That Place, The Gap
A Satire by Cory Kutschker
I want to disclose to you a place that I have begun to loathe, The gap. The gap, that chasm, is wide and darkly yawning. There is a bridge that some have built over its breadth, a single lane, treacherous rope bridge that swings unbiased to the stature of those who tread on its planks. There are many who stand on the bridge over that maw and drop in nickels, dimes, quarters and many others, more superstitious, drop higher currency that flutter down as insubstantial featherweights floating down the fathoms that further digest it towards the bowels of oblivion.
There are many troupes of scientists that have measured its breadth and length. Some claim it as a non-marine Marianas trench but I would hasten to discredit such a shallow comparison. For while some depth measurements for the Marianas trench delves in 11.03 kilometers, the gap dwarfs it by the same instruments being doubled up and still finding the gap to be unfathomable. The gap's length was measured to be 5,632 kilometers long. This is accredited to its serpentine waves across the continent. And at several places is joined by many other impressive rifts. It's width is averaged at several locations to be 87 meters across. The smallest breadth is measured at a mere 56 meters.
It is at this place that the famous Wichiter bridge stretches across the void. It was built in 1955 as an alternative means of crossing the gap as opposed to the one single lane rope bridge that currently remains unnamed. There is currently a budget total of $20,000 per year allotted to the Wichiter's care and maintenance. An approximate total of $563,274 was spent over 25 years. There were only a couple instances where the division of transportation went over budget in its maintenance of the bridge. One such occurrence was the collapse of April 17th, 2006. Only 5 lives were lost in its collapse and has since been improved many times to insure its safety.
The unnamed rope bridge that spans across a breadth of 73 meters is currently protected by a non-profit society that urges towards its historical importance and have placed a plaque on either end commemorating its estimated building date of 1786-1807 based upon Native aboriginal accounts. it is currently one of the greatest mysteries among bridge builders as there are no accounts to any having travelled that way or requiring passage across the gap's width. It is currently one of the very few remaining rope bridges on the North American continent and also mystifies the general public as the longest lasting rope bridge in the world.
Many different sects of religious groups founded in North America have given notable importance to the gap. Some practices have included teetering on the edge of either side as a kind of test of faith and others dangle themselves merely holding on to the edge. Many of the more popular movements of these religious groups insist that they attempt to walk across the void beside the bridge as a testament to their faith. Many legal battles have been fought regarding the disappearances of those individuals who obey such commands. Yet it still remains a practice within these groups.
The gap remains a popular landmark to be visited by youth and adults alike. While youth make up the bulk of its visitors for sport, adults also venture here for several risk taking activities. Also adults are the greatest spenders in regards to such activities. While the death toll among the youth is incredibly high, there are still a large sum of adults in North America that fall victim to hazardous activities. Deaths among the youth are estimated 3,000,000 a year and for the adults 1,500,000. These hazardous activities include such things as: bungee jumping, climbing without ropes and leaping for the opposing ledge. Many states have outlawed such dangerous sports including a hefty fine if caught in the act and yet no arrests are recorded.
While the gap remains to be one of the most visited destinations it still claims millions of lives. It is the current world record holder for the largest rift in the world and has many points of crossing. It has gained the attention and fame by many artists and film producers. And it is rated as the world's biggest tourist destination of all time. Finally, it is the place that shares its name with that popular retail outlet that sells clothes and apparel to appeal to the fashion sense of millions.
Friday, January 30, 2015
The Hors d'oeuvres Part 3
The Dream of The Obelisk
A Short Short Story by Cory Kutschker
It was a queer night to be sure. I shudder for the memory of it. And yet I must hasten towards with this recounting. The previous months I recall studying ancient Egyptian architecture, of an inexcusable anomaly recently found of profound archaeological import outside of Thebes, an obelisk buried beneath a great dune. It's column was a black sheen of obsidian and was peaked by a shaped ruby. Many questions were raised of its origin. The excavation had excited and equally disturbed many. Several of the hired workers went mad and many fell into trances from extended contact with the structure's surface. Many questions were asked querying of not merely its obvious distance from any known volcanic regions but its flawless surface as though somehow chiseled into one vast column. Archaeologists balked at the translations, many skewing, but the exceptional ones coming upon the translations that caused a magnified interest and unease among the scholars that came to see it. It was of course to be transported for further archaeological research. My university and the local museum lay hold of the study rights first and so it was not long before I stood dwarfed before its height and breadth. I deftly brushed my hands along the reliefs of hieroglyphics that told of absurd rites. Worse things were near the top, telling of odd, grand internal chambers within and queer descriptions of what seemed descriptions of the mind and sleep. I continued sliding my fingers there along that smooth glassy surface there playing along the ridges and reaching the edge continuing along to the adjacent side, caressing and sliding, caressing and sliding, caressing and sliding and arousing my mind. My eyes imagining or not imagining hands upon hands all caressing, touching, feeling the obsidian monolith. Upon the exclamation, "Thomas!" by my colleague, I broke from a stupor, as though from a creeping trance. All that excused him from interruption was of little significance, mere attention to the hours of the museum. I arranged for private study later that evening.
