Author: Jeff (Page 4 of 11)
The Wit And Wisdom Of Horace B Miesner
Never underestimate the power of denial; it’s saved me a fortune in therapy.
WRYL – The Voice of the Great Up North
JEFF (O.S.): The Student Union Gasthaus. A dimly lit sanctuary where the weary students of higher learning could drown their intellectual anxieties in lukewarm beer and questionable pizza. Our five filmmakers, having survived another grueling semester, had gathered to celebrate… or perhaps just to numb the pain of impending summer vacation and the terrifying void of unstructured time.
(SFX: Murmur of college students, clinking of glasses, faint jukebox music)
LEONARD: (Nursing his beer, looking morosely at a slice of pizza) You know, when you really think about it, pizza is just a temporary distraction from the fundamental meaninglessness of existence. A circular illusion of satisfaction.
STANLEY: (Taking a large bite of his pizza) Meaninglessness? Nonsense, Leonard! This pizza is a masterpiece of culinary artistry! The confluence of cheese, sauce, and dough… it’s practically a cinematic experience in your mouth! Think of the close-ups we could do! The glistening mozzarella… the vibrant tomato…
MARVIN: (Quietly chewing his pizza) It’s greasy.
DEBORAH: (Smiling at Marvin) I think it’s… comforting. After all that editing, it’s nice to just… relax. What do you think, Marvin?
MARVIN: (Shrugs) It’s pizza.
CYNTHIA: (Raising her beer glass with a sigh) Comfort is a bourgeois construct designed to lull us into a false sense of security before the inevitable descent into oblivion. Cheers.
(SFX: Clinking of glasses)
LEONARD: Speaking of oblivion, what are everyone’s plans for the summer? I’m facing the terrifying prospect of returning home. My parents, bless their well-meaning but utterly philistine hearts, will undoubtedly want to discuss… my career prospects. As if there are teeming hordes clamoring for experimental filmmakers who specialize in philosophical goldfish.
STANLEY: I, my dears, am heading to Los Angeles! I’ve made contact with a… a connection. Someone who knows someone who once shared an elevator with a producer’s assistant! This is my moment! Hollywood, prepare for the cinematic tsunami that is Stanley… something-or-other!
CYNTHIA: I plan to embrace the sweet embrace of melancholy. Perhaps I’ll stare blankly at the ceiling for three months. Maybe I’ll take up competitive staring. The futility of it all is rather… appealing.
DEBORAH: (Looking at Marvin again) What about you, Marvin? Any exciting summer plans?
MARVIN: Probably work at my uncle’s hardware store. Sorting nuts and bolts. The universe in miniature.
DEBORAH: (Her voice a little softer) Oh. Well, that sounds… practical. You must see a lot of… interesting things. Different kinds of screws, and… washers…
MARVIN: (Takes a swig of beer) They’re mostly just rusty.
LEONARD: You know, the ancient Greeks believed that the cosmos was ordered by numbers. Perhaps the arrangement of nuts and bolts holds a hidden mathematical truth about our existence. Or maybe it’s just rust.
STANLEY: Rust? We need glamour! We need sunshine! We need… romance! Has anyone had any… romantic entanglements this semester? Any muses inspiring our cinematic genius?
LEONARD: My last romantic entanglement ended when she discovered my extensive collection of lint. She said it was… unsettling. Apparently, my dedication to preserving the ephemera of daily life was a sign of… deeper issues.
CYNTHIA: Love is a fleeting illusion, a desperate attempt to find meaning in a meaningless world. It inevitably ends in heartbreak and the crushing realization that you’re still alone, just with more baggage. Figuratively and sometimes literally.
DEBORAH: (Looking intently at Marvin) Have you… have you been seeing anyone, Marvin?
MARVIN: (Takes another sip of beer, avoiding her gaze) There was this girl… she liked taxidermy. It didn’t really… take off.
DEBORAH: (Trying to suppress a giggle) Taxidermy? Well, that’s… unique. You must have had some… interesting conversations.
MARVIN: Mostly about the proper way to stuff a squirrel.
STANLEY: Squirrels? We need passion! We need grand gestures! I once dated an actress who insisted on reciting Shakespeare during… well, never mind. The point is, love should be like a sweeping epic! Full of drama and… and close-ups!
LEONARD: Mine was more like a poorly lit student film with bad sound.
(SFX: Deborah laughs softly)
DEBORAH: You’re funny, Marvin.
MARVIN: (Looks up at her, a flicker of something in his eyes) Funny peculiar or funny ha-ha?
DEBORAH: (Blushing slightly) Definitely… ha-ha. So, about those rusty nuts and bolts… do you think there’s any… philosophical significance to their varying sizes?
MARVIN: (Considers this, takes another drink) Probably just determines what they can screw into.
CYNTHIA: The only thing certain in this life is that everything eventually gets screwed. Figuratively and sometimes… well, you know.
STANLEY: We need a love scene in our film! A passionate embrace against the backdrop of… of a really compelling piece of street art! Or maybe in front of the exploding bagel footage! Juxtaposition!
LEONARD: Perhaps the love scene should be between the protagonist and Bartholomew. A silent understanding that transcends the limitations of interspecies communication.
