The Exciting Life of a Minor Character

By Morgan W. Silver

Claire is sick of being a Minor Character. She despises the fact that the most exciting thing that's happened to her in four long years has been answering a phone.

 

She wants her own story, she wants more lines, and most of all, she wants adventure. Even if that means killing her Main Character. Unfortunately, only the Author has the power to kill Characters, but Claire will not be deterred by logic and facts.

 

Then, even though it's not supposed to be possible, someone is murdered in Character Central. It causes a widespread panic worse than the time they had a lemon shortage. After all, only the Author should have the ability to kill a Character.

 

With the threat of multiple victims as well as Erasure for all Characters, Claire must team up with the Main Character she wants to bring down. If all else fails, she may even have to take it up with the Author.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Morgan W. Silver
• Release date: Jun 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9789083038858

Morgan W. Silver

I considered writing this bio in the third person, but my other voices wouldn’t let me. My name is Morgan W. Silver. I have a BA in English Language and Culture and a Master’s degree in Creative Writing. Which means I have a licence to write, and it will be extra awkward if I make spelling eroiers. Oops. All my novels contain mysteries, but the subgenres may differ. There are, however, always shenanigans and quirky characters, as well as a dash of romance.

Book preview

I dedicate this novel to bookworms and writers.

Chapter One:

Welcome to Character Central

"Not being Real doesn’t mean

you don’t exist." Claire

MY FAVOURITE PUB, THE Red Noose, is where all the Minor Characters of the Crime/Mystery genre hang out. Not that we have much choice, since we are divided into genres, and then into categories such as Minor Characters or Antagonists.

Even though we are all in the same line of work doesn’t mean we often talk about our Novels. Mostly we talk about the wonder of lemons or who got caught up in the Brainstorm, literally. The Brainstorm whirls around at the edge of Character Central, occasionally picking up debris and a Minor Character who has lost a bet or wanted to impress someone.

No significant changes can occur with a Minor Character. We can’t get pregnant, can’t die, can’t even change our hair colour. Only the Author can do that.

My favourite spot in the pub is between the fireplace and the window, and that’s where I sit, scribbling in my notebook, nursing a rum and coke with a pepper.

I like the pub. Every table has one or two thick candles on it, and the rest of the lights in this building are dim, so it creates a cosy ambiance. Just like the candles, the fire in the fireplace is always burning, and there are three dartboards in the back. Food and drinks are served all hours of the day, which is probably the main reason I like it here.

It is Tuesday and the second day of my attempt to become a Main Character. The mystery Novel I’m in does pretty well in terms of how often it is read, which means there are five loops a week in which we enter Story Mode to say our lines and act out our scenes. If I want to change things, then I can only do it in there. My Main, Jeff Dodger, doesn’t hang out here in the Minor section of Character Central.

It started small. I would try to change my lines. Impossible. I would move objects when I wasn’t in the current scene to make Jeff trip and hurt himself. Impossible. I would show up at a scene I wasn’t in. I was invisible. So also impossible. No matter what I tried to do to enhance my lines or appearances, nothing worked.

Which means that tonight I’ll work out Plan B. Despite the fact that it is unheard of, and also quite mean, I am going to try and kill Jeff. With him out of the way, I can take over.

Even if I am a Character in a Novel, I know relatively little about how it works. None of us do, and that includes the Mains. But it doesn’t matter because I will succeed. I have to. There is more to life than being a Minor Character.

Claire, Claire. Parker approaches me with red cheeks. He is a chubby, cute guy with a propensity to be dramatic.

If I could die, I’d be dead, he says as he plops down opposite me. You won’t believe what just happened.

Then why bother telling me? I say, wanting to be left alone to plot a murder. Can I use a chicken somehow? What about a slingshot?

Okay, I’ll tell you. I was walking past the Nursery and a new Minor walked out. She is gorgeous, and you know how new Characters are easily influenced. I figured I could convince her to go out with me.

You didn’t start yodelling, did you? I eye him over the edge of my notebook. Perhaps I can kill Jeff using a dessert and a cactus.

First of all, that was one time, and second of all, what I did was worse. If a meteorite could crush me right now, I’d probably be relieved.

Me too.

He leans forward. I started dancing.

I put down my notebook. But you can’t dance.

I know.

I mean, you really can’t dance. When you try, it looks like you’re in anaphylactic shock.

"I know," he says.

I pause, then start laughing. Tears are streaming down my face, my stomach hurts.

