The
Problem Of The Interfering Fiction
A story by Cory Kutschker
(Still in process, 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 dumpster. His back protested from
being hunched over for several hours and his bum was in agony from being
presented with 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 Council of Interfering
Narrators.” 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 on which a pair of spectacles rested precariously. 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.
“eesh
there shomething I can help yew with mishesh? He questioned her with his
eyebrows raised.
“Yyess,
I would like a loan to start a business.”
“ewwwkay,
do yew have appropriate collateral?”
“Yes,
I-I think so, maybe?”
Mr.
Varnelle stared at her incredulously over his glasses.
“Car?”
“No.”
“Property?”
“No, er yes.”
“What property do you have?”
“A couple apartment blocks in downtown
core.”
“And what kind of business dew yew want to
start?”
“A used book store.”
“No.”
“No
what?” Samantha demanded.
“Your
loan is rejected.”
“But
I need that money!”
To this, Mr. Varnelle sat up straight with an expressionless face
and said, “I am dearly sorry miss, but perhaps you should write a letter to the
council of interfering narrators.” As he said this, he withdrew a white
business card from his front pocket and extended it towards her, which she
grabbed quickly. Samantha stared in disbelief towards what seemed like a
complete shift in character and an unbelievable, clear display of omniscient
knowledge, which was absurd. She managed a half-smile, which only somewhat
masked her horror, and slowly backed out of Mr. Varnelle’s office. As she walked down the street, Samantha took
a look at the business card in her hand. It had a simple format. It read:
The
Council of Interfering Narrators
Are you a suffering character? Is life too
unfair?
Write us a letter, and we will know about
it!
Samantha was driving home. Her mind was distracted to say the
least. All her thoughts were circulating
around the last 24 hours and the bizarre things that had transpired. Am I going
crazy? Samantha thought to herself. Should I be consulting a psychologist? I
should think that he or she would undoubtedly call me crazy. In fact, Samantha
was very much uneasy about being declared crazy and did everything in her being
to avoid it. In the meantime, Samantha was significantly unaware that the once
green light had shifted from amber to red and that a license plate reading UR2
CL0S had stopped abruptly. She pushed hard on the brakes but was too late as
her car slid and crunched into the back end of the car ahead. Now Samantha
should consider herself lucky, for the figure behind the wheel of the car was
not ill tempered and dealt mercifully in regard to the unfortunate fender
bender. Yet, while they exchanged information, Samantha was even more unsettled
by this, another financial setback.
Samantha made it the rest of the way home and began pacing the
hallway muttering to herself, Should I? If I do write this letter, is that
like giving in? Do I officially become crazy? Let’s just say that you are
testing it out. Great, now you are speaking collectively. Samantha sighed,
shook her head ashamedly, sat down at her desk, and began writing.
To The Council of Interfering Narrators:
If you do truly exist, you will know that I am growing increasingly
anxious and paranoid and feel as though that I am going crazy. If you do truly
exist, you will know the financial concerns I have. And, if you truly exist you
will know that I am looking to you to amend this current situation.
Sincerely,
Samantha
Templeton
Not a moment later, the doorbell
rang. Samantha stood up and went to the door and opened it, suspicious of what
may be on the other side. On her doorstep was a mild mannered postal worker who
simply nodded at her and held out an envelope bearing her name and address in
exquisite cursive writing, which she took slowly with disbelief. The postman
walked away without a word. Samantha walked back inside, closing the door,
behind her, went to her bedroom and opened the letter slowly, while sitting
down on her bed. She began reading.
Dear
Samantha Templeton,
Thank-you
for contacting us! First of all, be assured that you are not crazy and that we
do exist. We, The Council of Interfering Narrators, would be pleased to help
you in any manner possible and are exceptionally aware of your financial
predicament.
Our
longstanding policy with a character’s financial matters has undergone changes
over the years. It is no longer acceptable to use the “death of a loved one”
trope to solve financial troubles. Nor is it acceptable for a mysterious
stranger to come along with an envelope of money. You do not know anyone who has
a drug trade, neither do you have ways of gaining money by illicit means. This
is simply not that type of story.
All
we can say is wait and your financial crisis shall be absolved. All of us at
The Council of Interfering Narrators would like to wish you well and a happily
ever after.
Sincerely,
The
prestigious secretary of narration affairs
Upon
finishing reading the letter, Samantha sighed and took a nap.