DEBORAH: (Leaning slightly closer to Marvin) You know, maybe I could visit you this summer. At the hardware store. I could… help you sort things. Learn about… nuts and bolts.
MARVIN: (Looks surprised) You’d… want to do that?
DEBORAH: (Smiling warmly) Sure. It sounds… interesting. And maybe we could… get some less rusty things to look at afterwards.
CYNTHIA: (Muttering into her beer) The siren call of shared drudgery. How romantic.
STANLEY: This is it! This is the inspiration we need! A summer romance amidst the hardware! The gritty reality of nuts and bolts juxtaposed with the blossoming of… of human connection! We’ll call it… ‘Fasteners of the Heart’!
LEONARD: Or perhaps ‘The Existential Weight of Washers.’
MARVIN: (Looking at Deborah, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips) Maybe.
(SFX: The murmur of the Gausthaus fades slightly as Deborah and Marvin exchange a brief glance. The jukebox plays a melancholic jazz tune.)
JEFF (O.S.): And so, fueled by cheap beer and the faint possibility of something more than shared cinematic misery, the summer stretched before them. A vast, uncharted territory where exploding bagels and philosophical goldfish might just give way to the unexpected allure of rusty hardware and the quiet, understated charm of a man who knew his nuts from his bolts. The meaning of life remained elusive, but for Deborah, at least, the summer suddenly held a slightly less meaningless proposition.
(SFX: Jukebox music fades out slowly.)
(SCENE END)
My friends, let us turn our minds today to a matter that troubles the spirit and, I dare say, threatens the very fabric of our decent, loving community. We gather here in this sanctuary, a place of safety and truth, yet outside these doors, a new kind of shadow is creeping—a shadow that is making its presence felt in the casual conversations of friends and even within the walls of a humble family home.
We have fought great wars for freedom. We have stood against tyrannies that sought to tell us what to think, what to say, and how to worship. But what good is a victory over an enemy abroad if we allow a spirit of small, petty tyranny to take root in our own backyard? I speak today of a peculiar and chilling new form of intolerance that is masquerading as righteousness. It is a spirit that is quick to judge, unwilling to forgive, and absolutely deaf to common sense.
I was told a story this past week, a true account, that should give every good person pause. It’s a story about a simple Saturday afternoon at Royal Park. A man was having a friendly conversation with his best friend. They were cracking jokes, the kind of rough-and-tumble banter that men share, the kind that shows a deep, honest bond—the kind where a silly nickname, even a joking reference to one’s heritage, is a sign of affection, not malice. The term used was “A Dumb Pollack.” Now, listen closely. The man who heard it didn’t take offense. He knew his friend. He knew it was a joke.
But then, a stranger—a passerby—interrupted them. She decided that she was offended on his behalf. She wouldn’t listen to the explanation. She wouldn’t accept that the two men, the ones actually involved, were not bothered. This woman, in her misguided sense of justice, decided she knew better.
My friends, this is a dangerous pride! It is a spiritual conceit to assume you know the heart of a conversation you only half-heard. It is an act of overreach to inject yourself into the friendship of two men and condemn them based on your own, narrow interpretation.
But it didn’t stop there. Oh, no. It did not simply blow over as good-natured folks assumed it would.
Last Monday, the friend—the one who made the joke—was fired from his job at Anderson’s Hardware Store. Why? Because this stranger, this self-appointed guardian of public decorum, used the threat of a boycott, used her influence to punish a man whose only crime was a bad joke that his best friend didn’t mind.
And the poison spread. This man’s children, innocent lambs, are now ignored in school. His wife was forced to step down from the PTA. Now, because of one moment of casual, friendly joking taken grossly out of context, an entire family is being uprooted and forced to leave Royal!
What have we become as a society? I ask you, where is the charity? Where is the forgiveness? Where is the common sense that tells us to mind our own business, to assume the best in our neighbor, and to accept a man’s own word about his own feelings?
We are cultivating a community where the accuser has all the power, and the accused has no recourse. We are nurturing a culture of fear, where a person must double think what they are going to say to their own friends because a stranger might hear it, take it out of context, and ruin their life.
Is this the freedom we cherish? No! This is tyranny by social consensus. It is a kind of soft persecution where a man is judged guilty without a trial, based on the hypersensitivity of an outsider. They call it ‘standing up for what’s right,’ but I tell you it is the very opposite of the Golden Rule. It is an ugly form of social intimidation that is designed to silence and to punish those who fail to meet a constantly shifting, unspoken standard of conduct.
My beloved congregation, we cannot let this spirit prevail. We must take a stand for sanity, for friendship, and for forgiveness.
First, let us resolve to mind our own tongue and our own business. Let us not become the kind of people who rush to judgment on half a story. Let us not empower the gossips and the busybodies who seek to tear down their neighbors.
Second, let us be courageous in friendship. When you hear a good man being unfairly criticized, do not stand silent. Speak up! Stand by your friend, as the man in the story stood by his. A true friend is a shield against the slings and arrows of an unfair world.
