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.