Vascular Dementia + Horny Toad in a Shoe Box

A note from the author:

This is the first motif suggestion I've taken. It came to me from a friend who's mother was just diagnosed, which added a weight to the motif that I wanted to treat respectfully, yet then she threw in 'Horny Toad in a Shoe Box'. So I thought maybe she needed/wanted some cheering up about it and considered doing a Memento style "Why am I here in this situation?" thing, but that didn't quite fit, then I considered going total bonkers and tried to imagine a hero who uses dementia to fight crime... somehow.

I lived with my grandpa (when he was in the earlier stages of his dementia) for a year and a half, and decided to draw heavily on that experience. So this in honor of my friend, and also my Grandpa.

     Writhing on the floor of the jungle in pain, Arnold--I mean-- Major Alan Schaefer, yells to his surviving team member, "Ruuuun, Get to the Choppa!" I can't help but laugh and sink deeper into the couch. Thanks to the bit Schwarzenegger did on Jimmy Kimmel last night, I've been inspired to re-watch The Predator, but I don't get much further into the flick as I hear the door open behind me. I pause it. Spinning the band around my finger I wait for her to ask the question, "what'cha watchin'?"

     She surprises me with a different question. "Is that Collateral Damage?" I love it when she surprises me. I turn around and peak over the edge of the couch. With my hands on both sides of my mouth like... what do you call those things? not a proboscis... mandibles! I waggle my fingers at her like mandibles and make a growling/clicking noise.

     "Predator?!" she guesses again, setting the bags on the kitchen island. "Get to the choppa!" she yells, sounding more like Billy Crystal doing Fernando, but I smile anyway.

     She sits down beside me and asks, "How's your Dad?"

     "Dad's dad," I shrug. "We went shopping for shoes, and then I took him to Friendly's."

     "Gross."

     I nod. "I think the food tastes better to him knowing that he's getting free ice cream  afterward."

     "Do they still call it a happy ending?" she chuckles.

     "Yes. You want to hear something funny?"

     "Yes."

     "I told you that he's been having trouble lacing up his shoes?"

     "Yeah... this doesn't sound like a funny story."

     "Just stay with me for a bit."

     "Sorry. Yes, you've mentioned he can't tie his shoes anymore."

     "Never mind tying his shoes, bending over is too hard. So he's been walking around with them untied. I took him to the Payless at the mall and it takes us like an hour to walk from where we parked to the store." She gives me this look, "Okay, so maybe this story is a little funny, and a little blow-off-steamy. We finally get to the store and he looks down at his feet and says, "I don't need new shoes, this are brand new!'"

     "His shoes are no longer white. They're barely even gray, the laces are all frayed and it looks like he's run over them with the car, or used them to clean-up decking stain. They've got so support and he's been telling me how he needs new shoes. Now suddenly they're band new?"

#

     There's nothing more pleasing than a new pair of sneakers. They were red, and they were new. This was the first pair that hadn't come with torn-out eyelets, unfamiliar stains, laces with impossible to untie knots, worn out soles, or already smelling like one of my five brother's rancid feet. When I slipped those sneakers on I felt like a million dollars. I felt an energy like lightning coursing up through my legs. I wanted to take them running.  I wanted the biggest, widest stretch of open desert to take those sneakers up to speed and run down the warm Texas wind.

     "Keep those shoes clean now," my mother threatened though the peril and consequences went entirely unspoken.

     "I will," I called through the screen door as it crashed shut behind me. The grand leap off the porch carried me out a hundred feet, and I landed in an impressive cloud of dust. Not waiting for it to settle I took off.

#

      So as we're walking down one aisle he reaches out to this pair of black leather dance shoes and just kind of knocks them off the rack. I thought he was falling and trying to catch himself at first, but he just goes, "Oop," like he does, and slowly starts bending, teetering over to pick them up. Of course I grab them for him, and put them back on the rack.

     "Remember when we used to go out dancing?" he asks me.

     "We've never gone dancing."

     "Oh sure," he says, "After school we'd drive to that place... with the..." he spent a long time tying to remember, "In Austin. Come on Louis, you remember. What was that place."

Louis is his older brother by five years, my uncle. He died of a heart attack eight years ago, but I don't remind him of that. "Dad, we've never gone dancing."

     "Well, we should get those shoes just in case. I mean you wouldn't believe the girls at this place."

     "They don't have a pair in your size."

     "Ask that girl. That girl, you know, the brown one up at the... up front."

The brown girl? I debate whether it's worth it trying to explain to him that this is a bargain store and there are no shoes out back. He tries a few more times to convince me to buy them, I mean they are a good deal for pretty swank looking shoes, and the fact that they won't fit him doesn't deter him in the least.

     "I'll give them to my boy,"

     "You mean me? They won't fit me. Come on, let's go ask the saleswoman if they've got something that'll fit you." He agrees and we leave the dance shoes behind. By the end of the aisle he's forgotten all about them.