And finally, let us remember the central lesson of our faith: Forgiveness. If we are to be a community, we must allow for mistakes. We must allow for jokes. We must allow for the complexities of human relationships. We must stop this dangerous trend of canceling out a man’s life, his livelihood, and his family over an offense that was never intended.
If we continue down this path, we will not have a free society; we will have a frightened one. Let us pray for the courage to speak the truth in love, for the common sense to know the difference between malice and jest, and for the grace to forgive our neighbors as our divine creator has forgiven us.
Amen.
Dear Shirley,
I’m an 18-year-old girl, and I’m writing to you because I am desperate. I met a man at a VFW dance, and he was so charming. He said all the right words, and I fell in love with him there that night. We have been dating for some time, but I haven’t told my parents because he is a lot older than I am. He was the first man to ever make love to me.
One day when I was out with some friends, I saw him walking down the street. I was so excited and wanted to snatch him and show him off to my girlfriends. But then I saw another woman come up to him, and they kissed. My heart was completely broken.
I confronted him the next night, and that’s when I found out he was married. But he told me he was going to get a divorce so we could be together for the rest of our lives. He said all those nice words again, and I fell right back in love with him.
Three days ago, I found out I was with child. I told him I was having his baby, and he got all defensive and said that it was my fault. After that, he has avoided me. He doesn’t return my calls and avoids me every chance he can get. I don’t know what I am going to do. I haven’t told my parents yet. I need your help.
Desperate
Jean
Dear Desperate Jean,
My heart aches for you. You have been terribly misled by a cad who has no regard for your well-being, and now you must face the consequences of his actions. I will not sugarcoat this for you. The path ahead is difficult, but it is not impossible if you face the truth with courage.
The first and most important thing you must do is to tell your parents. The shame you fear is a heavy burden, but it is far too heavy to carry alone. While some families, in their disappointment, may turn away from their own flesh and blood, a parent’s love for their child often finds a way to overcome even the deepest heartbreak. You must give them the chance to help you.
The man who took your virtue and promised you a life together is not who you thought he was. He has abandoned you when you needed him most, proving his words to be as empty as his character. You must understand that he will not return, and you must not waste another moment of your time trying to contact him.
With your parents, you must now decide on the best course of action. This is a matter of great gravity. You will need their guidance to make arrangements for the baby’s future, whether that is finding a way to provide for him or her yourself, or making the difficult but selfless choice of placing the child for adoption with a family who can provide a proper home. This is not a journey you can take alone, and your parents are your only real recourse.
Pray for strength and lean on your faith. There are communities and kind souls who will help a young woman in your position. With the support of your family, you will get through this.
Love and Prayers,
Shirley
Friends, family, and neighbors,
Thank you for being here today. I want to talk about something that can feel complicated but is, at its heart, profoundly simple. We often use the word religion to describe what we’re doing here. But I want to propose a different way of looking at it.
When we read the gospels, we see a picture of Jesus. And it’s not a picture of someone creating a new religion with a list of rules and rituals. It’s a picture of someone starting a movement. This was a movement that directly challenged the organized religions of his day, questioning the systems that had forgotten their true purpose.
What was the message of this movement? It was simple and radical. It was a message of love.
- Love your neighbor.
- Feed the hungry.
- Clothe the naked.
- Shelter the homeless.
- Show compassion to the oppressed.
This wasn’t just a suggestion; it was the core of his teaching. It wasn’t about building a new institution. It was about building a new way of living, a new way of being in the world with each other.
I know it can be easy to fall into the trap of putting Jesus on a pedestal, of praising and honoring him like he’s some far-off deity. But if we really listen to his words, that’s not what he wanted. He didn’t say, “Praise me and build monuments in my name.” He said, “Take up your cross and follow me.”
What is this cross he speaks of? It’s not a burden or a punishment. It is what makes you you. It’s your unique path, your individual struggles, your personal strengths. Look around you. Not everyone is the same. We are all different, we are all unique, and individually, we are all amazing.
But when we take up our crosses and walk together, we become something more. We become an unstoppable force. We become a community.
We have been given a promise: “Ask and it will be answered. Seek and you shall find.” Well, here we are. We are all here together. We are all neighbors. And the greatest teaching, the simplest command, is also the most profound: Love your neighbor as yourself. How much more simple could it get?
This isn’t a buffet. We don’t get to cherry-pick parts of scripture that are easy or convenient and ignore the rest. We cannot just take a verse or sentence out of the Bible and twist it to our liking. Too many people are doing this, and when they do, they lose the context of the scripture. They actually create a new story and believe it is the true story, living by a single statement and not the context from which it came.
We have to embrace the whole message of love, compassion, and action. It is okay to question. It is okay to discuss. It is okay to pray and meditate. But it is not okay to dismiss.
Let’s not get lost in the noise of religion. Let’s get back to the movement of love. Let’s go out and love our neighbors, because in doing so, we are truly following.
A new day dawned on Royal, but the oppressive gray sky still hung heavy, threatening more rain. Ethan rose early, the dream-like vision from the night before still vivid. He ran a hand over the imagined freshly painted walls, a phantom touch of smooth, clean plaster. His bedroom, however, was as derelict as ever. The peeling wallpaper hung in strips, and a fresh ring of dampness stained the ceiling. He felt a deep sense of loss, as if the life and vibrancy from his dream had been stolen.
