C is for Characters.
I read stories for the characters. I watch TV shows and movies for the same reason. And one of my favorite things about writing, are the characters I help shape and who shape my stories.
I believe the characters are the most important part of a story. They are the heart of story, and why we stick with some stories, even when the plot lines goes astray. Close second important story ingredients....everything else.
Below is a short fan fiction I wrote for the tv show Fringe, many moons ago, showcasing the relationship between Walter and Peter Bishop. Dr. Walter Bishop, to this day, still resides in my top 20 favorite fictional characters. Gotta love mad scientists.
“A Laundromat—really, son!
I have work to be done. We should have Astrix do this chore.”
A grim smirk passed across Peter Bishop’s lips while he
watched his grumbling father shuffle past and through the door of Quickie
Cleans Laundro-rama. This was going to
be a trying public outing—he could already tell. Of course any outing outside of the lab proved
bizarre at best with his brilliant and yet broken father, the uncanny Dr.
Walter Bishop, once institutionalized mad scientist and present doctor of the
odd and barely explained.
“It’s Astrid, Walter and no we will not. She’s a Bureau Agent and your lab assistant,
not our personal maid. No matter how
many exploded watermelons and Gerbils you make her clean up in the lab.” Peter added, watching his father throw his
rucksack of dirty cloths onto one of the chairs by the window and begin to
fiddle with the vending machines, giving them an agitated whack when nothing
came from his button pushing. Peter knew
the old man had already stopped listening.
Peter rolled his eyes and began to prepare the closest two
washers for their laundry, never allowing his father too far outside his
peripherals and for good reason. Walter
had already found interest in the bottom side of one of the old Spin Dry’s at
the end of the long room and was now on his knees beside an elderly woman’s
legs. The woman’s eyes were rounding
wider and wider by the minute and Walter was now nearly on his back beneath her
paisley print skirt.
“Walter, come on.
We’re using the washers right now.
Stop inspecting the dryers and the nice ladies support hose. Sorry ma’am.”
Peter nodded to the slightly startled granny who let out a quick huff
and moved to the other side of the near empty Laundromat.
“Don’t be absurd.”
The elder Bishop stood, dusting off his knees. “I was merely looking to see if these
machines are in working order. Washer
temperatures must meet 33.888 Centigrade and dryers must not exceed 79.444
Centigrade. My underwear must be
properly sanitized of any incidental bowel or urine deposit before their next
wearing and I will simply not tolerate shrinkage of my socks or underwear...”
“Good to know, Walter.” Peter groaned while Walter continued
without pause.
“They are cotton Son.
Cotton shrinks.
And you know my
feet and my crotch area must breathe!”
Walter indignantly reprimanded, as if this was all common and needed
knowledge his son should have known.
Of
course Peter did know.
Walter had given
the same boisterous speech in the middle of Wal-Mart no more than a week
before.
"Terrific Walter.
Fan—tastic.” Peter placed his
hands on the rim of the washer and hung his head before meeting his father’s
stubborn stare. “Now how about getting
over here and helping me. If you do I’ll
give you some quarters for the vending machines.”
Peter watched his fathers eyes light up as he snatched up
the laundry bag and shuffled speedily to his side.
“I would simply love a Ho Ho and a Root Beer. The combination is absolutely marvelous”
In spite of himself, Peter could not help but smile when his
father’s voice was that of an excited child’s.
He took his fathers cloths from him and deposited a handful of quarters
in the old man’s expectant palms. It
wasn’t long before Walter had a large assortment of treats to sustain a lengthy
sugar rush and Peter a few moments of peace.
It was funny. For a man who was best at taking care of
number one—himself, taking care of his father had come surprisingly easy to the young man. As a child, he’d idolized his father only to
later fear and then despise him for leaving him and his mother. By the time his father was put away at the
Mental Institute, the young genius had learned to take care of himself, only
trusting himself while never being himself in the chameleon-like nomadic
existence he’d taken on to survive.
But now-now he was his father’s keeper. After a two decade estrangement he had
grudgingly agreed to help Olivia and the FBI by becoming Walter’s legal
guardian—rescuing him from St. Claire’s to allow his father do what he did best
for the government and reality—bending it.
Peter had said yes because Olivia had needed him to at the time. He’d done it for the girl. But as time went on Peter found he was doing
it more and more for himself.
Besides, Walter did need him and he was his father. The old man had grown to depend on him like a
child would a parent, like Peter could not depend on Walter when he was a
child. The irony was never lost on the
young man. And aside from underwear and
snack preferences, Peter was actually getting to know his father—every
frightening, maddening and often amazing bit on him.
Peter closed the lid on the laundry detergent and then sat
down two chairs from Walter, politely refusing the Red Vine his father
enthusiastically offered. Picking up his
own bag, he pulled out a Sudoku book and an attached pen for Walter, flipping
it into gnarled but ready hands. And
then he pulled out a case file Olivia had asked him to review—the preliminaries
to yet another rollercoaster ride that was the Fringe division. Peter placed the manila envelope upon his
chest and leaned his head back against the window glass behind him, slowly
breathing out.
If Peter was more honest—and he was getting to be—he’d admit
that getting to know his Dad again was also allowing him see himself more
clearly. This last year had challenged
him—made more of him. It had allowed him
to become someone he hadn’t been for a very long time—himself.
The young mans ever present smirk became more wistful. Funny, the kind of perspective one gets when
starting to give a damn.
See ya tomorrow A to Z blog buddies!
