Philip Cox + Noble Winthrop

A Note from the author:

I wanted to revisit the world of the Homestead Act story again. As I sit here looking out my basement apartment window, the lawn is at eye level and I swear the grass is growing as fast as I write.

Liberty IN, 1864

     Philip Cox wasn't out front in his woven Quaker chair, but by the sound of stone grinding steel I could tell he was home. Knocking the dirt of my shoes on his single step I walked right in. The old man was bent over his kitchen table, which he often used for a work bench. Today he had clamped a scythe blade to the edge of the table, and was carefully grinding off the burr.

     "Afternoon Noble, how you keepin' up with the Rs?"

     "Reckoning is far and away my least favorite."

     Philip smiled without looking up, "By how well you fancy reading and writing, I'm not surprised."

     "You know..." I began, but Philip smiled knowingly and shook his head, "What?"

     He stopped grinding. "Beg your pardon, you were about to tell me about some way my life could improve."

     How could he have known? "I wasn't. I... ahh... your scythe blade there reminded me of something I read in the Herald..."

     "Go on."

     "About four years ago they opened a great big menagerie in New York city in Central Park, and they bought these things called reel mowers to cut the grass around the cages. Apparently it's this machine that spins some kind of wheel of blades while you push it from behind."

     Philip went back to grinding. "Sound about as safe as blindfolded boxing in your pa's tool shed. You want to know what cuts grass better than any steel contraption?"

     I frowned at him for talking about my father like that, but then again, my father had asked me to clean it this past weekend, so I kept my mouth shut and shouldered the responsibility. "No. I want to know how you knew what I was going to say." I folded my arms across my chest.

     "I told you I was a time traveler."

     He had. Back when I first met Philip he told me about how he was a delivery man for some freight company, and how riding out from the big cities was like traveling back in time.

     "No, really."

     Philip tested the edge with his thumb and the sound resonated loudly off the face of the table. He loosened the wooden clamp and it complained with a loud squeak. "You have this habit, every time you're about to tell me something you think I ought to know, you say, 'You know'. Now, hold this steady while I tighten the nut." He said, fitting the scythe blade into the dark brown metal band that wrapped around the end of the curvy wooden handle. Bearing down on the square nut that tightened the band he said, "Don't be so embarrassed. It's like that feller in the Future World you're always writing about..." He waited for me to provide the name. Ander. "That's the one. He's always getting himself in trouble 'cause he's seen enough to know where those primitive folks' headed." He stood, straightening his back slowly until he was upright. He handed me the scythe and headed outside. "That's just like you and me. I've been around longer and seen the way things shape up time and again, but you're greener than a grasshopper's turd, and every time you have a new thought you think it's the first time it's ever been had."

     Philip found a perverse entertainment in getting me riled up, said it was like watching a dog chase its own tail; just plain entertaining. Though I was boiling inside I refused to give him the satisfaction. Instead I tried to prove him wrong, "Speaking of Future World, Shiloh and I figured out–"

     "Hold up a minute there grasshopper." He settled down in his Quaker chair, but when I tried to hand him the scythe, he pointed to the corner of his lawn and said, "Start at that corner and work your way around the side." As I walked across his yard he asked, "This the same Shiloh had imprints of your peach-fuzz on his knuckles?"

     "Yeah... no. He only hit me that one time. I avoided him for a while, but a few months after you got my journal back he started following me after school. This town's too damn small–"

     "No, need to curse. Don't pull it, you ain't shaving the lawn; Twist at your hips."

     "Sorry. This town's too small to lose him and he ended up finding out where I lived. I figured I was safe as long as I was indoors, but one weekend he had the guts to come right up and knock on the front door. He gave my mother this stack of papers tied together with some twine. Each one was a corkboard notice or advert, he must have taken from out front O'Hara's general store."

     "What'd he figured you wanted them for?"

     "Couldn't figure it out at first, but then I turned it over: He'd written a story on the back of each notice, labeled each one with a page number in case I got them mixed up. The spelling wasn't that good, but it was set in my Future World."

     Philip slapped his knee, "Ain't that the way?"

