The Fourth Wall: Prologue

Well, this blog has been sitting empty for about a week now. I guess it's time I posted something. Since the blog's title is the HMC's unofficial motto, it seems appropriate to start with an HMC story.

I'll explain for those of you who don't know what HMC is (was.) The Hal McCuen Theatre Workshop was a theatre program which originated in Mansfield. The idea is that the students in the class spend time making up their own play. A script is written, rehearsed, and then the students perform their work. HMC has since been moved to Ashland and renamed "Here's My Chance," but the idea behind the class hasn't changed. This particular story dates back to the HMC of Winter 2000/2001, and of the twelve HMC courses I took, this one is my favorite. So I decided to write the story, not as a script, although I leaned pretty heavily on the script. The story belongs to the class. The script is the instructor's, Dr. Keith Guion, and has some of his personal touches. This story has some my personal touches. This is the prologue. The story is still a work in progress, so more is coming, I assure you. In the meantime, enjoy!

The Fourth Wall

Based on the play by the Hal McCuen Theatre Workshop, Winter 2001

Story by: (forgive any misspellings) Danielle Daugherty, Cassie Guion, Keith Guion, Matt Guion, Jim Ligenfelter, Kim Welenc, and Megan Welenc.

Script by: Keith Guion

Novelization by: Matt Guion

Prologue

Blue Springs, Georgia, Population 174, Year 1850.

Ever so gently, the sun appeared from behind the hill. The air it touched exploded with color and light, painting the whole sky. What had once been the dull pink and grey of the pre-dawn was now a brilliant show of reds and oranges and blues. The mist from the night added a third dimension to the color, so Faith was almost sure it would reach out and touch her. She took in a breath of the moist air, unsullied by the coming day, and reveled in the silence, unbroken save by a lone bird. For a moment, it made her forget the worries of the past month.

She wasn’t supposed to be out this early. She still in her nightclothes, but the air was warm enough. If her father found her out here, he would not be pleased, but Faith didn’t care. She wanted this moment--this time when no one was around, when all she had to do was watch the sunrise. And think about him.

This was not the first time she had come out here this early. Indeed, she had been coming to this spot since her early childhood. It was her spot: a clearing, off the road near the blacksmith’s shop, which looked over the countryside. The view from atop the large boulder in the middle was spectacular, but she hadn’t climbed up it in ages. This was the spot, she had often mused, where she could one day take her future husband, who was then only a mysterious man who wrote letters from afar. I’ll take him here, she had said, after we’re married, and show him the view. He’ll fall in love with it like he’ll fall in love with me, and we’ll never ever have to leave here.
This was where she had come to dream about her mysterious betrothed. Not much had changed, really. He was still a mysterious man who wrote letters from afar, and she still thought about him. But now . . .

"Faith Hutchinson Quinn," she said aloud to herself. Somewhere in that name, there was something fearful. Faith pushed a bit of her mussed, auburn hair back and sighed. "It’s not a bad name, really," she continued, talking to the scenery. "I could live with being Mrs. Albert Quinn." She sighed again. "Girls are supposed to get married. They do it all the time, without a fuss. I will honor my father’s wishes, and marry him." She stopped, and went back over what she had just said. "Why does that sound so . . . wrong?"

She walked around her spot for a few more minutes as the sun continued to climb. "Enough of this depressing talk," she said, finally. "Let’s imagine that I’m taking him here for the first time. After our wedding night . . . I’ll wake him up just before dawn. ‘Come on, Albert,’ I’ll say, ‘I want to show you something.’

‘What is it?’ he’ll say.
‘You’ll see.’ And I’ll take him out here and we’ll watch the sunrise together. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ I’ll ask.
‘Yes,’ he’ll say. ‘I love Blue Springs. I never want to leave.’
‘The view’s even better on top of the boulder. Come on!’" She ran over to the boulder, just like she had years ago, and started to climb it again . . .

***

Blue Springs, Georgia, Population 4872, Year 1940.

Annalise pushed back a long strand of blonde hair that had somehow slipped out of her kerchief. She sat on the ground, setting her violin case in front of her and opening it. She pulled out the instrument she had come to know so well . . . until recently. This spot--the secluded clearing near the movie theatre--had always been where she had played her best. It was where she felt the music. The view from the spot was beautiful . . . if only she could get an invisible audience to sit out here and listen to her play . . . although the audiences she had been getting recently were small enough to fit within this clearing.

She brought the instrument to her chin, humming an A to herself. She had been using the note for so long, she now knew it by heart. She bowed the four strings in turn, making slight adjustments here and there. Even my tuning sounds dull, she thought to herself.
The tuning notes turned into a melody she had long since memorized. She looked out, trying to get a sense of that passion that she had once felt for her music. But the notes were as thin and as lifeless as ever, with "the kick of watered down gin," as one reviewer had written.

