A little more - now updated! January 3, 2016

So far, untitled

A story by Cory Kutschker 

(just started, very much not finished)

Somewhere, where two metal staircases wound almost endlessly upwards and stacks of books cast long, dim shadows upon a dusty and rough floor, there sat a man named Jack. He was writing a novel. And by the crumpled and ripped bits of paper that lay around him, he could tell that he was failing. His fingers ached from typing on the cold steel keys of the typewriter that he had recovered from the county dump. His back protested from being hunched over for several hours and his bum was in agony from being presented with greatly uncomfortable ridges on an overturned milk crate. He had several ideas regarding his introduction; this included a verbose narrator that was currently describing his misery, but figured that somebody had undoubtedly written that already. He even searched the floor for that particular ball of paper to amuse what he presumed was a male narrator.  However, he still did not have interest in the exhausting effort it would take to write a boring and pretentious story exploring reality and the merits of choice, so he resisted. Suddenly, he had an idea. He started typing out an outrageous and comedic introduction regarding a man and his pet poodle, when the bell rang. Jack was startled. He did not think that his place was outfitted with a doorbell and also pondered how amazing it was that in his universe a doorbell had magically appeared. He was also equally amazed that somebody would even consider coming to his door. Nevertheless, he got up, picked out some boogers from his nose, slicked back his hair, and proceeded towards the door. Jack opened the door, but only a crack. Through the thin sliver, he saw the superbly lithe figure of Samantha, his landlord, who had been spending the majority of the month working up the nerve to evict Jack. Inside, Jack was conflicted. He was remarkably attracted to her and yet suspected that she was not here on a social call.

“Hello?” he answered timidly.

“H-hi” Samantha faltered.

“What do you want?” Jack replied. He regretted being so rude and tried smiling, thereby revealing two rows of absurdly crooked teeth coated by a sheen of plaque. Samantha curled her lip, reminded herself to be professional, and formed her mouth to resemble something like a smile. She tented her fingers together and gained her composure.

“I have not received the last three month’s rent from you so I…you are being evicted.”

“What?” Jack threw the door open wafting his putrid body odour and revealing the fact that he only had a bathrobe, which was far too short. It thereby revealed his two grotesquely hairy legs and barely covered the fact that he only had a skimpy pair of white underwear beneath the robe. Professional, Samantha thought to herself and took a step back away from the door frame, baring her teeth as a supposed smile.

“I expect you to be vacated by the end of the day tomorrow.” With that she turned, winced, walked down the stairs and nearly tripped over a large squeaky toy that was placed there by some predilection of the narrator who had far too much time on his hands and enjoyed watching his characters squirm. In fact, he enjoyed it so much that in 5 seconds, which is the time it ought to take to read this significantly long sentence, when Jack stepped back to his reading station, he stepped on some rather sharp thumbtacks and banged his head upon a bookshelf and fell headlong into his typewriter. Jack got up. He took a seat upon his milk carton and angrily began typing.

This is a story about an author who took bizarre and sadistic satisfaction from his characters suffering. Every day he would sit down on the keyboard possibly at his desk or even at his kitchen table, which doubled as a collection area for important papers and other rubbish. At the far right quadrant of the table he had two plant pots which had two shoots of bamboo each and a few sprouts of ivy, which he loved dearly. He often wondered how the bamboo, in the larger of the two, always started to turn yellow at the top. This was a frequent distraction from his writing as he would often stretch and turn his gaze that way; also, perhaps if he was a little thirsty, he would take a small swig of egg nog from the glass to his right, as it was the season for that sort of thing.

There is no real explanation for the poor treatment of his characters. Some had attested it to poor sleep patterns. Others suggested that it may have been some sort of psychological issue, like he was lashing out due to boredom, or that he was deeply frustrated with some decision in his life. But whatever the cause, he showed no sign of relenting his unfortunate pleasures.

Jack yawned, he had not slept for at least 48 hours and had visible bags underneath his eyes. So, as much as he despised stopping in the midst of a good stream of writing, Jack trudged up one of the staircases and collapsed onto his cot exhausted and stressed, unsure of how he would manage to find a place to stay. But somehow despite all these difficulties Jack fell asleep.

Samantha was rethinking her eviction of Jack. Was she perhaps too harsh? After all, Jack had come to her looking for a cheap place to stay. Would she find another tenant more forthcoming than him? It was unlikely that someone who had a steady job would consider living in such a squalor. Immediately, Samantha was struck with an idea. Perhaps, if she could use the space to gather some other kind of income then she could retract her eviction and assuage her pleading conscience. But in what way could she use that room? Another brute idea struck her hard nearly causing a headache. She could turn it into a used bookstore! It was such a perfect and obvious idea that she wondered why she had not thought of it before. She had owned the building for 3 years already and Jack had only taken up that room in the last year. The stacks and stacks of old smelly books had come with the place and she had no time to do anything about it. Jack did not mind it and he had informed her of his career aspirations of being an author. Of course, she did not believe that he would reach that goal. Yet because of her conscience she gave him the room in its wretched condition. She shivered at her encounter with him earlier. His appearance was crude and uncomely. He did have a bathroom on the second level at the back. It was complete with a shower, toilet, sink and mirror. So there clearly was no cause for his gross lack of personal hygiene. How would Samantha operate such a business with a man that had no concept of soap or a toothbrush? Is there a way to kindly inform him of his appearance? Samantha shrank in anticipation of another blow from an idea, but nothing came. Another thought came to her while she slowly relaxed. Why was it that inspiration came so violently? It was truly odd that such a thing should change so drastically at such a turn in her life. Samantha shook off the thought and got ready for bed.

After she had dragged a brush through her hair and brushed her teeth, she climbed into bed. She would have missed the book that had suddenly appeared on her night stand if it had not fallen over with a loud thwack! The loud noise caused Samantha to let out a little shriek and a small giggle over being so easily startled. Samantha picked up the book. It was titled, “How to Kindly Suggest the Necessity of Personal Hygiene, and other timely suggestions by interfering narrators.” What an odd title, she thought to herself. Calmly, she opened to the title page and looked for the author. Stranger and stranger, the author was simply named as, “The Narrator.” Shaking her head in dismay, she turned to the first chapter and started reading the first sentence, “Starting a used book store can be tricky.” Incredibly relevant, Samantha thought. She continued on, “And it will be trickier, if your tenant, Jack, parades around in a bathrobe without showering or brushing his teeth.” Samantha screamed and threw the book across the room, where it lay open and face down, its pages splayed out. “Evil demon book!” She cried out. She did not sleep until two hours later. She also left her lamp on for the first time in her adult life for an irrational fear of that book later scuttling up onto her lap while she was sleeping. Unfortunately, this last bit of narration was not done silently and caused Samantha to have a deep and undulating shiver. Her subconscious was so affected that her dreams started to grow several pairs of segmented legs and crawl around in her head. And in her sleep she balled up into a fetal position until daybreak.

            Jack was also dreaming. But, unlike Samantha, he was dreaming of an empty and dirty alley that tormented him. Anything that was familiar neglected him. The books that were such a part of his life marched past on the sidewalk. Not a single book wobbled down the alley to see him forlorn and tired. Not a single one took pity. And not a single one took a side glance as they wobbled by. He just sat there, watched, and whimpered. He even got up to look around for his faithful friend the typewriter, but it was nowhere to be found. It was not even in the dumpster, where he expected to find it. He was absolutely and completely alone.