So there in those starlight hours, I set around several lamps illuminating the black engravings. My studies had no longer started than I engrossed my mind upon the satin touch of its glass. There my hands explored and caressed and my eyes set in to the surface eternally reflecting and there began traveling over hills, roads, lakes and ocean there unto placid heaves of dunes under a maroon sky and stood before that hideous obelisk piercing into the sky, standing as a lone, dark tower maddening me, engulfing me, swallowing me. There in the bowels accursed under heaven, a cavernous cubed chamber held a crude machine composed of equally black steel cogs and wheels shimmering under unseen rays all clicking and ticking and grinding against each other in rude and wretched undulations. And under the maddening din, thereupon the wall a set of dials and faces akin to clocks recording years, months, days, hours, minutes and infinitesimal measurements there all hands flicking around the centres in flitting synchronous movements. Over the machine arose a murmur as though echoing from ages immemorial grew into a voluminous chant in a forgotten tongue translating to my mind as though acknowledging my deficiency. There in unison all these voices chanted day and night all exclaiming: Man is God! And in those unknown minutes a dread arose thick and coarse, causing unruly anxiety expanding in my chest, an exhausting ghastly expectation of a doom cataclysmic and awful in its tenor, an expectation of judgement. I was, in a moment transported out into the midst of the air there looking down upon great heaving masses of crowds all chanting and clapping in rhythms all chanting day and night as a great lapse of time went before. The last event of that disturbed nightmare was a great horn being sounded of a deep dinning vocalization. And all up the black walls of that awful column opened slats pouring out a tar spraying onto the masses and from the interior came a roar and then a blast of flame from all sides there igniting the masses in a licking and dancing lake of flame upon a wailing and screaming population eternally writhing and burning.
Upon waking, with the sunlight streaming into the observation room, I recorded the last of the inscriptions on the obelisk. I published my findings in the inter-varsity journal of archaeology and sat alone in my room reflecting upon the current great pride in humanity and thinking upon that awful chamber with its gears, cogs and dials. And still that awful machine, pervading my thoughts, now counts, ticking towards the end.
A Short Short Story by Cory Kutschker
It was a queer night to be sure. I shudder for the memory of it. And yet I must hasten towards with this recounting. The previous months I recall studying ancient Egyptian architecture, of an inexcusable anomaly recently found of profound archaeological import outside of Thebes, an obelisk buried beneath a great dune. It's column was a black sheen of obsidian and was peaked by a shaped ruby. Many questions were raised of its origin. The excavation had excited and equally disturbed many. Several of the hired workers went mad and many fell into trances from extended contact with the structure's surface. Many questions were asked querying of not merely its obvious distance from any known volcanic regions but its flawless surface as though somehow chiseled into one vast column. Archaeologists balked at the translations, many skewing, but the exceptional ones coming upon the translations that caused a magnified interest and unease among the scholars that came to see it. It was of course to be transported for further archaeological research. My university and the local museum lay hold of the study rights first and so it was not long before I stood dwarfed before its height and breadth. I deftly brushed my hands along the reliefs of hieroglyphics that told of absurd rites. Worse things were near the top, telling of odd, grand internal chambers within and queer descriptions of what seemed descriptions of the mind and sleep. I continued sliding my fingers there along that smooth glassy surface there playing along the ridges and reaching the edge continuing along to the adjacent side, caressing and sliding, caressing and sliding, caressing and sliding and arousing my mind. My eyes imagining or not imagining hands upon hands all caressing, touching, feeling the obsidian monolith. Upon the exclamation, "Thomas!" by my colleague, I broke from a stupor, as though from a creeping trance. All that excused him from interruption was of little significance, mere attention to the hours of the museum. I arranged for private study later that evening.