Jack was sitting in a dentist chair.
How he was going to pay he didn’t know. All he knew was that at a whim he went
in to their office and found that there was an opening at the present time. There
was not a great deal to look at on the wall, so he found himself looking at the
various torturous tools at the dentist’s disposal. Jack wasn’t even sure with
all these tools and any method available that his old picket fence teeth would
be fixable. Certainly he would need orthodontics. This would make the economic
outlook just that much more bleak. Just then, he gave a defiant glare at the
ceiling as though some maligning narrator was audibly causing him grief. It was
then that the dentist walked in. “Hello!” He greeted in a remarkably
pretentious jovial manner.
Wait;
Hold on just a moment. I just received a letter from the Council of Interfering
Narrators.
It
says:
Dear
Author/Narrator,
Thank-you
for your continued work on this story. It is an exceptional story with
harrowing circumstances.
We
have been reviewing the last paragraph and it has fallen short of our
expectations. It is not in accordance with our policies.
1.
Section A 56.7 A character may
not be placed in a situation where he or she is unable to pay within his or her
means if they are in full knowledge of there inability of doing so and walking
into said situation.
2.
Section A 56.9 If a situation
is remedial for the cause of the character, a sufficient explanation must be
given for sudden means of payment of the aforementioned situation. (See our
manual for Acceptable Tropes: Finding
Money)
Thank-you for your
attention in this matter!
Sincerely,
Rose Parcemthin
Chief of the Department
of Author affairs
Very
well, I have amended that last paragraph. Here is the new one.
Jack was fussing over his appearance. He had tucked in his shirt,
cleaned up his beard, and tied back his hair. He even practiced smiling.
Although it often faltered once it revealed his awkward teeth. He had typed out
a resume, which was short. But Jack maintained a fragile hope of getting a job.
He was not even quite certain where to look or what he even wanted to do. Every
career choice seemed ambivalent. Would he have to give up on his dreams of
becoming an author? He had mailed a publishing company 5 weeks ago and there
was still no answer from them. No matter,
he thought. He would first get a real job and maybe even a haircut. And so,
with one more stare into the mirror, Jack walked downstairs and out onto the
sidewalk. He had taken no more than one step before a group of stringy armed
hippies surrounded him.
“You have to come with
us dude” said one that was wearing purple-tinted tea shades.
“Why…why would I come
with you?” said Jack awkwardly.
“Because we’ve got to
show you the light dude” said another sporting a vivid purple bandana.
“You’re behind on
payments, aren’t you Jack?” Jack spun around. Standing before was much younger
and stockier man with long straight hair and austere complexion.
“How do you know my
name?”
“We know a lot of
things Jack. Aren’t you curious as to the odd things that have been happening
in the last 24 hours?
“Yeees…but.”
“You see this wad of
cash? The man asked while fanning a thick bundle of bills. Jack nodded.
“We have money. In fact,
your rent is already taken care of.”
“Okay” Jack assented.
The young man nodded, and they guided him down an alley.
A half hour later, Samantha was at Jack’s door. She knocked on his
door several times, waiting several minutes in between. Eventually she gave in
and fumbled through her bunch of keys and found the one for Jack’s place. Upon
walking in, was an odd thing. Standing in the middle of the entry way was a small
round table. Upon it was a small but surmountable stack of bills and a note in
front. It read:
"For
the months of rent and a bit extra."
Samantha stood for a few minutes
extraordinarily flummoxed, and her mouth agape. In fact, if it weren’t for the
author causing a book to drop and land with a loud bang, she would have stood
there indefinitely. So, after she sorted herself out. She picked up one of the
stacks which easily amounted to 500 or more dollars and dropped it into her
purse. Looking up, she noticed that the floor was clean. Gaining even more
curiosity, she wandered upstairs and looked into the bathroom. The first thing
she noticed was how the bathroom was far cleaner than when she initially rented
the place. The second thing she noticed was a folded piece of paper resting on
the left edge of the sink. Upon unfolding the paper, she gasped. She was not
the only person addressed by this “Council of Interfering Narrators”. However,
she was uncertain as to whether this was a great comfort or that this held
perhaps an unsettling implication that was just evading her understanding.
Another stream of thoughts came to her. How had Jack come up with that amount
of money? And where is he?
The only significant source light in
the basement was a dim incandescent dangling by its wires. Jack could make out
an assortment of odd equipment for extraordinarily dubious purposes.