He was caught in a tug-of-war between two realities: the one his eyes saw and the one his heart felt. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, the melancholy grip that had held him for days loosened its hold. A small ember of hope sparked in his chest. It was the spirit’s voice that resonated with him the most. Her words, “Your imagination is our life,” echoed in his mind, and he felt a responsibility to the spirits. With a renewed purpose, he knew he had to leave the house, to break free from the self-imposed prison he had built.
As he walked the empty streets of Royal, he felt the town’s bleakness like a physical weight. The houses, once long ago vibrant with life, now seemed to frown with neglect. The shops were boarded up and Main street, once long ago bustling with activity, was now quiet and desolate. A cold wind blew through, carrying with it the smell of wet earth and decay. The town was suffocating, and Ethan knew that if he stayed, he would be buried in its despair.
Returning to the house, Ethan ran his hand over the wood siding, and a new feeling surged through him. It was a faint, yet undeniable, hum of energy. A shiver of excitement ran down his spine. The spirits had been right. A different kind of life awaited him. It was his imagination, his willingness to believe, that held the key. He had a profound realization: Royal wasn’t just a place. It was a reflection of himself. Its decay was his decay; its despair, his despair. The town’s sorrow had resonated with his own, and in a way, he had been fueling it. He knew he had to heal himself to heal the town.
Ethan walked through the front door and took a deep breath. He needed a place to start. A spark of inspiration ignited as he looked around the desolate living room. He would start there, with a broom and a pail of soapy water. He would fight back against the grime, the decay, and the despair. He would bring back the life that had been lost. As he began to sweep, he felt a strange sense of companionship. He wasn’t alone in this. The spirits were with him, watching and waiting. He didn’t know how long it would take, but he knew what he had to do. He had to bring Royal back to life.
The night had been a blur for Peggy. She woke up on the couch, her body stiff and cold. The memory of the waltz and the visions of Ethan were still fresh in her mind, and she felt a sense of relief. Ethan was okay. Ethan was alive. The tears that came were not of sadness, but of hope. The gray despair that had shrouded her for weeks began to lift. The apartment was still dark, but she felt a new sense of purpose. She had to find Ethan. She had to know more about the gazebo, the band and who the young woman was that had been singing.
Amy and Russel found Peggy at the kitchen table, a phone book, a notebook and an old, tattered state map spread out in front of her. Her eyes, once vacant and sad, now held a spark of determination. Amy and Russel were surprised, but they knew better than to question her. They had seen Peggy at her lowest, and they were happy to see her fighting back.
Peggy spent the rest of the day in a flurry of activity. She reached out to Ethan’s family and Ethan’s old friends asking them about Ethan’s grandfather. Asking about the band he was in and where the band performed. Anything about Ethan’s grandfather would be helpful. Peggy’s search was slow, but she refused to give up. Every dead-end only fueled her resolve. As the hours passed, she realized that she was not just looking for Ethan, she was rediscovering herself. The girl who had once been so full of life was coming back.
That night, Peggy closed her eyes, not to pray, but to remember. She remembered the melody, the vision, and the feeling of love that had surged through her. She was not just waiting anymore. She was moving. And for the first time in a long time, she felt like she was heading in the right direction.
In the morning, the image of Ethan’s grandfather’s accordion case flashed into her mind. She ran to her bedroom and opened the closet door. She pulled out the accordion case and sat on the floor, gently laying the case open. Inside, the accordion was nestled in its velvet lining, but a piece of sheet music sat on top of the instrument. Peggy picked up the sheet music, her hands shaking. On the cover page, a beautiful black and white sketch of a gazebo was drawn against a backdrop of trees, and she gasped – it was the same gazebo from her dream.
Peggy’s heart pounded in her chest as she carefully examined the sheet music. The title, boldly printed on the front, read, “In the Shadow of Yesterday.” Below it, in a smaller font, was the composer’s name: Tommy Melk. Then she saw the band’s name, “Tommy Melk and the Melk Duds” printed just below the title. Below the song was the name of the publisher, Royal Music Publishing. The bottom of the sheet music held a handwritten note in a shaky hand. “To my dearest, my one only Love, Tommy.”
Peggy smiled. It had to be a sign. It was the only thing that made sense to her. Peggy looked again at the sheet music. Royal Music Publishing? It was a long shot, but it was all she had.
Scene: Friday Convocation – Fine Arts Building Assembly Hall
INT. BACKSTAGE – FRIDAY AFTERNOON
JEFF (O.S.):The air backstage is thick with the nervous sweat of artistic ambition and the lingering scent of cheap coffee. LEONARD, his glasses perpetually threatening to slide down his nose, fidgets with his notes, a collection of barely legible scribbles on lined paper. Across the cramped space, GWEN, a young woman with intensely dramatic eye makeup, recounts her cinematic triumph to a bored-looking STAGEHAND.
GWEN: …and the juxtaposition of the flickering Super 8 footage of the abandoned amusement park with the mournful cello solo, it’s meant to evoke the ephemeral nature of joy, the inevitable decay of memory… a commentary on the post-industrial malaise that permeates… Well, everything, really.
