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.