Subj:	The Lucky Winner, Part 1
Date:	96-09-30 21:03:53 EDT
From:	jrconly@ix.netcom.com (Judith R. Conly)
Sender:	owner-ag-fanfic@stargame.org
To:	ag-fanfic@stargame.org

Disclaimer:  The fictional characters that appear 
in this story are the creation/property of Shaun 
Cassidy, Renaissance Productions, and/or CBS.  
The story is fan fiction and does not constitute an 
attempt to defraud anyone in any way.

Apologies to the real people who have been 
fictionalized in this story.  I have never met them.  
The way they appear is my extrapolation from what 
I have seen or read about them.  Any difference 
between the way they behave in this story and the 
way they would behave in a similar situation in 
real life is entirely my fault.

Also a plea for indulgence from anyone who knows 
about the process of filming for TV or movies.  
Believe me, I know where I'm taking liberties.

***********************************************************

                                 Part 1

      I had been a fan of the television series, 
American Gothic, for a long time, and the news 
that the network decided to give the show a second 
chance was only topped by my winning the contest.  
You know the contest:  "Send your name, address, 
etc., to the address on your screen, and you'll be 
entered in our contest.  One lucky winner will be 
picked at random for an all-expense-paid trip to 
Wilmington, North Carolina, where he or she will 
spend a day on the set of American Gothic, meet 
the cast, and even have a walk-on part in an 
episode."  One lucky winner.  That's me!
      My flight was scheduled to leave Kennedy 
Airport at 8:00 a.m.  I, the avowed night person, 
was so excited that I was wide awake at 5:00 
and was waiting at the gate over an hour before 
I needed to be there.
      The flight itself was the longest short flight I've 
ever taken.  It's a good thing that I know how to 
pack light and had only a piece of carry-on 
luggage.  If I'd had to wait for checked baggage 
to be unloaded, I think I would have exploded 
with frustration.
      A driver was waiting for me outside the 
baggage claim area, holding one of those funny 
cards with my name on it.  I introduced myself.  
"Where's the rest of your luggage?"  he asked.
      "This is all of it,"  I replied, holding up my 
backpack, slightly annoyed.  Not *all* women 
pack the house when they travel!
      It was a regular car, not any kind of limo.  
'Probably just as well,'  I told myself.  My hands 
were shaking with nerves.  If I'd had one of those 
limos that came with a bar, I probably would 
have ended up wearing any drink I tried to pour 
myself.  Not that I would have minded a cup of 
coffee...  'Then again,'  I thought, catching a 
glimpse of my wild-eyed reflection in the rearview 
mirror,  'maybe I should stay away from the 
caffeine for now.'

      I don't remember much of the trip from the 
airport.  At first I was too busy trying to calm 
down and stop bouncing up and down like a 
five year old.  Then all my attention was 
focused on looking for the signs of a major TV 
show on location -- trailers, cameras and crew, 
barricades to keep out the curious citizens, 
people standing around with styrofoam cups 
of coffee...  'Down, girl!'
      And there it was, even busier than I had 
imagined.  The car stopped in front of one of 
the trailers.  I hopped out, too impatient to give 
the driver enough time to open the door for me.
      I was greeted by a young woman with a 
clipboard, glasses, and a worried expression.  
She told me her name, which went in one of my 
ears and directly out the other.  (I'm always bad 
with names, and on a day like that, when I knew 
very well who I wanted to meet...  I'm afraid I 
didn't retain a single one of the unfamiliar names 
I heard that day.)  She found me a safe place 
to store my backpack and then took me over 
to the catering tables and left me to introduce 
myself to coffee while she went off to find the 
director.
      A burned tongue and half a cup of coffee 
later, she was back with the director -- a 
somewhat condescending forty-something-year-
old man with another unfamiliar name that has 
disappeared into the void inside my head.  
While he took me on a flying tour of the 
facilities that gave me time to finish settling 
down, he started to give me a reverse sales 
pitch on how the wonderful world of television 
wasn't as exciting as most people think...
      "I know,"  I interrupted, before I could lose 
my nerve.  "I've done some extra work.  In 
the snow."
      The look of relief on the man's face was 
hilarious, though all he said was,  "Good.  
Then I won't be shattering your illusions when 
I tell you that you won't be doing a big love 
scene with Gary Cole."
      "Aw, shucks,"  I quipped.  "And I brought 
all my dominatrix gear."
      That got a laugh and a description of the 
scene I would be in.  Nothing very complicated.  
Picture me sitting on a bench in an open area 
of a park.  Gary/Lucas walks by on his way 
to somewhere important.  I wave.  He smiles.  
He and the camera move on.
      "Am I doing anything in particular?  I 
mean, does it matter what I'm doing?"  I asked.
      "Why?  Do you have something in mind?"
      "Well..."  I hesitated, feeling presumptuous 
but unwilling to let the opportunity pass without 
giving it my best shot.  Ah, what the hey.  The 
worst he could do was laugh at me.  "I sing, 
too, and play guitar.  And I have a song that 
was inspired by the show."
      "By *our* show?"  
      I nodded.  "It's from the point of view of 
someone who falls for Lucas Buck even 
though she knows better."
      He snorted.  "That makes sense."

