Red Berry Workshop

I may be crazy, but it seems to me that . . .

Page 2 of 12

Scene 10 – Fade Out: Mid Term Submission Day

February 19, 2026 /

(SCENE START)

INT. UWM FILM DEPARTMENT OFFICE – DAY

A gray, overcast afternoon in October. The office is quiet, save for the hum of fluorescent lights and the nervous energy of students rushing in to submit their mid term projects. DR. SKOLLER sits behind his desk, looking marginally less weary than usual, accepting the thick, bound screenplays.

JEFF (O.S.): So far this semester had brutalized us. We’d been forced to confront structure, conflict, and the horrifying truth that our personal philosophies didn’t automatically translate into a sellable plot. But we finished our mid term project. The scripts, bound in plastic and filled with the DNA of our compromises, represented not just a project completed, but a permanent, painful shift in the way we saw the world.

LEONARD approaches DR. SKOLLER”s desk, holding his script, “The Ovoid Obsession,” bound in a plain black 3 ring binder with no graphics.

LEONARD: DR. SKOLLER, sir. It is done. Arthur successfully replaces the defective potatoes. The ending, however, is not a triumph. He realizes that even his act of subversive rebellion is merely an act of fleeting pattern disruption in an infinitely chaotic universe.

DR. SKOLLER: (Accepting the script) Good, Leonard. I’m pleased you maintained the profound sense of futility, even while incorporating a second-act vegetable heist. Progress.

CYNTHIA slides her script, “The Algorithm of Ashes,” across the desk. It’s bound in a stark white 3 ring binder.

CYNTHIA: The senator succeeds. The bureaucratic machine implodes under the weight of its own flawed paperwork. The resolution is a void, DR. SKOLLER. A total, beautiful, quiet collapse.

DR. SKOLLER: I expected nothing less, Cynthia.

STANLEY bursts in, clutching his script, “Fast Track to Fame!”, bound in a glossy gold three ring binder, nearly knocking over a trash can.

STANLEY: Submitted! The final resolution involves my protagonist realizing that the only way to achieve true cinematic glory is to reject the Hollywood machine and come back to Milwaukee to make his authentic film! It’s a full-circle, triumphant arc!

DR. SKOLLER: (Massages his temples) Excellent. So, he ends up right where he started, but with better self-esteem. Very marketable.

DEBORAH and MARVIN approach the desk together, submitting their scripts. Marvin’s, “The Antique Washer,” bound in brown leatherette 3 ring binder, and Deborah’s, “Fasteners of the Heart,” in a soft blue cover 3 ring binder.

DEBORAH: The relationship survives the suburban crime ring, DR. SKOLLER. The final scene is them realizing the biggest MacGuffin wasn’t the washer, but the lack of communication they let contaminate their love.

MARVIN: My resolution is a bit more concrete. The hero gets the girl, gets the washer, and uses it to fix a leaky faucet. A practical, functional ending.

DR. SKOLLER: (He actually smiles faintly) A practical, functional ending. That is, arguably, the most radical resolution of all. Congratulations, team. You survived the narrative structure.

The students gather their belongings and head out into the hallway.

STANLEY: I feel reborn! I feel ready for the next level! Who wants to read a synopsis of my sequel, “Fast Track to Financing”?

LEONARD: I need a long, dark room to contemplate the moral implications of forcing my character to commit a felony for the sake of plot momentum.

CYNTHIA: I need a quiet place to smoke. And then perhaps I’ll burn the remnants of my idealism.

DEBORAH: (Linking her arm through Marvin”s) We did it, Marvin. We wrote a thriller and a rom-com, and we didn’t break up in the process.

MARVIN: (Looking at her, a genuine, content expression) The script needed the manufactured drama. We didn’t. I’d rather sort nuts and bolts with you than fight a thousand lock washers.

JEFF (O.S.): We survived the first half of our junior semester. The abstract filmmakers were now, for better or worse, storytellers. We learned that narrative demanded stakes, even if we had to invent them. But the real victory belonged to Marvin and Deborah. Their love story, written in the quiet moments between takes and the careful phrasing of their dialogue, proved that sometimes, the most compelling story of all is the one you deliberately choose to keep simple and true. They faced the chaos of the semester and chose the practical, deliberate act of sticking together. And that, I realized, was a pretty great ending.

(SFX: The heavy front door of the film building shuts with a final, echoing CLUNK.)

(SCENE END)

The Wellspring Within

February 19, 2026 /

“When you bring forth what is in you, what you have will save you. That which you do not have in you will kill you if you do not know it within you.” – The Gospel of Thomas

My friends and neighbors. Look around this sanctuary. We see the familiar faces of our community, the sturdy craftsmanship of these pews, and the light streaming through the glass. We live in an age of great wonders—automobiles that glisten like chrome jewels and rockets aiming for the very stars. But tonight, I want us to turn our gaze away from the gadgets of the modern world and look into the most mysterious territory of all. The human heart.