            Samantha was the first to wake up. She expected that the foolishness of a book being so personal must have been a hallucination, a mere outcry of her conscience. She was wrong. As she looked up past the foot of the bed, she could see the book sitting up, leaning against the wall, its title facing her. It was not a figment of her imagination, nor was it a hallucination. It sat there almost amused, staring her down, daring her to open its pages again. It turned into an hour long staring contest, a match of wits. Oh for goodness sakes! Samantha thought as she broke her gaze from the book. This is absurd, I am afraid of a book.  Yet, as she walked towards the book there was a small amount of trepidation in her. Her hands shook as she reached out to pick it up.

            Jack woke up screaming, “Don’t do it!” No, he was not thinking about Samantha nor did he have some sort of precognition or narrative omniscience. It was a nightmare.  And all that he could recall of it was somebody smashing his typewriter against the wall. It was so vivid that Jack felt the urgent need to assure himself that his only real valuable possession was still intact and indeed remained where he left it. And so, very much relieved to find it there, Jack let out a hefty sigh of relief and proceeded to sit down for more typing.

            The author in this story, who shall be called William, was writing a story containing two major characters, Jack and Samantha. Jack was a superbly delightful and enchanting individual, once you got to know him. And Samantha was a beautiful and stunning piece of work who enjoyed braiding her hair. While these two wonderful characters were indeed simple people seeking out simple pleasures, William seemed to have no other meaningful activity than the unfortunate puppet mastery of their worlds. In fact he was so enthralled by his child like mastery of them, it was almost as though he had no sense of plot altogether.

            Jack was distracted by the dull noise of a grainy surface sliding and then the dull noise of several hard objects hitting the floor above him. In curiosity, he leapt up from his seat and ambled up the metal stairs. A stack of books had fallen over and was now scattered along the floor. He should have considered himself lucky as one particularly ragged copy of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein lay teetering at the edge underneath the guard rail and was threatening to fall precisely on the location where he so previously sat. Jack picked up the hardcover. He had not read many of the classics and perhaps this one would give him some hints on character development. So, stacking some books together five high and two squared, Jack sat down on his makeshift seat and began reading, relishing what he supposed to be the last day that he would have in his place.

            Samantha picked up the book. Nothing happened. She checked to see if there was a table of contents, which to her disappointment was non-existent. Samantha started fanning the pages and noted something odd. A kind of old style animation played out with every page that flipped past. It started with several arrows pointing to a five bullet point list and grew more demanding as she drew closer to the end. It read like this: You—Really—Ought—To—Read—This—It—Is—Exceptionally—Important! Very well, she thought. She flipped to the second page and began reading the first point.

            Jack had nearly finished reading the second chapter when a sudden whooshing sound exuded from downstairs near the front door and was quickly followed by a sharp thud. Jack did not like damaging books so he carefully placed his index finger where he stopped and held the book closed with his thumb and middle finger. He then proceeded down the stairs, grabbed a fragment of an old story to use as a bookmark, and then placed the book carefully on his milk carton. He then went to investigate what had caused the noise.

            The first thing he noticed was that there was now a pneumatic tube mail system installed by his front door. The second thing he noticed was a large tube roughly two inches in diameter and two feet in length lying on the floor. Jack picked it up and popped off the lid. Inside, he encountered a rolled up piece of paper that was addressed to him.

Dear Jack:

As a member of the council of interfering narrators, I am writing this letter to you on behalf of a cherished and troubled character.

Below, you shall find a set of instructions that are numbered so you shall not err in following them. Please do each of these specifically in order and to the letter so that our little story may proceed.

1.      Take this and the tube that you hold in your right hand up to the bathroom on the second floor at the back.

Jack was both struck by the specificity of the instruction and felt that his privacy was violated. Yet he followed the first instruction and clambered up the stairs and walked into the bathroom, where his reflection greeted him and blinked expectantly. Jack was very much creeped out but continued on to the next instruction.

2.      Look into the mirror and say the following statements (Be sure to enunciate clearly):

“Beach teeth”

“Cheese clean”

“Leech peal”

Jack felt that these instructions were unremorsefully absurd and failed to see what would be accomplished by uttering such foolish things. His reflection felt otherwise and gestured for him to say the words. So Jack reluctantly entertained the idea and started saying each of the quoted statements carefully and eloquently, baring his snaggled teeth at every double e and homophonic “ea”. The light reflected grotesquely off the coat of plaque but Jack did not notice, but his reflection did. It curled its lip and silently gagged. This reaction is what got Jack’s attention. “What are you looking so sickly for?” Jack demanded, shouting at the pane of glass. His reflection, looking somewhat cross, pointed sharply at its and his teeth.

            There are seldom many things that can cause such a sudden shame or embarrassment as ones appearance and or poor personal hygiene. And Jack nearly fainted once he became aware of just how terrible condition his teeth were in. Samantha must hate me Jack thought. He stood hunched over the sink for several minutes shaking. His hands were gripping the sides of the basin. His reflection was not willing to allow him to wallow in self-pity. In fact, it grew so impatient and agitated that it started to shake the mirror vigorously. Jack wearily looked up. His reflection was vehemently pointing to the objects beside him. The mailing tube lay on the top of the toilet tank and the letter was just below on the lid. Jack picked up the letter and continued to the third instruction:

3.      Inside the tube you will find the following items:

Toothpaste

Toothbrush

Soap

Shampoo

Take each item out and place them in their respective places. The toothbrush and toothpaste can be at the sink. The soap and shampoo can be placed somewhere in the vicinity of the bathtub, perhaps on the shelves that are just below the showerhead.

Jack picked up the tube and placed each item accordingly then proceeded to the rest of the instructions, which most definitely included brushing/flossing his teeth and taking a long, hot shower (soap and shampoo included).

Chapter 2

The Bank

            Mr. Varnelle looked like a rat.  He had a terrible overbite, which did not help his customers avoid staring at his rectangular and long front-row teeth. He had a long and thin nose. And it did not help his image at all that he had a natural tendency to slick back his hair, which exposed his large forehead.

            It was this countenance that Samantha stared at for five minutes, mouth agape.

A Teaser (a new direction of writing?) - Now updated!

Sometimes I get fantastic ideas that only span one sentence. From there, I have to determine what kind of story it is and how it will progress. The first sentence came to me seemingly out of thin air. At first I was confused and had no idea what to do with it. However, after a day or so of thinking, it slowly came into focus (albeit only in a small chunk). I remember reading from Stephen King's book, On Writing. He describes this as a better way of storytelling. As he states (loosely quoted) "It is like digging up a fossil. Little by little you uncover and discover how the story will progress." I am eager to write this one as I feel that I am not limited by that "tool called plot." Thank-you Stephen King, Thank-you.

