Heroes in time and mind
Comics to provoke thoughtful consideration of dementia sufferers
Concept Overview:
This comic series reimagines dementia not as a tragic decline, but as a profound, hidden gift—a form of mental time travel that allows individuals to safeguard our shared reality. By portraying those living with dementia as unsung heroes, the stories challenge societal stigmas, fostering empathy and respect. Each issue follows members of “The Demented,” a secret league of time adjusters, as they navigate their personal histories to make subtle corrections that preserve the present. Through humor, adventure, and heartfelt moments, the comics highlight their wisdom, resilience, and vital contributions, encouraging readers to see beyond appearances and value the inner worlds of those often overlooked.
Introduction Narrative:
Sometimes, history must be rewritten before we can spot where the tiniest course correction was needed in the past. We all know the tales of ripple effects—how altering even the smallest event could unravel the future in unpredictable ways. But what if those micro-adjustments are essential to keeping history on track, aligning it with the present we know? What if there are subtle, seemingly insignificant glitches in the fabric of time—errant stitches that go unnoticed because they only hold meaning in extraordinarily localized ways?
Perhaps those fleeting moments of déjà vu are early warning signs of such glitches: harbingers of potential disruptions, like misplaced pixels in the vast resolution of our reality. Much like a mechanical watch that loses a second over a year—imperceptible until it’s too late—these flaws can’t be fixed in the moment. Instead, they must be repaired from the future, ensuring the timeline remains intact without us ever realizing it was at risk.
Enter The Demented: those among us whom society discards as “aged waste”—no longer mentally sharp, deemed unfit to contribute, bodies in decline, kindly awaiting their end. As everyday people bound to a single timeline, we can’t comprehend what they truly experience. Their silences, outbursts, and apparent confusion aren’t infirmities at all; they’re masks for an existence across time.
In truth, The Demented are our timeline’s guardians. Recruited by the enigmatic League of Heroes, each uses their unique lived history to make precise micro-adjustments, preserving the present as it was meant to be. They possess the power to mentally journey into their own pasts—interacting with parallel moments they’ve already experienced—but they become anchored there, viewing our reality from afar while executing these subtle changes. No one notices the shifts because they’re not alterations; they’re reinforcements, keeping destiny on course.
Sample Story Outline
Page 1: Present-Day Setup (5 Panels)
- Panel 1: Wide shot of a mid-western U.S. suburban home. Police car parked outside. Middle-aged parents speak animatedly with an officer. Kids on the lawn with bikes and scooters, chatting excitedly. Caption: “Grandad has taken off in the car again—time for a Silver Alert.”
- Panel 2: Close-up on kids. Seth (a teen) smirks: “Crazy old mental patient took his car out again. My mom’s freakin’ out that he’ll drive into someone. Kill a kid or somethin’. I don’t see why anyone gives a shit—the guy’s totally lost, just wasting our air. Old fool thinks he’s still a phys ed teacher and a war hero in South Africa half the time. Always telling some meaningless stories.”
- Panel 3: Jau laughs: “Mine sits home all day smelling as foul as a litterbox, wetting his pants an’ then squishing around the house leaving a wet trail from his slippers. An’ I gotta clean that shit.” Group erupts in laughter.
- Panel 4: Officer to parents: “Name, age, description?” Mother: “He’s Peter—Peter Isen. Um, 78 years old, bald and bulky, 6’2”. He was wearing his shorts, sneakers with knee-high gym socks, and a 50-year-old tee from Waterkloof Prep School. Um, and lately he’s been speaking a lot in Afrikaans mixed with English.”
- Panel 5: Officer: “Afrikaans? Pfhtt. What about the car and where you think he was headed?” Dad: “He’s got his Subaru. I don’t know how—I took all his keys. I just don’t…” Mom interrupts: “He’s not stupid, you know. Did you take the hide-a-key?”
Page 2: Family Tension and Isen’s Location (5 Panels)
- Panel 1: Dad: “Hide-a-key? No, anyway, last time I found him at the high school trying to lecture the soccer coach on how to teach to win.”
- Panel 2: Mom: “Just because he’s not all there… you forget it’s his earnings that help fund our lives. He was someone—a teacher, a good father. He got a Silver Service Medal. What can we say about you?” Dad: “Sorry…” (cut off by officer).
- Panel 3: Officer: “We’ll start looking over at the school and send out a Silver Alert. Is he on any meds…?”
- Panel 4: Transition: Wide shot of elderly Isen leaning against a chain-link fence at a modern high school. His Subaru parked askew, door open. He’s gazing emptily at a soccer team practicing, but his eyes are distant—existing in the past, repairing a timeline glitch. Caption: “But Isen isn’t lost. He’s a guardian, mentally journeying back.”
- Panel 5: Fade to dual timelines. Split panel: Left side labeled “Timeline in Error,” right “Timeline Needed.” Both show young Isen (1970s athletic wear) leaning against an archway at Waterkloof House Preparatory School, Pretoria, overlooking a rugby field.