There is a fundamental truth about our existence. One that the Divine has woven into the very fabric of our souls. It is this, “When you bring forth what is in you, what you have will save you. But that which you do not have in you will kill you if you do not know it within you.”

Think of your life as a garden plot given to you by the Divine. Inside every one of us, there is a seed. A unique essence. A truth. A calling.

If you nurture that seed. If you bring it forth into the light through honest labor, kindness, and integrity, that very essence becomes your salvation. It becomes the strength that carries you through the storms of life.

But if you bury it. If you stifle that inner light out of fear or because you’re too busy keeping up with the Joneses. It doesn’t just disappear. It sours.

You see, friends, we cannot pretend to be something we aren’t. The Divine didn’t make us to be carbon copies of our neighbors. If you have a truth inside you and you refuse to live it, you are carrying a weight that will eventually pull you under.

Now, let’s look at the second half of that truth. If you do not possess that inner connection. If you haven’t recognized the presence of the Divine within your own mind and spirit. You are walking on hollow ground.

In this fast-paced world , it is easy to become “hollow people.” We fill our lives with noise. We fill our lives with television programs and social clubs. We try to ignore the quiet ache in our chests. But hear me clearly. What you do not have in you will kill you. It won’t be a physical death. Perhaps not at first. It is the death of the spirit. It is the cynicism that withers the soul. If you do not find that spark of the Divine within yourself, the world will eventually feel like a cold, dark place. You cannot find outside what you have failed to cultivate inside.

So, as we go about our business this week. Whether you’re at the office, the grocery store, or the kitchen sink. Ask yourself this, “ What am I bringing forth? Is it the genuine fruit of a soul in harmony with the Divine? Or am I carrying a void where my spirit ought to be?

Do not be afraid of what you find in the quiet moments. For even in the darkest corner of the heart, the Divine is waiting for you to simply acknowledge the light. Bring it forth, let it save you, and walk out of this building today as a person made whole.

Amen.

Chapter 22: The Tug of Realities

February 18, 2026 /

The needle of Ethan’s life had finally found a groove. After several weeks in Royal, the initial static of terror had smoothed into a steady, mid-century hum. He had a routine now, one that felt more like a ceremony than a schedule.

Each morning, the sun would spill across his floorboards, beckoning him down to a kitchen that would eventually smell of percolating coffee and bacon and eggs. He’d step onto the porch to retrieve the morning paper, often lingering to trade pleasantries with a neighbor. These were simple exchanges—talk of the weather or local gossip—but they anchored him. By the time he sat down with his coffee and breakfast, Ethan’s true reality felt like a half-remembered dream.

He spent his midday hours in a state of quiet productivity. He mowed the lawn, tended to his vegetable garden, and performed his ritual check on the windmill. He found solace in his backyard shed, tinkering with tools and reading articles from a stack of Popular Science magazines.

Most surprisingly, he had returned to his violin. At first, the music was a struggle. His fingers were stiff, and the bow felt like a lead weight in his hand. The notes he produced were rusty, screeching protests that sounded out of tune with the world around him. But as the days passed, the stiffness in his arm melted away, and the melodies began to flow, smoothing out until they matched the rhythm of the town itself.

By afternoon, Ethan was the charming voice of WRYL. Ethan would walk to the radio studio and back with the easy gait of a man who belonged. He ate at the Lunch Box Cafe, engaged in philosophical bouts with Pastor Dzef, and attended services at Saint Helga’s. He was happy or so he told himself. He felt a sense of control that had eluded him in his “real” life.

But Royal had a way of reminding him he was a guest, not a native.

Every evening, the silence of the house brought the “other” reality back into focus. He would look into the corner of the dining room and see them –  the backpack, the cooler, and the suitcase. They sat there like artifacts from a shipwreck. In their presence, Ethan would snap back to his true timeline, and the anxiety would bloom in his chest like a dark flower.

On his hardest days -the days when Ethan was not working, he would walk to the edge of town. He’d stare at the horizon, wondering if he could simply outrun the 1950s. But Royal was a jealous guardian. Every time he strayed too far, a neighbor or a passerby would magically appear, striking up a conversation that gently but firmly steered him back home. He was trapped in a tug-of-war between his memory of Peggy and his family, and the magnetic pull of this perfect, impossible place. At night, he felt a presence watching over him, a phantom guardian that vanished the moment he woke.

One afternoon, the Town of Royal decided it was time for Ethan to move beyond his routine.

As he walked toward the radio studio, he spotted a woman outside the Greyhound bus station, right next to the Lunch Box Cafe. She stood by a lone suitcase, her long brown hair catching the light. She looked familiar – hauntingly so. But the connection slipped through Ethan’s mind. Her face had a radiant, almost angelic glow. When she looked at Ethan and smiled, he felt mesmerized, his feet momentarily rooted to the sidewalk.

A bus pulled up, venting a cloud of diesel smoke. Passengers spilled out, and Ethan quickened his pace, desperate to reach her. But by the time the door hissed shut and the bus pulled away, the sidewalk was empty. She wasn’t on the bus, and she wasn’t on the street. She had simply vanished.