So far, untitled

A story by Cory Kutschker 

(just started, very much not finished)

Somewhere, where two metal staircases wound almost endlessly upwards and stacks of books cast long, dim shadows upon a dusty and rough floor, there sat a man named Jack. He was writing a novel. And by the crumpled and ripped bits of paper that lay around him, he could tell that he was failing. His fingers ached from typing on the cold steel keys of the typewriter that he had recovered from the county dump. His back protested from being hunched over for several hours and his bum was in agony from being presented with greatly uncomfortable ridges on an overturned milk crate. He had several ideas regarding his introduction; this included a verbose narrator that was currently describing his misery, but figured that somebody had undoubtedly written that already. He even searched the floor for that particular ball of paper to amuse what he presumed was a male narrator.  However, he still did not have interest in the exhausting effort it would take to write a boring and pretentious story exploring reality and the merits of choice, so he resisted. Suddenly, he had an idea. He started typing out an outrageous and comedic introduction regarding a man and his pet poodle, when the bell rang. Jack was startled. He did not think that his place was outfitted with a doorbell and also pondered how amazing it was that in his universe a doorbell had magically appeared. He was also equally amazed that somebody would even consider coming to his door. Nevertheless, he got up, picked out some boogers from his nose, slicked back his hair, and proceeded towards the door. Jack opened the door, but only a crack. Through the thin sliver, he saw the superbly lithe figure of Samantha, his landlord, who had been spending the majority of the month working up the nerve to evict Jack. Inside, Jack was conflicted. He was remarkably attracted to her and yet suspected that she was not here on a social call.

“Hello?” he answered timidly.

“H-hi” Samantha faltered.

“What do you want?” Jack replied. He regretted being so rude and tried smiling, thereby revealing two rows of absurdly crooked teeth coated by a sheen of plaque. Samantha curled her lip, reminded herself to be professional, and formed her mouth to resemble something like a smile. She tented her fingers together and gained her composure.

“I have not received the last three month’s rent from you so I…you are being evicted.”

“What?” Jack threw the door open revealing the fact that he only had a bathrobe which was far too short and thereby revealed his two grotesquely hairy legs and barely covered the fact that he only had a skimpy pair of white underwear beneath the robe. Professional, Samantha thought to herself and took a step back away from the door frame, baring her teeth as a supposed smile.

“I expect you to be vacated by the end of the day tomorrow.” With that she turned, winced, walked down the stairs and nearly tripped over a large squeaky toy that was placed there by the predilection of the narrator who had far too much time on his hands and enjoyed watching his characters squirm. In fact, he enjoyed it so much that in 5 seconds, which is the time it ought to take to read this significantly long sentence, when Jack stepped back to his reading station, he stepped on some rather sharp thumbtacks and banged his head upon a bookshelf and fell headlong into his typewriter. Jack got up. He took a seat upon his milk carton and angrily began typing.

This is a story about an author who took bizarre and sadistic satisfaction from his characters suffering. Every day he would sit down on the keyboard possibly at his desk or even at his kitchen table, which doubled as a collection area for important papers and other rubbish. At the far right quadrant of the table he had two plant pots which had two shoots of bamboo each and a few sprouts of ivy, which he loved dearly. He often wondered how the bamboo, in the larger of the two, always started to turn yellow at the top. This was a frequent distraction from his writing as he would often stretch and turn his gaze that way; also, perhaps if he was a little thirsty, he would take a small swig of egg nog from the glass to his right, as it was the season for that sort of thing.

There is no real explanation for the poor treatment of his characters. Some had attested it to poor sleep patterns. Others suggested that it may have been some sort psychological issue, like he was lashing out due to boredom, or that he was deeply frustrated with some decision in his life. But whatever the cause, he showed no sign of relenting his unfortunate pleasures.

Jack yawned, he had not slept for at least 48 hours and had visible bags underneath his eyes. 

Outside the norm: a writing assignment

The Potato Bombers

A Short Story by Cory Kutschker

            “Yes sir, we blew those potatoes to smithereens!” Jake answered the police officer suavely. “There ain’t no way to have fun in this here town without blow’n some’n up.” That was his story and he stuck to it. That was what they did after all. But underneath those suave words was a painful regret.

There was Jake, Louis, Chuck, Doug, and Blake. Jake was the head of “The potato bombers gang.” That’s what they called themselves. It was not to necessarily sound tough you must understand, but they loathed the sound of calling themselves a “prissy club.” Louis was in charge of munitions. He knew better than any pre-teen in that town how to mix up a brew and send starch flying 20 meters in any direction. Chuck and Doug, who were brothers, paired off for collecting goods. Either Chuck or Doug would collect the “‘taters” and the other would be cover. Those hucksters were good at what they did. The townsfolk knew those boys were trouble and had weathered eyes for either of them. Nevertheless, those two got in more trouble than probably all of the kids in the Tri-State area put together. And those townsfolk had neither a guess to the level of patience their mother had, nor had they any rhyme or reason for why those two weren’t beaten within an inch of their lives by their Papa. Then there was Blake. Blake was simply quiet, which was his main skill. He was in charge of location and placement. He sought out the shady spots that were to be “starched.”

            As Jake recalls it, the first instance was a “harmless gambit for later days.” It started on a Friday evening underneath the trestle bridge located after the Jackson turn-off. The brothers had brought a tent and all the boys had a pillow and sleeping bag. Jake was sullen over the sudden destruction of his brief romance with Sally Crutchenson.  The brothers were arguing who was the cutest between Susan Merchaud and Karen Cordeen. Louis was fiddling with a box of cherry bombs he had put together with a bit of fertilizer and some gas that he had pinched from old man Barden. And Blake, being Blake, was pouring over the latest issue of Infernal Man. It was Chuck who saw Blake’s pillow lying next to a forlorn cherry bomb. It was not two seconds later that his equally mischievous brother caught the connection. Chuck grabbed the pillow while Doug grabbed the stray cherry bomb and they both plodded down the river bank giggling like hyenas. In all this time Blake had only just managed to scrape his gaze from the comic and utter a small protest before the explosion. “T’was a flurry of white.” Jake remembers with a smile. “Weren’t nothin’ more beautiful ‘sides the stars in the sky than watch’n those singed feathers drifting down.”

The next morning, Jake and the gang met in Louis’ room. On his desk were various electric circuits, wire strippers, power drill, and various tools and things that Louis had scrounged together from his Pa’s garage and various other places. In the midst of all the clutter sat one regular russet potato. “Was the first starchin’ we did that summer. Boys was nervous an’ stuff, but we was fix’n for some fun.” Said Jake wistfully, “Was to be once and only once with the ‘tater. I wanted to scare that sour girl Sally fer breakin’ up wit’ me.” It was Louis that rigged the system. He tied some twine round the middle of the russet and placed the cherry bomb in the dead center of that potato. Next was Blake’s turn. And Blake, the monkey he was, used the drainage pipe on Sally’s house to climb onto the roof. And somehow he managed to loop the other end of the twine around the edge of a loose shingle so that the potato was dangling in front of Sally’s window. Louis had also affixed a 20 inch fuse coming out one end of the potato so a single person on the ground could light it without too much difficulty. That honor was given to Jake, which he did with his prized zippo that he won the previous summer in a card game against Bob Grovers, his papa’s friend, whom he affectionately called “uncle.” The gang hid behind the neighbor’s house and awaited the explosion. “Twasn’t that loud.” Recalls Jake, “’Tater smotha’d up the sound, but boy did it make a mess on ‘er window! Haha, hope she got that one in ‘er scrapbook!”

