Search Results for 'character'

“You’ll never guess what the gazebo landed on! The Lost City of Zed!” Breathlessly, Amy told her father the exciting news of Chico’s successful mission.

“Saddle my horse, Crumpet, we must go at once. The Gazeba must stay there, and we go there for the character building, ” Sir Humphrey replied, struggling to his feet.  “Tell everyone to pack.”

“Padre, calm yourself, there’s no rush. Did you just say Gazeba?”

“Of course I said Gazeba, don’t be dense, girl,” Humphrey said irritably, “Your mother was dense.”

I don’t even want to know.  Amy shuddered, and went outside to look for Kit.

“Ricardo!” Amy said with a raised eyebrow and a note of surprise in her voice. “All I’ve ever seen you do so far is lurk in bushes sending secret messages. But I admire your bold assertiveness, I can see you are on a sudden quest to discover your true potential.”   Amy smiled encouragingingly and patted his shoulder.  “The sooner we get the gazebo back the better, The Padre is recovering and anxious to host The Character Building Party.”

His chest swelling with pride, Ricardo replied that he was very grateful for her support and attention, and would do his best to restore both the gazebo and his independence, but that he was in a quandary about the conflict of interests between his role in the story, and his value fulfilment as a developing character.

“Yeah that’s a tough one,” Amy said, “But it’s a good question to ask at the party in the gazebo. Hurry and get the gazebo back!”

Ricardo noticed, with growing unease, that he hadn’t been included in recent events.
Had he been written out? Or worse, had he written himself out?

New characters were arriving constantly, but he couldn’t make head nor tail of most of them — especially with their ever-changing names.

He contemplated slinking back behind the bush … but this tree business, all the crouching and lurking, was getting embarrassing.

For goodness’ sake, Ricardo, he admonished himself, stop being so pathetic.

It wasn’t until the words echoed back at him that he realised, with horror, his internal voice now sounded exactly like Miss Bossy Pants.

He frantically searched for a different voice.

It’s a poor workman blames his tools, Ricardo. Miss Herbert, Primary School. Her long chin and pursed lips hovering above his scribbled homework.

Really, Ricardo. A journalist? Is that what you want to be? His father’s voice, dripping with disdain.

Any hope for a comment, Ricardo? Miss Bossy Pants again, eyes rolling.

Ricardo sighed. Then — brainwave! If he could be the one to return the gazebo, maybe they’d write him back in

Or … he stood up tall and squared his shoulders … he would jolly well write himself back in!

He’d have his work cut out to beat Chico, though, with the elaborate triple-reverse-double-flip of the worry beads and all that purposeful striding. One had to admit, the man had momentum when he made the effort. It was uncharitable, he knew, but Ricardo decided he preferred Chico when he was spitting.

Amy rushed over to Kit when she saw what had happened and said, “Kit, give me your hat!”

Tentatively Kit put his hand on his head and sure enough he felt a hat upon it. Carefully he removed it and wonderingly gazed at the cowboy hat.  He loved it! Just looking at the hat was already giving him ideas for his character,  newly baked memories were starting to slide in like a tray of chocolate chip cookies on a baking sheet, pulled out of the oven at the perfect golden melting moment.

But Amy wants it! I can’t say no to her, but I want to keep it. It’s my first hat! Kit was close to tears.

“Oh poppet,” Amy said kindly when she noticed his face.  Giving him a quick hug she explained.   “I only want to borrow it, just to keep the Padre happy. He keeps asking where his hat is.  I’ll bring it back as soon as we’ve settled him back at home.”

The releif was immense, and he graciously surrendered the hat to Aunt Amy. “Did you call me Poppet?” he asked. “Because Thiram just called me Trevor.”

“To me, you’ll always be Kit,” Amy said as she rushed back to her father. “See you later, Poppet!” she called over her shoulder.

“What does that mean?” asked Kit, but Amy had gone.

“Buns and tarts!” called a street vendor from the street outside the Gazebar.  “Freshly baked Memory Pies! Nostalgia Rolls! Selling like Hot Cakes! Come and get ’em before they run out!”

Chico realised he’d hardly eaten a thing since becoming a new character.  Maybe this is how character building works.

“I’ll take one of each,” Chico said to the smiling round faced vendor. I need to stock up on memories.

