Henry sighed and took off his wife's dress. At first he had struggled with the unfamiliar fasteners, but now he barely needed to pay attention to what his fingers were doing. With exquisite care he hung the blue silk gown on its hanger and replaced it in the closet as far from the other dresses as the bar would allow.

The blue silk was the last remaining clothing that still retained any of her scent. Wearing that dress, standing just close enough to the mirror to cut off the grey hair and deep wrinkles of his face and neck, smelling her scent, he could pretend just for a while that she was still alive.

Henry knew that his children worried about him. There were days that Henry worried, but they would becoming less frequent. He had made peace with death. He was well on his way to making peace with life too.

The old man picked his cane off the doorknob and hobbled out the door to the kitchen. He made tea, letting it steep in the pot the way that Georgia had always insisted upon. He put the toast on and set out the jam jars. When everything was set he sat down and poured his tea.

The knock on the door came just as he finished his tea and ate the last bite of toast and gooseberry jam.

“Are you ready Grandpa?” His grand-daughter asked as she looked at her watch. She tapped her foot impatiently as he carefully rinsed his dishes and set them in the rack to dry. “Were you at it again?”

“Jane,” said Henry “I am your Grandfather, not your child. I do not answer to you.” He picked up his cane. “It is time to go.

My name's Haruki. Haruki Nakashima. Haruki means 'clear up', 'sunlight' and 'radiance'. I guess my parents got that wrong; I'm usually the one making the frickin' mess.

Born in a small town near Hiroshima, my family and me fled to England during WWII. I was only seven. I remember my parents dying before I hit puberty. I remember being homeless, alone, desperate. I remember learning English day by day; I mean, it was a necessity, how could I survive in a country with no means of communication?

Currently, I work for a woman. I don't know her name; I don't think anybody does. I do what she says; protect her, support her, and kill for her. The killing, sometimes it seems wrong, but what can I do? I live in her house, eat her food and breathe her air. She spent five years, maybe six, training me in martial arts, preparing me for my future. Back then I didn't really know what lay ahead. All I know is right now I am a warrior, a silent killer- an assassin.

I guess you need to know what I look like? I'll be wearing my uniform; black, traditional, elegant. I'll have a weapon too; usually my Samurai sword, probally a small gun, too. My hair is raven black, and somewhat long. It's long enough to blow in the wind, but short enough to allow me to hide myself within the shadows. Ironically, my eyes are a gentle blue, somewhat soothing, and always glimmering. That's probally where my parents got my name from.

Me? Radiant?

Hmph.

Grumpy is the first word that comes to mind in describing Chester. But it goes beyond just grumpiness. Chester is not a friendly person. He complains incessantly about anything and everything. Some would say that he is outright mean; saying what he thinks at any given moment without regard of the feelings of those around him.

He’s not particularly intimidating in stature, his small frame is bent forward a bit and he relies on an ancient relic of a cane to help support him. His frame might be described as thin and wiry if it weren’t for the loose skin that hangs from his arms; remnants of muscles in youth that have gone to waste with age.

He wears a pair of thick glasses that cause his eyes to look four times larger than they really are, and yet he squints behind them more often than not.

But for all his faults the man has a good heart. It has been whispered here and there that he has a soft spot for children, though noone who hears that believes it. He’s never turned down a request for help, in any way that he can; though the people who ask are few and far between,

The truth is, Chester is lonely. His wife died years ago and sometimes he really misses her. They never had children and he is all alone. Sometimes the only way he can get someone to talk to him is to behave unfavorably.

Lucy is in her early twenties. Her hair is dyed the color of absolute darkness. Many a man has mentioned that Lucy is a pleasure to gaze upon. But it’s pretty rare that anyone goes beyond eye contact with the woman.

If her body language is to be believed, she is far from what one would consider to be pleasant company. Rarely does anyone attempt to engage her in conversation.

It’s not all her fault though, really; her behavior is learned.

Lucy is deaf and mute.

The guys who find her pleasing to look at seem to be repulsed by her inability to communicate; as though the handicap is a plague that should be avoided at all costs.

Communication is difficult for her, no one seems to know sign language and because of this she carries a little spiral bound notepad with her everywhere she goes.

Lucy is a talented artist; many of her paintings have been praised by art critics and she is able to make a rather decent living off of this; but all the money in the world can’t buy the one thing that she wants most - understanding.