Later that afternoon, the gang went to Purdy’s Diner, where they laughed and chided Jake. And he, being the leader, made the boys swear secrecy on their lives, “to cross their hearts and hope to die.” That was when Chuck and Doug suggested that they do more. Blake fussed but was soon overcome by the other boys. The first of their targets was old man Barden’s place at the edge of town. Next was the sour puss librarian’s place. Then came Principal O’Connell’s two story house where Blake planted two potato bombs: one for the front porch and the second for the balcony at the back. Every week they had a new target.

The last incident that summer planted a shadow on their memories. “Blake, ‘e will be sorely missed.” Said Jake, “Yeah, Blake argued that ‘e wan’ed a chance to light the fuse. Then things went to shit.” Jake explains, “He was walkin’ slow like. Chuck an’ Doug was tellin’ him t’ hurry up. Blake looks back at us grinnin’ y’ see an’ that’s when the crap happens. ‘E trips on a pothole an’ somehow lights the thin’ way too close to the explosive and Bam! Thin’ blows up in ‘is face.” An investigation was made posthumously and the officials theorized that the area around the bomb was too thin giving Blake the full force of the blast. The autopsy report showed shrapnel cutting through the eye socket and into the optical cortex of the brain and further. Blake’s death was devastating to the community and a full requisition was made for the Sheriff to hold no stops to the extent of the law. Parents were furious and soon the gang were brought in for questioning. Chuck and Doug were separated for individual questioning. Both claim “the other squealed first”, but both could not retain their tongues from flapping when facing the deputies alone. All four of the boys were sent to Juvee that year and now hold solemn jobs around the town. They scarcely even look at each other, never mind chat.

At the end of it all, Blake’s funeral was held. It was a big-to-do thing for the town and its atmosphere was changed forever. Most folk here will avoid the topic and get all antsy at the mere mention of explosives. Requisitions were made for a stricter curfew for the children and restrictions were placed on things such as fireworks and the like. People still visit Blake’s grave to this day. And there is always at least one thing sitting on top of his grave; it is a large, and uncooked russet potato.

Completed! The Prophet

The Prophet

A short short story written by Cory Kutschker


Wild paroxysms of panic throttled hearts, the evening before that day.  A general anxiety and odd palpitations bled out into the populations. Their children whimpered, wailed and cried into the wee hours of night. Street folk were riled and spoke stranger than before, obscure dialects found in equally obscure corners of the world. The unending droning of phones rang out across the emergency services and for the most part went unanswered. From this all was exhausted into an anguish and despair.
It was strange, however, that there were some of the population in which existed an unbridled jubilation.
In the early morning a silence overcame the globe. In the wilds there were no night calls of birds, or even the chirping of crickets or growl of nocturnal beasts. In the locales that already observed light and were into their day or perhaps just entering into evening, they also saw no activity. There was no cacophony of car horns or the loud baying of dogs or even the joyous laughter of children on the playground. The swing sets lay still making no squeaks and any cars were parked and silent, not an engine running. There was not even the light fluttering of a newspaper being dragged across the street by a breeze. All that made noise drew still, as though in some anticipation.  Then came the noise. It was not earthly by any means, but every man distinguished it as a distant whine until it grew to a vociferous and monotonous din of a deep horn being sounded.
In the dawn, instead of the sun, he came, the effulgent terror. What words I have for that day are not enough, but it was as though the sky boiled and peeled. It scraped from the black folds, exposing us to the gloom, the monstrous and yawning cosmos, still and black, oddly giving little light from the stars. Every eye grew mad by that great blackness spread over and around them. The arbitrator was inattentive to the long pleas wailing from mouths and lungs being starved of oxygen. Caves were lined with nail marks as asylum seekers were withdrawn into his gaze wherein they wilted onto their knees in deluges of tears. All the 'scapes of the earth were tilled and plained as he walked with eyes aflame.
He had an odd effect upon the earth, for every step of his would command a most verdant growth of grass to spring forth from the ground. Long dead plants would regain vigor and limp trees emboldened their trunks as pillars. Queer shadows grew long and challenged with hissing maws but were easily slain by him as they were cast into that abyss that seethed and rolled over itself, hungry for more.
A city had descended, magnificent and radiant enclosed by four walls equidistant.
What of the jubilant you ask? The four walls were built for them. But outside, There were long lines as the gavel was swung making hard rapping terminations as they took the long walk into that same abysmal mouth, licking over them. There they remained writhing, tortured and screaming back through the eons, coming under my ink.

I know I keep on starting projects but...

... It's so much fun! I don't normally go for sci-fi but then there are just some genres that work really well for some concepts and poor for others. This project is a derivative of an idea that actually was started by a friend of mine which I took and expanded and changed. Luckily, he's ok with me writing a story using it. This is another teaser.


Blasphemy Came

A short story by Cory Kutschker

Eternal and limited strands twisted and turned, careening along unknown folds. Over it all and interwoven was the cosmos, the stars and planets in their respective orbits, cyclopean boulder asteroids ploughing into dusty and grey moons, and miasmic nebulas sustained in gaseous colours. These fields of worlds and many substances thereof his mind knew as he sat upon the rock underneath the white dotted sky of Pt. It all shone in the night and remained Shal'ma'at.

Speaking of reboots...

              There have been numerous reboots of movie franchises in the past few years and I find myself restarting my oldest project that I started somewhere in the vicinity of 2008 entitled "The Dream Journal." The aim was simple, write a story where dreams were a form of divine communication addressing the main character's worldview. I had written close to sixty pages only to find that the character's despair was more a misery and the prose fraught with incessant whining. And I simply could not find a way to have his dreams and interpret them as well. Thus, the project entered phase two, scrap the first draft and reboot it under the new Cory Kutschker writing OS, which had been subjected to and heavily utilized the programming language of weird fiction and horror. There was a small excerpt that I posted some time ago on this blog that displayed that level of writing. So here is the the reupholstered introduction.

The Synopsis, or expectation of what I hope to achieve in the story:

       The story consists of journal entries written by Hugh, a nihilist, who is in a mental institution. He receives dreams and encounters a world that is far more than he knew or expected. Through this he gains understanding of the gospel.

The Dream Journal


 Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind and said:
“Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge?
Dress for action like a man;
    I will question you, and you make it known to me.
“Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?
    Tell me, if you have understanding.
  Who determined its measurements—surely you know!
    Or who stretched the line upon it?
   On what were its bases sunk,
    or who laid its cornerstone,
  when the morning stars sang together
    and all the sons of God shouted for joy?
 “Or who shut in the sea with doors
    when it burst out from the womb,
  when I made clouds its garment
    and thick darkness its swaddling band,
   and prescribed limits for it
    and set bars and doors,
   and said, ‘Thus far shall you come, and no farther,
    and here shall your proud waves be stayed’?

Job 38:1-11

Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher,
    vanity of vanities! All is vanity.
What does man gain by all the toil
    at which he toils under the sun?
A generation goes, and a generation comes,
    but the earth remains forever.
The sun rises, and the sun goes down,
    and hastens to the place where it rises.
The wind blows to the south
    and goes around to the north;
around and around goes the wind,
    and on its circuits the wind returns.
All streams run to the sea,
    but the sea is not full;
to the place where the streams flow,
    there they flow again.

