Another completed story

The Prophet: A Day Remembered

A short short story written by Cory Kutschker


Wild paroxysms of panic throttled hearts, the evening before that day.  A general anxiety and odd palpitations bled out into the populations. Their children whimpered, wailed and cried into the wee hours of night. Street folk were riled and spoke stranger than before, obscure dialects found in equally obscure corners of the world. The unending droning of phones rang out across the emergency services and for the most part went unanswered. From this all was exhausted into an anguish and despair.
It was strange, however, that there were some of the population in which existed an unbridled jubilation.
In the early morning a silence overcame the globe. In the wilds there were no night calls of birds, or even the chirping of crickets or growl of nocturnal beasts. In the locales that already observed light and were into their day or perhaps just entering into evening, they also saw no activity. There was no cacophony of car horns or the loud baying of dogs or even the joyous laughter of children on the playground. The swing sets lay still making no squeaks and any cars were parked and silent, not an engine running. There was not even the light fluttering of a breeze dragging a newspaper along the pavement of the empty street. All that made noise drew still, as though in some anticipation.  Then came the noise. It was not earthly by any means, but every man distinguished it as a distant whine until it grew to a vociferous and monotonous din of a deep horn being sounded.
In the dawn, instead of the sun, he came, the effulgent terror. What words I have for that day are not enough, but it was as though the sky boiled and peeled. It scraped from the black folds, exposing us to the gloom, the monstrous and yawning cosmos, still and black, oddly giving little light from the stars. Every eye grew mad by that great blackness spread over and around them. The arbitrator was inattentive to the long pleas wailing from mouths and lungs being starved of oxygen. Caves were lined with nail marks as asylum seekers were withdrawn into his gaze wherein they wilted onto their knees in deluges of tears. All the 'scapes of the earth were tilled and plained as he walked with eyes aflame.
He had an odd effect upon the earth, for every step of his would command a most verdant growth of grass to spring forth from the ground. Long dead plants would regain vigor and limp trees emboldened their trunks as pillars. Queer shadows grew long and challenged with hissing maws but were easily slain by him as they were cast into that abyss that seethed and rolled over itself, hungry for more.
A city had descended, magnificent and radiant enclosed by four walls equidistant.
What of the jubilant you ask? The four walls were built for them. But outside, There were long lines as the gavel was swung making hard rapping terminations as they took the long walk into that same abysmal mouth, licking over them. There they remained writhing, tortured and screaming back through the eons, coming under my ink.

Another Teaser

still trying to think of a title for this one and trying to avoid cheddar at camp (cheesy and or campy)


Wild paroxysms of panic throttled hearts, the evening before that day.  A general anxiety and odd palpitations bled out into the populations. Their children whimpered, wailed and cried into the wee hours of night. Street folk were riled and spoke stranger than before, obscure dialects found in equally obscure corners of the world. The unending droning of phones rang out across the emergency services and for the most part went unanswered. From this all was exhausted into an anguish and despair.
It was strange, however, that there were some of the population in which existed an unbridled jubilation.

A Completed Story

A Night In The Swamp

A Short Story by Cory Kutschker

The rowboat creaked as my paddles slapped the water. I had an unease as the moonlight gleamed off the water and partially illuminated the cypresses on either side of me. There were deep shadows in the midst, hiding a world from me and it was the hidden that I feared. For even though I had an oil lamp there rigged to a post at the bow, much of this world was still black, murmuring and whispering of odd and ill boding secrets. Small relief was given by the flitting small clouds of fireflies. Yet my mind escaped to necro worlds of grotesque and lurking phantasms and to hideous beasts that science balks at.

War planes were rumoured to have crashed in those placid and thick waters. I can well imagine them half sunk with creepers draped over their wings. The cockpit mostly sunk there concealing the bullet ridden corpse. The gunner possibly ejected or half draped out of its doors with ragged clothing, his flesh being picked at by the various carrion eaters. A raven very well sat upon the tail perched comfortably with an eyeball in its beak when the commotion quieted and the flesh was still ripe.

Wild folk made their home there. Odd little shacks are set out on the river's edge. It's keepers made queer practices of some voodoo or maybe some unknown or long forgotten variant of witchcraft. I had business at the swamps middle, a package that needed delivery.