Page 3: Error Timeline – Bullying Incident (6 Panels)
- Panel 1: Young Isen joking with coaches, ignoring kids bullying a tall, lanky young Musk (carrying books in ill-fitting jean shorts and a time-appropriate Star Trek tee).
- Panel 2: Bullies (athletic kids in shorts and school tees, juggling a soccer ball) taunt: “Look at him—all those books and stuff, but he can’t read up on being normal!” “Damn pocket-protected comic book greasy-haired weirdo!”
- Panel 3: “Get him! Watch the spaz run!” “Run, goofy, run!” They chase Musk; he falls, dropping books (Action Comics #544, Iron Man #158, The Martian Chronicles, The Complete Robot) and papers (UI drawings, scribbled code).
- Panel 4: Bullies kick books, scatter papers, push Musk face-first into grass, then run off: “First one there gets to kick!”
- Panel 5: Distraught young Musk picks himself up, crying, gathers items. Looks toward coaches, who laugh amongst themselves, mocking him.
- Panel 6: Musk runs off with books. Caption: “A small glitch, left unrepaired, unravels the future.”
Page 4: Error Timeline – Forward to Dystopian Present (4 Panels)
- Panel 1: Wide shot: Adult Musk (overweight, in tattered Captain America shirt, holding a Coke) behind a rusted gate of a ramshackle tin-roofed home, junk-littered yard, graffiti-covered wall with razor wire.
- Panel 2: Musk peers vacantly out. Thought bubble (quoting Bradbury): “This disease was called The Loneliness, because when you saw your home town dwindle… you felt you had never been born, there was no town, you were nowhere.”
- Panel 3: Street view: Smoke from passing cars. Close-up through gate: Aging notices hooked on bars—one from “Star-link” cable company: “Sorry we missed you” with note “Repaired corroded insulator.”
- Panel 4: Second tag from “Tesla Energy”: “Collection notice—2nd attempt” with “Shutoff notice” checked. Tagline: “Committed to cleaner coal.” Caption: “Uninspired, the ripple widens.”
Page 5: Needed Timeline – Intervention (6 Panels)
- Panel 1: Young Isen turns from coaches, witnesses bullies. Shouts: “Break it up!” Trots over. Coaches mock: “Hey Isen, you’re the Silver Service Medal military man—go over and show those boys some discipline.”
- Panel 2: Isen helps gather books, offers hand, pulls Musk up with a wary smile. Musk visibly shaken.
- Panel 3: Isen spots The Martian Chronicles, quotes Bradbury: “We Earth men have a talent for ruining big, beautiful things.”
- Panel 4: Musk relaxes. Isen: “Don’t let the uneducated, uninspired, and misdirected youth get at ya, mate. You’ll be the one to plant the oaks, the maples—every kind of tree. They’ll be lucky to seed a few apples that probably will bear inedible fruit.”
- Panel 5: Musk smiles, responds: “Ignorance is fatal.” Isen laughs knowingly, hands over items: “Now get outta here and do some good work.”
- Panel 6: Musk walks along cinderblock-fenced street. Thought bubble: “For the first time, kindred adult acceptance from the least likely person. We are all different, but actions define us.” Caption: “A spark ignites perseverance.”
Page 6: Needed Timeline – Forward to Positive Present (4 Panels)
- Panel 1: Wide shot: Adult Musk in front of modest modern desert home, Tesla in circular drive, rocket launching in background.
- Panel 2: Optimus robot offers iced drink on tray. Musk (smoking cigar, in Star Trek tee, phone on waist) reflects. Thought bubble: “I’ll always plant every kind of tree, nurture them weak or strong, seed the forest with my convictions.”
- Panel 3: Dreams of Mars. Thought bubble (Bradbury): “To get away from wars and government control of art and science!”
- Panel 4: Starship rocket deploys Starlink satellites, Mars in distance. Caption: “Destiny reinforced.”
Page 7: Return to Present – Apprehension (5 Panels)
- Panel 1: Back to present: Elderly Isen at modern school, being roughly handled by police. Adult coaches overlap: “Creepy old guy keeps hanging around the kids.” “He’s scaring the children.” “Who knows what he could do?”
- Panel 2: Policewoman pushes Isen into cop car.
- Panel 3: Cop calls parents: “We got him at the school. You gotta keep better track of him—next time we might have to lock him up. People are complaining.”
- Panel 4: Isen in back seat, distant gaze. Caption: “Society sees confusion. But The Demented see timelines mended.”
- Panel 5: Fade out on cop car driving away.
Page 8: Epilogue and Tie-Back (4 Panels)
- Panel 1: Split panel: Error timeline’s dystopian Musk vs. Needed timeline’s innovative Musk. Caption: “One micro-adjustment preserves the present.”
- Panel 2: Elderly Isen smiles subtly in cop car. Caption: “Isen feels a calm, a release from some undefined duty, a new peace”
- Panel 3: Parents receive call, relieved. Kids still laughing in background.
- Panel 4: Final wide shot: Suburban home at dusk. Caption: “The guardians among us, hidden in plain sight.” (Teaser for next issue.)