So there in those starlight hours, I set around several lamps illuminating the black engravings. My studies had no longer started than I engrossed my mind upon the satin touch of its glass. There my hands explored and caressed and my eyes set in to the surface eternally reflecting and there began traveling over hills, roads, lakes and ocean there unto placid heaves of dunes under a maroon sky and stood before that hideous obelisk piercing into the sky, standing as a lone, dark tower maddening me, engulfing me, swallowing me. There in the bowels accursed under heaven, a cavernous cubed chamber held a crude machine composed of equally black steel cogs and wheels shimmering under unseen rays all clicking and ticking and grinding against each other in rude and wretched undulations. And under the maddening din, thereupon the wall a set of dials and faces akin to clocks recording years, months, days, hours, minutes and infinitesimal measurements there all hands flicking around the centres in flitting synchronous movements. Over the machine arose a murmur as though echoing from ages immemorial grew into a voluminous chant in a forgotten tongue translating to my mind as though acknowledging my deficiency. There in unison all these voices chanted day and night all exclaiming: Man is God! And in those unknown minutes a dread arose thick and coarse, causing unruly anxiety expanding in my chest, an exhausting ghastly expectation of a doom cataclysmic and awful in its tenor, an expectation of judgement. I was, in a moment transported out into the midst of the air there looking down upon great heaving masses of crowds all chanting and clapping in rhythms all chanting day and night as a great lapse of time went before. The last event of that disturbed nightmare was a great horn being sounded of a deep dinning vocalization. And all up the black walls of that awful column opened slats pouring out a tar spraying onto the masses and from the interior came a roar and then a blast of flame from all sides there igniting the masses in a licking and dancing lake of flame upon a wailing and screaming population eternally writhing and burning.
Upon waking, with the sunlight streaming into the observation room, I recorded the last of the inscriptions on the obelisk. I published my findings in the inter-varsity journal of archaeology and sat alone in my room reflecting upon the current great pride in humanity and thinking upon that awful chamber with its gears, cogs and dials. And still that awful machine, pervading my thoughts, now counts, ticking towards the end.
The Hors d'oeuvres Part 2
That Awful Plain
A Short Short Story
By Cory Kutschker
It was an evening in the autumn when I took a slight tour about the edge of the small town that I was inhabiting, which stood in the midst of the midwest plains. I came upon a gentleman of several years my senior. It was an awkward hour of absurd thoughts that led our conversation. A question had arisen, I forget the content but remember the answer, which was slow and a small volume over a dry whisper. He spoke of queer secrets in the known lore of this land. I pressed and queried into distortions that were awful and bound my mind in wicked haunts. Many of these were of little importance and easily cast aside as the usual forgettable tales regarding ephemeral ghoulish sightings from the midst of bushes. But then the true subject came about regarding an unease amidst the households. "There is a disquieting secret unspoken, an edged blackness that stands along the miles of open land. You will find nooone else who will discuss it" as he spat from the amorphous black wad tucked in his cheek. I looked up upon the silence of the plain, a moment spanning several minutes. I turned to press further but he had hurried off to some adjacent road. So there I continued my walk to that last barrier and then to the grid road. From there I heard the distant sobs of infants having vision not satisfied in being shortened by a tree or some good structure but awfully allowed to peer long into unchecked distances, unending. Being myself disturbed, I carried on past bushes and shrubs that sighed against the air. I urged forward along the path now being illuminated by the gibbous moon. There I continued on and on miles upon miles never stopping, never ceasing until reaching that black edge where the threatening chaos and abyss crashes against the final shoreline of this flat land; walking off into that infinite oblivion, the nihil.
A Short Short Story
By Cory Kutschker
It was an evening in the autumn when I took a slight tour about the edge of the small town that I was inhabiting, which stood in the midst of the midwest plains. I came upon a gentleman of several years my senior. It was an awkward hour of absurd thoughts that led our conversation. A question had arisen, I forget the content but remember the answer, which was slow and a small volume over a dry whisper. He spoke of queer secrets in the known lore of this land. I pressed and queried into distortions that were awful and bound my mind in wicked haunts. Many of these were of little importance and easily cast aside as the usual forgettable tales regarding ephemeral ghoulish sightings from the midst of bushes. But then the true subject came about regarding an unease amidst the households. "There is a disquieting secret unspoken, an edged blackness that stands along the miles of open land. You will find nooone else who will discuss it" as he spat from the amorphous black wad tucked in his cheek. I looked up upon the silence of the plain, a moment spanning several minutes. I turned to press further but he had hurried off to some adjacent road. So there I continued my walk to that last barrier and then to the grid road. From there I heard the distant sobs of infants having vision not satisfied in being shortened by a tree or some good structure but awfully allowed to peer long into unchecked distances, unending. Being myself disturbed, I carried on past bushes and shrubs that sighed against the air. I urged forward along the path now being illuminated by the gibbous moon. There I continued on and on miles upon miles never stopping, never ceasing until reaching that black edge where the threatening chaos and abyss crashes against the final shoreline of this flat land; walking off into that infinite oblivion, the nihil.