“8/17/2014 Follow the river to the middle of the swamp. Signed, Gregory.” he had written it last weekend on a severely rumpled bit of paper. A young boy had delivered it.

Much earlier we had arranged the contents of the package. While I strongly objected to its manner of business, he insisted and paid me several dollars to never mind. I, in haste returned this sum to him as preservation of my dignity. All this honour I kept, even though I needed the money for the repair of my motor. And in return I urged him saying, “I will do this once, but let this be the last of this sort of content!” He agreed shortly after, in a curt nod. 

The journey there was no less queer in its tenor. Before my departing, at the bank of the river, an odd and malnourished, elderly man stooped, leaning heavily upon a hand crafted cane.

“Going to the swamps?” He queried in a dry murmur. I nodded, throwing the oars into the boat.

“Keep your sights straight.” He said, nearing a whisper. I stepped in and set the oars onto the crutches.

I looked back towards the elderly man, gone. On I paddled into the forest of cypresses, the black congealing in front of me. I knew not what set its eyes upon me beyond the folds, but it was as though I were proceeding through the world’s most primal grottoes and dimensional shifts that warped the air in front. Otherworldly ‘scapes passed as I continued paddling, rippling a mirror that knew more than I did. A rotting stench emanated from the accursed object in the box beside me. I had slowly approached a small series of squalid shacks on the riverbank. I could see into some of them, matching my sight with obscure decorations on their walls. Odd tribal markings were engraved into doors and the frames were adorned with a vast array of queer, small objects such as bones and teeth, some of these being fangs from the beasts and slithering things to be found in the swamp. Some windows were covered over what looked like ragged remains of skins and some others with great sheets or blankets. Some had tears, as though telling a story of forceful entry by a thing with claws. I finally came upon Gregory’s shack and docked the boat. I stood before that dilapidated shack with no less than a tremulous edge upon my heart and lungs, choking every breath and palpitating the circulating beats. Red and yellow slithered past my right foot, a thing that could kill a fellow. I knocked on the door and just as quickly as I knocked, it swung open. And there filling the frame stood Gregory smiling. “Come in, come in!” He ushered with his hand. I walked in noticing an odd stifling thickness about the room, an odd atmosphere that hung on every inch of my body making it feel slow and lethargic. “An uneventful journey I trust?” He queried with his head tilted to the side and his eyes drawn to the box under my arm. I nodded as he queried again, “Is that it?” I nodded and handed the box to him. At which he spared no time in opening and withdrawing that odious thing. “The candle of Abdul Alhazred! Finally!” He smiled with ardour at the object in his hands. “Tell me, was it difficult to obtain?” “Yes, actually it was and took a great deal of bribing and outsourcing to get it, never mind the final price the owner wanted for it.” “How much?” “$10,000” “That briefcase over there has more than enough to cover for it and thank-you for your years of service of retrieval of objects for me.” He said as he motioned to the briefcase in the corner. “And now I am certain that you will want a demonstration?" Ignoring any attempt of an answer, he therein produced a lighter from his pocket and lit the candle. After this he proceeded to roll up a carpet that was placed in the center of his floor revealing an engraved circle with odd markings belonging to alchemy. Then taking the candle he slowly poured the black molten wax into the engraved circle and placed a small pool of it in the center where there was a seeming indentation, perhaps to mark the center. A disturbing change took over that small puddle as it slowly grew in circumference to meet the rim. Upon fulfillment, there was a noticeable rotation in the the large mass of black wax.  And then it stopped and became as a crude black tar and then flattened out as though becoming a dark seething hole leading to oblivion. I peered into that blackness to see a kind of writhing in the depths. Contemptuous creatures moved in the darkness breathing out dark insults, snickering, giggling and querying and prying for my secrets. Outside, a kind of fervor erupted from the creatures. Everything that scuttled on the branches, flapping things and those that slither were all letting out a blasted cacophony as though having a knowledge or some dread of the ill manner that bled from the pores of this shack.

I left the money. No time.