Original Shorts
From Silver Service Medal to Silver Alert
In the quiet sprawl of a mid-western suburb, where manicured lawns whispered secrets to the wind, Peter Isen had vanished again. His Subaru, that stubborn relic of independence, was gone from the driveway, triggering the familiar hum of a Silver Alert. Outside the family home, a police car idled like a watchful sentinel. Middle-aged parents, faces etched with worry and frustration, conferred with the officer under the midday sun. On the lawn, children clustered around their bikes and scooters, their chatter a mix of mockery and indifference.
Seth, the oldest boy with a smirk that hid his own insecurities, leaned against his handlebars. “Crazy old mental patient swiped his car again,” he scoffed, glancing at his friends. “Mom’s freakin’ out, thinks he’ll plow into someone—maybe even kill a kid or something. I don’t get why anyone cares. The guy’s totally lost, just wasting our air. Half the time, he thinks he’s still a phys ed teacher or some war hero in South Africa, spinning these meaningless stories that go nowhere.” As he spoke, Seth reflected inwardly: Why do I even say this stuff? Grandpa’s stories used to make me dream of adventures. Now they just remind me how stuck I feel in this boring life.
Jau, wiping sweat from his brow, chuckled bitterly. “Mine’s no better—sits home all day, smelling like a foul litterbox, wetting his pants and squishing around the house, leaving wet trails from his slippers. And guess who cleans it up? Me, every damn time.” The group erupted in laughter, but Jau’s mind wandered: It’s not funny, really. Taking care of him makes me think about my own future—will I end up forgotten too, or will I make something of myself before it’s too late?
The officer, notepad in hand, turned to the parents. “Name, age, description?” he asked, his tone routine.
The mother, her voice trembling with a mix of love and exhaustion, replied, “He’s Peter—Peter Isen. Seventy-eight years old, bald and bulky, about six-foot-two. He was wearing his old shorts, sneakers with those knee-high gym socks, and a fifty-year-old tee from Waterkloof Prep School. Lately, he’s been mixing Afrikaans with English, like his mind’s bridging two worlds.”
The officer raised an eyebrow. “Afrikaans? Pfhtt. Alright, what about the car? Any idea where he might be headed?”
The father sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “It’s his Subaru. I don’t know how he got it—I took all the keys. I just… I don’t understand.” He paused, reflecting on his own failures: I’ve always been the practical one, but maybe I’ve forgotten what it means to fight for something, like Dad did.
The mother shot him a glare. “He’s not stupid, you know. Did you check the hide-a-key?” Then, softer, “Just because he’s not all there anymore… you forget, it’s his earnings that keep this roof over our heads. He was someone—a teacher, a good father. He earned that Silver Service Medal for long service and exemplary conduct back in the SADF era. What can we say about you?”
The father mumbled, “Sorry…” but the officer cut in. “We’ll check the high school first—last time he was there, trying to lecture the soccer coach on winning strategies. We’ll send out the Silver Alert. Is he on any meds?”
Meanwhile, miles away, elderly Isen leaned against a chain-link fence at the local high school, his Subaru parked haphazardly behind him, door ajar. To onlookers, he stared emptily at the soccer team practicing on the field. But in his mind, he was adrift in time, repairing a glitch in the fabric of reality. These moments… they’re not madness, he reflected. They’re my duty. Society sees decline, but I see the threads I must mend to keep the world from unraveling. What if one small choice changes everything?
His consciousness split into dual timelines, both rooted in the early 1980s at Waterkloof House Preparatory School in Pretoria, South Africa. There, young Isen—fit and clad in his WHPS coach’s tee and athletic shorts—leaned against an archway, overlooking the rugby field.
In the timeline of error, Isen joked with fellow coaches, their laughter drowning out the cruelty unfolding nearby. A tall, lanky boy—young Elon Musk—stumbled under the weight of books, his ill-fitting jean shorts and Star Trek tee marking him as an outsider. Athletic bullies, juggling a soccer ball, closed in. “Look at him—all those books and stuff, but he can’t read up on being normal!” one jeered. “Damn pocket-protected comic book greasy-haired weirdo!”
“Get him! Watch the spaz run!” another shouted. “Run, goofy, run!” They chased him until he fell, books scattering: Action Comics #544, Iron Man #158, The Martian Chronicles, The Complete Robot. Papers fluttered—drawings of user interfaces, scribbled code. The bullies kicked the items, shoved Musk’s face into the grass, and dashed off: “First one there gets to kick!”
Young Musk, tears streaming, gathered his belongings. He glanced at the coaches, who now looked his way but only laughed amongst themselves, their mockery a dagger. Why me? Musk thought, his heart aching. Am I doomed to this loneliness forever? No one sees the worlds in my head—the machines, the stars. Maybe I’m the glitch in this reality. He ran off, the seed of despair taking root.