      One of the guys on the crew was a 
struggling musician, and he lent me the 
guitar he kept around for practice during 
breaks.  I found a place to sit down, so I'd 
be less likely to let the instrument slide out 
of hands that were dripping wet with sweat,
and sang for a small crowd that included some 
of the familiar faces that I was there to meet.  
I'd be lying if I said I came across like the next 
Sarah McLachlan, but I did well enough to
get the director's stamp of approval on my 
singing in the scene.
      I hurried to return the guitar to the 
temporary custody of its owner before *he* 
disappeared again.  That's right.  Him.  
Gary Cole.
      Looking back, I almost wish I hadn't 
caught up to him, considering some of the 
stupid things I said.  He was as nice as can 
be, and astonishingly patient with my 
tongue-tied self.  And those eyes...  It's a 
good thing my singing was only going to be
in the background.  I had so much trouble 
breathing when I had his undivided attention 
that I hated to imagine what my singing 
voice would sound like.
      I didn't have nearly as much trouble with 
the other cast members I met -- Paige Turco 
and John Mese -- but then, I didn't care as 
much about them.  Turco didn't come across 
as "the sharpest pencil in the box," to borrow 
a Lucas line, which matched my perception 
of her acting.  Mese seemed to be trying to
convince me that he was the real star of the 
show -- or at least that he should be.  He 
reminded me a bit of someone I knew from a 
play, a classically handsome leading man 
type who didn't bother to learn all his lines 
and expected the rest of us to cover for
him.
      I was promised a chance to meet the 
rest of the cast later in the day.

      It was only an hour before they were 
ready to work on "my" scene.  Since I was 
playing a folk-singer type, my jeans and 
short-sleeved shirt passed for costume, 
and my hair and makeup were equally simple.  
It was fun, though, having someone make 
me up and do my hair, instead of having 
to do it myself.
      I used the rest of the time to practice 
the song and build myself a character.  
Hmm.  Let's see.  First, name her.  How 
about Miranda, complete with a romantic, 
"brave new world" outlook.  But the way 
I wrote the lyrics, she understands -- and 
accepts -- that Lucas isn't nice.  So why 
is she singing the song in the public park?  
Sour grapes, maybe?  A desire to expose 
him for anyone who hasn't caught on?
      That was as far as I got before they 
were ready for me.

