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.
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