Fast-forward to a dystopian present: An overweight adult Musk stood behind a rusted gate, his tattered Captain America shirt stained, a Coke in hand. His ramshackle home, tin-roofed and junk-littered, was encircled by a graffiti-scarred wall topped with razor wire. Peering out vacantly, he reflected on Bradbury’s words echoing in his mind: This disease was called The Loneliness, because when you saw your home town dwindle… you felt you had never been born, there was no town, you were nowhere. Smoke billowed from passing cars as he stared down the desolate street. Through the gate, notices dangled: one from “Star-link” cable company—“Sorry we missed you, repaired corroded insulator.” Another from “Tesla Energy”—“Collection notice, 2nd attempt, shutoff notice. Committed to cleaner coal.” What if I’d fought back then? Musk pondered. Instead, I let the isolation define me. Now, dreams rust like this gate.
But in the needed timeline, Isen turned from the coaches, his instincts sharpening. “Break it up!” he shouted, trotting over as the bullies scattered. The coaches called mockingly, “Hey Isen, you’re the Silver Service Medal military man—go show those boys some discipline!”
Reaching the shaken boy, Isen helped gather the books, offering a hand to pull him up. With a wary smile, he spotted The Martian Chronicles. “We Earth men have a talent for ruining big, beautiful things,” he quoted Bradbury, his voice steady.
Young Musk, wiping his eyes, relaxed slightly. An adult… seeing me? Not laughing?
Isen continued, “Don’t let the uneducated, uninspired, and misdirected youth get to you, mate. You’ll be the one planting the oaks, the maples—every kind of tree that builds a future. They’ll be lucky to seed a few apples, and even those might bear inedible fruit. You’ve got fire in those eyes—ideas that could change worlds.”
Musk, finding his voice, smiled faintly. “Ignorance is fatal,” he replied, the words a quiet defiance.
Isen laughed knowingly, handing over the last papers. “Exactly, lad. Now get out of here and do some good work. Remember, it’s not the mockery that defines you—it’s what you build despite it.”
As Musk walked along the street lined with cinderblock-fenced homes, he reflected: For the first time, acceptance from someone like him—a coach, a hero. We’re all different, but our actions expose our true selves. This… this could pivot everything. No more hiding; I’ll persevere, spark to flame.
In the positive present, adult Musk stood before his modest modern desert home, a Tesla gleaming in the circular drive, a rocket launching in the distance. An Optimus robot extended a tray with an iced drink. Smoking a cigar in his Star Trek tee, phone clipped to his waist, Musk reflected: “I’ll always plant every kind of tree, nurture them weak or strong, seed the forest with my convictions.” Dreams of Mars flooded him—Bradbury’s words: To get away from wars and government control of art and science! In the sky, a Starship deployed Starlink satellites, Mars a distant promise. That small encounter… it ignited everything. Self-acceptance from the unlikeliest source.
Back in the present, Isen was roughly handled by police as adult coaches complained: “Creepy old guy hanging around the kids!” “He’s scaring them—who knows what he could do?”
A policewoman pushed him into the car. The cop called the parents: “We got him at the school. Keep better track—next time, we might lock him up. People are complaining.”
As the car pulled away, Isen reflected one last time: They see a lost old man. But I’ve mended the thread, preserved the present. In the silence of dementia, heroes endure.
Jo’s Unseen Intervention
Another overly grey and moist UK day frames the parking lot of Drummohr Care in Wallyford. Rain spatters the windshields as aging siblings Paul and Susan huddle under a shared umbrella. In the background looms a two-story beige brick building. Huddled beneath the modest roof covering the entrance are a few of its residents—or honestly, its captive charges. Old and older, they sit in wheelchairs or grasp walkers, peering blankly out at the sad barren gardens. If not for the weather, they would hope to roam. Their stares remain undeterred by the scene Paul and Susan create next to their car. Bickering, voices elevated, laden with sarcasm, cutting like dull old kitchen knives—slowly tearing the flesh with rhetoric still carving, but nowhere near as effectively as in their youth. They are on the verge of relinquishing their voices in the future of Grace, their demented mother, with the stroke of a pen—committing her to the care of the crown. Both unaware that Gracie is still very much a factor in the world, with a few cards left to play from her crazed mind.
“Look Susie, I know we both had our rough spots with Mum, but your guilt over the past is getting in the way of caring for her. We need to move forward with this, stop your sobbing, it’s never gotten you anywhere.”
“Easy for you to say, nothing ever affects you. You’re just like your dad, disappearing when she needs you. She deserves better than havin’ a DoLS slapped on her and then put in a locked unit.”
“Come on, she’ll be settled then and it’s safer. You keep tryin’ to deny that she was always off, maybe that’s why both our dads bolted. One boyfriend after another, all trash, used her and left us, but I’ve always been… well—mostly caring for her.”
“CARING? You’re an ass, SETTLED? Doped and chained is more like it, left in her own defecant. I’ll be sure you get the same—maybe then you’ll feel the regret you spout about. Sweet angel Paulie, always the antagonistic brat, you can’t help yourself, just like back when you’d ride her til she broke. Then when she’d slam the door and leave, you’d lash out at me, only later to have a little cry all alone at the sink.”
“Well then you should just bring her home. We’ll see how long that heart of yours bleeds until you beg to lock her down. Yeah, I regret it—regret being an ass, but her choices made me the prick who pushes everyone away. But you, don’t you feign superior, you broke her in your own slutty ways. And you’re still a sneaky one, flashing that ‘poor me’ bit to get out of makin’ hard calls. You know how much I love Mom and how much I owe her, but there is really no alternative.”
