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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.

Thiram Izu

Thiram Izu – The Bookish Tinkerer with Tired Eyes

Explicit Description

• Age: Mid-30s

• Heritage: Half-Japanese, half-Colombian

• Face: Calm but slightly worn—reflecting quiet resilience and perceptiveness.

• Hair: Short, tousled dark hair

• Eyes: Observant, introspective; wears round black-framed glasses

• Clothing (standard look):

  • Olive-green utilitarian overshirt or field jacket

  • Neutral-toned T-shirt beneath

  • Crossbody strap (for a toolkit or device bag)

  • Simple belt, jeans—functional, not stylish

• Technology: Regularly uses a homemade device, possibly a patchwork blend of analog and AI circuitry.

• Name Association: Jokes about being named after a fungicide (Thiram), referencing “brothers” Malathion and Glyphosate.

Inferred Personality & Manner

• Temperament: Steady but simmering—he tries to be the voice of reason, but often ends up exasperated or ignored.

• Mindset: Driven by a need for internal logic and external systems—he’s a fixer, not a dreamer (yet paradoxically surrounded by dreamers).

• Social Role: The least performative of the group. He’s neither aloof nor flamboyant, but remains essential—a grounded presence.

• Habits:

  • Zones out under stress or when overstimulated by dream-logic.

  • Blinks repeatedly to test for lucid dream states.

  • Carries small parts or tools in pockets—likely fidgets with springs or wires during conversations.

• Dialogue Style: Deadpan, dry, occasionally mutters tech references or sarcastic analogies.

• Emotional Core: Possibly a romantic or idealist in denial—hidden under his annoyance and muttered diagnostics.

Function in the Group

• Navigator of Reality – He’s the one most likely to point out when the laws of physics are breaking… and then sigh and fix it.

• Connector of Worlds – Bridges raw tech with dream-invasion mechanisms, perhaps more than he realizes.

• Moral Compass (reluctantly) – Might object to sabotage-for-sabotage’s-sake; he values intent.

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.

Amy & Carob

☕ Amy Kawanhouse

Directly Stated Visual Traits:

• Hair: Long, light brown

• Eyes: Hazel, often sweaty or affected by heat/rain

• Clothing: Old grey sweatshirt with pushed-up sleeves

• Body: Short and thin, with shapely legs in denim

• Style impression: Understated and practical, slightly tomboyish, no-frills but with a hint of self-aware physicality

Inferred From Behavior:

• Functional but stylish in a low-maintenance way.

• Comfortable with being dirty or goat-adjacent.

• Probably ties her hair back when annoyed.

☕ Carob Latte

Directly Stated Visual Traits:

• Height: Tall (Amy refers to her as “looming”)

• Hair: Frizzled—possibly curly or electrified, chaotic in texture

• General Look: Disheveled but composed; possibly wears layered or unusual clothing (fitting her dreamy reversal quirks)

Inferred From Behavior:

• Movements are languid or deliberately unhurried.

• Likely wears things with big pockets or flowing elements—goat-compatible.

• There’s an aesthetic at play: eccentric wilderness mystic or mad cartographer.

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.

Chico noticed the inching bush from his hidden vantage point behind the tulip tree. For a moment he wished he wasn’t quite so solitary, and regretted that there was nobody to say look at that bush inching along over there to.

“Sssh!” whispered Carob, holding a hand up to silence Amy. “Did you hear that? Listen! There it is again!”

“Sounds like someone spitting behind that tulip tree.  But look over there!” Amy cried, “I never saw such a thing, that bush is moving.”

“And it’s heading towards the tulip tree spitter,” Carob replied grimly. “This could get serious.”

Carob didn’t know what to say — which gave her a tendency to ramble.

Was everyone avoiding Amy?

Was it because she was dressed as a stout little lady?

Carob cleared her throat. “Well, Amy, you look… most interesting today.”

“I have to agree,” replied Amy, unperturbed. “Now — what is this about you and Ricardo?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you,” Carob said, shaking her head. “Partly because it’s top secret, and partly because…”
She tapped her temple and nodded to herself — definitely a few times more than necessary. “I’m still working it out.”

“But you know him?” Amy persisted. “How do you know him?”

Carob knew Amy could be relentless.