It’s not funny. Parker turns as red as a tomato.

No, it’s not. It’s hilarious. What did she do?

He looks down at his hands. Kind of the same as what you just did.

I throw back my head and laugh again. That should teach you to stop embarrassing yourself in public.

He smacks his fist on the table, garnering a few looks from the other patrons. It is called self-sabotage, and it’s a real thing. My psychologist says—

Just because you unload all your thoughts onto your goldfish doesn’t make him your psychologist. Where did he get his degree?

Parker folds his arms and mumbles something.

What’s that?

Nothing. Look, why don’t we get together? he asks. You’re quite ... acceptable. He waves a hand in my direction.

In my Novel I am the pretty blonde receptionist/assistant to a heroic detective and mostly serve as bait or to make him remember something important. I’d do way better as a detective; I’m way more perceptive and daring than he is. Another good reason to want something more.

I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, I say, turning back to my notebook.

What are you working on? You’re not still working on a way to steal Felicity’s carnivorous plants, right?

What? No, that was like two weeks ago. I’m working on something else. It’s a secret.

You can’t keep secrets.

I gasp. Yes, I can.

Thanks to you, I know Mrs H wears a wig, Eddie had an affair with Bess, and Jeff is allergic to wool. Not to mention Jeff’s shoe size, the colour of his eyes, the way he smiles to himself during his favourite scenes. He gags.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Please. If you were any more in love, you would start shooting heart-shaped arrows at him.

Oh, arrows. Good one. I scribble in my notebook. And I’m not in love with him. Would I kill him if I was?

He gasps. You what?

"Damn it. I can’t keep a secret."

You’re really trying to kill him? he says, loud enough to attract the attention of our fellow patrons again.

Ha ha ha, you are so funny, ha ha, I say just as loud, then glare at him. Would you be quiet, or I’ll high five you in the face with my chair.

You’re so going to get Erased. That is, if you succeed, which you won’t. Only Authors have that kind of power. He can’t be killed.

I will find a way, I say through gritted teeth. His infallible logic is really rubbing me the wrong way.

I highly recommend you don’t, Parker says. Not that you’ll listen to me. Your stubbornness is one of your character flaws. He laughs. Get it? Character? Because you’re a Character? His smile vanishes, and he purses his lips. Some people find me funny.

Only your goldfish finds you funny.

Parker sticks out his tongue to me.

We stay and order chips with hot sauce and then I’m off. I need to set some things in motion if I want to execute Plan B.

I STEP OUTSIDE INTO the Central Square and saunter in the direction of the shop for some groceries. Then I will have to visit the Fantasy Minors and get—

Claire, a warm, familiar male voice sounds behind me, prompting me to turn around.

Mycroft looks dapper as usual in his three-piece suit. When I first met him, my eyes were immediately drawn to his corpulent body, but now they always go straight to his intelligent eyes. He has a white streak in his black hair, and his beard is neatly trimmed. He’s one of the oldest Minors here.

Glad to run into you, he says.

My gaze goes over to the young woman by his side. Her eyes still have that blank stare, her skin that new glow. A new Minor.

I grunt as I realise what he wants me to do. I have to do some groceries— I start, but all Mycroft has to do is tilt his head and smile. My voice trails off. Fine. I’ll do it. This time, I add, trying to maintain an illusion of control, because let’s face it, I would probably even go so far as to smile at his behest. Though I don’t consider anyone else to be above me, Mycroft makes for a good leader.

Wonderful. Thank you so much, dear. I knew I could count on you. Please show her the most important things, then take her to her flat to get settled in. She’s already had her first training course. Claire, meet Sandy. Sandy, meet Claire.

The young woman smiles at me. I like that name, she says in a soft voice.

She reminds me of me when I first started. I was as demure as my Character was written. I shudder to think back to it. It’s inevitable that she will change as well, and it’s important to teach her. It is really an honour that Mycroft trusts me with these tasks, but that doesn’t mean I have to enjoy doing them.

It’s not, I say. It’s a simple, normal name that doesn’t stand out. Just like Sandy.

She is still smiling. I like my name as well.

I exchange a glance with Mycroft. Kill me now.

He gives a gentle nod. I trust she’s in good hands. Try not to shove her into the Brainstorm.

What’s the Brainstorm? Sandy asks after Mycroft has left.

You’ll see. I tuck my notebook in my handbag and sling it over my shoulder. I might as well go all out, I say and give a bow. Welcome to Character Central, subdivision Crime and Mystery, Minor Characters. The most important place here is the Red Noose where they have lovely hot chips.