“Fine, just don’t drag her mistakes into this again—you blame our whole lives on absent and abusive echoes of the past, it’s not all her fault.”
“Look, knowing it’s the right way doesn’t make it easier for me either.”
“You know it’s RIGHT? You’ve failed at every harebrained scheme in your life, why would any of us take your advice? She’s just gonna rot away… but fine, let’s sign the damn forms and pretend we’re not repeating history—just two more who were supposed to love her forever, walking away.”
Paul stomps through the puddles ahead of Sue towards the front entrance of Drummohr, umbrella in hand, outpacing Sue and leaving her exposed in the drizzle. At the entrance he shakes the umbrella, spattering the old people with remnants of the rain. Sue walks by, flinging the door open into his side.
Paul and Susie’s troubled upbringings led them to repeat much of their mum Gracie’s past ways. Children out of wedlock, disappearing partners were part n’ parcel for both. But they did take in some lessons from their past trauma. Susie would struggle early with her two little girls but later find her way, following her mother’s path and working a stable government job. It was there at child welfare services where she would meet a stable partner and grow to find her niche—art therapy for emotionally troubled orphaned wards of the state. Though still troubled herself, she managed to thrive in her life’s irony.
Paul, on the other hand, in response to his past, vowed to never leave his only child—a mildly autistic son from a union he struggled to hold together with the boy’s heroin-addicted mum. The boy’s mother would abandon him for the street life only months after his birth. After multiple social, medical, and family interventions, she would succumb to the needle. Paul never truly recovered from his perceived failures in the years leading to her death. To his credit, he doubled down on his effort to parent and provide for the boy. Oft misguided, he attempted many ventures to better their lives. As a level 1 ASD, his son gravitated to the safety and inclusion of mythology and fantasy graphic novels, identifying heavily with Harry Potter. This world allowed him inclusion and friendships—providing him with opportunities to flourish despite his illness. His boy’s infatuation led Paul to his current failing venture—a comic book/gaming/magic store, a certain success destined for failure under Paul’s steerage.
Inside Gracie’s room the air smelled of disinfectant and despair. The seventy-four-year-old woman knelt on the floor, fists pounding on her bed that’s littered with crumpled torn pieces of newspapers she’s hoarding like sacred relics. Her grey hair hung in dirty oily strands; her nightgown wrinkled and stained. She muttered fragments no one could decipher.
Susan, Paul, and the administrator stood in the doorway. “You guys are doing the right thing,” the administrator said gently. “She’s becoming a danger to herself and others.” Paul stepped forward, bent, and kissed the top of his mum’s head. Gracie recoiled, screaming, “Let me be! I know I was wrong, I know how to fix it, I just have to—” trailing off into an unintelligible mumble! Susan turned away, tears falling. The administrator shook her head and sighed. “I’ll fetch the forms.”
The door clicked shut and locked. From behind, Gracie’s empty eyes stared at the paper scraps. But Gracie was no longer in that room. She had slipped back through the years to relive a fateful day in 1993 and, most importantly, to right some of her subtle wrongs.
Early morning in the worn 1970s kitchen of their low-income flat in Edinburgh. Fifteen-year-old Paul and twenty-year-old Susan sat at the table. Gracie, already in her SSA business suit, prepared breakfast as her two children bickered on. Another tense morning in the Whelan home, following a sleepless eventful night… Paul had cut school yesterday and was still not home at 9pm, so Gracie had gone upstairs to see if a studying Susie knew of his whereabouts. Opening the door to her daughter’s room only to find Susie studying the naked anatomy of her boyfriend she’d snuck in. And as if that wasn’t enough to push Grace to her limits, later Paulie was delivered home by the bobbies with a warning for Grace to keep him away from his older friends who were known petty thieves. Grace finished cooking their breakfasts and slammed the plates of food down in front of her children.
Grace’s voice crackled, “You’re just about outa rope Paulie, this crap has to stop. You best be packing your bags and see if that drunken Gaelic waste of a father will take you in. Two of kind you are, useless, reckless amount to nothings.”
Susan went still, a single tear sliding down her cheek.
Paul shoved his chair back. “Fuck this. You’re no better than him. Got a job now and suddenly you’re sainted? My life’s ruined because of you and your loser boyfriends. Toss me see if I care, one of my boys il’ take me in.”
Susie looking down towards Paulie’s plate murmurs, “Paul come on, stop, please.”
Gracie’s eyes flashed with exhaustion and regret she would never voice. I’m drowning, she thought, and they’re the f’in anchor, no matter whose fault we all go to the bottom together.
She grabbed her coat. “Good luck with that plan, jacking tourists and sleeping on the streets or maybe a jail cot id’ suit ya. Like father, like son.”
Paulie rose and pushed his plate to the floor, red faced, screaming “At least I’ll be free of you.”