LEONARD: (Interjecting, adjusting his glasses with a nervous twitch) The ephemeral nature of joy. Yes. Like finding a twenty-dollar bill in an old coat pocket, only to realize it’s counterfeit. A fleeting moment of optimism cruelly snatched away by the harsh realities of… fiscal irresponsibility. Did you consider the symbolism of the rust on the carousel horses? The slow erosion of… childhood dreams?
STAGEHAND: (Without looking at her) Just try not to trip over the dolly tracks.
Across the stage, BRENDAN, a young man sporting a pretentious scarf indoors, holds court with another student.
BRENDAN: My film is a deconstruction of narrative linearity. It unfolds backwards, each scene a fragmented memory leading to a primal, unspoken trauma. The graininess of the 16mm is deliberate, a visual representation of the unreliable nature of… consciousness.
LEONARD: (Nodding thoughtfully) The unreliable nature of consciousness. Indeed. Like trying to remember why you walked into a room in the first place. A profound mystery, really. Does your protagonist grapple with the inherent subjectivity of… reality? The unsettling notion that what we perceive as truth is merely a… flawed interpretation?
BRENDAN: Mostly, we just ran out of film and had to shoot the ending first.
A frazzled STAGE MANAGER claps his hands together wearily.
STAGE MANAGER: Leonard! You’re up! Try to keep it under ten minutes. My therapist charges by the hour.
Leonard gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a cork in a turbulent sea. He shuffles towards the stage entrance.
INT. ASSEMBLY HALL – CONTINUOUS
STANLEY leans forward dramatically towards MARVIN.
STANLEY: Leonard and the goldfish. This has the potential to be… Bergmanesque. Or perhaps early Fellini. Imagine! The silent suffering of a creature confined to a small, watery world! A metaphor for the human condition!
MARVIN: (Leafing through a dog-eared paperback) I’m picturing more of a wet pet.
DEBORAH: He’s actually quite bright. I’m sure he has a compelling vision. Maybe he’ll explore themes of isolation, the yearning for connection in a… well, a fish-eat-fish world. Figuratively speaking, of course.
CYNTHIA: (Exhaling an invisible cloud of smoke, a weary sigh escaping her lips) The yearning of a goldfish. Truly the stuff of epics.
STANLEY: But the exploding bagel! He mentioned it! It could be a brilliant surrealist touch! A sudden, jarring moment of… breakfast-related anarchy!
MARVIN: Maybe the fish eats it and… expands.
DEBORAH: Perhaps he’ll discuss the challenges of anthropomorphizing a creature with… limited facial expressions.
CYNTHIA: (A wry smile) The existential angst etched on a fish’s… face. I can hardly wait.
INT. BACKSTAGE – CONTINUOUS
ANOTHER STUDENT (on the verge of tears) …and then the lead actor quit halfway through filming because he said my artistic vision was “making him question his life choices.”
LEONARD: Questioning one’s life choices. A fundamental aspect of the human experience. Did you explore the actor’s… inner turmoil? The… the existential void that led to his… dramatic departure?
STAGE MANAGER: Leonard! Go! Before they all start requesting refunds.
Leonard stumbles onto the stage, blinking owlishly under the bright lights. He looks utterly alone and exposed.
INT. ASSEMBLY HALL – CONTINUOUS
LEONARD grips the microphone stand as if it’s a lifeline in a sea of expectant faces. He clears his throat, the sound echoing through the hall.
(Leonard stands on stage, blinking owlishly under the bright lights, nervously adjusting his glasses.)
Um, hello. So, the goldfish. My film. It’s… it’s about a goldfish. And, you know, they say goldfish have a memory of only three seconds. Which, if you think about it, is probably about the length of time most people will remember this presentation. Ha.
(Silence. A lone cough.)
Right. Well, the filming mostly took place in my sink. My roommate wasn’t entirely sympathetic to the artistic process involving… fish scales in the drain. But, you know, Bartholomew, the fish, he’s not just a fish. He’s a metaphor. For that feeling you get when you’re at a party and you don’t know anyone, and you just hover near the cheese platter, pretending to be deeply interested in the various textures of the brie.
(A few chuckles.)
But the real metaphor, you see, is for my crippling fear of pigeons. It’s not rational, I know. They’re just… feathered rats with tiny, dead eyes. But they’re always watching. Always. And what are they thinking? Are they plotting? Are they silently judging my inability to parallel park? Because, I have to be honest, I can’t. I’ve tried. I’ve seen people do it with such grace, like a ballet of spatial reasoning. I just end up doing this elaborate, three-point turn that ends with me on the curb, staring into the existential void that is a poorly parked Honda Civic.
(The audience is laughing now.)
And it’s all connected, you see. The fish, the pigeons, the parking. It all leads to my ongoing philosophical debate with myself about the proper way to pronounce “Nietzsche.” Is it “NEET-shuh”? “NEE-chee”? Or is it a silent “t,” like “Knee-uh-shuh”? The weight of this question… it’s an intellectual burden. It’s like trying to find the missing piece “A” when you’re assembling a bookshelf made in Sweden. It’s all just… a complete lack of intellectual curiosity. Or maybe a lot of intellectual curiosity that leads to… this.