#

     Smiling, anticipating the funny part, she asks, "Did you end up finding some that fit him?"

     You should have seen the look on his face when he put on that pair of beige, velcro sneakers. He did this funny hop like he was playing basketball or something, he very nearly fell over, but then took off, motoring around the store without his cane. Moving his arms like he was running. He scared me half to death, but then I saw the look on his face. He looked like a little kid. So pleased with himself.

     "Dad slow down, you're going to--"

     "Oop!" he called out as he tripped over an invisible something, and started pitching forward. I would have yelled but I was choking on my heart as it leapt up my throat. At the last second he caught himself, and I could see enough fear on his face that I couldn't bear reprimanding him. I hate it when he surprises me like that.

      "You see that?" he asked.

     "Yeah, that was close." I tried to hand him his cane.

     He knocked it away, and pointed at his feet. "There are good shoes. I'm going to catch the wind."

     "We have to buy them first." I handed him the shoebox with his old shoes inside.  "Speaking of catching something if we hurry we can catch the afternoon matinee."

     "Oh? Did you ever see that show where the guy..." he couldn't think of the word and tried a different approach. "It's those people on the..."

     My wife could begin a sentence this way and I would somehow know exactly what she was talking about, but I'm still trying to learn they way Dad's brain works... or doesn't. Finally he say the key word, "boat".

     "Titanic?"

     "Yeah, with Leonardo Dicaprio."  Really Dad? You remember 'Leonardo Dicaprio', but you can't remember, 'boat'?

     "Yeah, Dad I've seen it. I put that on DVD for you. Remember?" I remember the hour long walk to the shoe store and decide we aren't going to make it for the opening scene. "Never mind about the movie, I'll take you to Friendly's"

     Eventually, we get up to the counter where the saleswoman is smiling politely waiting for us. She says her thing, 'did you find what you're looking for whatever,'  and Dad looks down, admiring his shoes and says, "You're a good worker."  I don't know if this is one of those, 'Everyone was racist in the 50's / the Japs are the enemy' moments, or if he's just confused. This look of terror crosses this poor saleswoman's face, and looks to me for help, but before I can say anything she just says, "Thank you."

     He points to the new pair of shoes he's wearing, "Good job, getting the blood out. If Pa saw those... marks (I'm pretty sure he meant stains), he'd give me the strap."

     "The... s-strap?" she looks to me again and I shrug.

     Dad laughs and says, "But I caught that little son-of-a-bitch. You want to see it?" Being careful to hold it level and not knock it about too much, he sets the shoe box on the counter.

     "I'm sorry. My Dad's had a series of mini strokes and it's reduced the blood flow to his brain, it's called vascular dementia. He's harmless, just a little confused.

#

     "By restricting the blood flow leaving their heads, the pressure builds up and ruptures a blood vessel in their eyes, allowing them to... Oh my goodness, it says that they can aim the blood stream at predators and squirt it up to five feet away. This book says it's called an autohemorrhage defense mechanism."

     "Well I knew that already," I said. "Well, not the auto-h-marriage thing, but look." Bending my leg and balancing on one foot so I could place my shoe on the librarian's desk, I showed her the dark red stain on new red shoes.

     The lady at the reference desk, nodded. "That's nothing a toothbrush and a little spit won't take out."

     Just then the shoe box upended and my captive specimen a fine Phrynosoma cornutum escaped. Leaping off the reference desk and pausing, dazed on the floor. Just as I reached out for it, it puffed itself up and got all spiky, and truth be told it startled me. Before I could gather myself it darted off between the stacks before I could get my hands around it.

#

     "What did he think was in the box?"

     "No idea. Anyway, the next thing I know he's invited the saleswomen to come to Friendly's with us.      She's trying to be kind and explain that she needs to work, to which he puffs out his chest and says, 'Oh? You don't need to work, I'll take good care of you.'"

     My wife smiles at the story and kisses me sweetly on the cheek. "You know... you don't need to explain it to everyone."

     "You should have seen the look on her face." I thought back to the moment, and remembered that she was actually smiling and being polite. She knew exactly what was going on. I was the horrified one. "I know... I guess maybe I'm explaining it to myself. You know? It's my Dad.  I've depended on him for so much. He's been there for me my whole life. Now half the time he's somewhere else in his mind, and I can't even count on him to remember my name."

     I could feel the frog crawling up my throat and I knew if I looked at her I was going to lose it. "So that's my funny story about my day with Dad."

Snow Plows + Mail Carriers

A light snow had been falling against the windshield of the black F350 Super Duty for the list few hours. The four travelers were headed north on back roads with their heat blasting and their windows open, searching for a cabin somewhere in Vermont.

            The driver spoke, "Where I'm taking you, you must promise to never return."

            A young buck in the back said, "You kidding me? I couldn't find this place again if you gave me an address and a smartphone."

            "All that proves is you don't know how to use your phone," said a red-bearded man who sat in the backseat across from the speaker.