Thursday, January 29, 2015
The hors d'oeuvres Part 1
A Simple, and “Grave” Tale
A Monologue of Warning
A short short story by Cory Kutschker
I am floating... no, no, that is not quite right. I am in stasis. That will not do either. No, floating has a regard for being in substance that bears you buoyant. Hmmm, stasis won't do either as that would require something to hold me in place. No, stasis won't do at all. No it is far too still, far too... motionless. Suspension... in suspense. Yes that will do. I am in suspense. awaiting activity and yet I am here, waiting. Yet I should think not even suspense would do here. <sigh> How long has it been? minutes? Yes, yes that is a good approximation. Hmmm, no, no minutes here are void. No, curse that word. Curse time, it is a damnable word. It is terrible and cruel here. What is here? Does this "here" even hold, locale? Yes, yes surely, scientifically, I can be convinced that here holds a dimensional locale. Some sort of coordinates perhaps?
Hmm, there is my tether freely passing some distance to the... left? My craft, my craft is there so many yards away. I am separated. Separated, that is a terrible, cruel word. No connection, no relation. I am separated. Shirley, Judy, Bill, they are all there. They are away, they are too far, away. No, no I can't reach. It is, too far.
At home Merideth is bound to be cooking something, something wonderful. Some smell of lavish gravy over a succulent roast, a fine dish of steamed vegetables and white fluff puffs of mashed potatoes mounded beside. It is all placed upon a fine china plate. Oh! and for dessert, what would it be? A fantastic apple pie with a proper large scoop of ice cream beside. Oh! my stomach bubbles with excitement at such a possible meal. At home, gosh, at home. I cannot, should not think of it but of course fail to arrest the long train of memory that bore down on my brain. What had we spoken of last, what was the topic? It had been some petulant argument regarding the curtains and whether we would have them be a stark violet or a calming navy. And what harsh words were exchanged that night! And now I but crave that night's later caress and her gentle skin. But now she lies on a planet at an incalculable measure of stadia, far away. Earth is now but a strange bauble now. A blue green bauble to be intangibly held in my hands, so distant.
My suit, gosh my suit. Such a burden to put on this body. The long hour it took to put it on and perform the many checks and double checks to ensure an airtight seal. The material chafes and a breath is a strange exchange between two gases. But of course weight I feel nothing of, in this "here." What a terrible thought this is! Now that I am here I must embrace the irony of ironies. That what was created to sustain should be as a prison forcing upon me an unbearable long and cold voyage before gasping and an exhaustion of breath and then a slow if not nearly interminable termination of the body. And apparently after this duration of darkness, a doom of torment that would cast this as a light jest. Indeed that judgement, which the priest spoke of, was not a light subject, it was grim. We spent those hours with solemn sour dour faces gazing at the floor with darkened minds that had no stars giving light as I had despised and loathed the blaze that was the one, true, solution.
Silence, silent as the grave. Agh! No! Perish the thought! I shall not employ cliches “here.” No, not “here.” It is such a terror where neither a whisper nor a shout or even a scream is to be heard. And neither have they, my comrades, communicated with me. Hmm, my radio ah! yes it must be my radio. It must be broken. And I am left to myself to converse with, nothing. I am now left to suffer silence.
I now peer around slowly from this one half-faced globe at this expanse before me and have but one feeling. I am alone. My body tingles against the long cold chill produced by such a feeling. Yet, I look onward as this great speckled black mouth that yawns before me, draws me in and purveys its extent of a near endless span of seeming infinite angles. It is a great vacuum and an almost endless... Space.
A Monologue of Warning
A short short story by Cory Kutschker
I am floating... no, no, that is not quite right. I am in stasis. That will not do either. No, floating has a regard for being in substance that bears you buoyant. Hmmm, stasis won't do either as that would require something to hold me in place. No, stasis won't do at all. No it is far too still, far too... motionless. Suspension... in suspense. Yes that will do. I am in suspense. awaiting activity and yet I am here, waiting. Yet I should think not even suspense would do here. <sigh> How long has it been? minutes? Yes, yes that is a good approximation. Hmmm, no, no minutes here are void. No, curse that word. Curse time, it is a damnable word. It is terrible and cruel here. What is here? Does this "here" even hold, locale? Yes, yes surely, scientifically, I can be convinced that here holds a dimensional locale. Some sort of coordinates perhaps?