(Leonard gestures vaguely at himself, and the audience erupts in laughter.)
I can’t quite decide.
JEFF (O.S.): And so, Leonard, the intellectual with the perpetually bewildered expression, had stumbled upon a universal truth. That sometimes, the most profound connections are made not through carefully crafted pronouncements, but through the messy, neurotic honesty of simply trying to make sense of a world that often makes no sense at all. Especially when you’re trying to make a film about a goldfish.
When Leonard finally stumbles to a conclusion, the applause is deafening. A standing ovation. Stanley, Marvin, Deborah, and Cynthia rise with the rest, clapping with a mixture of shock and genuine appreciation.
STANLEY: (Muttering) I… I don’t understand it. But I… I think I liked it?
MARVIN: (A slight shake of his head, a hint of a smile) Well. That was… something.
DEBORAH: He was… real. In a way none of us expected.
CYNTHIA: (Taking a deep, imaginary drag) Go figure.
Leonard, flushed with surprise and a dawning sense of bewildered triumph, takes a bow, his glasses askew. He spots Stanley, Marvin, Deborah, and Cynthia and waves, a goofy grin spreading across his face, before shuffling off stage. The four friends stare at each other, a silent, shared question hanging in the smoky air of the assembly hall.
STANLEY, MARVIN, DEBORAH, CYNTHIA (in unison, a bewildered whisper): What the hell just happened?
(BLACKOUT)
The Wit And Wisdom Of Horace B Miesner
The best things in life are free… mostly because nobody wants them.
WRYL – The Voice of the Great Up North
For days, a relentless downpour had smothered Royal, casting a gray pall over everything. Ethan felt it deeply, his own spirits as bleak as the weather. Unmotivated and melancholy, he spent hours staring out the window, mesmerized by the drumming rain. At night, he was captivated by the flashes of lightning and the resounding thunder, a natural light show that reminded him of fireworks. The wind, howling through the trees, played a somber melody that resonated with the turmoil in his soul. He sensed a profound imbalance, a deep wrongness he was powerless to correct.
His dreams became a shattered film reel of his past, forgotten childhood memories resurfacing to stir his emotions. He found himself missing his family, despite the distance he had so desperately sought. The sense of adventure that had fueled his arrival in Royal had vanished. His imagination, once a boundless well of happiness, ran dry. He had, in essence, closed the book on Royal and placed it back on the shelf. As Ethan retreated into himself, the town seemed to follow, slipping back into the bleakness of a ghost town. Despair descended like a heavy shroud, and hope dissolved entirely.
That evening, Ethan went about his routine, placing pails on the floor to catch the new leaks in the roof. The damaged windmill provided only intermittent electricity, forcing him to navigate the house by candlelight. The air was thick with the musty smell of mildew, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that the house was regressing to its derelict past. Shivering, he crawled into bed, pulling the blanket and bedspread tight against the cold as he drifted into a restless sleep.
In the dead of night, a hauntingly beautiful melody stirred him awake. The sound was distant yet deeply familiar—the waltz his grandfather had written. Ethan sat up, transfixed by the accordion’s music. Its melody calmed his racing heart, easing his anxiety. A single spirit slowly materialized in his room, a woman who looked at him with a kind smile that put Ethan instantly at ease. Soon, more spirits joined her. As they drew nearer, Ethan watched his bedroom transform. The walls were no longer peeling, but clean and freshly painted. The familiar, broken furniture was replaced with new pieces. Pictures now hung on the walls and knickknacks sat on the chest and dresser. The closet door, once jammed shut, now stood open, filled with hanging shirts and pants. Books were neatly stacked on the desk. The room was not just new, it was alive, and Ethan could feel the very life of the house surging through his body.
The woman drew near, gently stroking Ethan’s hair. “Never let anyone take your imagination away from you. Your imagination is our life. I love you, Ethan, more than you can possibly know. Let your imagination take you anywhere, anytime, any place. Looking forward to seeing…” Her words trailed off as a blinding light filled the room. Ethan shielded his eyes, and when he looked again, the spirits were gone. The room had returned to its dilapidated state, leaving him sitting in the darkness, the spirit’s words echoing in his mind.
Peggy sat alone in the apartment, the silence heavy now that Amy and Russel had left for class. At the kitchen table, a cup of tea grew cold as she stared at photos from the night Ethan’s grandfather had visited. That evening felt like a lifetime ago, a memory of pure happiness now clouded by sorrow. It had been a little over two weeks since his passing, and that grief, compounded by Ethan’s month-long disappearance, was weighing on her. Tears came easily, affecting her classes, her part-time job, and her relationships with her roommates. The apartment, much like Royal, had lost its light, shrouded in a similar gray despair.