            The F350 slowed at a driveway that was immaculately plowed in spite of the snow, but there was no mailbox to indicate a number. No, there. As the headlights swept across the woods when the truck turned onto the drive, there, about 3 feet back from the road, was a rusty grey box that had been the target of mailbox baseball so many times I doubt it would even open.

            The door to the cabin opened as the forth door of the F350 slammed shut. Standing on the porch was a man with a long grey beard pointing a shot gun, lazily in their direction.

            "Oh shit," said one of the passengers, "What'd you get us into Rig?"

            "Keep your mouth shut Barry and you might just live through this," the driver said, then called up to the porch, "You going to kill us old man?"

            The shot-gunner's beard waggled as he spoke. "Not unless I confused the buckshot and the rock salt again."

            "Let us in Mister Henderson, we won't stay long. Can't. Not with snow falling like this. Me and my guys gotta get back to Worcester county before we get the call. You still remember what it's like wondering if it's better to go to sleep or just stay up waiting for the call? I know we're gonna be out there until seven am. Snow like this, people gonna wanna ski, if the state don't call us Wachusettes will."

            "Shit." The shotgun lowered, "I knew you'd be coming one of these days. I knew I should've moved to Maine."

            There were no lights in the small two-room cabin, save the glow that came from the

fireplace. Above the mantle was a glass case containing a football signed by Matt Cavanaugh of the '82 New England Patriots. By the time Henderson had finished hanging the gun up above the door, three of the four visitors had positioned themselves in chairs around the fire.

            "Whaddya want Ron?" Henderson asked.

            "Oh, shit, you're name's Ron?" said the youngest of the crew. Turning to Henderson he said, "We all call him Big Rig 'cause he drives the dump truck. He can clear a whole lane, including the shoulder going fifty-five, practically in his sleep."

            "Respect your elders boy, who do you think taught him how to plow in his sleep?"

            "I'm guessing you?"

            "You're goddamn right! Now," he said turning back to Ron, "Ask me what you came here to ask."

            Rig/Ron the driver of the F350 cleared his throat, "We..."

            "Goddamnit Ron I'm retired. The day I got my last check Betsy made me promise not to plow a road other than my own driveway."

            "Just hear me out mister Henderson. It isn't just me that needs you, your county needs you."

Henderson pointed toward the door, "It's not my county anymore! I made a promise!" he yelled with fire in his eyes.

            "Haven't you been listening Mark Henderson?" Yelled a voice from the other side of the cabin, and out of the bedroom walked a slim woman in a tight fitting satin nightgown. Her grey hair was cut short like a man's and showed of the length of her neck. Her face looked like a combination between Jamie lee Curtis and Sigourney Weaver. "To hell with your promise; these boys need your help."

            Henderson sighed, "Boys, this is Betsy. Go ahead and introduce yourselves."

            As each introduced themselves in turn Betsy approached them and shook each of their hands. A red-bearded man in his mid-forties came first, he tipped his John Deer Hat and grinned at her through a grill of tobacco-yellowed teeth. "They call me Sandman. Used to be called The Spreader, but once my reputation got around--"

            "Once your crabs got around!" said the youngest, and Ron slapped back of his head. Betsy approached him next, "Barry," he said taking her hand and kissing the back. "I'm The Blower." He was the youngest of the group but far and away the tallest. Barry played linebacker in highschool, praying someone would scout him, but eventually realized that God wanted him to plow.

            Betsy moved on. "Ron, it's good to see you again."

            "You too Betsy."

            "How's Martha?"

            "Still kicking, I just replaced her rear differential."

            Betsy moved on to the last member of the group, and the only one who kept his distance from the fire. He was wearing navy-blue quilt-lined coveralls with "Mr. Plow" embroidered across the back. "And I suppose you work for Mr. Plow?"

            "No ma'am. I AM Mr. Plow," she shook his hand, clearly impressed. "Our fleet of trucks keep the streets of Worchester county free and clear of snow 365 days of the year."

            "Ron, you've hired outside help. This must be serious," Betsy said.

            "I'm afraid it's the other way around, Mr. Plow is bankrolling this operation," Ron said.

            Henderson pulled up a chair, and sat in the firelight. "Let's not put the salt before the grader boys, tell me the situation."

            Mr. Plow nodded at Ron, so Ron started first. "No secret that plowin's a big business, and Mr. Plow has a fistful of high-end contracts. Few years back he finds a sweet honey that seems to be into him, talks him into buying her a wedding ring, they get married the whole deal. Few weeks back he finds out she's been cheetin' on him with the postmaster. Probably the whole time. Now no one said nothing about pre-meditated, but Henderson you and I both know this war between the plows and the post office wasn't over."

            Barry scratched his head, "How it all start anyway?"

            "No one knows," said Henderson, the fire lighting his face from below. "Some say it was them, deliberately losing important mail, paychecks, bills, and such. Some say it we brought it on ourselves not being more careful about burying-in, or just plan knocking over mailboxes--"

            Barry clenched his fists and shouted, "If it's up to them, they'll keep pushing mailbox guidelines until the boxes are in the middle of the goddamned road! Six to eight, forty-one to forty-five inches my ass! Get some longer arms!"

