A Doctor begins to write a story. The characters speak to him from the paper.
| The good Doctor sat at his oak desk, his empty book lay before him. Its pages were blank, not yet influenced by the good Doctor’s black ink. He hesitantly raised his quill. His quill hovered above the paper like a weapon, waiting for its opportunity to kill. And then, the quill dove. It hit the paper with force, ink drops spattering on the paper. Immediately, the quill ducked this way and that way. Matilde fell from its tip, landing on the elaborate cursive M that glistened on the page, the first letter. The good Doctor’s clumsy hand plopped onto the wet M as he flung the rest of Matilde’s name onto the paper.|
“Aye, buddy! Can ya not? You smudge my name every goddamn time,” Matilde shouted from the paper, “ya want me to act out your lil’ fantasy, ya stop making such a mess.”
“Hey, Matti, can you stop yelling? You’re gonna wake Gramps,” Nelson, a character defined by his shape, retorted. He was like a string bean, towering over the others, thin enough to be snapped by a gentle breeze.
The good Doctor sighed sadly, little did his characters know, this story was to be Gramps’ funeral. Gramps had gotten old, he’d been with the good Doctor since the Doctor’s childhood. They had become good friends and the good Doctor was certainly sad to see him go. But, every character has their time. And this was Gramps’.