Hello to my Ink Well Friends!
This week I sacrificed plot for the sake of developing a perfectly imperfect character. Perfection is so relative, isn't it? I guess it stems from our perspective of who we are in the world, and how this allows us to evaluate or judge others. Allow me to introduce you to Charlie.
Image manipulated in canva from source:
Prompt: Perfection (InkWell Prompt #56
Skill Focus: Developing Memorable Characters
Charlie sat very still in his recliner. His eyes darting from the thin frayed threads of the chair’s faded upholstery to the small brown mole sitting just above his big toe. The chair, he recalled with satisfaction, was found on the side of his road on a large rubbish collection campaign. He had spied its worn floral fabrics when he cautiously peered through the faded lace curtains of his front room. It had been indelicately disposed of; thrown to the literal curb.
Charlie had been compelled to put on his heavy grey coat, and despite his hesitation to go outside in the afternoon, had sidled over to the chair. He got down onto his knees and adjusted his spectacles. The smeared glass in them did not allow for a perfect vision, but what he saw was enough to make him mumble, ‘I shall call you Bert’. Bert was indeed imperfect – he was missing buttons on the back of the chair, and with discoloured stuffing seeping out from the cushion. Charlie was thrilled to find a kindred spirit, and he put a bit of the stuffing into his mouth.
He knew at once it was something special.
Charlie continued to look at his mole, and the mole, he assumed, was looking back. Charlie noted how still that little brown dot was. It delighted him to think that he himself was as still as the mole. He knew that the mole was odd, and it regularly changed position when he wasn’t looking. It was, however, a crafty thing and Charlie had taken many photos of his foot to catch the mole in the act, but every time he was confounded as the mole could only be captured back in its original position. This was not the first time that Charlie had engaged in this elaborate game of cat and mouse.
That mole, he knew, was nothing special.
As Charlie progressed to his second minute staking out the mole, his mind had already started to drift. He thought of the bottle of milk in the fridge, it had been out of date for over a week, but the cow whose hard labour had led to its bottling had visited him in a vision. Charlie believed it had been transformed into a medicinal elixir. He would save it until an emergency presented itself, and look forward to such a time. The cow had been friendly, but the sinister undertones in its voice had made him nervous. It seemed awfully curious that the cow, also named Bert, would have sought him out specifically – but who was he to argue?
The cow, he knew, was something special.
Sitting on Bert whilst thinking about Bert was enough to make Charlie smile. With a sense of satisfaction, Charlie was able to pull himself up out of his seat. He had caught the mole move – he was so certain that it was just above his middle toe only minutes ago, but now it sat, almost smugly, above his big toe. It takes an observant mind, he mused, to track the deviousness of little brown dots. Having completed his only planned activity for the day, Charlie began to think about going to the mailbox.
This was an important weekly ritual for Charlie, and he knew the value of preparation. He moved quite purposefully to his room to put on his camouflage jersey. He could not risk being seen outside the house, even for just a minute. He wasn’t sure why, but it was something he just knew. He checked the lights in his torch and made sure to switch it on and off four times, just to be sure. He would hate to get caught in the dark. He wasn’t sure why, but it was something he just knew. The torch went into a utility belt he had bought on eBay many weeks go – it had come in a large brown box, and the trip to the mailbox, without a torch, had been quite daunting.
Feeling ready and able to take on any obstacle he faced, Charlie moved to the front door, and with sound momentum, took his first steps into the midday sun. And then another step, and another, and then there was a grasshopper. Charlie was instantly suspicious, and he knelt down by the unwatered hydrangea. He didn’t care for the plant, which he had named Bert a year before. He just did not want to be seen by the grasshopper, and the overgrown shrub offered him additional protection. It was, at best, a shrub of no particularly special quality, and at worst, a shrub of no particularly special quality.
Charlie, on all fours, poked his head out from around the shrub. A bead of sweat was starting to gather on his forehead, almost comically like in a movie, pooling together, ready to announce itself in one significant drip – yet, it would have no need to dramatically fall, as Charlie breathed easier, having noticed the grasshopper was no longer on the front path.
A car pulled in to the driveway just over the small picket fence to his right, and a middle aged woman with a purple faux leather handbag got out of a small Ford. Charlie would not have said she was an attractive woman, nor unattractive, nor special. He did not, however, want to be considered unusual, so instead of hiding behind the hydrangea on all fours, he erected himself and walked four steps. Four unusually large steps, to make way for his reservation at taking any more than four. He tentatively waved at the woman, and, proud he remembered her name, Bert, wished her a good day and took one more leap to the letterbox.
The woman, who he had imagined as neither attractive nor unattractive nor special was now behind him. If he wanted to, he could touch his small metal letterbox, which had been painted red. The red, he reasoned, would keep away the foreign military men, who would reason, that no one with a red letterbox ought to arouse suspicion. Charlie believed he was a very clever man, and of course, a strategic genius. He took his torch from his utility belt and shone it in the letterbox. Not once, twice, but four times. On and off, on and off, on and off, on and off. He was sure it was safe to stick his hand in and take a letter which he had spied the postman delivery not two days before.
He had a glove balled up in his pocket, and with what he believed was a certain nonchalance, equipped his hand with the white cotton accessory. He lifted the letter and estimated its weight in his head. He knew an average envelope weighted 6.75 grams, and that this means his letter should be no weightier than 20.25 grams in order that it would avoid suspicion. He picked it up by the corner and inspected it. He noted that it was addressed to him, and then he froze. A car had just turned the corner into his street – and he knew if he could stand as still as the mole by his big toe, then it would be possible to remain unseen. He stood as a statue in a camouflaged jersey, holding a letter in one hand and a flashlight in the other. He would not move until the car had passed.
This car, he knew, was nothing special.
Minutes later he was back in his kitchen, sitting on a barstool by the orange formica countertops. They were covered in crumbs from his daily ritual of cooking toast and spilling crumbs over the counter. He had no interest in cleaning up the crumbs, but he did have an interest in the letter. He set up his pair of kitchen scales; a battery operated system which would allow him to weigh his letter to three decimal points. The letter remained in his gloved hand, and was slowly lowered onto the cheap plastic surface. A number flashed up in red almost immediately, and he read it to the third decimal place. His forehead furrowed, as his scales, which he knew were something special, told him his letter was nearly 24 grams. He knew this letter, despite being the addressee, did not belong to him. With suspicion he discarded it in his little plastic waste bin, which had only recently re-introduced himself as Bert.
With that flick of the wrist, Charlie walked away from Bert, thinking about Bert, he moved to sit in Bert, and to continue to stare at his mole, which he now noticed, was sitting just above his big toe. Later that day he would reflect back on what had already amounted to, an utterly perfect day.
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