What are hot chips?

They must have covered food at the training. I frown as I think back to my first day at the Nursery. I remember drawings of lemons.

Yes, they mentioned we don’t have well-developed taste buds because the Author rarely describes taste. Which is why lemons are very expensive; we can taste them because they are supposed to be sour. She beams at me, clearly proud she has remembered an important part of her training.

Yes, that’s right. We can’t taste the full flavour, but it’s better than nothing. Chips with hot sauce are also lovely. We can get the food we like in the pub or the shop over there. I point towards the building on the left side of the square. We don’t need food because we can’t die, but we crave it because our senses make us feel alive. We are also encouraged to have a routine. It’s important we eat, sleep, etcetera. It keeps us from getting bored.

Getting bored is bad, they said. Then we might become Rotten.

I cringe inwardly at that word, possibly because she says it as if it’s a bad thing. To us, it isn’t. It’s bad when Agents realise we are Rotten, but it is inevitable that we change.

It is? Her eyes widen.

Yes. The longer we are here, the more we start to develop our own opinions, tastes, likes and dislikes, etcetera. We become our own person, not our Character.

This happens with everyone?

Yes. And we can be ourselves with each other, but not with the Agents. That is important. We need to help each other.

And we are assigned Agents, right?

Yes. One. It will be either Jill or Woodrow. They’re both a pain in the ass, but Jill is the worst. Be extra careful around her. I point at the red phone box next to the pub. That’s what they use to travel here. It helps to know they only have one point of entry. I had once contemplated setting up a plan to get up to the Real World and see if it is better than this place, but I lost my nerve.

I follow her gaze to the statue of the typewriter in the middle of the square. There are lemons placed on top and around it.

Sandy frowns.

It’s a sacrifice to appease the Author, I explain. When we refer to the Author, we mean the Author who wrote us. But there are some Characters who believe there is only one Author for us all.

She looks back at me. One Author?

Instead of multiple ones.

They didn’t mention that at training. She looks back at the statue.

No, it’s a religious thing. They won’t cover religion in training; we’re not supposed to have one.

Oh. She studies my face. What do you believe in?

Lemons, I say.

WE STROLL AROUND THE square so I can explain the basics, but most she already knows from training. There is always a market here in the mornings, so it’s empty by now. I make my way towards the shop where there is a newspaper stand outside the entrance.

Newspapers are important, I say as I pick up The Daily Minor. They show us our Novel’s ranking. Top ten is good. If you’re in the top ten, that means you enter Story Mode at least four times a week, and that’s what you want.

Yes, because you get paid each time you enter it, right? Sandy looks over my shoulder as we check out the front page. My Novel is number seven.

Exactly. If you don’t get paid, you can’t pay for things like drinks at the pub or food, which isn’t a disaster, it just makes things less fun. It also means you might have to get a job at the Nursery or Word Shop, for example. We’ll get to those today.

They also said that when we first start out, the Novel won’t be as successful.

That’s right. But there is a four-week period where you are allowed to get your bearings. You won’t have to take a job yet, and you will get paid a fixed amount during that time. I put the newspaper away. If you are found to be Rotten, or if your Novel is performing too poorly, you will go to the Shelf to be Erased. Erasure is bad because it’s the end of us. The end of all our memories and experiences. The end of our identities. Do you understand?

Golly.

Golly indeed. And before you ask about the Shelf, don’t ask about the Shelf. You will only hear gruesome stories that scare you. Just try to forget it even exists, okay?

She swallows and nods.

I’ll show you around now. We’ll go to the Meadow of Plot Bunnies first.

She grabs my arm, stopping me in my tracks. What’s it like to be—to be a Minor Character?

Well, Sandy, it’s like eating rainbows and shitting kittens.

She stares at me. Is that good?

I’m being sarcastic, so no, it’s not good. It’s extremely boring.

So, not exciting?

Not exciting at all.

Chapter Two:

Literary Agent Woodrow

"It’s not easy to appreciate the little

mannerisms they develop, but be prepared to

punish them for it as well." Woodrow

WE HEAD OVER TO THE Meadow of Plot Bunnies. The bunnies are cute to watch. They hop about and sniff the grass. They are all different breeds of bunnies. Some are white with grey ears, some black and white, some with long hairs, some with short. Plenty of bunnies are very active, but there are also those that are very relaxed and bathe in the sun all afternoon.

