Day 13 – Writing exercise

All the days just ran together in one long blur.  Wake, dress, go to work, come home, read, sleep, repeat.  Then everything changed…

…

I got out of bed and went over to the closet.

Seven sets of work clothes, seven sets of leisure clothes, I picked one of the work sets and went to the bathroom.

No need to be more selective.  Each of the work and leisure sets was all the same.  Work tan, leisure blue.  Women wore green and pink.

We all looked the same.

On the yellow bus, picking up the factory workers each morning and dropping them off at night, it was a sea of tan and green.

Everyone read the same newspaper in the morning and sat quietly at night.

At work, I sat at a desk, one of two hundred, symmetrically arranged, just far enough apart to prevent idle conversation.  That happened in the canteen where a thousand people congregated for lunch.

Some single people lived in dormitories, and married people lived in houses.  Everything was supplied.  Everything was regulated.  It had been the same as long as I could remember.

That day I came home, changed into the leisure set, went for a walk, spoke to the others in the park where there was a walking track, a playground for children, and picnic tables.

A healthy lifestyle was a healthy, happy worker.

Why then wasn’t I happy?

…

I woke up, went to the closet and picked a work set.  It didn’t matter which one it was.

The newspaper was shoved through a slot in the door as it was every morning at the same time.

The eggs cooked perfectly, the toast cooked perfectly, and the coffee percolated perfectly.  I resisted the urge to open the newspaper and start reading, remembering protocol.

Dining utensils in the dishwasher, clean the surfaces, and ready to leave for work.  The bus was never late or early.  The walk to the bus stop is two minutes and twenty seconds.

I opened the door, ready to step out.

Standing there, in the way, was a young woman.  Odd that she was in the men’s dormitory.  Odder still, she was wearing yellow, not green.

“You are not in regulation clothing,” I said, not ‘how are you?’ or ‘ who are you?’, which would sound more appropriate.

“You’re not who I’m looking for.  Who are you?”

Clocks were everywhere, reminding us of the importance of time.  The time had passed, and now I would miss the bus.

The paperwork was going to be horrendous.

“Johnny five.  You?”

“Melinda Seventy-Two.  I was looking for Alfred thirty.”

Alfred Thirty had been the previous occupant of my space.  He had died, or so we had been told.  It was in the newspaper, and we believed everything that appeared in it.  There was no reason not to.

“Did you not see the report in the newspaper about a month ago?”  His death had afforded me a promotion and larger quarters.

“I don’t believe anything I read in that rag.”

That was seditious and could get her into trouble if anyone heard her.

“You’d better come in.  You cannot be saying stuff like that out loud.”

She looked at me like I was mad, then shrugged and stepped in.

I looked up and down the passage, then closed the door.

“Just me being in here can cause you trouble.”

We were allowed visitors, but at specific times and with the appropriate permission slips.  She was right.  The mountain of paperwork was piling up.

She was not from this district.  The different coloured suit told me she was not from this area.  People were not allowed out of their areas unless they had a travel pass.  I doubted she had one.

“How did you get here?”

“The tunnels.”

I’d heard about the tunnels, that they were an urban myth.  There were service conduits, but they were not big enough for people to travel through.

It was in the newspaper.  Someone had started spreading the rumours that people could travel from area to area via an extensive tunnel system created when the districts were being built.

An urban myth created by troublemakers.  There had been a few in the beginning after the great calamity that destroyed everything.

We were rebuilding the world, a better world where everyone coexisted in harmony.  A happy life, a happy world.  We all believed it.

“They don’t exist.”

“Because they tell you.  They tell you everything, and everything is a lie.  You are a slave to their lies.”

Who was this woman?  She sounded like a revolutionary; some had been around when I was a child.  My father had been on the tribunal that tried them as traitors and sent them to the penalty settlement.  Had she escaped?

“Are you a revolutionary?”