“Look over there!” she shouted, pointing vaguely.

Amy didn’t even turn her head. She gazed up at Carob with a long-suffering stare. “Carob?”

Carob scrunched up her face. “Okay,” she said eventually. “I think the others are avoiding you. Me. Us. Both of us.”

She took a deep breath. “Thiram doesn’t know where we are or what we’re doing here — and he’s not good with that, bless. We don’t know where on earth Chico is — but we do know he spits, which, quite frankly, is uncouth.”

She brightened suddenly. “But one thing I do know — here, amid the coffee beans and the lucid dreamers, there is a story to be told.”

Amy rolled her eyes. “I’ve noticed you still haven’t told me how you know Ricardo.”

It was rather odd — but neither of them noticed the bush inching closer.

Trailing suspect but nothing to report yet, messaged Ricardo.

He knew Miss Bossy Pants wouldn’t be happy.

Amy supposed everyone was blaming her, for what she couldn’t say, but they had clearly been avoiding her. There was plenty of coffee here anyway, even if the rest of the world was suffering. Don’t even think it, she told herself sternly. We don’t want people flocking here in droves once they realise.

So, do I want people or not? she asked herself. One minute I’m wondering where everyone is, and then next minute I’m wanting everyone to stay away.

“You on the spectrum too, are you?” asked Carob, reading her mind.  “It’s ok,” she added, seeing the look of alarm cross Amy’s face, “Your secret’s safe with me. I mean about being on the spectrum. But be careful, they’re rounding people like us up and sending them to a correctional facility.  We’re quite lucky to be here, out of the way.”

“Have you been avoiding me?” Amy asked, which was more immediately concerning than the concentration camps.  “Because I’ve been here all alone for ages, nothing to do but read my book,  draw in my sketch pad, and work on my needlepoint cushion covers. And where are the others? And don’t read my mind, it’s so rude.”

“Needlepoint cushion covers? Are you serious?” Carob was avoiding the questions, but was genuinely curious about the cushion covers.

Amy blushed.  “No, I made that up. In fact, I don’t know what made me say that. I haven’t started any sketching either, but I have thought about starting sketching. And I’ve been reading. It’s an old Liz Tattler; the old ones were the best. Real old school Lizzie Tattie, if you know what I mean. Risque romps with potting sheds and stuff.  None of that ghastly sci fi she started writing recently.”

“Which one?” Carob asked, and laughed when Amy held it up.  “I read that years ago, T’Eggy Gets a Good Rogering, can I borrow it after you? God knows we could all do with a laugh.”

“How do you know the others need a good laugh?” Amy asked, peering at Carob with an attentive squint in order to catch any clues. “You’ve seen then, then?”

Carob smiled sadly and replied, “Only by remote viewing them.”

Amy asked where they had been and what they were doing when they were viewed remotely. Has she been remote viewing me? What if they ask her if she’s been remote viewing me, and she tells them?  “Oh never mind,” Amy said quickly, “No need to answer that.”

Carob snorted, and what a strangely welcome sound it was. “I didn’t really remote view them, I made  that up.  It never works if I try to spy on people. Fat lot of good it is really, it never works when I really really need to see  something. Or maybe it works, but I never believe it properly until later when I find out it was right.”

“Yeah,” Amy said, “It’s fun though, I haven’t done it in ages.”

“You should, it would give you something to do when everyone’s avoiding you.”

Amy wondered afterwards if she should have said “Why is it always my fault” and hoped nobody would think el gran apagón was her fault too.  Another one of the issues with typecasting too soon.

The rumours and hoaxes were rife even before the electricity came back on.  The crisis of the lack of coffee beans was coming to a head: morning riots were breaking out in the places most affected by the shortage. As soon as the blackouts started, improvised statistics and numbers were cobbled together into snappy psychological colour combination images and plastered everywhere suggesting that the lack of electricity was saving an incomprehensible number of cups of coffee per day, but without causing any coffee related social disorder events.

Amy had heard that el gran apagón was foretold to occur when the pope died, that it was extraterrestrials, that it was el naranjo and his sidekick effin muck, and all manner of things, but the concerns with the coffee shortage happening at the same time as the blackouts were manifold.

The population was looking for scapegoats. Oh dear god, what did I say that for.