They all seem to have a very simple life and do not care they are being used.

Some of them are a lot faster because they are more intricate. There are Minors whose job it is to catch them. It will cost the Author more if they want an intricate Plot Bunny. Also, it’s forbidden for us to catch them. It messes up the system.

Just then, a Minor shows up at the opposite side of the Meadow. He takes out a small paintball gun and marks one of the bunnies. It was sniffing a blade of grass, but as soon as it’s hit, it darts off in a random direction. The Minor sets off running with a big net.

Sandy claps her hands. How thrilling.

Hardly. It will take a while, and we need to move on. I have things to do. Characters to kill.

I turn and point at a pond on the other side of this path. That’s where they catch the red herring. It works the same as with the bunnies, except that it requires a very different approach.

Sandy follows my gaze to a Minor who is snoring lightly while holding a fishing rod. Meanwhile, the Minor in the Meadow behind us curses in frustration.

Next, we visit the Sea of Procrastination. The beach itself is small but nice enough to walk on. The sand is soft and warm. We take off our shoes and walk to the edge of the water. The elysian light erupting from the clouds above it creates sparkles on the grey water. The sea itself seems endless. I suppose it is.

Wow, Sandy says.

Yes, it’s beautiful, but don’t go in it.

Why not?

It’s the Sea of Procrastination. Once you get in, you’ll never get anywhere.

The final area of interest away from the square is the Brainstorm. When we pass it, I shove her in. It’s a rite of passage that can’t be overlooked. She takes it quite well and only cries for seven minutes.

I can’t blame her; the Brainstorm is hardly fun. I know because I was once caught up in it when I attempted to rescue Toby, who was sniffing at something in the grass even though the whirlwind was approaching him steadily across the Meadow of Plot Bunnies. He’s a dumb dog with a good nose.

My rescue attempt proved to be futile because by the time I’d picked him up, it was already too late. We both danced around in the air, surrounded by vague ideas until we landed on the other side of Character Central, near the market. Luckily, Mrs H had been there to shop for yarn and was happy to take him from me.

I buy Sandy an ice cream with ground coffee beans to cheer her up. I’m eager to continue working on my plan for tomorrow, but we still aren’t done.

The Nursery you know, that’s also where you had your training, I say when we are back at the square. Behind it is the Shelf, but like I said, just ignore it. And other than that, we have the Word Shop, which we’ll visit next.

What about Story Mode? she asks.

You enter that with a door.

Her face lights up. Yes, I’ve heard about the doors. They sound interesting.

We’ll use one in a minute to get to Felicity. She’s also one of the oldest Characters here. She has a cool greenhouse, and I want you to see her plants. Anyway, a door can pop up next to you when you need to go somewhere that isn’t anywhere I just showed you, so basically people’s homes and Story Mode. All you have to do is think about going there. The door looks different each time, but they all do the same. I grab her arm and guide her to the Word Shop.

The Word Shop is like an actual shop with bins filled with words, categorised by type of word, length, amount of syllables, and more. The fun thing is that on the second floor of the building we can see the cauldrons where new words are brewed. Every Minor gets to see it at some point.

I lean against the wall, next to the open window, as I mentally go over the steps for tomorrow. Sandy, in the meantime, walks around, studying all the different capacious cauldrons, observing the wax turning to letters. It’s almost magical. The Minors working here fish out the words that contain spelling errors.

Two men are peering into one of the cauldrons.

The letters just keep forming that way. I haven’t stopped stirring, I swear, one of them says—his name is Richie, I believe.

This is unacceptable, the other, Dwayne, says. There are too many spelling errors. It means the wax must be bad, or maybe the cauldron wasn’t cleaned properly. We must dump this batch quickly, before the fumes spread.

Aye sink its two late, Richie says.

The two men grab the cauldron and hurry off into an adjacent room where they’ll make candles out of the faulty wax.

Unfortunately, Brian also works here. He is a twenty-year-old bouncy, curious lad who deems himself quite the philosopher. He always asks me—and anyone else—relentless questions.

Hey, Claire. Did you dream last night? I had a really odd one. There was a huge whale, and I was riding on its back and then it baked me a cake, and he wanted me to blow out the candles, but then I realised we were underwater and the cake turned soggy. I didn’t even get a chance to blow out the candles. Then I turned into a flamingo and flew away. What do you think it means?

I sigh.

I think it means that deep down I have some kind of desire to—

I shove him out of the window.