Susie was crying. Gracie stepped toward her son, in his face, screaming back, drops of spit flew from her mouth, “You want free… there’s the door, just be sure when you use it next, that either you leave for good with just the clothes on ya, takin nothin’ else I’ve paid for. OR, your ass is on-time in school today, this is the last time any coppers drag your truant ass to the door in the middle of the night. And just remember, they woulda locked you up if it wasn’t for my ‘loser’ cop boyfriend.”
Gracie leaves, the door slammed.
Paul boldly, mockingly upspeaking after her, “Yeah, have a good day handing out free pounds from the Crown! You’re so caring for everyone but your own.” Laughing loudly “Maybe she’ll get knocked off in the tube.”
Susie, visibly shook, whispered aloud, “Sometimes you really are as evil as she says. She does the best she can. Not perfect maybe, but…”
Paulie pivots and leans down into Susie’s face, “Yeah, yeah, sure, you ho’ around like her, she’d throw you out too, but you’re such the angel. No, I take that back you’re just a sneaky ‘C’.”
Susie leaning in closer, “At least I’m smart enough not to get picked up by the bobbies.”
Paulie backs away, picks up his toast from the floor and begins to eat it in Susie’s face “Yeah, cause you’d flash some skin and sob a tale, (gross exaggerated chewing) that poor me bit always gets you outa trouble.”
Susie leans away, brushes crumbs from his toast off her skirt, “PIG, Don’t you see she’s fallin’ apart, like kooky in the head, maybe she just needs meds again. You don’t know how bad off she was when you was born n’ ur dad left. Look, just chill a bit, get outa school with your cert, then do your own thing. Your misery ain’t all her fault.”
Paulie now bent down picking the broken plate and remnants of his breakfast, “Misery I get from you is though, she birthed your sorry ass and you’ve nagged at me my whole life.”
Susie messed his hair as she got up from the table; Paul smiled up at her. She opened the fridge. Pauli now softened in voice continues, “Look, even if she’s back on her meds her life’s a waste done nothing will do nothin’, useless clump of life, thats why I wanna break out get some quick funds and live some real shit before the misery takes over.”
Susie shuts fridge having looked hard but taken naught from it, “Yeah, party like she did at least you won’t get knocked up and saddled with two like us, you’ll just runaway like that sperm donor dad of yours.”
Paul rises and walks to sink with hands full of his mess from floor, “Least’ we know who mine is, (pause) Oh, Slam!”
Susan in an obviously exaggerated flippant tone, “F’u then. Just hurt anyone who gives a shit, go be with your ‘real’ friends, doped up, sitting in the tunnels holding up the walls, like the fools before you, maybe the tube would crumble if guys left. Least I’ll have something.”
Paul picked at his mess of food and shards of its plate, found clean scraps to eat, “Like you’re gonna whore your way into high society with that arts degree of yours, waiting to lay the right one who’ll take you on his tails. They’ll all sleep with you and dump ya just like her. Don’t you see…”
Susie still milled about the fridge, she sharply replies, “Enough, you should be so ashamed, the only people who ever care about you and you just piss on us.” Susie slammed the fridge having looked hard but taken naught from it, and exited the room. Paul continued chomping at his toast’s crust.
Later, Paul at sink still in pjs cleaned broken dish-ware, a near toilet is audibly flushed, Susan coat on and carrying her books and bags passed silently towards door.
Susan opened the door and headed through it.
Paulie turns to look at her, now sullen and subdued “Susie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it….”
Susan keeps walking, slamming door behind her. Paul is at sink now crying himself.
Minutes later, Paul dressed for school, in kitchen on phone. Boisterously chatting, “Nah, I can’t today, my Ma’s raggin’ on me, I gotta show up there, No man I ain’t a scared, I just can’t hurt her none no more. (pause) Yeah, yeah, I’m still up tonight, we’ll hit that shit hard.”
Paul, books in hand, on phone again. Formal tone, “Hey, it’s Paul Whelan, can I speak to me mum, Grace Whelan?”
At the SSA intake office—dim, crowded, buzzing—people in wait lines, a guard mans a gate to an area containing six battered desks with seated agents, Gracie sat at hers, distant. A disheveled client just left the chair aside her desk muttering. “More paper, more forms, these people just wan’ us to jump around for some crumbs, I get more pickin’ the trash behind number 10 Downing.” The guard lets in another client from the queue.
Her coworker leaned over, pointed phone, mouth piece covered with her hand, towards Grace. “Gracie, it’s your truant son, wanna take it?”
Gracie didn’t even look up. “No, I’ve had enough and look at the line here, tell him I’ll see him later.” (Thinking to herself: I can’t do this anymore. Hope I never see those kids again.)
A young woman, Jo, with an infant in her arms sat down in the still warm chair. Gracie rifled through the papers without meeting her eyes. “Everything looks complete. I’ll submit your package for review, they’ll check with your landlord, then try an’ run down you support records, verify the rest of your claim, you should hear back n’ four to six weeks. Next.”
Jo’s voice trembled. “But my rents due in two and the power shut-offs already been scheduled, what should I do I do? I’m not bring enough in and I’ve barely got nugh’ to feed her?”