“People stay and people leave. It is all in what you believe,” a voice stated.

Ethan turned to find Pastor Dzef standing there, holding out a chocolate malt. The Pastor’s gaze was heavy with meaning as they both watched the bus disappear down the road. “What do you believe in, Ethan?”

Ethan didn’t have an answer. He offered a small smile, thanked the Pastor for the malt, and continued toward work.

As he passed Royal Park, something new caught his eye on the community bulletin board. A vibrant poster announced that Tommy Melk and the Melk Duds would be performing at the gazebo during the upcoming Royal Festival Days.

Pinned right next to it was a small, hand-written scrap of paper that seemed to vibrate with possibility. Tommy Melk was looking for a violin player.

Ethan felt the weight of the chocolate malt in one hand and the calluses on the fingers of the other. The tug of realities had just entered a new phase.

Dear Shirley

January 13, 2026 /

Dear Shirley,

I am a 28 year old man in a predicament that sounds like a dream but has become a nightmare. I have been courting two wonderful young women for the past year. “Betty” and “Veronica” are both lovely, intelligent, and come from fine families.

The trouble is, Shirley, they are identical in every way that matters. They share my love for the outdoors. They both want a quiet life in the suburbs with three children. Our values regarding faith and finances are a perfect match. I get along with both of them famously. When I am with Betty, I think she is the one. When I am with Veronica, I am certain it is her.

I know I cannot keep this up forever without being a heel, and I am terrified that by choosing one, I will spend the rest of my life wondering if I made a mistake. Or worse, that I’ll lose both of them when they find out I’m playing double-dutch with their hearts. How does a man choose between two “perfect” women?


Archie

Dear Archie,

Pull up a chair and listen closely. You say these women are “perfect” and “identical,” but people aren’t carbon copies produced at the General Motors plant.

The reason you cannot choose is not because they are the same. It is because you are in love with the idea of marriage, but perhaps not uniquely in love with either woman. If one of them truly held the key to your heart, the other would have become a “dear friend” months ago.

By trying to keep both, you are being fair to neither. A woman’s time is her most precious commodity, and while you’re busy weighing Betty against Veronica like a pound of onions, you are keeping both from finding a man who has no doubts.

Here is your test: Imagine you wake up tomorrow and you are told that Betty has met another man and is engaged. If your first feeling is relief that the decision was made for you, then Betty isn’t the one. If your heart sinks into your shoes, then she is.

However, if you still can’t decide after that exercise, do them both a favor: Stop seeing both. Take a month of “bachelor’s solitude” with no phone calls and no Sunday drives. Distance has a way of clearing the eyes. You’ll soon find yourself missing one voice, one laugh, and one smile more than the other.

And if you find you don’t miss either of them? Then keep walking Buddy. You haven’t found “The One” yet. You’ve just found two bridesmaids.


Shirley

Chapter 21: Fitting The Pieces Together

January 13, 2026 /

Peggy pulled open the service door and stepped into a dimly lit hallway. The air was thick and heavy with the scent of aged beer, Pine-Sol cleaner, and the sharp, nicotine tang of old tobacco smoke. It was quite warm inside. A stark contrast to the fresh gentle breeze outside.

The hallway led her around a corner and into the main hall – a large, cavernous room where sunlight struggled to penetrate the high, dusty windows. A few folding tables were set up near a makeshift counter, and seated around one table were three elderly men, wearing jackets, baseball caps and the casual, comfortable clothes of retirement. They were arguing good-naturedly over a half-completed jigsaw puzzle, their voices rumbling like distant thunder.

“Look, Fred, that piece is clearly part of the river! You can see the shading!”

“Nonsense, Harold! That’s part of the sky!”

Peggy cleared her throat. The conversation stopped instantly. All three heads snapped towards Peggy – a young woman with a backpack, looking totally out of place.

“Well, hello there,” the man Peggy took to be Harold said, pushing his chair back. He had a friendly but suspicious look in his eye. “Can we help you, miss? The VFW isn’t officially open until five.”

Peggy forced a smile and walked toward them, placing the backpack on the table. She pulled out the folded copy of the 1957 road map and the blurry 1959 newspaper photo from the envelope.

“My name is Peggy. I know this is strange, but I’m looking for some information about an old dance band, Tommy Melk and the Melk Duds, and a town called Royal. I have an old poster for a dance held in this hall.”

The men exchanged glances. The one named Fred grunted, chewing on the end of a wooden toothpick. “Melk Duds? Sure, I remember Melk. They played a mean polka. But that was years ago, kid. Long before you were born.”

Harold picked up the map, his finger tracing the line from Highway 139 until the finger rested on the small dot labeled Royal.

“This here map is old,” he observed. “Royal. That town’s been long gone. What in the blazes do you want with Royal?”

Peggy chose her words carefully, deciding to focus on the people, not the quarantine. “I’m trying to trace the history of a family friend, a musician. His name was Paul, and he played the accordion for the Melk Duds.” Peggy then pointed to the newspaper photo of the roadblock. “Do any of you remember this? The quarantine in 1959?”