That evening, a rainstorm plunged the apartment into darkness, and the three roommates gathered in the living room, their faces illuminated by a single candle and a flashlight. Peggy was quiet, her mind elsewhere. Her responses were clipped—a “yes” or a “that’s cool”—as Amy and Russel tried to keep a conversation going. When they finally went to bed, Peggy remained on the couch, staring out the window at the storm. Just as she did every night, she closed her eyes and prayed for Ethan to be safe, healthy, and happy. She prayed that he would find what he was looking for and, most of all, that he would return home. Her final prayer was a whisper, a plea for him never to forget how much she loved him. With a sigh, she blew out the candle, curled up, and fell into a fitful sleep.
In the middle of the night, a hauntingly beautiful melody stirred Peggy awake. The sound was distant, yet so familiar—the waltz Ethan’s grandfather had written. The music filled her mind and heart, easing the emptiness she felt without Ethan by her side. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the melody, and flashes of him began to fill her mind. She saw him leaving a house, walking past stores and shops. The images came fast, from multiple angles, the faces of the people passing him blurred or turned away. She watched as he walked through a park, where a gazebo stood in the distance, and she heard the same waltz playing over and over. People were dancing, and she could see Ethan, playing his violin, joined by other musicians whose instruments added to the enchanting accordion melody.
As a young woman began to sing, people started to crowd her view of the gazebo. She pushed forward, trying to get a clearer look, but she could only make out Ethan. Then she tripped and fell. She sat up, looking at what had caused her to stumble—a suitcase that looked just like Ethan’s grandfather’s accordion case. The accordion music softened, playing alone now. The images and the music slowly faded away. Peggy was left alone on the couch, staring into the dark apartment, the memory of the music and the vision of Ethan still vivid in her mind.
Dear Shirley,
I’m writing to you today with a heavy heart and a mind full of worry. My son, Robert, is 15 and has become a stranger in his own home. He spends every waking moment locked away in his room, either with his nose in a book or scribbling away in a notebook. On the rare occasions he emerges from his room, I can hear that awful jazz music playing on his phonograph—it’s hardly fit for polite society, let alone a growing boy.
His friends call, but he just tells them he’s “busy.” Busy with what, I ask? Just yesterday, while he was at school, I went into his room and read some of his stories. It was all about the past, a time he’s never known. He wishes he could go back and live a different life. It’s all quite disturbing, to be honest.
I’m afraid he’s being sucked into this made-up world, and one day he’ll just disappear into it forever. I worry about him, about his future. How will he ever get a good job if he has no friends and no social skills? All the other boys his age are out playing baseball or going to the movies. My Robert just wants to hide away. Please, Shirley, tell me what to do. How do I save him from himself?
Sincerely,
A Concerned Mother
Dear Concerned Mother,
It seems you’ve found yourself in a rather peculiar predicament. It’s a tale as old as time, really: a mother worried her son is turning into a… well, a thinker. Oh, what a terrible fate that would be. One can only imagine the horrors of a child who prefers the company of books and his own thoughts to the rough-and-tumble world outside.
Let’s dissect this, shall we? You’re concerned he’s a “hermit.” You’ve even gone so far as to spy on him and read his private writings. A mother’s love, it seems, knows no bounds—nor does her curiosity. You’ve discovered he has a vibrant imagination, a longing for something more, and a passion for things like writing and music. And your reaction? Fear. You’re afraid he’s being “sucked into” this world, and you’re worried about his social life.
Tell me, what exactly is “normal” for a teenage boy? Is it a life spent chasing a ball, going to movies or following the crowd? And what, pray tell, is so wrong with being different? Perhaps your son is not destined to be just like all the others. Perhaps he is meant to be a creator, a dreamer, a storyteller. What is so frightening about that?
Instead of trying to “save him from himself,” perhaps you should be asking yourself what you’re trying to save him from. Are you worried about what the neighbors will think? Or are you simply uncomfortable with a son who is not a carbon copy of the boys in the other families on the street?
Instead of criticizing this “fantasy world” he has created, why don’t you try to understand it? Ask him about his stories. What inspires him? Who are his characters? Perhaps this “fantasy world” is simply a way for him to make sense of the real one. Instead of seeing his creativity as a threat, see it as a gift. He has a mind that can travel through time and create entire worlds out of thin air. How many people can say that?
Your son is not a project to be fixed. He is a young man with a unique mind and a rich inner life. The only thing you need to worry about is whether you’ll allow yourself to be a part of it.
With some common sense,
Shirley
Setting: Basement editing room at the University of Wisconsin – Milwaukee. A large dimly lit room with tables of various shapes and sizes randomly placed throughout the room. Each table has a 16mm film viewer and editor of various brands and conditions. Used 30 gallon fiber drum containers are scattered across the room each filled with discarded 16mm film strips.
JEFF (O.S.): Weeks had passed, marked by lukewarm coffee, philosophical debates that circled like confused pigeons, and the persistent aroma of Marvin’s questionable snacks. The screenplay, a delicate ecosystem of neuroses and half-baked ideas, had somehow morphed into actual footage. Now, they found themselves in the dimly lit, slightly sticky confines of the college’s editing room.