She set the instrument back down in its case and stood, pacing circles around the large boulder in the middle of the clearing, until the circle of mashed-down grass resembled a small path going nowhere. Much like myself, Annalise thought bitterly. She felt ready to cry again, but she knew that tears would not bring back the talent she had lost. And she had already spent most the afternoon crying anyway. Her fights with Mr. Reed tended to do that nowadays.

"Have you considered seeing a psychiatrist?" he had asked that day. "Maybe the problem is buried in your head."

"You think by telling some shrink I hate my father or something, that will make everything all right?" Annalise had scoffed.

"I’m trying to help, Annalise."

"Help with what?" she had asked, incredulously. "There is nothing to help with! I can’t play the violin anymore! I’ve lost my gift, and there’s nothing you can do to bring it back! For God’s sake, just accept that!"

"I won’t accept that, Annalise, because it isn’t true. And I’m not going to let a musical talent just shrivel and die . . . I’ll give up music myself before I do that!" It was the same argument she had been having with Mr. Reed for the past month . . . but this one had ended differently. And that ending replayed itself in Annalise’s head.

"Listen to me, Jonathon," she had said, her voice colder than it had ever been. "I’m done. It’s over. I’m putting music behind me; I never want it to be a part of me again. So stop calling me and stop coming here to try to find some new way to ‘fix my problem,’ because I just don’t give a damn anymore. I don’t need you, I don’t need the violin . . . I don’t need music. So just leave me alone." She had turned her back on him, waiting for a response. When one hadn’t come, she had turned back. He was gone. He had left her alone.

Then, and only then, did she cry. She knew now that it was truly over. As long as Jonathon had been there, insisting tirelessly that she find her music again, she had still had some slim connection to the musical world. But now, he had finally given up. Her musical life was over.
She relived the moment there in the field. Tears filled her eyes, and an irrational anger at the world overtook her. Eyes red and heart pounding, she stooped down and grabbed her violin roughly by the neck, wielding it overhead like a weapon, fully intending to smash it to pieces atop the boulder. But something stopped her. . . something inside her still would not let her destroy this thing that had once been a part of her. Instead, she took a few deep breaths, and very carefully placed the instrument back in its case. She held it in her lap, staring at it, crying softly. She felt as though she was staring at the coffin of a close friend who had died tragically. She could picture herself giving the violin a proper burial, laying it under a tombstone that read, "Here Lies the Talent of Annalise Bridges, former musician; a tribute to a life lost." She clutched the case like a loved one, and buried her face in her arms, leaning up against the boulder . . .

***

Blue Springs, Georgia, Population 1602, Year 1980.

Gabrielle took a bite out of her burger before sitting on the grass. It was refreshing to see a section of grass in town, even if it was right across from a hardware store. This spot seemed to be the only section of Blue Springs unsullied by modern civilization. Even the boulder behind her was free of graffiti, a rarity for just about any standing structure. If it wasn’t graffiti, it was political propaganda. Gabrielle desperately wanted to go somewhere without seeing "Reagan/Bush" plastered all over the place. Although, it was either that, or their candidate for mayor . . . the same inept guy who had been running unopposed for the past twelve years. Blue Springs was long overdue for a new mayor, but it didn’t seem as though it was going to happen anytime soon.

Gabrielle reached into her pocket and took out the letters Brian had just given her. She had said she would look at them during lunch, and she would be loathe to go back on her word, much as she hated reading mail. Brian had taken care of the routine nuisances and the rest was up to her. There were only four letters today. There was another letter from her mother, no doubt thanking her for the long letter Gabrielle had written last week and admonishing her for not writing it sooner. Next was a letter from her little sister, which looked like an invitation--her wedding most likely. Chloe had announced her engagement a month ago. She was marrying a man Gabrielle barely knew, but that’s what came of not being home much. She would have to make sure she could attend, find out if this person was good enough for her baby sister.

She moved on to the third letter. There was no return address on this one. Gabrielle was tempted to just skip it, but something told her she should open it. As she unfolded the letter and read the first line, she sighed. Without even having to read on, she knew exactly who it was from. Well, no . . . technically that wasn’t true. But she knew that this was the same anonymous letter writer who had asked for councel last week. Apparently, he was growing impatient for her answer. Her office had the man’s address so that she could respond.

The problem was, she didn’t want to respond. She was no good at individual councel. Her specialty was preaching to the multitudes. But she didn’t want to leave this man helpless either; he sounded like he desperately needed help. Maybe she could refer him to someone else. She’d have to ask Brian to see about that. But what if there was nothing else? What if Gabrielle really was this man’s only hope?

"What do I do, God?" she asked to the sky. As usual, there was no apparent response. She sighed. God did things in his own time . . . but sometimes she wished he would move things along a bit. She’d just have to find the solution on her own.

She sighed again. She didn’t want to think about this right now. It was such a nice day and all Gabrielle wanted was to be far removed from the rest of the world. Without even looking at her fourth letter, she leaned back against the boulder and started to doze off . . .