     I'd finished half of his front yard when he went inside. I could hear his squeaky pump pulling water up from his well. Something about it reminded me that what I was going to tell him before I got distracted. He came back a while later with some sweet lemon water in two tin cups, and handed me one, which I drank right then and there.

     "Earlier you were about to tell me something you and Shiloh figured."

     I nodded, handed him back the cup, and went back to cutting the grass. "In Future World there are so many telegraph lines running to everyone's house that the sky has been darkened, Shiloh came up with the idea that they're made of glass, so light can still pass through."

     Philip thought about it for a while and I started in on the second half of his lawn. Eventually he said, "That reel mower must make a heck of a noise. I wonder if it's better or worse than the snicker-snack your jaws make?"

     When I turned around he threw a small whetstone at me, "It's past time to sharpen your cutting edge. I've been waiting for you to complain about it, but you just been working twice as hard to make up for that dull edge."

     I caught it reflexively, but nearly didn't hang on to it. As Philip talked me through how to sharpen the scythe with just a few well-angled strokes, I wondered why he hadn't commented on the glass wires. Maybe this was his comment?

     "Are you calling me dull?"

     He smiled, "Have you ever noticed those glass bobbins on the telegraph poles?"

Of course, I thought, the glass retards electricity!

     "But... what if in the future they figure out how to make glass carry an electrical signal?"

     "Nonsense. What if in they make an automobile that can cut the grass while it drives around? I promise when it breaks it will take more than a rock and a wrench to fix."

     "Then what if there's another machine that can fix the automatic grass cutter?" I stopped paying attention for a moment, and slit a shallow gash in my thumb.

     "That's exactly my point; you're only creating more problems the more you try to fix them. You know what cut's grass better than steel?" he asked again.

     Around the thumb in my mouth I said, "Wha'?"

     "A goat." He considered it for a moment and said, "Although I'm afraid if we bashed heads as much and you and I, he'd come out ahead far more often than you do."

Bros + My Little Ponies + Inception

     So... interesting challenge this week. I reached out for suggestions on motifs and only got one. What I would normally do would be to just starting writing and see where it wants to go. However, this motif was special in that it already has two ideas crammed together. Bros + My Little Ponies.  The motif was: Bronies.

      I'll explain... Hasbro (supergiant toy and game maker) owns its own animation studio, which is great if you want to make entire seasons of 22 minute long commercials for your toys (see Transformers, G.I. Joe, or My Little Ponies), which they do because you gotta make hay while the sun shines. 

   In 2010 they got Lauren Faust (who drew for Powerpuff Girls, and FostersHome for Imaginary Friends) to be the creative director, and she created the series My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, which, like the Powerpuff Girls and Fosters..., became a cult hit among adults. The thing that most surprised them was that the majority of these adults were men. Because the Internet is like that, groups of MLP fans, men between the ages of 18 and 33, found each other on forums and web sites, and formed their own groups and forums like Equestria Daily, which had 36 million page views in the first 9 months. They built a convention for themselves Bronycon. They have started the Bronies for Good charity and raised money for Toys for Tots, run blood drives, and supported the family of a young man who attempted his own life because he was bullied. So that's a fair bit of evidence that this isn't some ironic enjoyment. This is a heard of men who value Saturday-morning-cartoon ideals like friendship, standing up for what's right, confidence in your individuality, and the importance of showing ones softer side. Basically all the same tenets as my ManKind Project men's group. Wait a minute... MKP... MLP... eerie.

      If anyone was still confused about what Reality Fan Fiction is all about, this is a real life example: A group of men who love a cartoon for little girls, that seek to change the world Carebear style. You see my problem? How do I write fan-fiction about a group of fans? It freaking fan-fiction Inception! (not the word, or the movie, but the new word which has a different definition because of the movie. Something like: idea nesting-dolls.)