The third man, who had been silent, slowly pushed his glasses up his nose. “Quarantine? I remember that. April ’59. Measles outbreak was terrible. County sheriff locked that place down tighter than an oil drum. Never seen anything like it.” He looked at Peggy, his eyes suddenly sharp. “Why’s that important, girl?”

“I have reason to believe this family friend … Paul … lived in Royal. I’m trying to put the pieces of a puzzle together. I need to find out what happened to the town and people of Royal.”

Fred snorted. “What happened? They waited out the quarantine, same as everyone else. Once the all-clear came, people just started leaving. Royal was a small place anyway, mostly a tourist trap. By the mid-sixties, everyone was gone and the county just abandoned the town and roads.”

Harold, however, was still staring at the map. “Wait a minute, Fred. That ain’t exactly right. The quarantine was lifted, sure, but Royal didn’t just empty out. Some folks… they never left right away. And that one woman, Grace. She was….” Harold’s  voice trailed off. He stared down and went back to work on the puzzle.

Peggy’s heart hammered against her ribs. Grace. The love of Ethan’s grandfather’s life.

“What about Grace?” Peggy whispered, leaning in.

Harold looked uneasy, casting a glance down the hallway. “Years before the measles outbreak, Grace had a kid. Folks said the measles hit the town hard. I heard… just talk, mind you… that Grace and her child were the last ones in Royal to leave. They stayed there long after the power was cut. She was holding out for someone to come back.”

“Who was she holding out for?” Peggy pressed, her voice sounding urgent.

Before Harold could answer, the front door of the VFW hall swung open.

“Peggy!”

It was Eleanor, the taxi driver, standing framed in the doorway, her face etched with genuine alarm.

“Eleanor, what are you doing here?” Peggy asked, bewildered. The front doors were locked. How did she get in?

“I came back for you!” Eleanor strode into the hall, ignoring the men. “I got halfway back to Black River Falls and realized what I did. Dropping a pretty college girl off alone in Oakhaven with nothing but a backpack. I was worried sick. You get some real rough characters wandering these parts. You’re coming home with me.”

Peggy realized she had misjudged the woman completely; Eleanor wasn’t just a taxi driver, she was a motherly protector. She quickly gathered her materials. The men, their conversation thoroughly disrupted, offered no protest.

Peggy looked down at Harold. “I need to come back tomorrow,” Peggy told Harold firmly. “I need to know more about Grace and that child.”

Harold just nodded, looking resigned. “You ask Eleanor. She’s a local. She’ll know more than us old coots.”

As Peggy was putting the map and newspaper article back in the envelope, she glanced down at the puzzle the three old men were putting together. Peggy’s eyes widened at the almost completed puzzle. It was the gazebo from the cover page of the sheet music “In The Shadow Of Yesterday”.

Scene 9 – Plotting the Pain: Screenwriting Workshop

January 12, 2026 /

(SCENE START)

INT. UWM FILM DEPARTMENT CLASSROOM – DAY

The classroom is brightly lit, but the atmosphere is heavy with the stale air of a hundred previous lectures. Five students sit around a large, battered seminar table. DR. SKOLLER, an older professor with a neatly trimmed, salt-and-pepper beard and the weary eyes of a man who has read too many student screenplays, stands at the head of the table.

JEFF (O.S.): Dr. Skoller had the look of a man who’d been promised cinematic poetry and instead was given a lifetime subscription to bad metaphors. His job was to strip away our artistic pretensions and teach us the cold, hard truth of storytelling. It was brutal. It was necessary. It was the moment we realized the shift from abstract imagery to three act structure was going to hurt. Our first sacrifice was our dignity, laid bare in the form of the logline.

DR. SKOLLER: Welcome. This semester, we abandon the comfort of the abstract. We trade philosophical musings for the unforgiving tyranny of narrative structure. Your task is to pitch your feature film screenplay idea to the group. Tell us the logline, the basic three act structure, and most importantly, tell us why anyone should care. Who wants to face disaster first? Stanley? Your shirt screams high concept.

STANLEY: (Springing up slightly, performing the pitch) Dr. Skoller, sir, I call this: ‘Fast Track to Fame!’ Logline: A relentlessly ambitious, but secretly inept, film student from Milwaukee bluffs his way into the highest echelon of Hollywood. Only to discover that true success means learning to direct his own life.

DR. SKOLLER: (Raises a skeptical eyebrow) That sounds suspiciously autobiographical, Mr. Stanley.

STANLEY: It is an aspirational autobiography, sir! Act One: The audacious lie. The plane ticket to LA. The coffee-running internship. Inciting Incident: He overhears a real producer complaining they need a script tonight! Act Two: He desperately fabricates a masterpiece, juggling his lies and nearly losing his soul to the Hollywood machine. Act Three: The lie collapses, but his authentic vision emerges. Resolution: He returns to Milwaukee, humbled, but with a real, marketable script. It’s a tale of triumph over… temporary setbacks.