***

Blue Springs, Georgia, Population 378, Year 2000.

Elizabeth felt herself relax for the first time all day. Not that her work had been especially hard today. The workload hadn’t been any different than any other day. But there had been a lot on her mind. None of that mattered now, though. Elizabeth was in her spot--that little clearing by the road near the Home Depot--looking up at the stars. It didn’t seem to matter whether she was in Blue Springs, Georgia or a country home in England; the night sky was equally beautiful no matter where she went. That, at least, didn’t change.

Something flew across the sky, a streak of light trailing behind it. Elizabeth smiled, remembering the old adage about wishing on a falling star. The girl had made many a wish on falling stars . . . childish stuff, really. Nothing she put any stock in now, of course.

Even if she had felt like wishing, and even if she actually believed she would get her wish, she would have been hard pressed to think of something to wish for. She was very happy working for the Wilsons. They paid her a decent wage, with room and board thrown in, the work wasn’t difficult, and the Wilsons had always seemed to be more like friends than employers. Almost family.

Almost.

She didn’t want to think about this now . . . about her real family, her biological family, who had really been no sort of family at all. And yet, the thoughts were already there . . . how things might have gone differently. It had been both their faults, really. When it all came down to it, although she had believed, and still believed, that she had every reason to leave her parents . . . she looked back, and felt as though she should have been less stubborn, less hotheaded. But that was the way Elizabeth had always been. She had even talked back to the Wilsons on more than one occasion . . . always apologising immediately afterwards, of course. But with her parents . . . it was too late for apologies.

She sighed and closed her eyes. She could feel sleep coming. Silly, childish nonsense. Wishing on stars . . . She rolled over on her side, her cheek buried in the soft grass, her hand brushing against the large boulder next to her.
I wish it didn’t have to be so . . .

***

Unknown.

The Fourth Wall was certainly turning out to be an interesting story so far. Matt was a little perplexed by the abrupt time changes . . . so much for continuation. But then, it was only the prologue . . . the connection wasn’t going to be spelled out for him, if there was one. If this was really a good story, the interconnecting works of the seemingly scattered events in the prologue would suddenly come clear in a burst of revelation, surprising and exciting Matt in the process.

They seem to be focusing a lot of attention on that boulder in the end of each segment . . . wait a minute. This is odd. Matt goes back and reads the last paragraph again. They’re talking about the book itself! Strange . . . yet intriguing. What sort of story is this? Some sort of post-modern fiction? Who is this Matt character? The reader’s name is Matt . . . but then, so is the author’s. Perhaps the author is putting himself in the role of a random reader. Or could the reader really be reading about himself? The text does seem to follow his thoughts . . . but they could be the thoughts of any reader.

Matt starts to get a headache, just as he reads about the reader doing so. Coincidence? It has to be! But the only way to be sure is if Matt and the reader character share a completely random thought, such as chocolate-covered rodents or the world’s only albino gorilla dying. Matt gapes at the text. How had they known he was thinking that? Matt makes to close the book . . . it’s starting to creep him out. But his curiosity has already been aroused . . . he cannot close the book. Instead, he reads on, hoping the story will get past this very confusing, and somewhat spooky, section and back to Blue Springs, Georgia, which, after a particularly convoluted sentence and a time break, it does.

***

Blue Springs, Georgia, Population 12, Year 2050.

The mayor of Blue Springs looked grim as he looked out at his townspeople. All eleven of them. They looked just as grim. They knew what was coming.

"Blue Springs, Georgia," he said, "is gone. For the last century or so, it has been dying a slow death . . . a death which is now close at hand. Most people have left for other towns. Only the twelve of us remain." He sighed. "I know that none of us want this town to die . . . which is why you all stayed. But I fear it is too late for that . . . unless history can be rewritten . . . though that may not be as impossible as you think.

"Our most advanced technology tells us that this end could have been prevented. That it should have been prevented. That four basic elements in this town’s success went astray. I know what you’re thinking . . . how does that help us now." He sighed again. This was the difficult sell.

"The nexus exists," he said, "whether you believe in it or not, and history can be rewritten. Those four elements must be restored. But it will require someone to stay behind." He looked out at the eleven faces, all of them wanting to believe this could be true, but not sure if they could. "I know you all have obligations and family outside of this community. I cannot make any of you stay here. And I know that our chances of success are . . . slim at best. But if this has any hope of working . . . one of you must remain here, a watcher. How long, I don’t know . . . as long as it takes, I suppose." He cleared his throat. "Any volunteers?"

A tense silence followed. The others looked around, to see if anyone else would put their hand up. Then, when it seemed no one would, a skinny arm slowly raised itself from the group. The arm belonged to the youngest member of the group: a skinny, tousle-haired young man. The mayor looked at him, trying to stare him down, but his hand remained firmly in the air. Finally, the mayor nodded.

"Very well, Daniel Farthington. The fate of Blue Springs is in your hands."

***

"What's next?"