“Are they all for you, sir?” the vendor asked.  Chico couldn’t help thinking he looked like a frog.  Nodding, Chico said, “Yeah, I’m hungry for a past.”

“We normally suggest just one at a time,” the frog said (for he had indeed turned into a frog), “But you look like a man with a capacity for multiple memories.  Are you with friends?”

“Er, yeah, yes I’m with friends,” Chico replied.  Are the other new characters my friends?  “Yes, of course, I have lots of friends.”  He didn’t want the frog vendor to think he was friendless.

“Then we suggest you share each cake with the friends you want to share the memory with.”

“Oh right. But how do I know what the memory is before I eat  the cake?”

“Let me ask you this,” said the frog with a big smile, “Do real people choose who to share their memories with? Or know in advance what the memories will be?”

“How the hell would I know!” Chico said, roughly grabbing the paper bag of buns. “I’m new here!”

Chico poured grenadine into an ornate art nouveau glass filled with ginger ale. He hesitated, eying the tin of chicory powder. After a moment of deliberation, he sprinkled a dash into the mix, then added the maraschino cherry.

“I’m not sure Ivar the Boneless, chief of the Draugaskald, will appreciate that twist on his Shirley Temple,” said Godrick. “He may be called Boneless, but he’s got an iron grip and a terrible temper when he’s parched.”

Chico almost dropped the glass. Muttering a quick prayer to the virgin cocktail goddess, he steadied his hand. Amy wouldn’t have appreciated him breaking her freshly conjured aunt Agatha Twothface’s crystal glasses service.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Chico a tad too quickly. “Do I know you?”

“I’m usually the one making the drinks,” said Godrick. “I served you your first americano when you popped into existence. Chico, right?”

“Oh! Yes. Right. You’re the bartender,” Chico said. He fidgeted. Small talks had always made him feel like a badly tuned Quena flute.

“I am,” said Godrick with a wink. “And if you want a tip? Boneless may forgive you the chicory if you make his cocktail dirty.”

Chico pause, considered, then reached down, grabbed a pinch of dust from the gazebo floor, and sprinkled it on the Temple, like cocoa on a cappuccino foam. He’d worked at Stardust for years before appearing here, after all. When he looked up, Godrick was chuckling.

“Ok!” Godrick said. “Now, add some vodka. I think I’ll take it to Ivar myself.”

“Oh! Right.” Chico nodded, grabbed the vodka bottle and poured in a modest shot and placed it back on the table.

Godrick titled his head. “Looks like your poney wants a sip too.”

For a moment, Chico blinked in confusion at the black stuffed poney standing nearby. Then freshly baked memories flooded in.

Right, the poney’s name was Tyrone.

It had been a broken toy that someone had tossed in the street. Amy had insisted Chico take it home. “It needs saving,” she said. “And you need the company.”

At first, Chico didn’t know what to do with it. He ended up replacing some of the missing stuffing with dried chicory leaves.

The next morning, Tyrone was born and trotting around the apartment. All he ever wanted was strong alcohol.

Chico had a strange thought, scrolling across the teleprompter in his mind.

Is that how character building works?

Another one!  A random distant memory wafted into Amy’s mind.  Uncle Jack always used to say GATZ e bo.  Amy could picture his smile when he said it, and how his wife always smiled back at him and chuckled. Amy wondered if she’d even known the story behind that or if it had always been a private joke between them.

“What’s been going on with my gazebo?” Amy’s father rushed into the scene. So that’s what he looks like. Amy couldn’t take her eyes off him, until Carob elbowed her in the neck.

“Sorry, I meant to elbow you in the ribs, but I’m so tall,” Carob said pointlessly, in an attempt to stop Amy staring at her father as if she’d never seen him before.

Thiram started to explain the situation with the gazebo to Amy’s father, after first introducing him to Kit, the new arrival.  “Humphrey, meet Kit, our new LBGYEQCXOJMFKHHVZ story character. Kit, this is Amy’s father who we sometimes refer to as The Padre.”

“Pleased to meet you, ” Kit said politely, quaking a little at the stern glare from the old man. What on earth is he wearing?  A tweed suit and a deerstalker, in this heat!  How do I know that’s what they’re called?  Kit wondered, quaking a little more at the strangeness of it all.

“Never mind all that now!” Humphrey interrupted Thiram’s explanation.

Still as rude as ever! Amy thought.