Hmm, there is my tether freely passing some distance to the... left? My craft, my craft is there so many yards away. I am separated. Separated, that is a terrible, cruel word. No connection, no relation. I am separated. Shirley, Judy, Bill, they are all there. They are away, they are too far, away. No, no I can't reach. It is, too far.
At home Merideth is bound to be cooking something, something wonderful. Some smell of lavish gravy over a succulent roast, a fine dish of steamed vegetables and white fluff puffs of mashed potatoes mounded beside. It is all placed upon a fine china plate. Oh! and for dessert, what would it be? A fantastic apple pie with a proper large scoop of ice cream beside. Oh! my stomach bubbles with excitement at such a possible meal. At home, gosh, at home. I cannot, should not think of it but of course fail to arrest the long train of memory that bore down on my brain. What had we spoken of last, what was the topic? It had been some petulant argument regarding the curtains and whether we would have them be a stark violet or a calming navy. And what harsh words were exchanged that night! And now I but crave that night's later caress and her gentle skin. But now she lies on a planet at an incalculable measure of stadia, far away. Earth is now but a strange bauble now. A blue green bauble to be intangibly held in my hands, so distant.
My suit, gosh my suit. Such a burden to put on this body. The long hour it took to put it on and perform the many checks and double checks to ensure an airtight seal. The material chafes and a breath is a strange exchange between two gases. But of course weight I feel nothing of, in this "here." What a terrible thought this is! Now that I am here I must embrace the irony of ironies. That what was created to sustain should be as a prison forcing upon me an unbearable long and cold voyage before gasping and an exhaustion of breath and then a slow if not nearly interminable termination of the body. And apparently after this duration of darkness, a doom of torment that would cast this as a light jest. Indeed that judgement, which the priest spoke of, was not a light subject, it was grim. We spent those hours with solemn sour dour faces gazing at the floor with darkened minds that had no stars giving light as I had despised and loathed the blaze that was the one, true, solution.
Silence, silent as the grave. Agh! No! Perish the thought! I shall not employ cliches “here.” No, not “here.” It is such a terror where neither a whisper nor a shout or even a scream is to be heard. And neither have they, my comrades, communicated with me. Hmm, my radio ah! yes it must be my radio. It must be broken. And I am left to myself to converse with, nothing. I am now left to suffer silence.
I now peer around slowly from this one half-faced globe at this expanse before me and have but one feeling. I am alone. My body tingles against the long cold chill produced by such a feeling. Yet, I look onward as this great speckled black mouth that yawns before me, draws me in and purveys its extent of a near endless span of seeming infinite angles. It is a great vacuum and an almost endless... Space.
Purpose and Genre
It is without doubt, as I write this, the first sentence in a writing blog, that I will acquire both criticism and understanding for my writing. But likely I willl recieve much more of the former than the latter. So then, think of this as a foreword or introduction in a novel, that thing that many seldom read but all should. All artists secretly hope that their work will be understood and perhaps even praised for their vision. But it is a pity that often many do not grasp the illustrated point, or in this case, writing. I as well, an artist, hope that my writing will be given fair treatment and sought for understanding of its message rather than blind criticism.
I generally write within the genre of horror. And this is the point that I fear of being scorned. Please, let me elucidate my purpose for this often misunderstood or misused genre. Horror is so often treated as the dark child of an even darker imagination. It often leads to the supernatural, the macabre and frequent cheap thrills. And more than often this genre used for generating fear. My purpose for using horror is simply this:
I wish to enter the world of the secular. The secular world inflates and embraces a worldview that is without God. I write in the horror genre as a mere method to utilize the unique language to help them better understand the consequences of such a worldview. If you are familiar with a concept in psychology known as "Terror management" you will understand a little better of my aims. Or even better maybe if you are familiar with Nietzsche and his philosophy. Sometimes I give a gospel message and other times I do not. It is dependent upon the story and my aims within its unique atmosphere.
I have a second purpose for this writing. I have generally found in my reading that in our Christian literature that our Lord is really quite tame. While I could very easily rant on the virtue of proper theology, I will not. Instead I will simply say that where some balk, I see opportunity. Since there is already a springboard set up, why not fill up the pool and take a refreshing dive? You did not understand that last metaphor. I am utilizing the supernatural language to help display the Lord as He is frequently depicted in scripture and that is in power. And therefore something worth fearing and loving.
So then here are the rules:
1. Criticism is to be kept constructive or it is deleted
2. Civility is a virtue, insults (whether to myself or others) are not and will be deleted.
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