            "Barry!" Ron hollered, "Behave yourself, or so help me God I will put you back on blowing sidewalks."

            Barry looked down, "Sorry sir."

            Ron continued, "It doesn't matter who started the war, what does matter is that Henderson ended it back in oh-three. Or so we thought. Seems like the mail pushers want some salt in their wounds."

            "Then let's give it to them!" Sandman said.

            "So you want me to come out of retirement over some small town politics?" Henderson said.

            "Haven't you been listening?" Betsy said, bringing a pot of strong coffee and refilling each of their plastic Duckin' travel mugs, "The man's wife is sleeping with the enemy. Probably always was. This may be small town for now, but once word gets out how the P.O. took down Mr. Plow, it's only a matter of time before our mailbox is stuffed tighter than Mary's cooch with catalogs we never asked for."

            Henderson grumbled. "Who's going to take care of my driveway while I'm out causing ruckus with you?" The question went unanswered and Henderson looked in each of their eyes and saw helplessness. "Fine. What's the plan?"

            "That's why we're here," Ron said, "I'm the muscle, Barry's the tech, Sandman's the cleaner, Mr. Plow is the millionaire, obviously. And you're--"

            "I'm the veteran."

            Mr. Plow said, "Mrs. Plow's attorney mailed the divorce paperwork yesterday via registered mail, which means it got delivered to Worchester for processing will be on the road to my house tomorrow. Once that envelope gets to my house it's white-out for Mr. Plows'."

            Henderson stared into Mr. Plows face, "That isn't going to happen, son."

 #

3:28am

Exterior of a fenced-in post office parking lot with five mail trucks covered in snow. Close-up on the gate as some black-gloved hands pick the lock. A wrecker with its lights off slowly backs through the gate, and a team gets out and quickly and systematically changes the tires of each of the mail trucks.

#

7:58am

The postmaster approaches the post office and finds that a small pile of snow has been pushed in front of the gate. He chuckles. "Pathetic," he says, and personally blows the snow out of the way.

#

11:58am

A registered letter addressed to Mr. Plow arrives on a postal worker's desk, they look at it, begin to enter it into the system, and decide to take their lunch break instead.

#

1:00pm

The worker returns from lunch, enters something into the computer and slips the letter into a mailbag. Close-up on the mail bag as it's loaded into a mail truck. The door closes and the engine starts up.

#

3:47pm

From above we watch the mail truck along its route but suddenly the road is covered in snow as if it hadn't been plowed since the night before. The mail truck fishtails, but the driver controls the skid and continues on at a slower, more cautious pace. The camera pulls out, to a bird's eye view and we can see that all of the roads are clear except the mile long section of road where the mail truck is. Half a mile up the road is a line of dump trucks spewing snow out all over the place, and half a mile behind the mail truck is another plow cleaning up the snow. A radio transmission breaks the suspenseful music, "Goddamn it, Barry, you blew it again. You were supposed to put on the worst tires you could find! I guess that's why the call you the Blower!"

            "It's not my fault! Those trucks are driving on treads balder than Bruce Willis! This guy's just a really good driver."

            "Wrong again, Barry, it's a woman!"

            "Cut the chatter Rig 2, I'm sending in the Frost Giant!"

#

4:13pm

Interior of the mail truck looking out. The wipers are smearing salty grit back and forth across the windshield. The driver pulls the washer fluid lever and we see the last few drops sputter out. She curses. The windshield get steadily worse and then, like a ghost ship emerging from the fog we see a huge plow come around the corner straight at her. Realizing she's in the middle of the road she swerves and as the plow passes the windshield is covered in a cresting wave of snow. She hits something and the airbag punches the screen white. Seconds later the sound of another plow coming from behind throws another wave of snow crashing on the mail truck.

#

The mail woman tries to open her door, but can't. She tries the passenger side, but it too is stuck. Just as she's climbing out of the back door, a wrecker comes around the corner, and she flags it down. It stops and Sandman gets out. "Care for a pull?" he asks. "Why don't you come warm up in the cab and I'll see if I can't get you out of this."

Sandman opens a compartment to take out a chain to attach to the mail truck, and inside is a small teenage girl. Sandman checks to make sure the mail woman isn't watching and nods to the girl, "It's all you Maria, go sneak in the back and find that letter."

4D Cinema + Democracy

     A cool spring breeze blew from the west, that smelled fresh, but carried undertones of the shared dumpster behind the Trader Joes. As the setting sun sank below the rolling, periwinkle hills, and the cotton candy clouds on sticks of contrails dissipated into puddles of fluff, the line around the Danford Cineplex stretched longer than the shadow of the gigantic golden arches on the corner of route 30.

