Wednesday, September 28, 2011


By Jenny Catlin

He always put their socks back on. He found it troubling where they wore stockings, obscene and frustrating. He didn’t read the newspapers but would pass by their front pages at the bus stop sometimes. Those were the photos they favored, a well lit canvas of feet in clean socks. He was proud that he left them with dignity, imagined his father looking down at him and smiling.

He was a quiet man, respectful and kind to those around him. He had clocked in religiously five days a week at the same job for nearly twenty years, mixing paint and matching colors. It never bothered him that people thought him a dullard. He knew that he understood things that they did not. Things about the rapture, about peace. About the vulgarity of sockless feet.

He never bothered with any further clean up. He took precautions to leave no trace of hair or flesh. Fingerprints. Nor did he study the art of others. Each a private gift to be shared with the world in anonymously.

He was glad to perform his own humble work.

Copyright ©2011 Jenny Catlin. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.



Jenny Catlin is a writer from Colorado. She operates and can usually be found on any of the dream streets of the Southwest.


  1. Very creepy, yet probably so true of serial killers. "He kept to himself." "Quiet." "A little odd."

    Loved it.

  2. That was an awesome story. Worth the read.