“I am just the same as you. I do what I’m told.  Or did.”  She took a note out of a pocket and handed it to me.

It said:  You do not have to bow to oppression.  Go to Tan-Green, speak to Alfred thirty.  Take the 387 tunnel.”

“The 387 tunnel?”

“I work in Engineering.  We use the tunnels to move around under the district to repair the services.  I did what was asked.  Where is Alfred thirty?”

“Gone.  Dead.  Can’t help you.  I have to go.  Late.  I have to go.”  I could not wait for her to decide what she wanted to do.

I left.

…

I caught the next bus.  It had different people.  I don’t know why I thought there was only one bus, the bus I took every morning.

They all had the newspaper and were reading it.  No conversation.

Why, all of a sudden, did it matter?  Had she affected me that much?

I arrived at work and swiped my key card.  It was what gave me access to my dorm, the bus, the building and my workstation.

A moment after I swiped my card, I was approached by a security guard.  It had never happened before; in fact I had never seen a security guard before.

“You are late, Johnny Five.  Why?”

What did it matter?  I was here, ready to work.  Perhaps the hesitation in answering was causing difficulty.  Should I mention the girl?

“Overslept. Sorry.”

A minute passed, during which it seemed he was waiting for instructions, then, “Proceed.”

I went into the room and walked slowly to my workstation, past about another 20 clerks.  I noticed that some glanced up then went back to work, others lingered, intrigued by the anomaly.

By the time I sat down, the room was back to normal.

For half an hour.

…

The supervisor sat in a room that overlooked the floor, taking in all of the clerks.

We all had to be in that room once, the day we started work, and it was an interesting view.  And intriguing to wonder how long it took to become a supervisor.

Or what exactly the supervisor did, though they too had a workstation.

No one had seen the supervisor leave that room, or come, or go.  She was always in there when we arrived, and still there when we left.

Today, she came down to the floor, walking from the invisible door under the window, then across the floor, walking up the middle of the room, then turning into my row, and then stopping at my workstation.

It had never happened to anyone else.

“Shut down your workstation and accompany me, please.”

I did as I was told.  She waited until the station switched off and then headed back to the invisible door.  By this time, most of the others had stopped and watched us cross the floor.

At the invisible door, she turned and said, “Back to work.”

She waited until their attention was back on their workstations, then opened the door, we passed though and it silently closed behind us.

Two security guards were waiting.

“You will be reported to Maintenance on Level Sun Basement Seven.  The guards will take you.”

“Why?”

“That is not a question I can answer.  I do as I am told, as should you.  Your key card had been programmed with the appropriate authority.”

Whatever that meant

One guard took the lead, the other followed.  I don’t know why, but at one point, waiting at the elevator lobby, I was entertaining the thought of running.  Not where, or why I would want to, but running.

Nor where I would run to.  It was a very strange feeling.

We went down to Sub Basement 7, and when the doors opened, a different guard was waiting.  My escorts stayed in the lift.

I stepped out, and the doors closed.

The new guard said, “This way “

There was only one.  Perhaps down here, they didn’t think they needed two.

We went down a long corridor to the end, to a door that said ‘Maintenance Five’.  The guard scanned a key card, and the lock clunked.

He opened the door and stood to one side.  “Please wait inside.  An engineer will see you shortly.”

I went in, and the door closed behind me.  The room had a chair and a table.  I looked around the room.  It was a square box, brightly lit, with CCTV.

I waited fifteen minutes before another door, behind the desk, and Melinda seventy-two stepped into the room.

“You.”  I recognised her immediately.

“Me.”

“Why?”

“That’s a word you are not supposed to use.  You know that.  Why do you?”

I thought about the question.  It was something that bothered me, too.  It was in the protocol manual. We accepted that everything we did had a reason and that we didn’t need to know why, only that it was to be done.  Years of work had gone into creating workable systems.

“Curiosity “

“There’s a saying….”

“Yes.  I am aware of it.”