Maria wore a Red ApocalEclipse T-shirt with two star-crossed lovers staring longingly into each other's eyes. The characters are both 17, but played by actors well in their twenties. On the back of the shirt it said "Red Army".  When the breeze picked up she unconsciously zippered up her windbreaker, concealing the T-shirt but never taking her eyes off her phone. "The Pollster for the Danford Cineplex says our ending is 56% likely!"

Another watcher, who Maria only knew by his internet handle Eclipse1999 said, "Pollster is contaminated, the Death Campers always vote in our favor to make our lobbyists lazy."

"Maybe, but someone from the group of War Camp watchers at the front of the line keeps tweeting with the hash "tonight's the night"."

The Red Army, the Danford faction of War Camp, was perhaps thirty strong, but there were only eighteen present in Maria's group of watchers. The line itself was around 300 long and every-so-often a pox-marked man in his thirties, in a red Cineplex vest would labor past, clicking a head count and letting everyone past 250 know that there were no tickets for sale, and no guarantee of getting in.

"Well look who it is," said R3dHors3, "Vinnie decided to show up."

Maria looked up to see a fellow Red Army watcher walking toward them, she had never met him before, but felt the instant camaraderie she'd felt with all the Red Army. Vinnie said, "Hey. I'm Vinnie," and though many didn't bother looking up from their phones, the group opened up to welcome him into its mass. "I'm seeing a lot of Death Camp shirts, there must be at least three lobbying the north wall. Don't kill the messenger, but I get the feeling that we should try again on another night, maybe not on a Friday when there are so many Firsties."

"Firsties are our best bet!" said ApocalForever as he came back from lobbying. "Half of them are content to be manipulated by the freaking soundtrack, but the other half are happy to hear what kind of movie they can choose if they vote for the right timeline."

RedArmy1 spoke up. "It's true. Apocal, how many did you get?"

"Twelve."

RedArmy1 nodded, "Nice."

Vinnie seemed unimpressed. "You know how Firsties are, they say yes, but half of them get wrapped up in the movie and forget when it comes down to the timeline choice! Then they try to tell you they voted the other way at the end when you're doling out rewards."

RedArmy1 squared off with him, "Who are you?"

R3dHors3 spoke up and tried to put himself between Red and Vinnie, "This is my friend Vinnie."

RedArmy1 ignored him, "What's your eu-en, Vinnie?"

"I don't have a username, I'm not on your forum, I'm from Newberg. Ryan --sorry-- Red horse said you guys had a chance to see the Red Army ending. I'm here to support, but it looks like you're outnumbered."

RedArmy1 backed down, "Well, thanks for driving all the way out here." He shook his head, "Gaaah, I want to see that ending so bad! I've seen this movie thirty freaking times, and I swear if I see another sappy ending where Pestilence and Famine team up with Gabriel and Death, I will drive-by the director's house!"

"Oh shit!" Maria said, "Twitter just exploded! A group of watchers down in Austin got the Red Army. They didn't spoil it, or give timeline directions, but they keep hashing 'darkest timeline'."

Redleah4, one of other women in the Red Army asked, "What if we vote FOR Death early, maybe there's a timeline vote that could paint the son of Death as a power hungry ass-bag? People will be more likely to route for the underdog later."

          Maria shook her head, but RedArmy1 answered, "We tried that last month."

Redleah4's shoulders slumped, and Maria offered, "Yeah. Remember the timeline where Leah gets in trouble with the gang of Morphine dealers? Within the first week of the ApocalEclipse opening, spoilers got around and everyone found out that when Leah chooses the Son of War, it puts the War compound in a position to side with Leah, but War would have to kill the Morphos--"

"And without the Morphos, Pestilence would have a foothold into War's compound," Redl4ah realized aloud.

Maria continued, "Right. It forces the Son of War to leave his family, but without the compound he's straight-up pathetic. Like Dudley Dursley pathetic. Leah starts doubting his ability to protect their child, but that's before he knows she's preggers.  Ever since the second week only firstie watchers ever vote for that Son of War timeline, unless we tell them how it ends."

"How we think it ends," Vinnie corrected.

Redleah4 sucked on her hair. "Hm. I knew I was supposed to vote for her to ask for the Son of Death's help, but I mean, we're Red Army so I never wanted to ask why it seemed like we were helping Death Campers."

RedArmy1 turned to Maria, "Madonna2000, go recruit some more Firsties."

In all fairness it was her turn, but she got the feeling that RedArmy1 was punishing her for mentioning their failed conquest. She nodded and started wandering down the line.

"Hey, hi," she said, approaching a couple obviously from the city.

"We have pre-buy," said the man/husband, assuming she was going to ask them for tickets, "Sorry non-transferable." he shrugged.

"I'm not here to buy, I was just wondering if you have put any thought into your timeline choices?"

They exchanged a look that only old people were capable of, and the woman shook her head. "Sorry. We don't vote."

"WHAT?" Maria couldn't help herself and probably lost two watchers in the process, "Why on Earth would you come to a 4D movie and not vote? The alternate timelines are the whole point? Do you also watch 3D movies with an eye patch?"