“I’ve too much to think about, but I’ll tell you this: I’ve planned a character building meeting in the gazebo, and you are all invited. As a matter of fact,” Humphrey continued, “You are all obliged to attend.  If you choose not to ~ well, you know what happened last time!”

“What happened last time?” asked Carob, leaning forward in anticipation of an elucidating response, but Humphrey merely glared at her.

Amy sniggered, and Humphrey shot her a lopsided smile.  “YOU know what happened in Jack’s GATZ e bo, don’t you, my girl?”

Where were those random memories when you wanted them? Amy had no idea what he was talking about.

“Who else is invited, Humph? asked Chico, resisting the urge to spit.

“My good man,” Humphrey said with a withering look. “Sir Humphrey’s the name to you.”

Sir? what’s he on about now?  wondered Amy.  Does that make me a Lady?

“Who else is invited, Padre?” Amy echoed.

Humphrey pulled a scroll tied with a purple ribbon out of his waistcoat pocket and unfurled it.    Clearing his throat importantly, he read the list to all assembled.

Juan and Dolores Valdez.
Godric, the Swedish barman
Malathion and Glyphosate, Thiram’s triplet brothers.  Mal and Glyph for short.
Liz Tattler
Miss Bossy Pants
Goat Horned Draugaskald

“Did I forget anyone?” Humphrey asked, peering over his spectacles as he looked at each of the characters.  “You lot,” he said, “Amy, Carob, Thiram, Chico, Kit and Ricardo: you will be expected to play hosts, so you might want to start thinking about refreshments. And not,” he said with a strong authoritarian air, “Not just coffee!  A good range of beverages. And snacks.”

Thiram, leaning against a tree, started whistling the theme tune to Gone With The Wind. Tossing an irritated glance in his direction, Carob roughly gathered up her mass of frizzy curls and tethered it all in a tight pony tail.  I still don’t know what happened before, she fumed silently.  The latest developments where making her nervous. Would they find out her secret?

“You guys,” called Chico, who had wandered over to the gazebo. “It’s full of ants.”

Disgruntled and bored with the fruitless wait for the other characters to reveal more of themselves, Amy started staying in her room all day reading books, glad that she’d had an urge to grab a bag full of used paperbacks from a chance encounter with a street vendor in Bogota.

A strange book about peculiar children lingered in her mind, and mingled  somehow with the vestiges of the mental images of the writhing Uriah in the book Amy had read prior to this one.

Aunt Amy?  a childs voice came unbidden to Amys ear.  Well, why not? Amy thought, Some peculiar children is what the story needs. Nephews and neices though, no actual children, god forbid. 

“Aunt Amy!”  A gentle knocking sounded on the bedroom door.  “Are you in there, Aunt Amy?”

“Is that at neice or nephew at my actual door? Already?” Amy cried in amazement.

“Can I come in, please?” the little voice sounded close to tears.  Amy bounded off the bed to unloock leaving that right there the door to let the little instant ramen rellie in.

The little human creature appeared to be ten years old or so, as near as Amy could tell, with a rather androgenous look: a grown out short haircut in a nondescript dark colour, thin gangling limbs robed in neutral shapelessness, and a pale pinched face.

“I’ve never done this before, can you help me?” the child said.

“Never been a story character before, eh?” Amy said kindly. “Do you know your name? Not to worry if you don’t!” she added quickly, seeing the child’s look of alarm. “No?  Well then you can choose what ever you like!”

The child promptly burst into tears, and Amy wanted to kick herself for being such a tactless blundering fool.  God knows it wasn’t that easy to choose, even when you knew the choice was yours.

Amy wanted to ask the child if it was a boy or a girl, but hesitated, and decided against it. I’ll have to give it a name though, I can’t keep calling it the child.

“Would you mind very much if I called you Kit, for now?” asked Amy.

“Thanks, Aunt Amy,” Kit said with a tear streaked smile. “Kit’s fine.”

Feeling somewhat disgruntled at revealing so much of her raw new floundering character and yet learning so very little about the mysterious Thiram, Amy undertook a little side project and attempted to find out who THira I think I’ll leave that typo there  was by the conventional means of a simple search.

There were a number of exciting possibilities:

Thiram, directeur de Gelec Energy, gère avec sérénité la “ruée” sur ses groupes électrogènes…

Thiram, developer and PSC member of many OsGeo projects: OpenLayers; GeoExt….