I went to the boat and started paddling giving each oar a distinct draw as I began my frenzied return. The blackness behind me seemed to boil and there was a murmuring and that same impish giggling that I heard from that awful hole. But through the fervor there was also a distinct sense of support as though I were being given an extra dose of strength to maintain the pace down the river. What was that? Doesn't matter, keep rowing. And so onward I go paddling through the wee hours until dawn, meeting the risen sun. 

A Teaser-Bon Appétit

Bon Appétit

A Short Story by Cory Kutschker


"May I take your order Monsieur?" Asked the French waiter. "Yes, yes, I was curious about the difference between the mermaid and merman?" Replied the customer at table three. "Ah, I see, it is mmm as you say in America, the difference between dark meat and white meat. The mermaid is more tender and moist, you see, and the merman is a little more tough and dry. The mermaid is served with our finest hollandaise sauce and a light biscuit on the side. The merman is marinated and topped with our most succulent gravy and a side of cranberries. They are both, I am told, in flavor, a blend between seafood and fowl. Also, you may choose a vegetable to go with this. We offer steamed green beans, a smattering of California vegetables, or our fantastic julienne carrots. "Hmm, I will take the mermaid. And for a vegetable I believe I will have...hmm... the julienne carrots." "Excellent choice monsieur! And what will you have for a beverage?" "Do you have a list of spirits?" "Oui Monsieur, it is next to the wine list." "And what would you recommend?" "Ah Monsieur, I recommend the poltergeist. It has a definite froth and bubbles in your mouth." "Alright, sounds good."  "And for you Madame?" "I think I will have the leg of satyr and with it I shall have green beans." "Excellent choice Madame. And a beverage?" "A Sprite please?" "Certainly Madame, and now Monsieur et Madame please enjoy the complimentary bread.
"Monsieur, may I take your order?" "Yes, I will have the Minotaur prime rib, medium rare please. And I will take that with the garlic mashed potatoes. And to drink I will have the essence of phoenix." "Ah Monsieur, I will process your order absolutamente!"

A Void

A Six-word story. These are prevalent in some literary circles.

“What’s in his chest cavity?”…Nothing.

A Fragment

Incomplete, that is all I can say and yet it is a vision that needs to be furthered. Ever listen to "Signs of life" by Pink Floyd? This story exudes from a childhood being set at an unease by the song. But I hope to repurpose that unease for another direction.

Nights In The Swamp

A Short Story by Cory Kutschker

The rowboat creaks as my paddles slap the water. I have an unease as the moonlight gleams off the water and partially illuminates the cypresses on either side of me. There are deep shadows in the midst, hiding a world from me and it is the hidden that I fear. For even though I have an oil lamp there rigged to a post at the bow, much of this world is still black, murmuring and whispering of odd and ill boding secrets. Small relief is given by the flitting small clouds of fireflies. Yet my mind escapes to necro-worlds of grotesque and lurking phantasms and to hideous beasts that science balks at.

War planes were rumored to have crashed in these placid and thick waters. I can well imagine them half sunk with creepers draped over their wings. The cockpit mostly sunk there concealing the corpse of his bullet ridden corpse. The gunner possibly ejected or half draped out of its doors with ragged clothing, his flesh being picked at by the various carrion eaters. A raven very well sat upon the tail perched comfortably with an eyeball in its beak.

Wild folk make their home here. Odd little shacks are set out on the river's edge. It's keepers made queer practices of some voodoo or maybe some unknown or long forgotten variant of witchcraft. I had business at the swamps edge, a package that needed delivery.

A Clarification

        In my opening post entitled, Purpose And Genre, I regarded my work to be entered in the horror genre. While this is mostly true, I personally would like to clarify that it may not always be distinctly horror. In fact now that I investigate, only select few of my stories may truly be defined as horror and the rest merely suspense. Also it is quite obvious that the dessert was not horror but science fiction and comedy, in its more modern definition.

    I also want to clarify that I much prefer to receive comments regarding my work rather than blank space. But the rules still apply. As well I request that you give detail. Two line responses are remarkably frustrating and gives little to a writer for understanding where he stands well.

Thank-you,

This has been a private service announcement from the desk of Cory Kutschker.