The man/husband stepped toward her, sheltering his wife like a delicate flower from a frost named Maria. "We just couldn't make it in time for the director's cut okay?"

Maria walked away. Not okay. Maybe I'll have better luck converting voting watchers, she thought and soon noticed a tall young man reading the ApocalEclipse fan forum, she stepped into his cloud of Old Spice and asked, "What's your timeline route?"

The young man looked up. He had piercing green eyes like the Son of War himself, and ice-green piercings in his lip and eyebrow. He swiped his finger across the screen of his phone and read, "Yes to the rave; No to morphine; Yes to the ride home.--"

"Pssh," she interrupted playfully, "I've seen that movie already, it's so Disney Princess the only thing it's missing is talking mice!"

He narrowed his eyes challenging her, "Well, at least tell me your favorite timeline so I can crap on your parade."

She grinned, "The one I haven't seen."

"You'd have to go hundreds of times to see all the endings."

"Two-fourty-three to see every variation, but there are only three endings--"

"Hashtag spoiler alert!"

"You're on the AE forum!"

"But think of the other people within earshot," he said lowering his voice.

"True," she copied his volume level and leaned deeper into his cloud, "I want to see what happens when she falls in love with the Son of War."

He seemed to realized that he was being lobbied,  "You like the bad boy type huh? I could be persuaded, what're you offering?"

Oh my God, this cute guy is flirting with me. I mean he's kind of cute, which is to say that he is cute, but a little out of my league. Yeah, cause I totally have a league, it's whatever sports metaphor means the very bottom. Bottom feeders, that's my league. Catfish, Lobsters, those sort of things. Suddenly she knew without a doubt that if she flirted with him, he would vote on her route and they would see the Red Army ending. It was just like the movie, she could even see the prompt jump up before her eyes.

Timeline choice in 3... 2... 1...

1) Flirt with him

2) Shoot him down

#

Audience chose:  Flirt with him!

He seemed to realized that he was being lobbied,  "You like the bad boy type, huh? "

Maria smiled out of the corner of her mouth and said, "Depends, does your dad command the Red army?"

"Maybe? Is that what those guys with the armor made from truck tires are called?"

"Oh my God, I love that guy with the shield made from a car door!"

"That's the Red army? Really? No wonder you haven't gotten your ending, those guys are hella communists!"

"No they're not! They're stylized after the Vikings! The loot from the raids was given to the lord and redistributed according to valor!"

"Wow, calm down on the Discovery Channel."

"Read Beowulf bitch! and next time you try negging, pick someone who's within your IQ bracket, and Old Spice does not replace a shower."

As Maria watched the Angel Gabriel leading the charge with Death, Pestilence, and Famine at his back she thought back to that moment and wondered if it would have been worth it to let that asshole walk all over her, after all, they did lose their timeline vote by one, and Maria knew exactly which one it was.

#

Audience chose: Shoot him down!

He seemed to realized that he was being lobbied,  "You like the bad boy type huh? I could be persuaded, what're you offering?"

"Excuse me? What kind of girl do you think I am?"

He raised his hands, "I... I didn't mean it like that; Death Camp came by here earlier and they were offering 10 unique Twitter followers for their ending."

Maria shook her head, "Damn, that's good. We've got a man on the inside who can get us first in line to buy tickets for the final showing of ApocalEclipse next month."

He seemed surprised, "That's better! I supposed you'll require proof for that."

"So you'll vote for our route?" Maria could barely contain her excitement.

He looked back to his phone, "No, this is the last time I'm going to watch it. I'm writing an ApocalEclipse fan fiction where Leah gets sold as a human commodity. I've already got everything I need from the movie, now I just need the followers."

"That doesn't make any sense, no AE fan would ever read that," But then Maria realized he didn't even know what the Red Army was, he'd never even seen that timeline. "Son of a bitch you're a Troll!"

He laughed in her face, "Nice to meet you. I'm Austin, as in Austin Texas." It felt like a cold knife through the heart, and then he twisted it, "Didn't you ever wonder why the Red Army ending is so illusive?"

She hadn't even considered it before and yet it had been her life for the last three months. "There IS no Red Army ending."

#

The tall young man who smelled of Old Spice was staring at her with a concerned look on his face. "Hellooo? You okay? You just like... zoned out or something. How long have you been in line?"

Maria shook her head and the dust of alternate timelines flew off and away from her like a flock of pigeons from an oncoming car. "Yeah, I'm okay. A few hours."

"Here," he reached into a black messenger bag with the ApocalEclipse moon and anarchy 'A' symbol stitched onto the front, and pulled out an unopened bottled water.

"Thanks," she said, taking it from him.

While she drank he asked, "What are you offering if I vote for your timeline?"

"How many times have you seen this movie?" She asked.

"5. I didn't want to get on board at first, but then I started reading the forums and got sucked into the Easter Egg hunts. This time I'm going for 'No morphine' because it unlocks a bonus scene between Pestilence and Gabriel, where Pest has a momentary change of heart and decides to hide the Nephilim child. It's Fiennes' best performance since Deathly Hallows, supposedly that scene is the why he decided to do the role."