      They set me up on a bench in the 
middle of a clearing, guitar in hand and 
case open in front of me as if to collect 
money from passers-by, with a paved 
path in front of me and level grass behind.  
Gary/Lucas would come toward me from 
my left, cross in front of me, and keep 
going.  The camera would start from a 
stationary position to my left that was 
out of my line of sight, pick up Gary/Lucas 
as he passed it, follow him on tracks that 
ran behind me, and keep going with him.  
If nothing got cut, I would be on screen 
for about five seconds.
      We rehearsed the sequence twice, 
mostly for my benefit, I'm sure.  The first 
time was a simple walk-through, so I could 
get used to singing and nodding and 
smiling at Lucas(!) all at the same time.
      The second time, Gary became Lucas, 
and the difference in the personality he 
projected was something I could feel from 
the six-foot distance that was the closest 
he came to me.  I don't know how else to 
explain it.  There was a small part of him 
that was still Gary Cole the actor, but the 
rest was...  different.  And so strong that it 
helped me become more the character I
created for myself.
      Then came the real thing -- Take One.  
Everyone moved away until all I could see 
was empty park.  I heard the director yell, 
"Action," waited five seconds as instructed, 
and started singing.
      I reached the end of the first verse and 
began the second, which was Gary's cue 
to enter the scene.  My peripheral vision, 
which had caught his movement at about 
that point in both rehearsals, did not pick 
up anything this time.
      I finished the second verse and started 
the chorus.  Still no Gary/Lucas.  'OK,'  I 
thought.  'Someone is being a wiseguy, 
playing a joke on the "lucky winner."  
Fine.  I'll play along.  They'll have to say, 
"Cut," before I stop.  They're *not* going
to rattle me!'  I closed my eyes and 
focused my whole being on what I was 
singing.
      The song came to an end, and I heard 
one person clapping slowly.  I opened my 
eyes and saw Gary/Lucas standing just 
beyond my guitar case, smiling crookedly 
at me.  'Finally,'  I thought.  The applause 
stopped.
      "Well, hello,"  I said sarcastically.
      The smile broadened.  "Why don't you 
come over here and give me a real hello?"
      "Why not?"  I replied.  'I can handle 
this.  I *can* handle this,'  I told myself, 
putting the guitar in its case.  I stood 
right in front of him and looked up into 
his eyes, refusing to show him anything 
but professionalism.  "Hello."
      He put his hands on my shoulders, 
bent toward me, and kissed me on the 
lips.  It was not the kind of kiss that an 
actor gives an actress for the benefit of 
camera and audience.  It was the kind of 
kiss, deep and intimate, that spoke of a 
relationship of some long standing.  For 
a moment my knees forgot which way 
they were intended to bend, and I lost 
my awareness of anything beyond my 
senses.
      The moment passed.  I became 
conscious of a feeling of wrongness in 
what was transpiring, and in the man 
who was touching me so expertly.  In 
the same way I had detected a difference 
between Gary Cole as himself and Gary 
Cole in his Lucas Buck persona, now I 
sensed a difference between this man
and the Lucas Buck had "met" a short 
time earlier.
      He released my lips and shoulders, 
and stepped back.  "Hello,"  he said with 
a twitch of one corner of his mouth.  His
eyes held mine captive, and my 
uneasiness increased.
      "You done for the day?"  he asked, 
indicating my guitar with a tilt of his head.
      "I guess so."  I turned away from him.  
As I knelt by the guitar to close the case, 
I sneaked a glance in the direction of the 
camera.  It was not there.  There was no 
camera or cameraman, no track running 
behind the bench, no director, no actors
standing by for the next scene -- and no 
indication that they had ever been there.

                           To be continued...


Subj:	Song in "The Lucky Winner"
Date:	96-10-03 09:54:40 EDT
From:	jrconly@ix.netcom.com (Judith R. Conly)
Sender:	owner-ag-fanfic@stargame.org
To:	ag-fanfic@stargame.org

Here are the lyrics to the song I mention in "The 
Lucky Winner."

             Dark Lover

I awake in the heart of the night
with your kiss on my memory's lips.
The sheet, soft-sliding against my skin,
recalls the arson of your touch.

The scent of your body lingers on
in the creases of my own.
My sleep-fogged mind weaves delicate 
  dreams
of sweetness we've never shared.

Chorus:
What are you thinking?  -- Midnight thoughts.
Where are you wandering?  -- Beyond light.
What do you want from me?  -- Everything.
Where are you waiting?  -- On your grave tonight.

You are the shadow to the light I serve,
a challenge to integrity,
and yet your eyes -- your lips -- your hands
compel me to trust and forgive.

Chorus

I've touched the demon behind your eyes.
I can almost count down the days
until you tear my soul to rags,
but I don't care.  I can't care.  I won't care.
I don't care!

Your victims' eyes peer over your shoulder,
but icy glares melt on the hearth
of homefire hellfire fueled desire
that celebrates mortality.

Chorus


Subj:	The Lucky Winner, Part 2
Date:	96-10-03 10:17:39 EDT
From:	jrconly@ix.netcom.com (Judith R. Conly)
Sender:	owner-ag-fanfic@stargame.org
To:	ag-fanfic@stargame.org

Disclaimer:  The fictional characters that 
appear in this story are the creation/property 
of Shaun Cassidy, Renaissance Productions, 
and/or CBS.  The story is fan fiction and does 
not constitute an attempt to defraud anyone in 
any way.