DR. SKOLLER: (Nods slowly) So, a familiar Hollywood formula wrapped in the crushing reality of Milwaukee winters. Interesting. Next? Leonard? Please tell me you haven’t written a script about a goldfish.

LEONARD: (Adjusts his glasses, his voice shaking slightly) No, sir. This is far more potent. It is entitled: ‘The Ovoid Obsession.’ Logline: A neurotic man, desperate to impose order on a chaotic world, becomes obsessed with finding the perfectly spherical potato. Driving him to the brink of madness.

DR. SKOLLER: (Massages his temples) And the conflict? Does the potato speak?

LEONARD: The conflict is entirely internal. Act One: The search begins, fueled by philosophical need. Inciting Incident: He finds a potato that is almost perfect. A frustrating, tantalizing near-perfection of a potato. Act Two: The descent. He alienates friends, loses his job, and spends all his money on rare varieties of potatoes. Act Three: He realizes true perfection is impossible and the search itself was meaningless. Resolution: He eats the almost perfect potato, weeping gently.

DR. SKOLLER: It sounds like a ninety-minute anxiety attack, Leonard. But perhaps that’s the point. Cynthia? Let’s bring the mood down further.

CYNTHIA: (Flicking her invisible cigarette ash) My project is ‘The Algorithm of Ashes.’ Logline: A brilliant but profoundly cynical senator realizes all hope for political change is dead. So she orchestrates the most elaborate and beautiful act of political sabotage the world has ever seen.

DR. SKOLLER: Sabotage. Go on.

CYNTHIA: Act One: The slow, soul-crushing realization of futility. Inciting Incident: The senator sees definitive proof that the entire political system is rigged by a self-correcting, indifferent algorithm. Act Two: She meticulously plans the takedown, recruiting other disillusioned citizens. Act Three: The explosion. Not literal, but structural. The system is exposed and collapses. Resolution: The resulting chaos is not hope, but a more honest, profound emptiness.

DR. SKOLLER: Profound emptiness. Very UWM, Miss Cynthia. Thank you. Marvin? I assume yours involves something mundane becoming sinister.

MARVIN: (Speaks in his low, steady voice) ‘The Antique Washer.’ Logline: A quiet hardware store employee must track down a rare, stolen antique brass washer that holds the secret to a decades old crime spree. It leads him into the dangerous world of suburban organized crime.

DR. SKOLLER: Suburbia is rarely dangerous, Marvin.

MARVIN: This one is. Act One: Sorting bolts and meeting the girl. Inciting Incident: An old ledger reveals the washer’s history and the dark reasons it was originally stolen. Act Two: The hunt. He uses his knowledge of hardware inventory to track the piece across Milwaukee. He finds bullets stored in mason jars and bloodstains on galvanized pipes. Act Three: The confrontation in the back room of a rival store. Resolution: He recovers the washer, solves the crimes, and decides that focusing on the small, precise details of life, like a good relationship, is the only way to avoid the life’s larger chaos. (Deborah smiles at the last line.)

DEBORAH:(Leaning forward, genuinely excited) That leads perfectly into mine! Mine is called ‘Fasteners of the Heart.’ Logline: An earnest film student, searching for meaning in the world, finds a surprise romance with a cynical hardware store worker, forcing them both to trust in simple human connection instead of abstract philosophy.

DR. SKOLLER: And the conflict, Miss Deborah? Is it the difference between hex bolts and lag bolts?

DEBORAH: The conflict is vulnerability. Act One: They meet, drawn together by shared dismay at their other friends’ abstract ideas. Inciting Incident: They share an unexpected, deep conversation about life while sorting rusty fittings. Act Two: Their relationship blossoms, but they both fear commitment. Marvin hides behind cynicism, and I, well, my character hides behind idealism. Act Three: A crisis. A misunderstanding threatens their connection. Resolution: They choose each other, realizing that love is a practical, deliberate act, not a sweeping epic.

DR. SKOLLER: (Takes off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose) Fascinating. So, Stanley gives us cliché. Leonard gives us despair. Cynthia gives us justified anarchy. And Marvin and Deborah give us… relationship goals set against a backdrop of nuts and bolts. Welcome to narrative structure. This semester is going to be painful. (DR. SKOLLER drops his glasses onto the table with a CLACK.)

JEFF (O.S.): The gloves were off. Dr. Skoller had cracked the whip of conventional storytelling, forcing us to try and fit our messy lives and wild philosophies into the neat confines of a screenplay. Stanley was already picturing the red carpet, Leonard was mentally calculating the spherical error of his protagonist’s life. Cynthia takes another drag on her imaginary cigarette. And for Marvin and Deborah. Their love story officially had a clear three act structure that they had to adhere to. Both on and off the written page.

(SCENE END)

WRYL Presents

January 12, 2026 /

The Wit And Wisdom Of Horace B Miesner

Keep your friends close and your snacks closer.