Maria looked at the people standing around him. He seemed alone. "Are these your watchers?" she asked not even believing it herself.

"No, I'm solo."

She shook her head, "You're never going to get that scene if you don't build up voters. Basically you're just taking votes from the Red Army ending."

"Maybe, but this is the only reason I'm at the Cineplex. I'd rather do something else than watch a movie I don't want to see, much less sit through a movie just so I can vote to watch a movie I don't want to see." He sighed, "How do they get us to do this? You know we can just watch all the endings when it comes out on DVD."

Maria started to cry, "But I don't want to miss it. I've spent three months of my life watching, and voting for this one movie that I'm going to kick myself if I'm not there to see it and celebrate with my people."

He shrugged, "My people are hunters, we search alone."

"Not anymore," she said. "Can I cut?"

He smiled, moved over, and she stepped into line beside him. "I'm Mado--I mean-- Maria."

He looked embarrassed about something. "I'm Gabriel, and before you ask: yes, it's my real name; yes, I know I'm named after the bad guy in the movie; and yes, I do vote for my namesake to  die."

Maria took another sip of water and thought, maybe there's a reason the Disney princess ending is so popular...

1862 Homestead act + being a weirdo

"You're a sore sight for sad eyes. You look like a jackrabbit lost his tail in a fox's jaws."

Philip Cox was my first friend in Liberty. No. If I'm being honest with myself he was my first friend period.

"No sir, the only thing I lost was a fight."

"Schoolyard brush by the look of it."

I shrugged, "Doesn't matter."

"This is the first time you tried to catch a Tartar?"

"Yes sir, assuming you mean the first time I've had a brawl."

"You're from Boston." I must have looked at him wide-eyed and amazed because he smiled and made a gravely  sound somewhere between a wheeze and a laugh.  "Have a seat," he said gesturing to the front step, beside which he himself sat in a woven Quaker chair in the shade of his small, one room cabin.

I entered his yard and held out my hand to him, "Noble. Noble Winthrop."

He took it, his hand was wrinkled and soft, and his skin felt thin and loose. "Pleasure. Name's Philip Cox."

I sat down beside him and couldn't help but notice a ball jar of a tan liquid that sat between us. He caught me looking and said, "Applejack. I keep myself busy by jacking over the winter. You looks like you're between hay and grass. Help yourself if you fancy a taste."

"Thank you, no." We sat in silence for a while. The shade felt good and after it had cooled my skin I could feel the heat of what would surely be a bruise on my cheek. Eventually I asked, "How'd you know I was from Boston?"

He smiled and his eyes looked far off, "You talk like a Pilgrim reading the paper."

I tried to smile without using half my face. "Before we moved to Indiana I used to work for the Herald."

"He turned to look at me. You pulling my horns? I never would have taken you for a slang-whanger."

"Oh, I wasn't a... writer." I said, guessing what he meant by 'slang-whanger',  "I mean, I write, but not like a journalist. I was a delivery boy."

"You miss it," he told me.

"I do. Before we moved Mother listed me all the friends she was going to miss the most, but I told her I'd miss reading the news. It makes me nervous not knowing how far north has the Union pushed, or what's happening with the Missouri Sioux?"

"They're both still fighting. No need to know whose fists are where, just who hit first and who hit hardest. Why'd you get hit?"

I took an swig of the Applejack. It was sweeter and not so alcoholic as Laird's, or really anything with its own label. "Shiloh, the sack of bricks that sits behind me in school, followed me afterward and knocked my journal out of my hands. He then offered me a proposition: The only way I'd get it back was to fight him. I've never been in a fight before so I took a pose like a boxer I'd seen in an advertisement for mustache wax. Shiloh laughed and hit my arm making me pop myself in the jaw with my own fist. I felt my lip split and when I lowered my arms he cocked me with a haymaker that sent me to the dirt."

Philip shook his head, "Back when I was younger, I worked for Morehead, Waddell & Co. I made this delivery, small, only a ounce, for which I had to collect a two dollar fee. My first mistake was handing him the package before he'd paid, my second mistake was not noticing he was drunk, my third was declining to fight and getting my flint fixed while my back was turned."

"Thanks for the conversation Mr. Cox--"

"Philip, he corrected."

"--Philip. I should be on my way before my folks get nervous." He nodded and set back to watching clouds.

#

Two days later, Philip Cox was stetting out in the shade passing the time. I waved to him and he waved me over. "Afternoon Noble, got time to chew the fat with an old fool?"

I pulled a long piece of wheat-grass from his front yard and placed it between my molars. As I sat down beside him. He looked at me from the corner of his eyes and asked, "What's Future World?"

"It's the... How do you know about Future World?"

His chair was closer to the step today than it had been before. He leaned over and took my journal from under the front step, and turned it over in his hands. "That boy Shiloh's meaner than trapping cats in a pillowcase..."  He opened the book and read.