Ecclesiastes 1:2-7

The Private Journal of Hugh

October 1, 2015

Emptiness, All I can think of is emptiness. It does not bite. It smiles - an obscene, jagged and empty black maw.  I have stared into its eyes, soulless paths into an infinite thick oblivion. It has a name, Nihil. Despite my injuries, I can feel it in my bones, a sickening malaise. My head throbs. I have a broken leg, a broken arm, and my skull is fractured. Doc says I was lucky. Nah, lucky is not the right word.
A storm was approaching this morning. When I saw it I found dread, No control. It was absolute, an immense black and boiling object pressing forward and unstoppable. There was an object that had pure power unlike myself, an insignificant piece of flesh quivering in the autumn air. This storm is very much similar to Nihil. It knows the smile - but it is its offspring, having the same vestiges of malignancy.  But this menace does not smile, it stares.
I am alone, watching the rain as it sloshes across the window, smearing and distorting the city. Elizabeth, she would have found this beautiful. She always loved the rain.
I had a roommate earlier. He was Latino and barking mad I think. I had awoken with a yell from a nightmare. To this, he responded, “wwh-wh-wh-what-where-problem?” He had stammered and then started nibbling at his fingernails, gazing nervously towards my side of the room, looking this way and that, side to side. Shortly thereafter, the putrid rankness of excrement reached my nostrils. A nurse came in. She was rather portly but had a kind and endearing face.
“Oh dear!” She had exclaimed as she became aware of the stench. She followed my gaze to him and proceeded to amend the situation.
“Come, let’s get you cleaned up” she said in a voice as though to a child.
She gestured for him to follow.
I don't know why I am writing in my journal. Perhaps the feeling of writing is therapeutic, a release? But the dry whispers of the pen dragging across the paper is one of the few familiar sounds in this hospital. This pen scintillates under the lamp. Not too many with a nub anymore. I had felt the tip, nearly sharp. It drew a neat line across my thumb.

I have a pen...

October 7, 2015

I was not successful.
Despite losing a lot of blood, a nurse had walked in just after the act. I was revived by the hospital staff. They did not have room in the psychiatric wing for another, so I was moved. I was relegated to the St. Agnes's Hospital for mental disorders. It is out in the countryside and has a 15 acre property. The building has two wings that curl around the front courtyard, which has two grand elms, each in front of their respective wing. The gate was high, made of wrought iron, and joined with an equally high fence line that circled the property. The grounds were a vivifying display of colour, the grass a deep green and flower beds awash with the colours of violet, rose, and sunflower yellow. Something, I am told, meant as a mood setter.

Another Hors d'oeuvre

The Drowning Man

A short, short story

Written by Cory Kutschker

A calm, a peace and then panic. An arrhythmia sets in and that grotesque overturning of the stomach upon that sight. The black is extending to me, swimming upwards, overtaking the grand blue of the sea. Within this time, a throttling of my limbs churns and distorts my field of vision as those precious and fleeting bubbles are produced from my mouth in abandonment. Oh dear Clara! Shall I never return to you?

Hypnotic. A field of terrible boiling light is before me, yet beckons.

A choice. To chance the abyss or to make agreement with this mystery.

I have chosen. A ring of orange with four black stripes splashes onto the surface of the sea. Oh! If only I could reach it! I cannot, but reach out to that fearful luminescence. With half a mind, I observe myself ascending slowly. My head breaks the water as it chops around me with caps foaming white as sturdy gales pile them up to staggering and frightful heights. But I remain atop of them as I grasp the ring firmly. The sea heaves and the skies churn as I bob along. I am small on this plain. A vessel is behind me, riding the rolls of the water. Loud cries erupt from the crew for me to "swim as [my] life depends upon it." I am dragged up onto the deck. As I gag and sputter, spewing out reams of vomit and swallowed water, I peer over the edge to know the nightmare, countless more heads bob out of the water wailing for help, as the vessel pursued a distant land on the horizon.

A larger excerpt of A Life In Requiem

A Life In Requiem

Another completed story

The Prophet: A Day Remembered

A short short story written by Cory Kutschker


Wild paroxysms of panic throttled hearts, the evening before that day.  A general anxiety and odd palpitations bled out into the populations. Their children whimpered, wailed and cried into the wee hours of night. Street folk were riled and spoke stranger than before, obscure dialects found in equally obscure corners of the world. The unending droning of phones rang out across the emergency services and for the most part went unanswered. From this all was exhausted into an anguish and despair.
It was strange, however, that there were some of the population in which existed an unbridled jubilation.
In the early morning a silence overcame the globe. In the wilds there were no night calls of birds, or even the chirping of crickets or growl of nocturnal beasts. In the locales that already observed light and were into their day or perhaps just entering into evening, they also saw no activity. There was no cacophony of car horns or the loud baying of dogs or even the joyous laughter of children on the playground. The swing sets lay still making no squeaks and any cars were parked and silent, not an engine running. There was not even the light fluttering of a breeze dragging a newspaper along the pavement of the empty street. All that made noise drew still, as though in some anticipation.  Then came the noise. It was not earthly by any means, but every man distinguished it as a distant whine until it grew to a vociferous and monotonous din of a deep horn being sounded.
In the dawn, instead of the sun, he came, the effulgent terror. What words I have for that day are not enough, but it was as though the sky boiled and peeled. It scraped from the black folds, exposing us to the gloom, the monstrous and yawning cosmos, still and black, oddly giving little light from the stars. Every eye grew mad by that great blackness spread over and around them. The arbitrator was inattentive to the long pleas wailing from mouths and lungs being starved of oxygen. Caves were lined with nail marks as asylum seekers were withdrawn into his gaze wherein they wilted onto their knees in deluges of tears. All the 'scapes of the earth were tilled and plained as he walked with eyes aflame.
He had an odd effect upon the earth, for every step of his would command a most verdant growth of grass to spring forth from the ground. Long dead plants would regain vigor and limp trees emboldened their trunks as pillars. Queer shadows grew long and challenged with hissing maws but were easily slain by him as they were cast into that abyss that seethed and rolled over itself, hungry for more.
A city had descended, magnificent and radiant enclosed by four walls equidistant.
What of the jubilant you ask? The four walls were built for them. But outside, There were long lines as the gavel was swung making hard rapping terminations as they took the long walk into that same abysmal mouth, licking over them. There they remained writhing, tortured and screaming back through the eons, coming under my ink.

Another Teaser

still trying to think of a title for this one and trying to avoid cheddar at camp (cheesy and or campy)


Wild paroxysms of panic throttled hearts, the evening before that day.  A general anxiety and odd palpitations bled out into the populations. Their children whimpered, wailed and cried into the wee hours of night. Street folk were riled and spoke stranger than before, obscure dialects found in equally obscure corners of the world. The unending droning of phones rang out across the emergency services and for the most part went unanswered. From this all was exhausted into an anguish and despair.
It was strange, however, that there were some of the population in which existed an unbridled jubilation.

A Completed Story

A Night In The Swamp

A Short Story by Cory Kutschker

The rowboat creaked as my paddles slapped the water. I had an unease as the moonlight gleamed off the water and partially illuminated the cypresses on either side of me. There were deep shadows in the midst, hiding a world from me and it was the hidden that I feared. For even though I had an oil lamp there rigged to a post at the bow, much of this world was still black, murmuring and whispering of odd and ill boding secrets. Small relief was given by the flitting small clouds of fireflies. Yet my mind escaped to necro worlds of grotesque and lurking phantasms and to hideous beasts that science balks at.