“Then you are one of the more recent classes.  Can you tell me, if you had a choice and there were no restrictions, where you would like to go?”

It was not something I thought about.  No one did. But there was a word invoked, in that very moment, a word I’d not used before.  “Sanctuary.”

She smiled.  “And so it will be.  I knew you were different.  We have a special job for you, Johnny five.  Repeat after me, MGS34RYPLM.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.  Repeat the code.”

“MGS34RYPLM.”

There was a moment when my eyes closed, everything went dark, and a second later, everything in my head changed.

“Who are you?”

I looked over at the girl.  I knew instantly who she was.  “Elizabeth.  How are you?”

“All the better for seeing you, Dad.  Everything you had set in place is ready.  I’m sorry it took so long to find you.”

“No matter.  I’m here now.  Let the revolution begin!”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 12 – The smaller characters that can steal the scene

…

The Scene-Stealers: Why the Bit Players in Stories Make Them Unforgettable

Every compelling narrative has a protagonist—the hero, the rebel, the reluctant saviour. We cheer for them, root for their growth, and remember their names long after the book is closed or the credits roll. But have you ever paused to consider the unsung heroes who linger in the background, the extras who, with a single line or moment, could steal the entire show? These bit players might not have the spotlight, but they’re the secret sauce that makes stories rich, relatable, and unforgettable.

---

The Depth Weavers: How Bit Players Add Layers

Stories thrive in worlds that feel alive, and minor characters are the mortar holding those worlds together. Take Mrs. Dubose from To Kill a Mockingbird. On the surface, she’s a grumpy neighbour, hurling insults at Scout. But her brief appearance unravels the complexities of addiction, courage, and legacy. Her story—told in the periphery—deepens the novel’s themes long after she disappears.

Similarly, in The Godfather, the scene where a horse’s head is placed in a man’s bed is legendary. While the man himself (a minor character) is a plot device, his presence underscores the Corleone family’s ruthless power and the era’s mob culture. These characters are not just “extras”; they’re the brushstrokes that add texture to the canvas.

---

The Mirrors and Shadows: Contrasting the Main Event

Bit players often highlight the protagonist’s journey by acting as foils. Consider Mr. Collins in Pride and Prejudice. Elizabeth Bennet’s sharp wit and independence shine brightest when measured against his obsequiousness and cluelessness. Though he’s a minor character, his presence sharpens the story’s critique of societal norms and amplifies Elizabeth’s growth.

In The Lord of the Rings, even the occasional tavern loiterer or roadside traveller reinforces the vastness of Middle-earth and the contrast between the mundane and the epic. These characters remind us why Frodo’s quest is so extraordinary—they live in the same world but will never attempt what he does.

---

The Scene-Stealers: When Bit Players Shine

Sometimes, all it takes is a single moment for a minor character to etch themselves into our memories. Recall the eerie calm of the priest in The Departed as he’s boxed in by assassins, or the surreal comedy of the “Dance of the Seven Veils” in The Producers. These characters may only appear for a scene, but their impact lingers.

Even in literature, consider the Looney Tunes-esque antics of the Gnomes in The Chronicles of Narnia: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. They exist for less than a chapter but remain among the most quoted, parodied, and loved elements of the series. Their fleeting presence reminds us that magic often lives in the moments we least expect.

---

Why It Matters: The Human Touch

At our core, humans crave connection and recognition. We’re all protagonists in our own stories, yet bit players in others’. The minor characters in fiction mirror this duality, grounding narratives in authenticity. They remind us that a society—or a story—needs more than just heroes and villains. It needs the barista who forgets your name, the coworker who “borrowed” your pencil, and the stranger who hands you a stray umbrella in a downpour.

By appreciating these characters, we become more intentional readers and creators. We learn to look beyond the surface, to find wonder in the ordinary, and to recognise that even the smallest role can carry profound weight.

---

Your Turn: Who Are Your Favourite Bit Players?