Thiram,  Director of the Systems Engineering Division at the Canadian Nuclear….

Thiram, Actor: Origami. Known for Origami (2017), The Snip (2024) and Catharsis (2011).

Thiram, Managing Director, Kidou, tel. +33 & 73 %9 9$ 41, e-mail e.lmroine @ cosmoledo. comachamelean

So many likely possibilities, but what was the connection to port?

Where did that come from? Amy wondered. The random memories, if that’s what they were, were coming more frequently.  Suddenly, out of nowhere and with no discernable correlation to the present moment in the life of the newly hatched character, a sudden mirage in her minds eye appeared, enticing and utterly fascinating.

I’m just a story character with no back story, where are these memories coming from?

“You should see some of the memories I’m starting to see, and I’m even less developed as a character than you are,” Chico said, manfully resisting the urge to spit. He didn’t want to be a spitting character, not all the time, anyway.

Amy was startled. I didn’t say that out loud. Did I say it out loud?

“Confusing at times, isn’t it?” Chico said kindly.

Carob wrinkled her nose in distaste and languidly remarked, “Amy, that goaty odour seems to be emanating from your clothing. Does it perchance require laundering?”

Chico laughed loudly, spitting equally audibly. “Hi,” he said, “The name’s Chico,” emerging from behind the tulip tree.

Carob winced at the spitting, and Amy writhed a little at being humiliated in front of the man. They both ignored him, and he regretted not staying hidden.

“I’ve just pegged out two loads of washing, for your information, not that it will dry in this rain,” Amy said, quickly tying her hair back in annoyance. Does this move the story forward? she wondered. Why do I have a smelly character anyway? I’m sweaty, goaty and insecure, how did it happen?

“Never mind that anyway, have you seen what’s on todays news?” Carob asked, feeling sorry for making Amy uncomfortable.

“I have,” remarked Chico, with a hopeful expression, but the women ignored him.

Chico Ray

Chico Ray

Directly Stated Visual and Behavioral Details:

• Introduces himself casually: “Name’s Chico,” with no clear past, suggesting a self-aware or recently-written character.

• Chews betel leaves, staining his teeth red, which gives him a slightly unsettling or feral appearance.

• Spits on the floor, even in a freshly cleaned café—suggesting poor manners, or possibly defiance.

• Appears from behind a trumpet tree, implying he lurks or emerges unpredictably.

• Fabricates plausible-sounding geo-political nonsense (e.g., the coffee restrictions in Rwanda), then second-guesses whether it was fiction or memory.

Inferred Traits:

• A sharp smile made more vivid by betel staining.

• Likely wears earth-toned clothes, possibly tropical—evoking Southeast Asian or Central American flavors.

• Comes off as a blend of rogue mystic and unreliable narrator, leaning toward surreal trickster.

• Psychological ambiguity—he doubts his own origins, possibly a hallucination, dream being, or quantum hitchhiker.

What Remains Unclear:

• Precise age or background.

• His affiliations or loyalties—he doesn’t seem clearly aligned with the Bandits or Lucid Dreamers, but hovers provocatively at the edges.

Key Themes and Narrative Elements

Metafiction & Self-Reference: Characters frequently comment on their own construction, roles, and how being written (or observed) defines their reality. Amy especially embodies this.

Lucid Dreaming & Dream Logic: The boundary between reality and dream is porous. Lucid Dreamers are parachuting onto plantations, and Carob dreams in reverse. Lucid Dreamers are adverse to Coffee Plantations as they keep the World awake.

Coffee as Sacred Commodity: The coffee plantation is central to the story’s stakes. It’s under threat from climate (rain), AI malfunctions, and rogue dreamers. This plays comically on global commodity anxiety.

Technology Satire & AI Sentience: Emotional AI, “Silly Intelligence” devices, and exasperation with modern tech hint at mild technophobia or skepticism. All fueled by hot caffeinated piece of news.

Fictionality vs. Reality: Juan and Dolores embody this—grappling with what it means to be real. Dolores vanishes when no one looks—existence contingent on observation.

Rain & Weather as Mood Symbol: The rain is persistent—setting a tone of gentle absurdity and tension, while also providing plot catalyst.