War planes were rumoured to have crashed in those placid and thick waters. I can well imagine them half sunk with creepers draped over their wings. The cockpit mostly sunk there concealing the bullet ridden corpse. The gunner possibly ejected or half draped out of its doors with ragged clothing, his flesh being picked at by the various carrion eaters. A raven very well sat upon the tail perched comfortably with an eyeball in its beak when the commotion quieted and the flesh was still ripe.

Wild folk made their home there. Odd little shacks are set out on the river's edge. It's keepers made queer practices of some voodoo or maybe some unknown or long forgotten variant of witchcraft. I had business at the swamps middle, a package that needed delivery.

“8/17/2014 Follow the river to the middle of the swamp. Signed, Gregory.” he had written it last weekend on a severely rumpled bit of paper. A young boy had delivered it.

Much earlier we had arranged the contents of the package. While I strongly objected to its manner of business, he insisted and paid me several dollars to never mind. I, in haste returned this sum to him as preservation of my dignity. All this honour I kept, even though I needed the money for the repair of my motor. And in return I urged him saying, “I will do this once, but let this be the last of this sort of content!” He agreed shortly after, in a curt nod. 

The journey there was no less queer in its tenor. Before my departing, at the bank of the river, an odd and malnourished, elderly man stooped, leaning heavily upon a hand crafted cane.

“Going to the swamps?” He queried in a dry murmur. I nodded, throwing the oars into the boat.

“Keep your sights straight.” He said, nearing a whisper. I stepped in and set the oars onto the crutches.

I looked back towards the elderly man, gone. On I paddled into the forest of cypresses, the black congealing in front of me. I knew not what set its eyes upon me beyond the folds, but it was as though I were proceeding through the world’s most primal grottoes and dimensional shifts that warped the air in front. Otherworldly ‘scapes passed as I continued paddling, rippling a mirror that knew more than I did. A rotting stench emanated from the accursed object in the box beside me. I had slowly approached a small series of squalid shacks on the riverbank. I could see into some of them, matching my sight with obscure decorations on their walls. Odd tribal markings were engraved into doors and the frames were adorned with a vast array of queer, small objects such as bones and teeth, some of these being fangs from the beasts and slithering things to be found in the swamp. Some windows were covered over what looked like ragged remains of skins and some others with great sheets or blankets. Some had tears, as though telling a story of forceful entry by a thing with claws. I finally came upon Gregory’s shack and docked the boat. I stood before that dilapidated shack with no less than a tremulous edge upon my heart and lungs, choking every breath and palpitating the circulating beats. Red and yellow slithered past my right foot, a thing that could kill a fellow. I knocked on the door and just as quickly as I knocked, it swung open. And there filling the frame stood Gregory smiling. “Come in, come in!” He ushered with his hand. I walked in noticing an odd stifling thickness about the room, an odd atmosphere that hung on every inch of my body making it feel slow and lethargic. “An uneventful journey I trust?” He queried with his head tilted to the side and his eyes drawn to the box under my arm. I nodded as he queried again, “Is that it?” I nodded and handed the box to him. At which he spared no time in opening and withdrawing that odious thing. “The candle of Abdul Alhazred! Finally!” He smiled with ardour at the object in his hands. “Tell me, was it difficult to obtain?” “Yes, actually it was and took a great deal of bribing and outsourcing to get it, never mind the final price the owner wanted for it.” “How much?” “$10,000” “That briefcase over there has more than enough to cover for it and thank-you for your years of service of retrieval of objects for me.” He said as he motioned to the briefcase in the corner. “And now I am certain that you will want a demonstration?" Ignoring any attempt of an answer, he therein produced a lighter from his pocket and lit the candle. After this he proceeded to roll up a carpet that was placed in the center of his floor revealing an engraved circle with odd markings belonging to alchemy. Then taking the candle he slowly poured the black molten wax into the engraved circle and placed a small pool of it in the center where there was a seeming indentation, perhaps to mark the center. A disturbing change took over that small puddle as it slowly grew in circumference to meet the rim. Upon fulfillment, there was a noticeable rotation in the the large mass of black wax.  And then it stopped and became as a crude black tar and then flattened out as though becoming a dark seething hole leading to oblivion. I peered into that blackness to see a kind of writhing in the depths. Contemptuous creatures moved in the darkness breathing out dark insults, snickering, giggling and querying and prying for my secrets. Outside, a kind of fervor erupted from the creatures. Everything that scuttled on the branches, flapping things and those that slither were all letting out a blasted cacophony as though having a knowledge or some dread of the ill manner that bled from the pores of this shack.

I left the money. No time.

I went to the boat and started paddling giving each oar a distinct draw as I began my frenzied return. The blackness behind me seemed to boil and there was a murmuring and that same impish giggling that I heard from that awful hole. But through the fervor there was also a distinct sense of support as though I were being given an extra dose of strength to maintain the pace down the river. What was that? Doesn't matter, keep rowing. And so onward I go paddling through the wee hours until dawn, meeting the risen sun. 

A Teaser-Bon Appétit

Bon Appétit

A Short Story by Cory Kutschker


"May I take your order Monsieur?" Asked the French waiter. "Yes, yes, I was curious about the difference between the mermaid and merman?" Replied the customer at table three. "Ah, I see, it is mmm as you say in America, the difference between dark meat and white meat. The mermaid is more tender and moist, you see, and the merman is a little more tough and dry. The mermaid is served with our finest hollandaise sauce and a light biscuit on the side. The merman is marinated and topped with our most succulent gravy and a side of cranberries. They are both, I am told, in flavor, a blend between seafood and fowl. Also, you may choose a vegetable to go with this. We offer steamed green beans, a smattering of California vegetables, or our fantastic julienne carrots. "Hmm, I will take the mermaid. And for a vegetable I believe I will have...hmm... the julienne carrots." "Excellent choice monsieur! And what will you have for a beverage?" "Do you have a list of spirits?" "Oui Monsieur, it is next to the wine list." "And what would you recommend?" "Ah Monsieur, I recommend the poltergeist. It has a definite froth and bubbles in your mouth." "Alright, sounds good."  "And for you Madame?" "I think I will have the leg of satyr and with it I shall have green beans." "Excellent choice Madame. And a beverage?" "A Sprite please?" "Certainly Madame, and now Monsieur et Madame please enjoy the complimentary bread.
"Monsieur, may I take your order?" "Yes, I will have the Minotaur prime rib, medium rare please. And I will take that with the garlic mashed potatoes. And to drink I will have the essence of phoenix." "Ah Monsieur, I will process your order absolutamente!"

A Void

A Six-word story. These are prevalent in some literary circles.

“What’s in his chest cavity?”…Nothing.

A Fragment

Incomplete, that is all I can say and yet it is a vision that needs to be furthered. Ever listen to "Signs of life" by Pink Floyd? This story exudes from a childhood being set at an unease by the song. But I hope to repurpose that unease for another direction.