"You don't understand!" Said Ander, "I'm not from here, I'm from the future. In Future World there are telegraphs that run to everyone's house, which run through a box that turns your words into morse code, then back into words at the other person's house."

Everyone laughed at him, and pointed at his strange costume, which was a kind of one piece union suit made out of a material that kept him warm in the cold and cool in the heat.

"It's true, the sky is darkened by the wires running overhead. News isn't written down anymore, it's spoken directly into everyone's homes three times a day!"

But the people were unfamiliar with anything more advanced than a drawn carriage, and as Ander tried to explain about things which to us are as magnificent as a locomotive, he only made his situation worse.

"How old are you?" Philip asked.

"Fourteen," I said around the considerably shortened wheat-grass.

"When I was fourteen no one had ever heard of a locomotive. They had been invented already, but we hadn't heard of it. When I did I thought it was a stupid idea. You call it magnificent but nothing will ever be as magnificent as a horse. A horse can ride anywhere, but a train is enslaved to its tracks."

I shook my head, "Train's can move faster and carry more."

He stared off at the clouds for a long time, I didn't want to interrupt him but I was still fuming with pride. I tried imagining something that was better than a horse. What would Ander ride in Future World? A train without wheels? With legs? No, I'm just trying to recreate a horse. A train with a will of its own, maybe?

Finally Philip spoke, "My point is that your Future World assumes things are better."

"They are better--"

"Don't interrupt!" He barked in his grizzled voice, "You have before you, at your service," he tipped an imaginary hat, "a real, live time-traveler."

I was shocked, but not because I believed him.

"When I was working for Morehead, Waddell & Co. I would ride from Boston to Hartford to Philadelphia. Riding between the big cities was like going back and forth in time: the houses change, the language changes, things get simpler, people get friendlier. I moved to Liberty to escape time, but it keeps coming. Why would you want to go and speed it back up?"

Despite my manners I stood and yelled at him, "I hate that it's so simple out here. I hate it! I didn't want to move but Father said the homestead was a good investment, but I don't belong here!" I turned and walked away.

#

I was mad for days without knowing why. I started taking a different route to school and back, which took me past the train station and telegraph office next door. Two buildings dedicated to transportation, one shipping information, the other progress. I thought of Future World and it's sky darkened by telegraph lines, and wondered if these two industries would grow alongside each other and the ground would be hardened by rails spider-webbing out in all directions. I remembered that Philip had worked on horseback until the telegraph lines had put him out of work, and realized that he hadn't come here to escape, he had gotten left behind.

No, that's me. Philip wants to live simply. I'm the one who's afraid of being left behind.

RULES

Welcome to Reality Fan Fiction.

The basic concept is that once a week I will write a short fiction piece combining two motifs to make something entertaining (for me at least). The genres may change, the time period may waver but the title of the piece will always be the two motifs separated by a +.  example: Umbrellas don't fit through doorways + elaborate Halloween make-up.

My reasons for doing this writing lab (in no particular order) is to challenge myself as a writer, to explore silly little ideas to see if they work, to build an audience, and eventually take audience suggestions as an added constraint/challenge.

I've heard that creativity requires pressure so I have created some constraints and rules.

Constraints:

1) No more than 4 hours shall be spent writing and editing each piece.

2) Weekly updates at 12pm Wednesdays.

Rules:

The Prime Directive: Have fun. Reality fan-fiction is a break from editing the novel not a third job I've been hired to work.

The Composite Directive: There will be no more than two motifs combined in a given story.

example a. War of the Worlds radio broadcast + Bank robbery = Good.

example b. War of the Worlds + Bank robbery + 1st summit of Mt. Everest = dumb (there are no bad ideas just dumb ideas).

The Triforce Dictum: No historical figure who died or didn't die shall be killed or brought back from the dead.

example: Instead of shooting himself, Hitler was captured and imprisoned where he becomes a fortune teller. At the age of 71 he reads about JFK winning the American presidency and reaches out to the Kennedy family anonymously warning them not to trust LBJ and use a hardtop limo in all motorcades. Kennedy survives and the US involvement in Vietnam is averted.  This one breaks a lot of rules. I'm not sure what kind of geek (used endearingly) would read this, but it isn't me.

The Quad Ordinance: Conspiracy theories shall not be explored (see JFK assassination above).

The Pentaic Commandment:  Thou shall not x-punk, where x = steam, stone, cyber, etc. For purposes of this writing lab x-punk is already the combination of two motifs, which would break the second rule. This does not prohibit anachronisms of speech or tech as the main idea of the story.

example a. George Lucas wrote Star Wars as a satire after the invention of the Lightsaber in 1975 = Okay.

example b. George Lucas is from a galaxy far far away and Star Wars was the diary he was keeping as he worked as a double agent for the Rebels= dumb.

That's all for now!
Stay tuned for the first installment next week 1962 Homestead Act + Being a Weirdo.