A Movie Script Ending

By: Erika Weatherbee

Introduction

This is irony at its best. You'd imagine that I would have something extravagant to say here, something inspiring, schoolwork-worthy - y'know, so one day millions of kids across America will have to read this heep of illustrious fluff for a summer project. Well, I don't have anything to say; no quote, no moral, no nothin'. So live with it. This is reality, not some fallicious, fraudulent story. I am about to tell you all about how 'God' has fun.

Courtesy of a man I call Miles, Abigail J. Weathers hit it big - big, big, big, big time. Heh, that's me. I'm a calligropher of the heart, mind, and soul. In other words, I placed myself in the position to become an apparently "slammin'" author. Actually, I am not quite sure why I am considered "slammin'". The first newspaper review of my story said it, and Miles turned it into a huge joke. He's my agent, a very nice man, a very funny guy. I practically keeled laughing at the quote poster he plastered to the front of his desk: "Abi's Slammin'!" What the Hell? "Slammin'?" Maybe it's my bachelor's degree kicking in, but who uses that word anymore? I scoffed at it when I came into the room one day.

"You used bright orange. Why?"

The aging fellow grazed the top of his hair with his fingertips, "It speaks your name."

I mused a brow, "It speaks nothing, actually. It's a neon-orange poster."

Miles chuckled and outstretched his arms across his desk, nearly knocking the small lamp at his right clear off the corner. Oi, what a nut.

"Come on, Abi. You know it's a joke. Come give me a hug. I have great news for you."

"...I'm not giving you a hug, Miles."

He began to stand from his rotating chair, "Oh, yes you are."

"Miles Porter, don't you dare touch me or I'll file for harassment!" I leapt from my rather contented seat upon the visitor's chair and fasted for the opposite side of his desk. I was never serious with Miles, and he was never serious with me. I guess that's why we were so successful at publishing. Don't get me wrong, he was only my agent - just, a very outgoing, slightly over-zealous agent. I guess I couldn't have found anyone better to hire but him. We were both crazy.

He rested his palms against the metal bar of the visitor's chair for a moment, before taking a seat. I raced to take the vacant chair that was his on the other side, "How about that news, Porter."

"You hit your millionith copy this past hour," he said, waving a hand in the direction of his computer screen.

"One... million?"

Miles grinned, "Yes, Ab's. One million - Hey! Get away from that! You'll screw it all up!"

I brushed the tops of each keyboard key with my fingertips, "I want to see the number grow, Miles. You read my book. You understand."

Miles hushed his nervousness, "Look up South-East Region," he answered, easing back into the chair again.

The shade of colors upon her face danced rapidly with movement from the screen, a click here and there, and then her eyes grew. Miles watched with intent as she breached her back and gasped for air in the seat. His brows pressed against his eyes, "What's the number, Abi?"

Another deep gasp, her eyes blinking but twice.

"Abi, what's the number?"

She failed to respond.

"Abi - "

"Seventy-five hundred," she whispered lowly, continuing to scan the computer screen, "Seventy-five hundred..."

"Do you believe within that number lies the one?"

"Oh, I do," she said with confidence, "That very first copy was the one."

Miles smiled, "How do you know, Miss Abi?"

She returned the favor, but lacked the response he was hoping for. Words were just too much for the moment.

Chapter One: Moon Under Water

"Hey my name's Tara, and I'm comin' at you live from the red carpet. Now, we've managed to scrap up some personal time with the main actor in the film, and boy did he have a few select things to say about this movie. Here's Vincent Jorray - "

" - Uh, hello."

The bubbly news reporter shuffled towards the standing actor, her head bobbling with hair far too lively for her own good, "Hey, Vincent! How's it goin'? So what's it feel like to be at your very first movie premiere?"

"Please, it's Vin, and it's actually kind of nice. I didn't think I'd even make the cut to be in this movie, let alone the lead actor."

She pawed his shoulder with the free hand she had, "Aw, why not? You're handsome enough."

"Well, that didn't matter. Ace wanted authenticity, and as a nameless actor, my image could achieve that originality."

The reporter's face contorted with partial confusion, but faded quickly as she turned back to the camera lens, "And that, ladies and gent's, was Vincent Jorray from the movie I See The Moon, in theaters everywhere tomorrow! I'm Tara Connihue for MTV News. Good night!"