Nights In The Swamp

A Short Story by Cory Kutschker

The rowboat creaks as my paddles slap the water. I have an unease as the moonlight gleams off the water and partially illuminates the cypresses on either side of me. There are deep shadows in the midst, hiding a world from me and it is the hidden that I fear. For even though I have an oil lamp there rigged to a post at the bow, much of this world is still black, murmuring and whispering of odd and ill boding secrets. Small relief is given by the flitting small clouds of fireflies. Yet my mind escapes to necro-worlds of grotesque and lurking phantasms and to hideous beasts that science balks at.

War planes were rumored to have crashed in these placid and thick waters. I can well imagine them half sunk with creepers draped over their wings. The cockpit mostly sunk there concealing the corpse of his bullet ridden corpse. The gunner possibly ejected or half draped out of its doors with ragged clothing, his flesh being picked at by the various carrion eaters. A raven very well sat upon the tail perched comfortably with an eyeball in its beak.

Wild folk make their home here. Odd little shacks are set out on the river's edge. It's keepers made queer practices of some voodoo or maybe some unknown or long forgotten variant of witchcraft. I had business at the swamps edge, a package that needed delivery.

A Clarification

        In my opening post entitled, Purpose And Genre, I regarded my work to be entered in the horror genre. While this is mostly true, I personally would like to clarify that it may not always be distinctly horror. In fact now that I investigate, only select few of my stories may truly be defined as horror and the rest merely suspense. Also it is quite obvious that the dessert was not horror but science fiction and comedy, in its more modern definition.

    I also want to clarify that I much prefer to receive comments regarding my work rather than blank space. But the rules still apply. As well I request that you give detail. Two line responses are remarkably frustrating and gives little to a writer for understanding where he stands well.

Thank-you,

This has been a private service announcement from the desk of Cory Kutschker.

An excerpt of a short story soon to be written - A Teaser

A Life In Requiem - impermanent title

A Story by Cory Kutschker

Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine,

et lux perpetua luceat eis.

Te decet hymnus, Deus, in Sion,

et tibi reddetur votum in Jerusalem.

Exaudi orationem meam,

ad te omnis care veniet.

Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine,

et lux perpetua luceat eis.

I did not know the man well, until he called me to his bedside that evening. I knocked three times before his frail voice ushered me in.

“Come in, come in!” This was muffled before a fit of coughing exuded through the opening door. He ushered me closer to the bed with a weak gesture of his hand, mottled and shrivelled.

            The idea and hope for this is to present a story set against Mozart's Requiem. It will generally be hopped that the reader listen to the music before. In this way, they may gain a feel of its tenor before they read its text. 

A Refurbished Story

A CASE OF HEARTS

A Short Story

Written by Cory Kutschker

In the black and white mystery pictures, the story usually opens on some dame or unfortunate bloke bled out on the pavement. It’s visceral sure, but in some way I much prefer it than those sap jobs on the lighter side of hollywood ya know? Maybe ya don’t, they have grit, true grit. It carries a true visceral feeling. What I mean by that is it portrayed city life and all the dirt, prostitution, drugs, homeless and all the hopeless situations a person can run into in street life and any walk of life. It showed the true underbelly to life, her dark secret, that under all the glamour she is no better than your average hooker out there moonlighting in a bar somewhere.

I suppose the scene for me opens in the midst of a bleak winter. large flakes of snow are falling around me to the ground. A small slurred trail of tracks follow me to a bus stop bench where I have dragged myself to sit down. I have in one hand a three quarters full bottle of Scotch enclosed in an overtly typical brown paper bag. In the other I have a .38 snub cradled in my palm. 

It has been a four-month overhaul of small time punks before I met this spirit of a man, considering I hardly believed him to possess any humanity. His case overturned my stomach. I have lost a considerable amount of weight due to this fact. My previous case had been a pushover, the perpetrator a moron, the current one clearly intuitive.

The case, much like those films, opened with a dame, 5’8 and 160 pounds, not the worst size nor the best. She’d be a good wife but clearly not a model. This one was single though. She lived alone in her small apartment in the upper east section of town. The apartment is a one-bedroom suite. The doorway opened to a large living area with a small kitchen to the left.  The dinner/activity table stood against the window, which faced the street. To the right of the kitchen was a television corner with a futon facing the opposing wall. The bedroom and bathroom were on opposing ends of the living space. The bathroom was just past the kitchen to the left and the doorway to the bedroom was to the right.

The surroundings were left untouched. She was sitting at the dinner table with her face in the seven day old chicken noodle soup she had made prior to time of death. The cause for her as well as the others would always be ligature marks at the throat, highly indicative of consistency and pre-meditation; not the worst of causes, considering what was done post-mortem. Ligature marks at the throat, however, does not overturn the stomach of a seasoned officer of the law. What we struggled with upon discovery of the body was the cavity in her head; it was the brain that was found to be missing. The head had been sawed off just above the brow line. According to the coroner’s office this was done post-mortem. Billy, the youngest in the squad, discovered the poor girl and still can’t purge the stench from his nostrils. Shirley, the precinct shrink, put him on a two week vacay while he had the chance to scrape his sanity back into his head.

Wasn’t long before we had five such cases looking us up and down like we were chumps. And those worthless feds couldn’t keep up. I knew this “thing” was collecting. And yet I knew not why. What was his motivation? Why did he need all that collected gray matter? The answers were not coming.

 The motivation of a detective is not difficult. we put perps behind bars. Really, it is the motivation for any cop, unless it becomes personal. He, It, found my wife. And what a mess it made of her. This treatment of my wife also marked an addition to its m.o. Its crime scenes were even more sinister. My wife's upper head was found sawed off just above the brow line and the brain removed same as the others, but there was an addition to this m.o. The heart was surgically removed. The m.o. however, was not changed completely as the autopsy reports showed that there were still ligature marks on the throat;  still the same signature, still our killer.

The captain then thought I would not be fit for duty given the "delicate condition I was in." He thought it best to suspend my duty, to remove me from the case. Since then, there has been 10 reported deaths all bearing the same signature, the same m.o. The last one was this past afternoon, it is now 2 am, as I sit here with my bottle now half empty lubricating the past half-page of narration. Rebellion, may seem more than cliche at this point. I would certainly hate to spoil the story and have you cast this aside. No, instead I would rather direct your attention to this creep that has taken a seat beside me. The collar of his raincoat has been raised and his wide brimmed hat lowered over his eyes. Laid across his lap is a small suitcase.

"Hello  Caleb"

His voice seems to ring calmly and clearly through the air.

"What do you want?"

"Oh, what I want is not so important Caleb, in fact all I really want is your attention."

"You got it creep”

“Not very sporting of you Caleb, calling me a creep”

“But then I suppose the last 24 hours have not been very kind to you now have they Caleb?”

“Nasty bit about your wife and all”

“Perhaps it is better if I start off with a friendlier approach?”

“Hmm, how might I do that?”

“Ah, I know, how about an amicable gift from me to you?” From within his jacket he procured a 12 inch square, brown cardboard box with a red ribbon tied around it and a tag bearing my name written in a rich calligraphy in red ink. He presented this with a black leather gloved hand and placed it at my feet.

“My dear boy, I bet you want to see what I have inside this suitcase, hmm?”

“Let’s have a look shall we?” His hands are steady as he unzips the hard case. It is difficult at this point to ascribe anything, any word, that would remove the surreal sense of what I can see before me. There are 10 hearts inside the case, each strapped down by a pair of velcro bands. In addition, each of them were also held in place by a pin that was pushed through the bottom of the middle between the two ventricles. My .38 slides from my hand making not a sound as it falls into the blanket of snow.