********************************************************

                                 Part 2

      My hands worked on autopilot -- lifted the 
guitar, scooped up the loose change and lone 
dollar bill that had magically appeared in the 
cheap cardboard case, shoved the money into 
my pocket, replaced the guitar, and closed 
and latched the case -- while my brain went 
into overdrive.  All signs of television production 
were gone.  My song ran about three minutes 
if I didn't rush.  As efficient as the crew might 
be, that was simply not enough time for them 
to clean up all that equipment -- in total silence, 
no less.  Therefore...  what?  My mental wheels
spun.
      "Can I give you a lift somewhere?  We 
need to talk."  Lucas's voice was the same, 
but I realized that the accent was not identical
 -- still southern, but somewhat gentler.  I 
remembered someone mentioning that Gary's 
accent was closer to Texas than South 
Carolina.  One more piece to the puzzle?  
But did I want to see the whole picture -- and 
did I have a choice?
      "Sure,"  I replied, picking up my guitar.  
"How about home?"  I was curious to see if 
he would actually take me anywhere.  If this 
was an ever-more-elaborate joke, how far 
would it go?
      "Let me take that,"  he said, reaching for 
the guitar.
      I took a step away.  "No, thanks.  I've 
got it."
      He chuckled.  "Oh, yeah.  I forgot.  It's 
your baby."  His mocking tone put quotation 
marks around the last two words.  "Never 
mind.  It's all yours, Miranda."
      I stopped dead and stared.  How did he 
know the name I had assigned my character 
only that morning?  I had never mentioned
it to anyone on set.
      He noticed that I was no longer walking 
with him and turned back to me.  "Well, 
come on, Miranda.  You may not have 
anythin' else to do today, but I have a job, 
remember?"
      I nodded, and we proceeded to the car I 
remembered so well.  He opened the 
passenger door and, with exaggerated 
courtesy, helped me and the guitar into the 
front seat.  While he walked around to the 
driver's side and let himself in, I examined 
the interior for any sign that the vehicle had 
ever been used as a prop.  Nothing.
      "D'you lose somethin'?"  he inquired, as 
he start the car.
      'Your marbles, maybe?'  I asked myself.  
"No, nothing,"  I assured him, settling back in 
my seat.
      "Good,"  he drawled, his voice sinking to 
the bottom of its range.  "Then maybe you can 
explain somethin' to me."  He gave me one of 
his patented 'you know what I mean, and you'd 
better agree with me on this' looks.  
      I nodded hastily, though I felt acutely 
uncomfortable agreeing to something when I 
had no idea what I was agreeing to.
      "What the *hell* did you mean, singin' that 
song in public?  I told you last night that was 
private business, and to keep it between us."  
Fury blazed in his narrowed eyes.
      "But -- but --  It's just a song,"  I stammered, 
trying to buy myself some time.  Last night?  
But we had just met this morning!  And Gary 
Cole was a superb actor, but this anger felt
real.
      "Just a song?  Is that how you think of 
it?  You must be even dumber than I thought!"
      That hurt, though I wasn't sure why.  "But, 
Lucas -- "  I couldn't help it.  The name just 
slipped out.  I bit my lip and turned to look 
out the window.
      What I saw only added to my confusion.  
The neighborhood I remembered riding through 
on the way to the park had been a business 
district -- modern office buildings and banks, 
all concrete and glass -- not highrises by New 
York standards, but the only structure under 
five or six stories tall had been a parking lot.  
City skyline had been visible in all directions 
even over the treetops of the park.  Now we 
were passing wooden houses with lawns and 
trees of their own.  I turned all the way around 
to look back over the park.  Nary a building 
could be seen above the foliage.
      I moaned quietly and leaned my head 
against the headrest, fighting back tears of 
distress.  Now we seemed to be in the center 
of town.  We passed several stores, and a 
gas station, and structure labeled "United 
States Post Office -- Trinity, South Carolina."  
My reaction was halfway between a sob and 
a laugh.  'All right,'  I thought.  'I give up.  I 
surrender.'
      Lucas reached over and rubbed his thumb 
across my cheek.  I pulled away sharply.  
"Now, Miranda, don't be like that.  It was early, 
and not many people heard you, so I won't
have to take any *drastic* action as long as 
you promise not to do it again."  
      His sideways glance at my expression 
must not have pleased him.  I heard the jangle 
of strings from inside the guitar case, though the 
instrument was clenched between my knees.
      "You *know* how I feel about havin' 
attention drawn to *certain matters*," he 
continued.  "Most people are happy with the 