     This week's entry may be viewed as a cop-out, but honestly I was chomping at the bit to write this morning, but once I started researching Bronies I felt that there was something much deeper going on. Something that deserved more time and attention than I have in this four-hour writing lab. And I believe I have a responsibility when writing about minority groups not to fall into the trap of stereotyping, or prejudiced speculation. So please check it out on your own because the best Reality Fan-fic is real! For instance, the Boston-Bronies are meeting up this weekend to play airsoft. I mean, I can't even imagine what would one WEAR to something like that?

     Anyhay, for the remaining two hours I'm going to be focusing on improving the site with a new feature, ooooh, aaaah, gasp' applause!

     And give me a Hoofbump in the comments if you're enjoying the site so far.

Boy Scouts + and a Shaggy Dog

A note from the author:
Wha? what's this at the top? is it a NEW FEATURE? It is! I'm pleased to announce Reality Fan Fiction is now available in "Read it for you" mode. Now, Reality is available wherever you are. That's what I call convenient!  Now RFF updates twice a week! New Stories on Wednesdays, and 'Read it for you' on Tuesdays.


 At the end of a long winding dirt road, deep in the woods by a shallow pond, under a clear sky and a blanket of a million billion stars, a campsite and nine figures is silhouetted by a small crackling fire.

     "So Sam hobbled up to the mansion, barely daring to put weight on his leg which he had broken when his canoe went over Niagara falls, remember? He was worried the butler would take one look at his clothes which were torn-up from the miles of briars and thorns he had walked through to get here. Take another look at his hair, pulled out in patches by the troupe of escaped circus monkeys. And take a final look at his one remaining shoe, you all remember what happened to the shoe?" Giggles and nods were his only response. "He'd take one look and turn Sam away. But he swallowed his fear and walked slowly up to the front door. He lifts the heavy golden knocker and lets it fall. One... Two... Three times and he waits."

    The leader of troupe 58008 waited. The dying firelight flickering on his face as his scouts leaned in closer, their marshmallow and chocolate stained mouths hanging slightly open.

     "The door was open by a butler, dressed in a fine suit of white and black, who was professional to the point where he didn't even bat an eye at poor disheveled looking Sam. I'm--"

    "What's de-shoveled?" asked a scout with curly red hair, freckles, and wide green eyes.

     "Nooooo, Joseph!" the boys chided him. "He's just going to make the story longer!"

     "I'm glad you asked," the scout leader said, smiling. "Disheveled is an ooooold English word, which is probably why you don't recognize it, that means untidy, or disorderly especially when relating to appearance. It's similar to the word kerfermuffeled." His eyes twinkled as he waited for them to take the bait.

     "What's--" Joseph began, but the other boys elbowed him and he shut up.

     "Get back to the story," the boys demanded.

     "Well, if you're not enjoying it..." The scout leader seemed about to get up to leave.

     "We're not! But we want to hear then end!"

     "Really? It doesn't sound that way."

     "Tell it!" Demanded the tallest of the boys, William, a Pop Warner quarterback for the junior midget division.

     "Not if you ask like that!"

     "Pleeeeeese?" Said Joseph.

     "Fine, but no more interruptions." The scout leader settled back down. "Once, deep in the great forests of Ontario Canada, there was a man named Sam..."

     "No! That's the beginning we were almost to the end." The boys were practically ripping out their hair.

     "I know, but I forgot my place, so I have to start all over. Once, deep in the great--"

     William stood and said, "Samwalkeduptothedoor. Heknockedthreetimes. Thebutleropenedthedooranddidn'tcarehewas...disheveled!" he was punctuating his sentences with a gesture like he was shaking someone by the shoulders.

     "Ah yes, that's right. Thank you William. This butler was a real professional and didn't even bat an eye at Sam's kerphrumpled appearance. Nor did he turn his nose up at the shaggy dog, with its hair brown and smelling like swamp muck from their journey through the great swamps of northern Michigan, and it's shaggs even shaggier from all the thorns and burrs. 'I'm here,' said Sam, 'Because of the newspaper article offering a million dollars for the world's shaggiest dog.' he took the soggy and battered, but still legible newspaper clipping from his back pocket and handed it to the butler who brushed it aside. He knew exactly why Sam was here. 'Of course sir.' he said, bent over, picked up the shaggy dog, and carried him inside. For a long time Sam waited."

