he does not know the answer.”


“Moving on,” Arachnid says, moving on.

“Rumor says that you are part spider.”

“That’s not a question.”

“Alright.” Nobody pauses for a moment, rewording his statement so it can become a question. “Are the rumors that you are part spider true?”

“This interview is making you uncomfortable.”

“You mean,” Nobody says, the spider making a web on his shoulder, “‘This interview is making you uncomfortable.'”


“Is Spinette human?”


“Um…,” Nobody mumbles, picking himself up off the floor, “I’ll be leaving now.”

“Put the spider back.”