Tag: character

Authors, critics and experts on writing have identified various models for the creation of characters. One particular model offers four ways to create a character: purely from the imagination (the “ideal” character); by the author basing the character on themselves; by the author basing the character on someone they know (or have observed); or by a mixture of the above three methods.  The purpose of this short piece is to introduce a new character who has been created using one of the above methods.  In my case, this is a mixed character, but based on a number of people I have known.

Louise stepped out of the shower and grabbed a clean towel from the rail. She placed it over her head and began to dry her long dark hair as she walked through to the bedroom. Her hair had always been one of her most striking features and even now, as she entered her fifth decade, it was still rich, full and long enough to reach her waist. Of course, the deep, almost raven black colour was now streaked with the occasional stripe of silver but the overall effect was even more eye-catching than the long dark mane of her youth. Not that she thought of it in those terms. She had never been afflicted with the curse of vanity and was happy to grow old gracefully, taking the years as they came. Secure in her knowledge of who she was and what she wished from life, she had no need for insecurities or self-deceptions.

The bedroom was warm and she stood in front of a full-length mirror for several minutes. Taller than average, her figure was slim but with pleasing curves at her breasts and hips. Had she put on a little weight? Perhaps, but her stomach was still smooth and, with her long, smoothly shaped legs, the overall impression was one of lithe suppleness. Slowly, she checked her breasts, searching with her fingers for any tell-tale difference in shape or texture. This had been a habit ever since her mother had succumbed to breast cancer fourteen years ago. If the same thing was going to happen to her, she was going to catch it early and stop it in its tracks. So she checked carefully at least once a month. Satisfied that nothing seemed to be out of place, she turned from the mirror and began to dress for the evening.

Less than an hour later, she was taking her place at the conference table. Scanning the room, she saw familiar faces from her own department mingling with delegates drawn from organisations all over the world. She closed her eyes and listened to the background hum of a hundred polite conversations. In some ways, these events were tedious in the extreme, but they were also a place where she could come alive and really be her purest, clearest self.

She was still pondering that little puzzle when everyone began to take their seats and the small radio receiver tucked away inside her left ear crackled into life.

“OK everyone, it’s show-time. Stay alert.”

Settling back into her seat and offering her most enigmatic smile to the handsome young man on her left, Louise quietly hoped that this would prove to be an eventful night for all the right reasons.

This very short piece was an exercise in starting a new story completely from scratch.  The idea for this one came from a dream I had.

I had never been in the café before. I’d noticed it often enough when visiting the city in the past and I had liked its old-fashioned look and feel – the linoleum floor, the Formica-topped tables, all decorated in bright colours or simple patterns. It could have been there for the last sixty years, while multi-national coffee shops, fast-food eateries and expensive sandwich franchises came and went around it. The quintessential British ‘caff’, simple, solid, no nonsense.

I was surprised to find it open so late. It had been a good night, visiting old friends and catching up over a few beers. So many beers that I missed the last train and would have to catch the early train home in the morning. Of course, I could have called someone and asked to bed down on their sofa for the night. Back in our younger days, that would have been fine, but nowadays, with families and responsibilities and careers, it didn’t seem right to impose.

The middle-aged man behind the counter was smart, with a black apron and shirtsleeves carefully rolled just above the elbow.

“What can I get you?”

“Just a tea please – milk, no sugar. Will you be open much longer?”

“Yes, we’ll be open for a while yet. We do a late night now and again. That’ll be one-fifty.”

I paid for the tea and took it to a table halfway down the room. I had taken a couple of sips when the door rattled and another man came in. As he walked towards the counter, he paused and turned to face me.

“Hiya!”

I was no longer holding my teacup, but I almost sent it flying anyway as I jerked from my seat and stared at the man. Andrew was one of my dearest friends back in my college days and I would recognise him anywhere.

The only problem was that he had been dead and buried for over twenty years.

“Won’t be a minute” he said, “just going to get a cup of tea and I’ll be right back.”

Please be aware that this short excerpt contains swearing and violence from the outset.

This short scene is intended to introduce a stereotypical character who turns out to be more complex than you might first think.

“For fuck’s sake ref! Are you fucking blind? It was a fucking dive you bastard cunt!”

Kevin’s hoarse scream mingled with the other voices from the home stand. Less than two minutes of play left and it was to be a penalty against Kevin’s beloved City. It was a foregone conclusion. When the whistle finally blew, City had lost the local derby again, by that single, frustrating penalty.

Half an hour later, Kevin and his mates were walking down a quiet side street when they saw the other fans. Four of them, wearing the unmistakeable yellow and white of Rovers. Kevin was right at the front when the nine City fans fell upon the unsuspecting quartet. One of the Rovers fans had just turned to see what was happening when Kevin’s fist smashed into his face, causing a fountain of blood to spray out from his broken nose. As the man went down, Kevin started kicking. The back, the ribs, the head, anywhere was a target for Kevin’s mindless, furious onslaught.