The light upon the microphone dimmed, dimmed with the rest of the audience, as the night lamps burst to illuminate the carpet and welcome podieum. The sea of people that lined the crimson ground sparkled with the flashes of cameras, chimed and chanted with frivolous cooing. Behind the poiedum hung a white sheet, creaseless and tasteful. Above it, a sign hung, plastered with the colors of fading lamposts. The word "FOKUS" caught the eye, placed carefully before the blurry backdrop. A few reporters took their stance at the foot of the podieum's stage, the others nearby quickly catching on. There was to be a speaker - Oh! There he was.

From behind that seamless sheet, a pale hand parted its center, and out walked a man. He was dressed, but not dressed. Confident, yet taken aback. There, but truly not. No one knew, and no one could tell, "Hello," he spoke into the microphone mountain. He cleared his throat and fixed his tie, clearly hesitating to speak before his very own crowd, "I'm Ace Brents, the director of I See The Moon, and I just want to say one thing before we begin tonight - "

"Brents! Brents! Do you anticipate a huge response from consumers? Do you believe this film will go international?"

" Well, I - "

"Are you looking to begin a sequal, Brents?"

"Yes, there will be a - "

"Do you believe your choice of actors will effect the amount of sales, Mr. Brents?"

"I don't c - "

"Brents!"

"Brents, who are your influences?"

"I suppose - "

There was a smile from within the crowd, a smile that belonged to a man named Miles Porter, "You there, Abi?"

States away, Abigail Weathers smiled too, "Yeah, I'm here," She'd been seated on the side of a theater building, the starry sky above her clear and breezy. The small scarf around her neck held the phone to her ear, her other hands free to pan through a menu pamphlet reading Jose's Pizza.

Miles pressed the ground with the tips of his dress shoes, inching above the other bystanders to see what the matter had been. Ace Brents hadn't been given a single second to speak, "You hearing this then? That's the price of fame, my dear."

"Oh, please," she said, half listening, "I'm not one for letting people overpower my voice. Hmm, maybe sausage?"

He rolled his eyes, holding the lower half of the phone away from his mouth to sigh, "Abi, are you paying attention?"

"Yeah, and I'm also going to order a pizza while I'm at it. What do you think about sausage?"

"Sounds great, now listen. I'm at that premire right now, so I won't be able to talk to you for a few hours."

She slammed the pizza menu against her jeans, "What? That's why you wouldn't come to the movies with me to see it? You went to goddamn premiere? You loser! You didn't invite me!"

The crowd began to shuffle around Miles, heading towards the front doors and into the complex, "You weren't on the guest list."

"Well, how are you on the guest list?"

"Friend of a friend's," he said, looking over his shoulder at the now empty stage, "So you're going to see it too?"

"I was bored," she shrugged, "So I guess we will be seeing it together, just not..., well, together." The line in front of her stood from the side of the building, "Hey, I think I'm about to go in."

"Same, I'll see you tomorrow then."

"Alright, okay, yup. Bye, Miles!" Clip. She stuffed the cell in her pocket and continued in through the front doors. Ding ding, here went round number one.

Ace Brents was just a man, a man with dreams. He had ambitions, goals, thoughts, feelings - that of which currently revolved around his inability to speak over obnoxious reporters. But, that small show was over with, and there was nothing he could do about it now. He carelessly felt back his hair as he took the director's seat within the complex, two men in matching brown suits to his right.

"Don't worry about it, Ace," one of them said dryly, "You'll get that a lot."

"Mm, yeah," the second echoed, "A lot."

Ace scanned the small hand-out in his lap, seeming flustered, "Can I ask you something, Sid, Greg?"

The two suited men turned to him again, the furthest speaking, "Yeah, Ace?"

"Why are you two wearing sunglasses in a theater? It will be dark, I promise."

They both exchanged a glance, "To show our authority, I suppose."

"Yeah, you know, Ace, like the Men in Black. Heh, heh."

Ace Brents shrugged, "Don't you think that the simple fact that you're sitting beside the director shows that?"

"Well, uh, yes?"

"Take them off. I don't want to see you wearing them again. Not even during the day. I don't care if your eyes melt out of their sockets."

Wordless, the two slowly slid the shades from their eyes, and slipped them into their pockets. Just as they did so, the complex lights dimmed, a small, white flicker starting from behind them.

Miles cleared his throat as he took his seat in the theater, leaning back to pan the entirety of the hollywood widescreen. It'd been years since he'd seen it.