Gracie shrugged, already waving the next client forward. “Try the pantries, love. We’ll do our best. I hear the Scot is doing some new single mothers aide program like Di’s—you’re better than most, least your package is complete. NEXT.” She tossed Jo’s file into the bin “Complete Apps for Review” and never thinks of her again. As she turns back from straightening the bin her next client, hands filled with documents takes their seat.
End of shift, Gracie and her co-workers are leaving through office hallway, each holding a stack of application packets, as they pass a large inter-office mail-bin, they toss their piles of application packets into the overflowing bin labeled “Complete Packets For Adjuster Review.”
Years unspooled. Jo sank into crushing depression. She sat in a clinic, clutching a prescription. “I can’t work or write anymore. I can barely care for my little girl. It feels like a doom spell.” Physician: “Take these and see your mood lifts. Let me know, I want to see you again in two months time.”
Jo worked third jobs, moved into grim temporary housing, and watched her dreams shrink to survival. Dropping her daughter off at night for a friend to care, Jo ashamed, embarrassed, “Thanks, so so much, I swear, it’ll only be for a few more weeks, That new position’s gonna come through.”
Her landlord watched her leave her apartment, Jo pled, “Please, just a few more weeks, That new position’s gonna come through.” Landlord looked away “Look honey I’m sure you’ll end up better some where else, I just can’t afford to keep ya here, if they found out you were in with no power, they’d pull my permits.”
Present day Drummohr, Gracie’s eyes vacant—except now she sees her purpose, something only she could see, a wrong only she could right. Her children were key. The Gracie of today to us is un-functional, trapped by a failing mind. In reality she is a recruit of the Demented League of Heroes cloaked in dementia. Gracie has been given the ability to time travel through her own life. Her power is limited to very small adjustments—micro adjustments of her behaviour.
Gracie is there again—1993—only this time she’ll choose differently.
Same crowded SSA office. Same coworker held the phone. “It’s your truant son, wanna take it?”
Gracie’s thought: Come on, pull yourself together, Grace. Be the mother. Be the adult. What’s the worst thing he could say now? She nodded her head yes. Coworker speaking into phone, “Paul it’s crazy here, hold on she’ll pick you up.” She pushed the hold button and cradled her phone.
Gracie took a deep breath, pressed the line button and picked up. Sucked in air, she was silent and listened for her son’s voice. Paul speaking nervously, “Mum are you there?” Gracie twirling phone cord around her index finger says softly, “Yeah Paul, I’m here, what’s going on?” Paul pacing kitchen floor twirling the phone wire around his finger, “Um um, I just wanted to say I’m sorry about last night… this mornin… I, I, just um…” Gracie interrupts, “Listen to me Paulie, I love you and always do, you and me just need to do better with each other. We can be anything if we choose too.” Paul stammering, “I’m just, I just ummm…”
Gracie speaks softly, “Angel boy don’t explain, please just get dressed and head to school.” Paulie stared out the kitchen door then looked down at himself, “I already am.” Gracie looked up at her next client Jo as she took her seat, baby in her arms, continued softly with Paulie, “That’s good, take some lunch, no stealing, eh?” Paul rummaged in the fridge, phone wedged between his head and shoulder, “Ok, (stammering again)… I love you Mom.” Gracie leaned forward to hangup phone, whispering “and I love my angel boy, my best gift” then dropped phone in its cradle. Gracie smiles, thinking to herself “my angel boy’s still there”.
Jo struggled to pull out her papers and then held them out to Gracie. Gracie looked up and truly saw Jo and her baby girl. God’s gifts, she thought, remembering her own babies. As she reached for Jo’s paperwork, Gracie said warmly, “That’s a beautiful wee one, rough patch, is it? I’ve been there myself—two no-show dads, depression that nearly swallowed me. But these little ones… they’re worth every storm.”
Jo’s eyes filled. “I’m trying so hard. (pauses, sniffs back impending cry), was that one of yours on the line?” Gracie, “Yeah, he’s in a spot o’ trouble, confusing times for a teen, but we’ll see it through together. You know, they’re always your babies, even when they grow, I guess I’ll see em’ that way til I die.” Jo coos at her girl to calm her, speaks tentatively, “I hope I can be strong enough to see it through, it’s all really overwhelming for me, one minute up the next down. I had it all together and then…” Gracie’s voice assuring, “Honey, it happens, look I was so scared back then, I’ve lived through some times—times I wished I wasn’t living—times so bad that I knew there’d be no way out.” Jo interrupts, “But you’re so calm with your son and in here with all the chaos, pressure and yelling, you seem to have such a great attitude…” Grace wryly, “Oh my dear, don’t be deceived, I’ve been on and off meds… but my little gifts were good training and the impetus that kept me fighting—when I longed so for the quietus.”
Obviously having held back her own emotions and fear, a braved faced Jo uttered, “I know if I can just get past this spot, I can manage, good days I see ahead for us.” Seemingly choreographed, the baby looked up at Jo wide eyed and loving, watched her every move and provided her own form of comfort to her mum. Gracie recognized the child’s unspoken effect on Jo, wondered to herself if this is God’s way of instilling strength in a mother? Aloud to Jo, “With the way he’s looking at you now, you’ve got no choice but to make a great life out of this love.” Jo, her eyes fixed to Gracie’s uttered, “I’m really trying…” in that moment on a very basic almost animal level their humanity connected.
