The Storykiller

A piece for the STSC Symposium on Spring Cleaning

If you’ve been here a while, then you know that I am part of a club called the

Soaring Twenties

Social Club, or just STSC. We are a haphazard group of writers, readers, artists, filmmakers, and homesteaders of varying ages across international borders. Each month, we all create around a theme, and this month’s theme is Spring Cleaning, with a clear directive to publish, or rather dust off, an old draft or unpublished piece. Or maybe the directive was to finish an old draft. I’m not sure, but I’d lamented that I’m not one to keep drafts or to leave tales unpublished, so I figured I’d have nothing to offer this month. And then I remembered. . . .

I used to write on a blog called Kids Playing Dodgeball With Beets with two other friends. I’m not even sure if the link above is public or if only I can see it. And while the piece below was technically posted on our blog in February of 2012, I don’t think anyone ever saw the blog but us. So I’m dusting off this ol’ diddy and using it as my contribution to Spring Cleaning because it has been stored too long in the metaphorical junk drawer, or more likely the attic, and it so very well fits the theme of Spring Cleaning for writers everywhere. In thirteen years, my writing seems to have changed as much as me, which depending on the day could be entirely or not at all.

Please enjoy The Story Killer from 2012.

The Story Killer

Jonathan shook the rain from his coat. The receptionist waited. “I’m here to have my stories killed,” he said while drying his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Alright. How many?” Her voice fit her body; light, delicate, yet a little sad.

“Three.”

“Ok, have a seat. It shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

He bounced his knees in anticpation of removing a burden.

“OK. The Story Killer will see you now.” Jonathan grabbed his portfolio and followed close behind the receptionist, excited to be free.

The small office was wallpapered with decorative bamboo that peeled from the corners and the seams. The air smelled of ink and fire. “What can I help you with today?” The Story Killer swiveled his chair from the window to Jonathan.

“I need you to kill these stories.” He plopped a pile of papers on the Story Killer's desk.

“First, sit, and tell me your name.”

Jonathan’s face turned red with embarrassment. He was so eager to have the deed done that he dispensed of his usual polite demeanor.

“Sorry. Jonathan. My name is Jonathan.”

“Ok good. Now tell me why you want these stories killed.”

Jonathan inhaled deeply, “I can’t get rid of them and I can’t write them properly. They are boils on my flesh. They burn. They won’t die on their own. I’ve abandoned them, hoping that they’d dry up and fly away. But they show up in my dreams. I’ve tried to finish them, and kill them that way, but the end result is so embarrassing that they just live – deformed stories – to mock me! And I . .”

The Story Killer interrupted him, “Jonathan. Please dispense of the florid writerly manner of speaking and just tell me, in plain terms, why you want me to murder your stories.”

“I hate the way I write and these stories are just a reminder of how poorly I am doing at what I love.”

“Better. Well then, let’s shoot these stories in their metaphorical heads.”

Jonathan stood up and started to rifle through the pages on the desk.

“No, sit. You must first tell me about the stories. Don’t read them to me, just give me a gist of the plot lines and the characters. I need to know something so that I can know how to kill it.

Jonathan slumped. He didn’t want to revisit his work, he wanted it dead and out of his memory.

“I will start with the most recent story. It’s called Personal Groomer. It’s about a secret profession of personal groomers used only by the wealthy elite. The groomers are both men and women. They groom people using teeth and tongues. If someone needs a haircut, the personal groomer will nibble for hours at the end of the strands of hair. Or if toenails are in need of trimming, then the groomer will first suck on the toe to moisten the nail before chewing it down to the quick. There’s nothing sexual about it, it’s just a job.”

Jonathan stopped and stared at the Story Killer.

“And what is the point of the story? The plot? Is there any conflict?”

“Um, well it’s more of an anthropological take on the class system.”

The Story Killer raised an eye, “I don’t know if this story needs killing so much as revising. Think on this one a little longer. Develop your characters. Maybe there’s a revolution? Maybe the groomers evolve so that their fingers are sheers and teeth are clippers. No matter, this is up to you. But you have many more mistakes to make with this story before it deserves to die. What’s the second one?”

Jonathan was antsy. He wanted nothing to do with the stories anymore. But he was sure this one would be killed. “It’s a gaslighting story about two roommates called It was the Sound that Tasted Different”. One roommate reads a research study about the effect of sound. Sombre low pitched sounds cause people to think toffee tastes bitter. But when the same toffee is eaten to the sound of high pitched piano music, the people believe the toffee is sweet and delightful. The roommate who reads this is passive aggressive and wants to be rid of his roommate, but he doesn't want conflict. The other roommate, Dave, has a history of depression. So Jake plays somber low pitched music, in the hopes that Dave’s mood will change and he will have to move out. Jake wants Dave to think the cereal tastes like cardboard, or that his girlfriend’s pussy tastes like garlic. To combat the effect on himself, Jake wears headphones constantly. Dave eventually does move out, but not because he’s sad, because he’s healthy and adjusted and realizes that Jake is not healthy or well adjusted. Jake is alone in his apartment. He is lonely. his headphones are still on. He keeps them on until he gets on the bus. Jake takes the headphones off and hears the happiness.”

“Is that the end?” the Story Killer asks politely, confused.

“Yes.”

“That story isn’t read to die yet either. It’s just confused. You have no pacing. There's no character development. You haven't spent enough time on it."

Jonathan was getting anxious; nearly irate.

“I hate these stories. I hate writing poorly. I don’t think I can take it anymore. I lay in bed at night and think about how bad I am at this, and then I lay in bed in the morning and wonder if I will ever improve."

The Story Killer interrupted, “Maybe instead of doing all that thinking, you should do some writing. I’m not saying these stories don’t deserve a violent death. I’m just saying now isn’t their time to die. Tell me the last story."

Jonathan relaxed. He crossed his legs and leaned his head back and told the story with closed eyes. “This story is called Postcard. It’s the story of a bored, burned out artist. He can’t find inspiration in landscapes or women any longer. He receives a postcard from a friend in Paris and becomes obsessed with painting the face of the woman on the postcard. He paints her everyday and begins to kiss the canvas. The obsession leads him to Paris so he can find the woman who modeled for the postcard. The artist meets a woman on the plane and she accompanies him on his search. What they find is that the picture isn't of a real woman, it’s a photoshopped alteration of a death mask of a woman born a century earlier. The artist realizes that inspiration isn’t in a face or a place; it’s within him. He buys the death mask and goes home to paint."

Jonathan opened his eyes, expecting the Story Killer to refuse the death request.

“That story deserves a good death.”

Jonathan smiled, but he felt slightly offended too.

The Story Killer stroked his chin and peered out the window. “Yes. Yes. How should this story die?”

“Do they die in different ways?” Jonathan asked.

“Surely. Each story is different and so deserves, needs rather, a different ending. Just this morning I ate an entire 15 page short story. But this one will crash and burn.”

He started to fold the pages of the postcard story into paper airplanes and directed Jonathan to do the same. They carried a box full of paper airplanes to the top of the building. The Story Killer sprinkled each plane with lighter fluid and then lit them on fire as he tossed them off the ledge. His face was calm and focused.

Jonathan watched as each airplane burst and then turned to ash. Each word and phrase, now unremembered, went careening away from him. An inherent urge made him grasp for the last ariplane, but the Story Killer said, firmly, “No. This story is dead. It will not revisit you and you will not revisit it. Now leave. Go home and work on the other ones. You will either mangle them or make them whole."

Jonathan was dejected. He didn't feel any better. He slumped towards the door when the Story Killer said, "Jonathan, keep writing. That's the only way to keep from seeing me again."