WRYL – The Voice of the Great Up North

The Anchor in the Storm

January 8, 2026 /

In this world you will have trouble. But take heart. I have overcome the world, promising peace and courage amidst life’s inevitable difficulties by emphasizing the divine victory over worldly struggles, providing comfort and a call to be courageous.  – Gospel of John

Friends, let us look at one another with clear eyes. We live in an age of remarkable progress. We have split the atom, built amazing communities, and filled our homes with wonders that would have seemed like magic to our ancestors.

Yet, if we are honest, our hearts are often heavy. The evening paper brings news of uncertainty, and our own doorsteps are not immune to the shadows of violence, sickness, financial worry, or the quiet ache of a weary lonely soul.

It is a fundamental truth of our existence. In this world we will have trouble. It is not a possibility. It is a certainty. The rain falls on every roof, and the wind blows against every shutter. To live is to encounter the friction of a world that is often harsh and unpredictable.

But listen closely. The story of our lives does not end with the word “trouble.” There is a turning point offered to us if we are willing to see it.

“But take heart.” This is a call to find your inner fortitude. This isn’t a suggestion to put on a mask of false happiness or to ignore the gravity of our situation. It is a call to summon a deep, abiding peace. A peace that the world didn’t give you and, therefore, the world cannot take away.

Human courage, and indeed all true human bravery, is not the absence of fear. It is the realization that something else is more important than fear. It is the recognition that we are anchored to something much larger than our current storm.

Here is the bedrock of our hope: The Divine has overcome the world.

When we speak of the Divine, we speak of a power that transcends the temporary struggles of our day-to-day lives. Think of the beauty that persists despite destruction, the love that endures despite hate, and the light that cannot be put out by any darkness.

This higher power has already moved through the deepest valleys of human experience and emerged victorious on the other side. The Divine does not ask you to fight a battle that hasn’t been understood or won. You are being invited to walk in a victory that has already been secured by the very source of life itself. Every struggle you face is but a small wave on an ocean that has already been calmed.

So my friends, when you go back to your work, or when you face a difficult personal trial, or when the weight of the world feels too heavy to bear, remember this:

You are not alone in the struggle.

The trouble is a temporary season.

The peace of the Divine is an eternal constant.

So lift up your heads! The path has been cleared. Let us walk today not with trembling hearts, but with the steady step of those who know that the ultimate victory belongs to the light of the Divine.

Amen.

Chapter 20: The Road to Royal

December 14, 2025 /

The gentle May air of Milwaukee was bright and fresh, but Peggy barely noticed. She stood outside the intercity bus depot, the worn canvas backpack containing everything for the trip, including Ethan’s envelope, slung over her shoulder. Amy and Russel flanked her, two steadfast pillars of worry in the early morning light. Their support felt like both a lifeline and an anchor of guilt.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you at least to Madison?” Amy pleaded, adjusting the lightweight cardigan she wore. “It would shave two hours off the bus ride.”

“No, Ames. I’m fine,” Peggy insisted, trying to sound more confident than she felt. “You need the gas, and you both need to focus on finals. I’ll be fine. Black River Falls is the key. Once I’m there, I’ll figure the rest out.”

Russel silently pressed a wad of bills into her hand. All their combined cash reserves, tightly folded. “This has to last, Peg. Get a room if you have to, but don’t spend it on anyone trying to fleece a college kid. Promise us you’ll call.”

Peggy’s throat tightened. She looked at their earnest, worried faces, recognizing the enormous sacrifice they were making for her singular, all consuming quest. “I promise. I will call. And I will find him.”

A moment of profound, silent sorrow passed between the three of them. They knew this was reckless, but they also understood the alternative. Watching Peggy slowly dissolve under the weight of her grief and curiosity was worse.

“Be safe. Don’t take any risks you don’t have to,” Russel finally said, giving her a brief, awkward hug.

Amy embraced her tightly. “Bring him home, Peg.”

Peggy watched them drive away, the headlights of Amy’s beat-up Honda Civic disappearing into the Milwaukee sunrise. Then, she turned, clutching the backpack and walked into the sterile, diesel-scented cavern of the depot. She was on her own now.

Peggy’s only real lead was found in the envelope marked “For Ethan’s Eyes Only.” The envelope Ethan’s grandmother opened. Looking through the contents, she found a single, garish flyer: Tommy Melk and the Melk Duds playing at the Oakhaven VFW.

Oakhaven was the clue. Spreading out her map, she located Royal. She then located Oakhaven and felt a jolt of pure adrenaline: it was the closest town to Royal she could find. The flyer was not an invitation, but a cryptic destination. Her path was clear. She would take the bus to Black River Falls, the nearest stop, and from there find transport to Oakhaven.

The bus ride was a warm, rattling blur. Peggy sat by the window, letting the bright, green landscape of Wisconsin roll past, her mind replaying the story of Ethan’s grandfather, of Grace, and the secret love the two shared. The town of Royal, the measles quarantine in 1959. It was all coming into focus, but the image was heartbreakingly tragic.