(SFX: The low hum of editing equipment, the occasional click and whir)
DEBORAH: Okay, so I think if we cut from Bartholomew’s close-up – the one where he looks particularly burdened by the concept of eternal recurrence – directly to the shot of the overflowing ashtray…
CYNTHIA: (Without taking her eyes off her imaginary cigarette) It lacks a certain… despair. Maybe a slow zoom on a wilting houseplant? Symbolizing the decay of hope?
LEONARD: Or perhaps we intercut it with footage of rush hour traffic? The relentless, meaningless movement of the masses mirroring Bartholomew’s internal struggle against the tyranny of the aquarium.
STANLEY: (Gesturing dramatically) No, no, no! We need visual dynamism! What about a montage? Quick cuts! Bartholomew staring intensely, then a nuclear explosion (stock footage, of course), then a baby crying, then a close-up of a melting ice cream cone! It’ll be… Eisensteinian!
MARVIN: (Rummaging through a large, overflowing trash can filled with discarded strips of 16mm film) Has anyone seen the footage of the pigeon eating that discarded hot dog? I think it might… resonate.
DEBORAH: Marvin, we’re trying to establish Bartholomew’s profound intellectual crisis, not the culinary habits of urban wildlife.
MARVIN: But there’s a certain… existential dread in that pigeon’s relentless pursuit of processed meat. The futility of its desires mirroring… well, you know.
LEONARD: He might have a point. The base urges of the physical world juxtaposed with the lofty aspirations of the… ichthyoid intellect.
STANLEY: Absolutely not! We’re not making a documentary about vermin! This is about a Nietzschean goldfish! Think big! Think… Fellini, but with scales!
CYNTHIA: Fellini was depressing. At least the pigeon has a hot dog. A fleeting moment of greasy satisfaction in an otherwise bleak existence.
MARVIN: (Pulling out a tangled strip of film) Aha! Here it is. Look at the raw hunger in its beady little eyes. The sheer, unadulterated need.
(SFX: The whirring sound of film being pulled)
DEBORAH: Marvin, what else is in that trash can? Please tell me you’re not planning on incorporating outtakes of Stanley tripping over the microphone.
MARVIN: (Holding up another strip) Oh, this is interesting. It looks like… Mrs. Henderson’s cat chasing a wind up toy mouse. Remember that B-roll we shot for… I can’t even recall what scene.
LEONARD: The scene where the protagonist briefly considers the seductive allure of feline domesticity before reaffirming his commitment to intellectual rigor? We cut it. It felt… tangential.
STANLEY: Tangential? It was an affront to the very core of our cinematic vision! A fluffy distraction from the weighty themes of free will and… and fish philosophy!
CYNTHIA: Maybe the cat represents the protagonist’s subconscious desire for simple pleasures, a respite from the burden of existential awareness. The wind up toy mouse is the fleeting, ultimately unattainable nature of happiness.
MARVIN: (Holding up yet another strip) And this! This appears to be… static. Just pure, unadulterated visual noise.
DEBORAH: That was when the camera jammed. We lost a good ten minutes of Leonard’s intensely brooding close-up.
LEONARD: (Sighs dramatically) Perhaps it was a sign. The universe itself protesting against my attempts to convey the ineffable through the limitations of celluloid.
STANLEY: We can use the static! It represents the void! The terrifying nothingness that underlies all existence! We’ll call it… ‘Ode to the Abyss’!
CYNTHIA: Or maybe it just means someone forgot to check the film gate.
MARVIN: (Squinting at a particularly crumpled piece of film) Wait a minute… What’s this? It looks like… a close-up of an exploding bagel.
(SFX: A faint, crackly sound, like old film running through a projector)
DEBORAH: Oh, god. We filmed that? I thought we agreed that was a… a metaphor gone awry.
LEONARD: But the sheer randomness of it! The unexpected eruption of breakfast pastry! It’s almost… Beckettian!
STANLEY: We have to use it! It’s the perfect punctuation mark for Bartholomew’s descent into nihilistic despair! The bagel explodes, mirroring the shattering of his belief in… in fishy metaphysics!
CYNTHIA: It’s just an exploding bagel, Stanley. Maybe it just got too hot.
MARVIN: (Smiling faintly) You know, for a brief, chaotic moment, that bagel achieved a kind of… liberation. It transcended its bagel-ness.
DEBORAH: (Massaging her temples) We have to finish this film. We have a deadline. Can we please focus on the footage we intentionally shot?
LEONARD: But perhaps the unintentional footage holds a deeper truth. The subconscious of our cinematic endeavor revealing itself through discarded frames and exploding carbohydrates.
STANLEY: We’ll call it… ‘Bagel Ex Machina’!
CYNTHIA: I need another imaginary cigarette. This is giving me a real headache.
MARVIN: (Holding up the pigeon footage again) Just think about it. The pigeon. The bagel. Both striving, in their own way, for… something.
JEFF (O.S.): And so, amidst the discarded remnants of their artistic ambitions and the lingering scent of burnt sugar, they continued to tinker. The line between profound insight and utter nonsense blurred with each passing frame. The film, much like their collective sanity, hung precariously in the balance, a testament to the enduring power of existential angst and the surprising cinematic potential of breakfast gone wrong.
(SFX: The low hum of editing equipment continues, joined by a frustrated sigh from Deborah)
(SCENE END)