     ...

     The chorus of crickets and katydids laid a perfect soundtrack for the waiting. The scout leader stood, partially to relieve himself from the smoke as it drifted his direction, and partially to act out Sam waiting on the door step. A bullfrog from the nearby lake started croaking.

     "Then what happened,"  said Hayao, as he put a pine cone on the fire.

     "Hayao, the fire is smoky enough as it is. Stop putting pine cones in, I'm not going to ask you again."

     "Good, that means I can keep doing it without you bothering me."

     "No. It mean you go to bed without hearing the end.

     "So there was Sam, waiting on the stoop of this huge mansion and he's listening to the footsteps of the butler walk away as he carried the shaggy dog deep into the house to show to his master. And he waits for a long time, thinking once again to how he was going to spend that million dollars."

     "I'd buy a go kart," said Hayao.

     "You could buy a hundred go karts! I'd buy an amusement park!"

     "I'd buy a hundred go karts then!"

     "I'd quit my job," said the scout leader.

     "Heeeeeey!" the scouts cried.

     "Don't cut me off! I was about to say: So I could work for the scouts full-time." They eyed him suspiciously, and he continued. "Finally Sam heard the footsteps returning. The door opened and the butler set the shaggy dog back on the stoop, not seeming to mind the grey stains the wet pooch had left behind. 'So when do I get the million dollars?' Sam asked. To which the Butler replied, 'the master says, this dog's not so shaggy.'

   "The end."

     The look on the boy's faces was one of disbelief and surprise. It was the look of a person who just realized they'd been conned out of a lot of money. It was the look of someone who'd just been told they were about to die and as they thought back over their life they realized the whole thing was entirely meaningless. It was the look of someone who has just binge-watched How I Met your Mother and had just finished the finale.

     The scout leader checked his phone. 10:52pm. He did some quick math in his head, That's... ninety-eight minutes. Goddamn you Ron Clements!

      "Time for bed!" the scout leader said, and continued speaking over the din of the boy's groans, "Remember to check yourself for ticks and zip your mummy bags up all the way. Lights out in TEN MINUTES!"

#

     Under the suffocating, but light and sound proof sleeping bag shelter, the boys huddled close together. Whispering as the iPhone was drawn from the bottom of Hayao's sleeping bag, "What the was up with that crap story?" Joseph said. "Such a letdown."

     William shook his head, "I don't know, but we're going to find out."

     Hayao turned it on. "Only one gee here, the signal's weak."

     "One Gee?!" William said.

     "ShhhhhHHH!"

     "Search for 'long crappy stories'."

     "No. Search for 'Sam the Canadian'!"

     "It's a wikipedia page for Sam Sniderman."

     "Sniiiiderman... Sniiiiderman... doing the things a Sniiiiderman can!" The boys all giggled, then shushed each other.

     "He's just some butt hole, there's nothing about a dog."

     "Butt hole!" one of them sniggered.

     "Oh grow up. Search for 'shaggy dog'."

     "Okay..."

     "No turd shirt, it's just going to be pictures of dogs."

     An owl hooted as they waited for the page to load. The first hit was the Internet movie database.

     "It's IMDB, what the hell? Disney made that upper-decker of a story into a real-life movie, TWICE!"

     "What's on upper-decker?" asked Joseph.

     "You don't know what an upper-decker is?" said William.

     "They make baseball cards," said Hayao.

     "Baseball cards!" William laughed, "You nerds, it's when you poop in the top part of a toilet."

     "Why am I a nerd for not knowing the names of weird places to poop?"

     "Shhhh, you guys, I found it!" Hayao whispered. "A shaggy dog is a type of story that is intentionally long and pointless, with an anticlimactic ending."

     "What the hell, he told us the longest, boringist, drawn-out story just for the hell of it?!"

     "Wikipedia says Ron Clements was a scout master in the nineties, who was raised almost to the status of urban legend for holding the record for telling the longest 'shaggy dog story' ever. One hundred and four minutes!"

     "Pssh," William hissed. "That story's not so long."