When the bus finally pulled into the Black River Falls depot, it was mid-morning. The small station smelled faintly of cigarettes and coffee. Peggy checked her watch: 10:30 AM. She had made it. But the next hurdle was upon her. How to cover the remaining twenty miles to Oakhaven, the town neighboring Royal.

She walked out to the parking area, her eyes scanning for any sign of opportunity. A couple of battered cars were parked near the entrance, drivers leaning against them, waiting for passengers. She approached the first man, who quoted a price that would take nearly half of Amy and Russel’s cash. Peggy shook her head and moved on. The second driver was equally expensive. She stood for a long minute, feeling the familiar spiral of panic begin to choke her. “Recognize what is in front of your face,” Peggy  whispered to herself.

She turned back to the depot entrance and spotted a third car, an ancient, faded station wagon with a hand-painted sign duct-taped to the windshield that read, simply TAXI. The driver, a woman with kind eyes and a sensible, wool coat, was just settling behind the wheel smoking a cigarette.

Peggy walked up and leaned down to the open window. “Ma’am, I need to get to Oakhaven. It’s about twenty miles south on Highway 139. I don’t have much money.” Peggy quickly named a price she could afford, a fraction of the others’ quotes and held up the crumpled bills.

The woman, whose name tag read ‘Eleanor,’ considered her for a moment. “Oakhaven? Nothing much out there but woods and a VFW hall,” she observed. She looked at Peggy’s earnest face. “Well, you look like you’re on a mighty important mission, dear. Hop in. I can’t promise you a ride back, but I’ll take you the twenty miles for that. Just promise me you won’t stand out there alone hitchhiking.”

Peggy’s relief was immediate and overwhelming. “Thank you, Eleanor. Thank you so much.”

The ride was surprisingly pleasant. Eleanor wasn’t one for chitchat, but the silence was a welcome change from the bus ride. As they drove south, Peggy kept her eyes glued to the scenery, looking for any clue, any hint of the landscape she’d seen in the grainy 1959 newspaper photo.

“Whereabouts in Oakhaven you headed?” Eleanor asked, pulling the station wagon onto the quieter, two-lane Highway 139.

“The VFW Hall,” Peggy answered immediately. She pulled out the blurry photo of the roadblock. “Do you know anything about a town called Royal? It was just a few miles from Oakhaven, years ago.”

Eleanor squinted at the photo, then chuckled, a dry, rusty sound. “Royal, huh? That’s a name I haven’t heard in years. My folks used to drive out there for dances when I was a kid. Why, Royal’s been nothing but timberland for ages now. The road’s gone, folks moved out.”

“But it was still there in ’59?” Peggy pressed.

“Oh, sure. Just before that big measles thing,” Eleanor nodded. “Everyone in the whole county was terrified. Whole place was locked up tight as a drum. Folks just kind of… never came back after that. Not much reason to, I suppose.”

Eleanor pulled over onto a narrow, paved road. The sun was fully up now, illuminating a small, sleepy collection of utility poles, a gas station that looked half-dead, and a single, faded sign reading: Welcome to Oakhaven—Established 1898. Just ahead, a squat, concrete block structure stood: the Oakhaven VFW Hall.

“This is it, dear,” Eleanor said, pulling out a cigarette from her purse. “Good luck with your mission.”

Peggy paid her, thanked her and stepped out onto the warm asphalt. She stood for a long moment, watching the station wagon pull away, her solitude absolute. Clutched in her hands were the envelope, the map, and the faint hope that someone inside that concrete hall remembered a dance, a band, a man with an accordion, and a lost town called Royal.

The VFW Hall looked closed, dark, and utterly impenetrable. She walked toward the front door, the heavy brass knob cold beneath her fingers.“Recognize what is in front of your face,” Peggy  whispered to herself.

The door was locked.

Peggy walked around the side of the building, her shoes crunching on the gravel. Beside a loading dock, a small, unmarked door was ajar, a faint line of golden light spilling out, along with the distinct aroma of coffee and tobacco.

Taking a deep breath, Peggy pulled the door open and stepped inside.

Scene 8 – Back to Reality: Junior Year Blues and New Beginnings

December 14, 2025 /

(SCENE START)

EXT. UW-MILWAUKEE STUDENT UNION MALL – DAY (FALL)

The campus mall is a vibrant mosaic of green grass, red brick, and the bustling energy of returning students. The late August sun is bright and warm, but a crisp, new-semester breeze hints at the Fall to come. Students mill about, greeting old friends and hauling backpacks.

A small, circular stone table outside the Student Union is occupied by MARVIN and DEBORAH. They are sitting close, a comfortable, shared quiet between them. Deborah smiles, resting her chin on her hand, watching Marvin as he sips from a coffee cup.

JEFF (O.S.): Junior year. The cinematic gauntlet was thrown. Abstract art house pretensions were out, and the crushing weight of narrative structure was in. We’d survived the summer, and now we had to survive the semester’s first test: The Screenplay. It felt like a betrayal of all our previous artistic manifestos. But, if the summer had taught us anything, it was that even amidst the rust and the mundane, life somehow manages to find its plot.

