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.