world as they see it.  I would *hate* to have 
their illusions disrupted for no reason.  Wouldn't 
you?"
      "Yeah.  I guess,"  I replied reluctantly.
      "That's my girl."  He swung the car in to 
the curb in front of a grubby, formerly-white 
house and cut the engine.  "Want some 
company?"  he asked, giving me a suggestive 
smile that I felt down to my toenails.
      I drew a slow, deep breath.  "Not this 
time, Lucas,"  I forced myself to say, regretting 
it even as I spoke.  "I need time to..."
      "To contemplate the error of your ways?"  
he finished for me.  "I wouldn't dream of keeping 
you from that.  Tomorrow, then?"
      "Yeah, tomorrow,"  I echoed, fumbling for 
the door handle.
      He drove away while I was still wrestling 
with the rusty latch on the gate in the rickety 
picket fence.
      There was grass poking up through the 
cracks in the flagstone path to the front door, 
and the garden was growing a bumper crop of 
weeds.  Each step creaked as I climbed to 
the splintery front porch.  The top panel of the 
screen door had torn loose in one corner.
      I double-checked all the pockets of my 
jeans to confirm that keys had not materialized 
during my stay.  They had not, but -- blessings 
on that small-town mentality -- that didn't 
matter because the front door wasn't locked.  
I wondered whose house I was entering uninvited.
      The bulb in the front-hall light blew out 
when I flicked the switch.  I had better luck 
with the one in the living room. 
      Each room showed the same signs of 
disrepair as the exterior.  Judging by the 
minimal possessions scattered around, and 
the few coins in the jar in the kitchen, the 
occupant did not have the financial resources 
for so much as a box of nails or a can of paint.
      I wandered upstairs and used the 
bathroom, still uncertain about how to 
proceed.  When friends and I had joked 
about a vacation in Trinity...
      The picture I found in the bedroom made 
my decision for me.  It was a sunny, smiling 
portrait of Lucas Buck and a woman who 
looked uncannily like me, down to the scar 
on my forehead made when my dog knocked 
me into a wall when I was two.  The burst of
adrenalin made my heart skip a beat.  In that 
moment I knew that I could not stay there.
      A thorough search of the house yielded 
another $20.00 from the sock drawer -- just 
where I keep my emergency money at home.
That and the coins from the kitchen joined 
what I had in my pocket.  I grabbed the 
guitar off the living room floor and ran out, 
not even bothering to latch the gate behind 
me.
      I sold the guitar, case, and my watch at 
the hock shop in town.  The cash, added to 
what I already had, was enough to buy me a 
one-way ticket to New York City, with $11.27 
left over.  I finished my purchase just as the 
bus pulled into the station.
      From my window seat I mentally waved 
good-bye to the town and the dream visit 
turned nightmare.  'I'm going home!'  I thought.  
'I hope...'  In a world that had produced a real
Trinity -- a real Lucas Buck -- I had no 
guarantee of what New York would hold.
      The bus must have stopped at every station 
along the coast.  After the first few hours, 
exhaustion got the better of me, and I slept.  
If I had any dreams, I don't recall the contents.
      Eighteen hours after I climbed onto the bus, 
I staggered off in the Port Authority Bus 
Terminal, creaky-jointed as an old lady.  
Everything seemed normal, but then, 
considering the wide variety of people who 
pass through the terminal, it would be difficult 
to identify anyone or anything as out of place.
      I felt like I was wearing the whole bus trip
 -- no, the whole day -- so I braved the public 
restroom and used a paper towel to scrub as 
much of me as I could without becoming 
indecent.  Even that was an improvement, 
though the idea of a long hot shower made 
me positively nostalgic.
      On an impulse, I used a quarter to call 
my answering machine to check messages.  
There was no answer.  The machine did not 
pick up, which was possible if one of my cats 
had knocked the phone off the hook, but then 
there would have been a busy signal.  There 
was not.
      Suddenly I was afraid to go home.  I 
had no keys, and I was afraid to ring the 
superintendent's bell and have a stranger 
come to the door.  I needed some 
confirmation that I was who I thought I was, 
and not a character I made up for a television 
show.
      There was a place I knew near the bus 
terminal, where they sold Internet time by the 
hour.  I went there and spent all of my 
remaining cash for an hour online and a cup 
of coffee.  I was encouraged by the fact that 
I could access my Netcom account.  'My ID 
and password haven't changed.  That's a good 
sign,'  I told myself.  'And if anyone will know 
me...'
      So now I ask you, my online friends:  Do 
you know me?  Do you know who I am?  Please 
answer quickly.  My hour is almost gone.