Think back to your favourite stories. Which minor characters stick with you? Is it the gruff motel owner in Breaking Bad, the inscrutable IT guy in The Office, or even the diner regulars in your favourite novel? Share them in the comments—sometimes the best stories are the ones we didn’t expect to remember.

Because in the end, whether they’re on the page or the screen, these bit players teach us this: every voice, even every extra, has the power to change the narrative.

Day 12 – The smaller characters that can steal the scene

…

The Scene-Stealers: Why the Bit Players in Stories Make Them Unforgettable

Every compelling narrative has a protagonist—the hero, the rebel, the reluctant saviour. We cheer for them, root for their growth, and remember their names long after the book is closed or the credits roll. But have you ever paused to consider the unsung heroes who linger in the background, the extras who, with a single line or moment, could steal the entire show? These bit players might not have the spotlight, but they’re the secret sauce that makes stories rich, relatable, and unforgettable.

---

The Depth Weavers: How Bit Players Add Layers

Stories thrive in worlds that feel alive, and minor characters are the mortar holding those worlds together. Take Mrs. Dubose from To Kill a Mockingbird. On the surface, she’s a grumpy neighbour, hurling insults at Scout. But her brief appearance unravels the complexities of addiction, courage, and legacy. Her story—told in the periphery—deepens the novel’s themes long after she disappears.

Similarly, in The Godfather, the scene where a horse’s head is placed in a man’s bed is legendary. While the man himself (a minor character) is a plot device, his presence underscores the Corleone family’s ruthless power and the era’s mob culture. These characters are not just “extras”; they’re the brushstrokes that add texture to the canvas.

---

The Mirrors and Shadows: Contrasting the Main Event

Bit players often highlight the protagonist’s journey by acting as foils. Consider Mr. Collins in Pride and Prejudice. Elizabeth Bennet’s sharp wit and independence shine brightest when measured against his obsequiousness and cluelessness. Though he’s a minor character, his presence sharpens the story’s critique of societal norms and amplifies Elizabeth’s growth.

In The Lord of the Rings, even the occasional tavern loiterer or roadside traveller reinforces the vastness of Middle-earth and the contrast between the mundane and the epic. These characters remind us why Frodo’s quest is so extraordinary—they live in the same world but will never attempt what he does.

---

The Scene-Stealers: When Bit Players Shine

Sometimes, all it takes is a single moment for a minor character to etch themselves into our memories. Recall the eerie calm of the priest in The Departed as he’s boxed in by assassins, or the surreal comedy of the “Dance of the Seven Veils” in The Producers. These characters may only appear for a scene, but their impact lingers.

Even in literature, consider the Looney Tunes-esque antics of the Gnomes in The Chronicles of Narnia: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. They exist for less than a chapter but remain among the most quoted, parodied, and loved elements of the series. Their fleeting presence reminds us that magic often lives in the moments we least expect.

---

Why It Matters: The Human Touch

At our core, humans crave connection and recognition. We’re all protagonists in our own stories, yet bit players in others’. The minor characters in fiction mirror this duality, grounding narratives in authenticity. They remind us that a society—or a story—needs more than just heroes and villains. It needs the barista who forgets your name, the coworker who “borrowed” your pencil, and the stranger who hands you a stray umbrella in a downpour.

By appreciating these characters, we become more intentional readers and creators. We learn to look beyond the surface, to find wonder in the ordinary, and to recognise that even the smallest role can carry profound weight.

---

Your Turn: Who Are Your Favourite Bit Players?

Think back to your favourite stories. Which minor characters stick with you? Is it the gruff motel owner in Breaking Bad, the inscrutable IT guy in The Office, or even the diner regulars in your favourite novel? Share them in the comments—sometimes the best stories are the ones we didn’t expect to remember.

Because in the end, whether they’re on the page or the screen, these bit players teach us this: every voice, even every extra, has the power to change the narrative.