To Whom It May Concern

I am the new character called Amy, and my physical characteristics, which once bestowed are largely irreversible, are in the hands of impetuous maniacs. In the unseemly headlong rush, dangers abound. 

Let it be known that I the character called Amy, given the opportunity to choose, hereby select a height considerably less imposing than Carob.

Amy excused herself and went off to find a lavatory.  She didn’t actually need to go, after all she had only just popped into existence and hadn’t been offered a drink yet. But she did want to find a mirror to see what basic character characteristics she had had bestowed upon her when the story character gods had been assigning new players. She had to act fast too, before some other new story character might see her and describe her to the readers before she had even seen her self herself.

Amy was quite glad to not have to learn new pronouns at this juncture.

“Sorry I’m late,” said Carob as she crouched down to fuss over Fanella. “I have excuses, but they’re not interesting. I’m feeling a little underdeveloped as a character, so I’m not sure what to say yet.”

“That’s okay,” said Amy. “Just remember … if you don’t tell us who you are early on…” She squinted and glanced around suspiciously. “Others will create you.”

“I’d rather just slowly percolate.” Carob screwed up her face. “Get it? Percolate?”

She stood up and slapped a hand to her head as Amy rolled her eyes. “Sorry … ” She patted her head curiously. “Oh wait—do I have curls?”

“I’d say more like frizzes than curls,” answered Amy.

Thiram nodded. “Totally frizzled.”

“Cool … must be the damp weather,” said Carob. She brushed a twig from her coat. The coat was blue-green and only reached her thighs. Many things were too small when you were six foot two.

“Oh—and I’ve been lucid dreaming in reverse,” she added. “Last night I watched myself un-make and un-drink a cup of coffee.” She gave a quick snort-laugh. “Weirdo”.

“Was it raining in the dream?” asked Thiram.

Carob frowned. “Probably… You know how in scary movies they always leave the curtains open, like they want the bad guys to see in? It felt like that.” She shuddered and then smiled brightly. “Anyway, just a dream. Also, I bumped into your father, Amy. He said to tell you: Remember what happened last time.”

She regarded Amy intently. “What did happen last time?”

“He worries too much,” said Amy, waving a hand dismissively. “Also, I didn’t even write that in, so how should I know?” She looked out toward the trees. “Where’s Chico?”

To Whom It May Concern

I know you’re writing stories and making things up about me, and I intend to set the record straight before my character goes horribly awry. I am a character appeared from nowhere, from a reckless and inebriated momentary random insistence on a new plaything, and new toy, and new story.  But let me tell you this: I am born and I exist and this is who I am.

I find my name is Amy; it will do.  I neither find an affinity to it, nor an objection. It sounds English, and thus, familiar. I feel English, and so I am. I am a character, not a writer, but I exist; I am Amy.

“Juan, was it wise to speak to that man?” Dolores asked her husband.  “The cat’s out of the bag now, when Chico tells his friends…”

“Trust me, Dolores,” Juan Valdez implored, “What else can we do? We need their help.”

“But you’ve been fictional for so long, Juan. Nobody knew you were real. Until now.”

“You worry too much! It’s hardly going to make headlines on Focks News, is it, and even if it did, nobody believes anything anymore.  We can just spread a rumour that it was made up by one of those artifical story things.”

“But he took a photo of you!”

“Dolores,” Juan said with exaggerated patience, “Nobody believes photos any more either. I’m telling you, they make fakes these days and nobody can tell.  Trust me,” he repeated, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“So we’ll still be fictional, Juan?” Dolores asked in an uncertain tone. “Because I’m not ready to be a real character yet, it seems so….so time consuming, to be real every day, all day… doing all those things every day that real people do…”

“No, no, not at all!  You only have to play the part when someone’s looking!”

“I hope you’re right. Too many things changing all at once, if you ask me.” And with that Dolores vanished, as nobody was looking at her.

“I would like to introduce a new character,” announced Finnley. “Miss Mossy Trotter, the secret plotter. The messy missy Mossy Trotter, the blotter spotter. The miss take, the moss stake, the mass flake, the mess cake, the hotter jotter and mixed plate potter knotter.”

“By all means, Finnley,” replied Liz in her usual congenial fashion, “Have at it.”

“There once was a missy called Mossy,

And everyone said she was bossy,

She wrote stories in dust,

With a passionate thrust,

And published in covers so glossy.”