Gracie ordered Jo’s papers, checked for proper documentation, paused to look up and said “Don’t be ashamed to lean on the system, when you need it. It’s slow for the most part, you just have to persist and follow through with all of its little demands for form after form, but it can work for you. Looks like you have everything here, I’ll submit your package for review, they’ll check with your landlord, then try an’ run down you support records, and verify the rest of your claim, you should hear back n’ four to six weeks.”
Jo’s face became crestfallen and fearful, excitedly, Jo stammers, “my rents due in two and the power shut-offs already been scheduled, what should I do? I’m not bring enough in and I’ve barely got any to feed her?” Gracie processed Jo’s file carefully, then whispered, “I’ll nudge the machine for you, love. Keep that angel safe and we’ll get you sorted.” Jo not completely assuaged took the cue and got up to leave. Baby held tight, she bent to gather her bag and looked again into Grace’s eyes, whispering “Thanks for your kindness, anything you can…” Gracie flashed back a knowing, assuring look and nod. Gracie’s voice raised and back to all business, “NEXT!” As Jo exited, Gracie takes her application package and placed it under her bin labeled “Complete Apps for Review” that was already stacked full with application folders on her desktop. Her next client took a seat with his papers, the machine rolled on.
At the end of the day, Gracie and her co-workers are leaving their area, each held stacks of applications they tossed into a large overflowing inter-office mail-bin. Gracie kept Jo’s under her arm and headed towards a stairwell while her co-workers walked towards the exit. Grace’s co-worker looks back and calls out, “Grace, come on where you goin’ pubs this way?” Gracie, already in the stairwell shouts “I’ll catch you in the morning, I gotta do a little magic.” Upstairs, Gracie entered the claims approval office, another bleak industrial style space, filled with desks, each stacked high with in progress applications. A lone adjuster and his lit desk lamp remained, Gracie righted herself for the flirt. Headed to the slender tweed suited man, whose foot taps echoed the flicker of the fluorescents above. When the man spoke his soft voice betrayed his stern, stoic outward appearance. “Grace what are you doing up here, haven’t see you out at the pub in weeks?”
Gracie did her best saucy saunter toward his desk, replying with her best innocent girl voice, “Well I was just seeking out my favourite adjuster…” Her friend the adjuster peered doubtfully above his glasses, with twinkle in his eye, exposes her motives, “com’on Grace we know, we know you’re hooked, I mean I like the looks, but what are really here for?” Gracie’s motive exposed, tried a surprised voice. “Well since you’re onto my tricks, let’s just cut to it, I need some of your magic. I’m feeling a real connection, a real need for help with this one young gal.” Gracie handed him Jo’s folder, he nudges his glasses back in place and read the jacket notes. Quizzically asks, “Sound’s like, look’s like any other, we’ve got hundreds sitting here, so?” Gracie sat on the edge of his desk, with a now serious tone, “I see myself in her, she’s really on the edge of falling hard, I just wanna see that the Crown is there for her, you know….”
With softened eyes and voice, he replied, “God, you know I’m soft for your stories. I’ll take out my spell book when I start her in the morning.” Gracie walked toward the door, “Always my magician, thanks luv.” The adjuster smiles, knowing he’s been played for a good cause.
Months pass, Jo’s life—financially stabilized by her new assistance from SSA. And the Crown’s system worked. Jo leans into all the help, at a clinic checkup she’s been receiving anti-depressant meds. Speaking with the doctor, “I’ve gotta say, the meds are working well enough that I’m working, writing and mothering without fear, it’s a spell I can live with.” Her doctor genuinely pleased, “Pharma magic, eh? Lets see you again in another four months.”
Secretarial jobs worked, she cared for her child and continued crafting the seminal Philosopher’s Stone. Jo Rowling is a fixture in the downtown settings of her Edinburgh neighborhood. She oft sat with her notepads, daughter pram cradled at her side. One day while writing in a cafe she’s approached by an elderly lady. She bent over the pram and grinned cheerfully “Oh Jo, she’s getting bigger by the day, and always so happy.” She cooed at baby and quizzed Jo, “what you pennin’ bout’ t’day?” Jo looked up from her notes, pen to her mouth, tentative, “Something to change her world, if I have my way.”
A comfortable flat in a housing unit was Jo Rowling’s stable home. SS Assistance provided her firm foundation to work, love, mother and begin to change our world.
Gracie lays in her Drummohr bed no longer agitated or as the professionals say “settled”. But she can now vividly see the effects of her small life choices, as an agent of the Demented a split second moves the world. Without her correction to the pull in time’s fabric we see Jo Rowling today living comfortably as a blog writer in a modest cottage. She authors and publishes her own fantasy blog. With the pulled thread back in place, Gracie’s mission yields us a world with Harry Potter, a worthy philanthropist and visionary in Jo Rowling. No further explanation needed, only thanks.