DEBORAH: I can’t believe we’re actually back. It feels like just yesterday I was trying to figure out the torque setting for a stripped bolt.

MARVIN: (A small, soft smile plays on his lips) You know, you got pretty good at sorting those carriage bolts from the machine bolts. That’s a valuable life skill.

DEBORAH: I blame you. You made the hardware store sound… romantic. Well, “interesting,” at least. My parents were convinced I’d lost my mind. “You’re going to a hardware store, dear? To study screws?”

MARVIN: It was a good summer. Quiet. (He reaches over, briefly squeezing her hand where it rests on the table.)

DEBORAH: It was more than quiet, Marvin. It was… a first draft. A really good first draft.

(A flash of movement catches their eyes as STANLEY bounds toward the table, his arms thrown wide, a bright Hawaiian shirt clashing with his heavy tweed backpack.)

STANLEY: My darlings! My cinematic collaborators! Behold! Stanley has returned! The prodigal son of Hollywood’s outer periphery has graced your presence!

DEBORAH: Stanley! You’re back! How was the pilgrimage to La La Land? Did you hobnob with any actual stars?

STANLEY: Hobnob? I permeated the atmosphere of cinematic greatness! I told you, I had a connection! A glorious four-week internship running coffees for an assistant who worked for a junior agent. I absorbed the creative energy! I saw an actual, working slate! And, most importantly, I learned that they value narrative! Clean lines, clear arcs, no exploding bagels unless they advance the plot! It was a revelation!

MARVIN: So, you made coffee.

STANLEY No, Marvin. I made connections. And the coffee was organic. It’s all research for the screenplay, my friends! I’m going to write a sweeping epic about a troubled but brilliant young filmmaker who conquers Hollywood with sheer, unadulterated panache!

(LEONARD walks up, carrying a textbook the size of a paving stone, looking predictably weary.)

LEONARD: Stanley, you look like a walking tropical fever dream. Did you ever find the meaning of existence amongst the palm trees? I spent my summer staring at the dust motes in my childhood bedroom. They danced in the morning sun, a beautiful, fleeting metaphor for our insignificant lives. My goldfish, Bartholomew, remains unimpressed by the dust motes.

STANLEY: The meaning of existence, Leonard, is a three-act structure! I learned that, too! You need a clear, inciting incident! We are no longer making films about philosophical goldfish, we are making films about goldfish who must overcome a personal tragedy!

LEONARD: (Sighs, sitting down) And what is your screenplay about, Marvin? The existential despair of a loose spring?

MARVIN: I’m thinking about a horror film. About a couple who falls in love working at a rusty hardware store. Things get weird. (DEBORAH playfully elbows Marvin in the ribs.)

DEBORAH: I think my script is going to be a coming-of-age story about finding your voice. A young woman obsessed with existential dread finally learns to talk to the quiet, observant boy she likes. It’s a comedy.

(CYNTHIA approaches the group, wearing all black, naturally. She places a single, wilted sunflower on the table.)

CYNTHIA: I have embraced the futility of it all. I spent my summer attempting to learn a dead language. It seemed an appropriate tribute to the inevitable decay of all human endeavor. My screenplay will be a harrowing modern tragedy. A critique of the capitalist machine that turns our dreams into meaningless, marketable commodities. It will be entirely in black and white, and the dialogue will be minimal.

STANLEY: Minimal dialogue? Cynthia! We need verbal action! We need snappy patter! We need…

CYNTHIA: Stanley, your Hollywood dreams are a bourgeois fantasy. Mine is a nightmare of societal collapse. A much more compelling narrative, wouldn’t you agree?

LEONARD: (Nodding slowly) I agree with Cynthia. The only honest screenplay is one that reflects the horror of being. Mine is about a man who spends his life searching for a perfectly spherical potato. It will be called, ‘The Ovoid Obsession.’

DEBORAH: (Leans in, her voice low and earnest) My dream for this semester is to actually finish something. Something real. Something that connects with people. Not just with abstract concepts, but with feelings. And… to keep what we started this summer going. (She glances at MARVIN. He meets her gaze, his expression warm and settled.)

MARVIN: My dream is to stop making films about exploding bagels. And to make something that sticks. Like a good weld.

STANLEY: Fasteners of the Heart lives! You see, Cynthia? Even the most dour among us yearns for a good plot! My dream is to have my screenplay optioned before the end of the semester!

CYNTHIA: My dream is that the optioned script will be a metaphor for the slow, agonizing death of the human spirit.

LEONARD: My dream is that Bartholomew will finally recognize my artistic genius.

JEFF (O.S.): So there we were. Junior year. The pressure was on to trade the abstract for the actual. The philosophical goldfish for the well-structured plot. It was a sun-drenched, optimistic start to a semester that would force us all to look a little closer at the stories we were really trying to tell and the ones we were living.

(SFX: General campus sounds, a distant bell rings.)

(SCENE END)

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