“Quite something is it not?”

“Each one of them so easily tucked in and laid to sleep”

“So easy to steal what provides life.”

“The mind, the brain was the first step, and how so easy they folded to the plot.”

“How much value can you really put on a human life Caleb?”

“You see this case? I have at least 50 more that are empty.”

“But who could pay enough?”

“I will catch you.” I replied in a low growl.

“Oh Caleb, what dizzying heights you seem to live at.”

“You have a view from the penthouse don’t you, Caleb?”

“Yeees, you would revel at the magnificence of catching such a specimen as me, wouldn’t you?”

“To present me as a trophy in which to declare your mental superiority in criminal investigation.”

“Ohh how they would swoon over your capabilities and give you praise, giving you some kind of raise.”

“I can see it in your eyes now Caleb.”

“Take a look at the view, the kingdom which I represent.”

“the dazzling cityscape.”

“<sigh> try and catch me.”

“Goodbye Caleb.” He gets up slowly not before zipping up the hard case and then wheels it slowly down the street, not long until he disappears from sight amidst the now heavy falling flakes of snow. My breath blew out in thick clouds as I picked up the package laying at my feet. I carefully removed the ribbon and opened the box. Sitting atop a crimson silk cushion laid a human heart with a tag labelled simply: Eve. It belonged to my wife.

That’s it, time to ice this creep. I went over to my contact at the harbour, Douglas, a fisherman by trade. I ask him if he has anything that may give me a lead, anything that may give me some direction. I get some news of a spook that has been buying up a lot of ice from him. He has a shipping location, some abandoned warehouse on the east side. I  decide to go check it out. I hail a cab. The drive seems to carry on hours on end as the box is burning my lap. The crimson color growing redder with each passing minute. Sure, taunt me why don't you, you creep. Handing over my wife's heart as a "gift", how is that  amicable? maybe I'm glad my badge is not effectual at this time. Maybe I will hunt you down personally and perform a coup des gras on you and maybe I will even leave the death to the last. Nah, you would enjoy that too much wouldn't you? Yeeah, you are too twisted, too sadistic to be affected negatively by that; to you that would be pleasure.

"Y'alright mistah?" The cabbie interrupts. Man, he's a cliche.

"Yeah"

"Some piece o' work i'n't he"

"huh?"

"That killa on th' news"

"guy killed 10 in the pas' while"

"boy am I glad though tha' guy ain' gonna be harmin' anybody too soon, if ya know what I mean?" I give the cabbie an inquisitive look.

"Tabloids picked up a letta in his handwrit'n, says he wants to give us a couple o' weeks to figure him out, to try to buy him off in a way."

"great, how do you buy off a psychopath?"

"I dunno but he spoke on the radio 'bout 25 minutes ago, actually jus' before I picked you up. Says 10 were bought off today"

"huh"

"Here we are." We pulled up to the side of the warehouse. The snow was undisturbed, ensuring I was the first there inside these two hours, either that or the wind had blown away any prints. I carefully made my way to an entrance on the north side. The inside was musty. There was not a sign of activity, nor was there anything within that warehouse to suggest anything had been there for quite some time. I noticed that there happened to be an office on the second floor.  Venturing upstairs, I crept over to the office. There was a single light on in the office that I could tell through the severely mottled glass. I had my revolver in hand and proceeded to slink around the corner to confront...Nothing. The room is bare, except for an envelope lying on the table, which... is  addressed to me? I opened it.

Hello Caleb,

I realize that I was really quite rude for not introducing myself. You may call me John. How are you? You really do seem tired. I suppose you are considerably angry with me for the little gift I imparted to you.  And while I am more than empathetic. I want to impart to  you something else. I think it all depends on your attitude as to how you take this. Do you not know Caleb just how illusional people are? They place so much attention on something so absurd that they have no conception of how little their life really means. They have their hearts and minds stayed upon something so superfluous that they have invented something of a cycle for themselves. They are in effect lying to themselves. I am considerably bored with humanity Caleb. I am bored with life and yet here is the rub, here is the struggle, to gather myself and continue on in entertainment or to absolutely stop, to die. That is the comedy of life, the irony, the absurdity. Do I continue Caleb? or shall I illusion myself with a sense of entertainment? I must say that busying myself and continuing on with my work is attractive. But can I really fool myself so readily Caleb? Then again it has somewhat ceased to become entertainment and is instead becoming a method of squeezing out existence. It is much like teasing out toothpaste from an already flat tube. I feel much like that tube Caleb, flattened, used up. So what is left Caleb? What is there left to do? Waiting on you.

Sincerely,

John

The letter struck me so heavily that I stood there motionless for several moments. It now made sense, his actions, his motives, his m.o all rang with a kind of clandestine clarity. There was no connection between the victims because we were looking far too close and needed to broaden the perspective to the maximum position to grasp the breadth of this killer's reasoning. Unfortunately where the light was brightest also shone saliently enough to point out the other facts. This thing's trail had gone cold. Another thing I knew, he would kill again, and knew that we would not find him, it. Time to go home, Caleb, hopeless.

The flag was up on my mailbox. The letter was addressed to me and was lettered in red handwriting.

Caleb,

These circumstances are not wrapped up within your capabilities. His actions are indeed abhorrent and certain to cause a lurch in the stomach, but you, Caleb, must not obsess.  Ergo the solution is not what you think.

There is a store on the corner of 9th and Bale. The shop owner has a large number of suitcases there. Perhaps you ought to go over and take a look?

Sincerely,

G

There was a cheque made out to me in the amount of $500,000. I caught a cab over to the mentioned address and walked into the shop. There were several suitcases matching the trim and overall appearance of the one that “John” had carried, in addition  there were several other models. “How much?” I asked as I gestured towards all of the suitcases in the shop. The shopkeeper gave me a sly smile, “He shops here you know. But he never shows me his face.”

“How do you know who I am going after?”

“Oh, that is quite easy he ordered several suitcases from me as well sir!”

“But, if it would make you feel better, as I can see you are suspicious of me, I can provide alibis for anytime you wish.  My wife will certainly vouch for me.”

“Nah, that’s alright, so how much then?”

“For all of it?” His voice croaked.

“Oh I venture the suitcases would land you at…$100,000 but if I might suggest something sir?”

“Sure”

“I wouldn’t stop there sir, in fact I-I-I would get the whole shop!”

“And how much would that cost?”

“Oh, not that much sir…$250,000. That would set me up nicely… a-a-and sir I would also buy out my brother’s shop on 5th. S-s-see that way he cannot buy from this town at least. He’s like me and will give you the same price.” 

With the final price and a mental summation to 500,000, I knew what was required of me and from this I had but one sense, hope.

The next day I had walked by my mailbox and noticed the arm was raised. Inside was a red envelope. I opened it and read it.

Hello Caleb,

I see you have bought out the suitcase stores in your town and repurposed them. How quaint. Well I am afraid I will no longer be performing my business in your town. Please give my regards to the shop owners and the precinct. I will dearly miss their abject looks of mystification. So good-bye Caleb, I shall be going up north now. I hear Canada is a beautiful country.

Sincerely,

John