“Well, I’ll give you a point for that, Thiram,” Amy said, wondering, not for the first time, about his unusual name. Was it a play on the word theorem? I must ask him about it.  “But if Florida doesn’t exist anymore, which I am willing to admit it does not, then what is it doing on that map?”

“What was the population of Florida before it was submerged? Twenty four million or so?” asked Chico, appearing from behind a trumpet tree. “That’s 24 million less people drinking coffee, anyway, 144 million cups saved per day (assuming they drank 6 cups per day), which is a whopping 54.5 billion cups a year.”

“Chico! How long have you been hiding behind that trumpet tree?” asked Amy, but Chico ignored her.  Nettled, Amy continued, “That would be true if all the people in Florida were submerged along with the land, but most of them were resettled in Alabama.  There was plenty of room in Alabama, because the population of Alabama was relocated.”

“Yes but the people of Alabama were relocated to a holding camp in Rwanda, and they’re not allowed any coffee,” replied Chico crossly, making it up on the spot.

“Yeah I heard about that,” said Carob, which made Chico wonder if he had actually made it up on the spot, or perhaps he’d heard it somewhere too.

“I’m going back behind the trumpet tree,” announced Chico, flouncing off in high dudgeon.

“Now look what you’ve done!” exclaimed Carob.

“Why is it always my fault?” Amy was exasperated.

“Maybe because it usually is,” Carob replied, “But not to worry, at least we know where to find Chico now.”

“Look, don’t get upset, ok?” Amy felt she had to nip this in the bud.  “There’s something glaringly wrong with the map.  I mean, yes, it does make a nice picture. A very nice picture,” she added, and then stopped.  Does it really matter? she asked herself. Am I always causing trouble?

Amy sighed. Would life be easier for everyone if she stopped pointing things out and just went along with things?  Was there any stopping it anyway? It’s like a runaway train.

“You were saying?” Ricardo asked.

“Pray, continue,” added Carob with a mischeivous gleam in her eye.  She knew where this was leading.

“Who is he?” Amy whispered to Carob. “Well never mind that now, you can tell me later.”

Amy cleared her throat and faced Ricardo (noting that he was dark complexioned and and of medium height and wiry build, dressed  in a crumpled off white linen suit and a battered Panama hat, and likely to be of Latino heritage)  noticing out of the corner of her eye a smirk on Thiram’s face who was leaning against a tree with his arms folded, looking as if he might start whistling Yankee Doodle any moment.

“According to your map, my good man, nice map that it is, in fact it’s so nice one could make a flag out of it, the colours are great and….”   Amy realised she was waffling.  She cleared her throat and braced her shoulders, glaring at Carob over her shoulder who had started to titter.

Speak your mind even if your voice shakes, and keep the waffling to a minimum.

“My dear Ricardo,” Amy began again, pushing her long light brown hair out of her sweaty hazel eyes, and pushing the sleeves of her old grey sweatshirt up over her elbows and glancing down at her short thin but shapely denim clad legs. “My dear man, as you can see I’m a slightly underweight middle aged woman eminently capable of trudging up and down coffee growing mountains, with a particular flair for maps, and this map of yours begs a few questions.”

“Coffee beans don’t grow in Florida,” Carob interjected, in an attempt to move the discourse along.

“Nor in Morocco,” added Amy quickly, shooting a grateful glance at Carob.

“So, what are we even doing here?” asked Carob. She tilted her head to look down at Amy. “You said we had to protect the coffee…?”

“From the rain,” said Amy. She folded her arms and stood up as tall as she could — which, to be fair, wasn’t very tall.

“Could be the least of our worries,” muttered Thiram, who had been checking his messages. “AI’s having an emotional meltdown and the plantation irrigation system’s gone haywire.”

He frowned at his screen. “And if that’s not enough, a group of rogue Lucid Dreamers have started sleep-parachuting onto the plantation and creating havoc.”

“Wow,” said Carob. She pulled up the hood of her coat, then tugged it forward until it nearly covered her eyes. “That’s a lot.”

“Nice dog,” said Chico casting an appreciative eye over the beige and white coloured Breton Spaniel.

“His name’s Cappuccino,” a mans voice murmured, but Chico barely glanced at him.

“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.