Author's Note: This story is the brainchild of another story I had written that I wasn't quite satisfied with. That story is now gone, this is the one in its place. Don't worry, nothing of value was lost.
Chapter I
I had one woman come up to me in a bookstore and say, 'You know, everyone told me it was a horror book, but when I finished it, I realized that it was a love story.' And she's absolutely right. In some ways, genre is a marketing tool.
Mark Z. Danielewski
In the days after the departure of Troy Barnes from the study group, it became apparent to all parties involved, that their time of bliss, their unlikely adventures, but most of all their serendipitous relationships, were coming to an end. Jeff had made his way back into the law profession, Shirley's business was taking off in a manner that many, least of all herself, would not have thought plausible. Peirce had graduated although still kept auditing classes, Britta was finally starting to fit the pieces of her life together, and Annie was, as she had in hospital administration before, excelling in forensics.
That leaves one more, Abed Nadir, age 23, filmmaker. A common sight around Greendale's campus, from his critically acclaimed meta-film on the life of Jesus, to his charismatic rolls in the Paintball Wars, he had created for himself quite the reputation; a first in his life. But his reputation had preceded him, left him unaware, as was his nature, and sometimes flummoxed or even hindered him.
The C- he had received in his Advanced Screenwriting class was one such incident. To the common acquaintance or one who knew Abed by name and reputation alone, such a grade would've seemed incredulous to the great prodigy of their time. And it was indeed, even to himself a source of great shock and indignation that he had received such a low grade. It took him a while, going so far as to trying to completely ignore the entirety of the assignment and the corresponding grade in those first brief moments of disbelief, to come to grips with this revelation. He did however, eventually, swallow his pride and look over the professor's notes.
He acknowledged the character of the critiques as being essentially valid, but as he continued to scan the page it became evident that it was not so much the strength of his script but the forms of his stories that irked the one with the red pen. Such were the trials of this new age of filmmakers, thus was the eternal war between the forces of creation and synthesis and that of the arcane orthodoxy. What did he, this Professor Krimmer, know of the genres of sci-fi and fantasy, of meta-fiction and transmedia stories? What right does he have to judge the trailblazers and the innovators?
For a second his resentment got the better of him. For a moment he felt the heat of fires of criticism upon his walls of his genius. But soon his reason came back to him and he humbled himself before the wisdom of his teacher, even if he was only a Greendale teacher; lest he make the fatal flaw of hubris.
He waited and silently listened to the second lecture of the semester. The first class was the standard issue survey and review of the syllabus, required textbooks, and recommended readings. This class was a brief summary of the traditions of storytelling as well as their forms. From the epic poetry of Gilgamesh and Beowulf, to the cyclical medievalist literature of Arthurian constitution, to the modern sub-division of genre and medium, he had all seen it before, he had read Campbell, and memorized Joyce. What was to be gleaned from the insights of this hack? What right did he have to judge Abed so harshly?
When the class ended Abed stayed behind to talk to Professor Krimmer about his grade.
ABED
Professor Krimmer, may I have a word with you about my assignment?
KRIMMER
Ah yes, of course Abed. It was a good effort. Well structured, strong, clever.
ABED
Oh, I was under the impression that you didn't like it.
KRIMMER
Why would you say that?
ABED
A C- normally doesn't inspire confidence.
KRIMMER
Oh come now Abed, it's still early in the semester. This grade doesn't count for much.
ABED
I'm not so much concerned with how this affects my GPA as I am by what principle on which I had failed this assignment.
KRIMMER
What principle? There wasn't a principle, Abed. I said; write what you want, whatever you like, just make it a good story.
ABED
And you found mine to not be a good story?
KRIMMER
Abed, I think you may be taking this a little personally. I liked it, it was a fun story. It just didn't have… weight, you know?
ABED
I'm sorry, I'm not sure I understand.
KRIMMER
(folding his arms and leaning back on his desk)
Of course not Abed. Look, you'll have plenty of time to get it right. Don't worry so much about the first assignment.
ABED
Could you be a little more specific as to what you mean by weight?
KRIMMER
Abed, you're a talented filmmaker. But perhaps, writing just isn't your thing.
ABED
But I don't agree, I understand story structure, narrative motif, pathos, motivations—
KRIMMER
There, there it is.
ABED
Motivations?
KRIMMER
Exactly. You think you understand human motivations? Because it's certainly not represented in this script.
ABED
The characters are great, they are smart, resourceful, clever, they have a weakness like all good characters do—
KRIMMER
You've got it all wrong Abed. Look, I know what you are thinking. I can hear the cogs turning in your brain. I can see the teleplay being written in your mind. My name, your name, my line, your line. The structure, the flow, the probable outcomes, all endings in all circumstances; you fancy yourself a god of stories. But the thing is Abed, (beat) gods don't tell the stories. We do. The lowly peons that are so often the scorn or the victims of these cosmic forces, you call fate, choice, death, war, love.
Pause. Abed looks down at his shoes, processing.
KRIMMER
You cannot be above it all. You can't disconnect yourself from the feelings and passions of the people of the world. If this is a story, you are a character in it, not a god who can control it. You can't perfectly fit them into archetypes and tropes. To do so is to miss the meaning of the story you are trying to tell. Because no matter how hard you try, how specific you chart and categorize action and motivation, you will never peer into the infinite complexities of the human experience. What drives Icarus to fly? What drives men to fight dragons?
The words of Professor Krimmer came as a surprise. He had been unprepared to encounter such a force or a challenge. And that was what, Abed deduced, his speech had set out to do; to challenge him. But he had long sought to take the other road to greatness; the one with no pain involved. He opted to let the storytellers of the past inform him of what stories were important and worth telling. He had let mere data become the story. He had never considered for a second that he might actually live the story.
Professor Krimmer gave Abed the sheet for the assignment that he was going to hand out next lecture, just so Abed could get a head start on it. He read it and reread it the whole way home. Between the focus on his next assignment to the words of the professor, his minded drift far above his earthly body and let the low functioning motor skills he had mastered by the time he could walk take over. He was only brought back from his lofty thoughts by a door.
His own door.
He took out the key from his pocket and let himself in. The humming of the overworked and underpowered air conditioner heralded his return once more to his home base, his sanctum sanctorum, his Millennium Falcon, his Batcave. Now just a little lonelier than it had been. The afternoon light flooded in through the windows of the apartment marking the most tranquil time of day. He made his way over to the living room and saw Annie in the kitchen. Dressed only in her panties and an oversized t-shirt, she stood at the counter absent-mindedly making herself a salad. Her hair cascaded from the top of her head and crashed along the contours of her shoulder but otherwise hanging gently in the air as she gazed down at her task. He had realized that he had been staring at her and narrating his mind's vision when she looked over at him. Caught off guard by the sudden glance, his eyes jumped a little. She flashed him a tired but adoring smile as if to say hi, how was your day? His relaxing facial expression would reply good, at least, it is now.
He thought back to the beginning, if indeed something was coming to an end, be it their time in Greendale, or forever the dynamics of their friendship, or something even greater, he wondered if he would, in this final moment, merely document, as he had always done, the collapse so something so significant and precious or to do something about it.
What drives Icarus to fly?
What drives men to fight dragons?
He looked at her.