Meanwhile, Kevin’s mates were dealing out similar treatment to the other Rovers fans. All four men went down under a constant barrage of kicks and punches, wailing and screaming in growing agony as each blow landed.

It only stopped when a distant shout alerted Kevin to the massive crowd of Rovers fans now making their way along the street.

“Leg it!” he shouted as he started to run. His mates started running behind him, so he slackened his pace slightly. He knew that they wouldn’t be able to keep up if he ran flat out. People often mistook Kevin for someone tall, weak and weedy, but his working life made him surprisingly strong and fit. Every muscle, every tendon was finely shaped and balanced, tuned to physical labour and endurance. Even now, at speed, he was hardly feeling it while the ragged pants and gasps of his friends filled the air around him.

Ten minutes later, they straggled to a halt in the High Street, leaving their traumatised victims and the avenging mob of Rovers fans far behind.

“Hey Kev – coming for a few beers?” said Andy.

“Sorry mate, I can’t. I’m working tonight. I was only at the match ‘cos it was an early kick-off. I need to get home.”

“Oh well, fair enough. Seeya later!”

“Yeah – seeya!”

As he made his way home, Kevin checked his watch. He had time for a shower and to get changed and he’d still be at the theatre well before 6:00 p.m. That would give him more than enough time for a few stretches before getting into costume and taking to the stage. Not that he found the part of Mercutio particularly challenging – he’d danced it several times before – but there was no point in risking any injuries by going on cold. There was a production of Swan Lake coming up next year and he wanted to be match-fit for that.

This is a short character piece, inspired by something heard on the radio.  It is slightly longer than originally intended.

“A United Nations representative has today confirmed that Islamic State forces appear to have destroyed the Temple of Bel and other major sites in the ancient city of Palmyra. Satellite images show signifi…”

Richard reached over the desk and turned off his radio. He usually listened to the one o’clock news while working, but it was simply too depressing to bear today. Carefully, he replaced the cap on his fountain pen and put it down on the desk between his notepad and the dusty leather-bound volume of French archaeological notes that he was using in his latest research. The sun was blazing through the old leaded windows of his college rooms, warming the dark wood and worn leather of the furniture and causing dust motes to twinkle and catch Richard’s eye whenever he looked across at the bookshelves opposite.

Sitting back and relaxing for a moment, he suddenly caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the polished glass door of one of the bookcases. There was the mousey hair, now thinning slightly and going grey at the temples, but always worn short and neatly trimmed. The face below the hairline was oval and pleasantly enough proportioned – forehead neither too high nor too low, the dark eyes slightly sunken beneath the brows, the nose straight and the mouth shapely without being too full, set above a slightly dimpled chin. A middling, average sort of a face, not desperately handsome, but by no means ugly and setting the tone for the rest of his body. Slightly taller than average, but not reaching the six feet or more of his father and brothers; a medium sort of build, solid but without excess muscle and, thankfully, without excess fat even now in middle age; all-in-all a medium, sensible, capable sort of a man.

As Richard continued to sit, staring at the face in the glass opposite, his mind returned to the news on the radio and, ranging further, it made its way back to Palmyra all those years ago. No one knew how old Professor McKenzie had managed to arrange the expedition, but arrange it he did and made his way with a small team of archaeologists and historians to the shining deserts of Syria and the breath-taking ancient beauty of Palmyra. Over thirty years ago now, but it really did feel like it was only yesterday. Richard was one of the two postgraduate students who had been given places on the trip. The other was Rachael.

Oh dear Lord, Rachael, Rachael, Rachael. Even now, he remembered every detail. The long bronze-brown hair that flowed in the breeze behind her as she walked.  The perfect hazel eyes and soft lips that turned every brief conversation and every smile into a perfect moment to treasure. The slender, shapely figure and movement of her and the kind gentleness of her very soul. If ever anyone deserved to be raised up as the paragon of feminine beauty and virtue, it was she.

The evenings that they spent together, simply sitting and talking as they watched the sun dip behind the House Tomb before it disappeared completely into the desert and the fading twilight and growing chill in the air forced them back to their tents. The days walking around the ancient city, taking notes of the buildings and their locations. Even the occasional dry and dust-choked tutorial with Prof McKenzie, all of these things combined to make up the most precious memories that Richard carried in his heart.

Was it any wonder that, as he sat there, lost in his reverie, a tear slowly made its way down his cheek and dripped onto his shirtfront?

Of course, he could never have told her how he felt. She was just too far above him, too beautiful, too perfect. So he kept his deepest, dearest thoughts and dreams to himself and was glad to be her friend. After they both finished their postgraduate studies, he had remained in the college to become a Fellow and, ultimately, Professor of Classics. Rachael, meanwhile, had left to become an independent expert, working for governments and corporations all over the world advising them on archaeological and historical issues. He had seen her once or twice at conferences or other events and they had always found time for a drink, to reminisce and to share their latest discoveries, but he still wondered what might have been if he had only found the courage to say something all those years ago when a chill desert wind hissed around their shoulders and the stars began to shine above Palmyra.