Lucy has no family left; her father abandoned the family shortly after she was born, her brother moved to the coast, and her mother died a little over a year ago. Not surprisingly, she feels isolated. Despite what you may be thinking, her feelings of isolation are not due to her absence of family or her handicap, but rather because of the close mindedness of the people around her and their unwillingness to accept her as a person.

I’m having a bit of trouble with my friend Laurence. I’m trying to get him to join a band, but he just doesn’t think he’ll fit in. Guys in bands are too cool for people like me, he reckons.

Poor Laurie is the most b***hin’ bass player you’ll ever meet - to hear him play is like a revelation - but the guy needs a total charisma transplant. He’s 23, but he looks like he could be 18 or 40, and while the rest of us from high school have started thinking about proper jobs, Laurie’s still working at Kmart. His hair is lank and thinning, his moonface always wears an expression between fear and bemusement and he trudges around, dragging his feet and stooping his shoulders. He’s a short guy, and he always looks pudgy, no matter how much he weighs or what he wears. And while we’re on the topic of what he wears, don’t get me started on his dress sense . . . put it this way, he usually looks best in his Kmart uniform.

But give this guy a bass, and he plays like God. No matter what style, he’ll not only play it, he’ll make it sound like the best thing you’ve ever heard. He makes everything else sound lame. He got a studio gig last year for some jazz singer’s demo tape, and everyone who heard it was gobsmacked. He got a few offers for more gigs after that, but he didn’t have the confidence to take them up. He won’t listen to me when I tell him he’s more than gifted; he gives me a hundred and one excuses why he’d never get anywhere, but it’s all rubbish.

The guy’s a genius. It’s such a shame he’s got no guts.

Probably the most notable characteristic of Albert is that he is dead.

He wasn’t always this way though, he was once a living breathing person like you or I. But that all changed when he died. Since that time he has not been alive, not even for a little bit.

There’s no way to be sure how long Albert has been dead, time seems to pass differently for the deceased. Memories seem to fade as well, and he is no longer able to recall exactly how he died; only that he is dead. His lack of knowledge can sometimes lead to intense moments of grief for him. Did he have a family? Should he miss them, do they miss him?

Albert isn’t entirely sure who he was, only knows who he is. And who he is, is a lonely and lost spirit with no memory of his life save for a few flash images; faint hints of his past without any real clues.

Somehow he is connected to one of the other characters in this story.

The level of interaction Albert has with the other characters is entirely up to you; just as in real life, few people are able to see/hear/interact with spirits and it would not be entirely implausible for the entire scene to be written without a single interaction from the other characters.

To those who can see him, Albert is dressy in appearance, wearing a suit jacket and tie, dress pants and shoes (or whatever the equivalent is in your setting).

Madeira finished combing the long black hair that was her biggest vanity. It set her green eyes off perfectly. She admired her figure in the mirror. She didn't really need the corset to accentuate her waist and...other assets. Putting on her green gown she made sure that just the right amount of cleavage was showing. Men would watch her with tongues hanging out. It meant that her hands were not being observed. They were free to pick pockets, palm cards and do whatever else she needed them to do to make her living.

She walked over to the overflowing jewelery box and selected some diamonds for ears and throat. Flesh for the men, stone for the women, with those allies she was unstoppable. The young woman smiled at herself in the mirror, not happy with the result she practiced some different smiles until she found one that pleased her.

Madeira stuck her head out the door.

“Jimmy, are they ready yet?”

“Pretty close, miss.” replied the old man. “You look fine tonight.”

“Thanks.” she said and pirouetted for him. “Everything in place?”

“You are going to give this old man heart failure.”

“You are sweet.” Madeira said and kissed him on the cheek.

She walked down the hall to the door. She could hear the babble of voices on the other side of the door. As long as she had been doing this, she still felt the butterflies in her stomach. Nervousness was good. It kept her sharp. She couldn't afford any mistakes. Madeira took a deep breath and let it out slowly then another. The butterflies lessened and her knees firmed. She held her head high and pushed the door open. Her public awaited her.

- young woman in her twenties

- short blond hair, always kind of messy

- wears what she likes, even if it’s not fashionable

- sassy, in-your-face attitude

- cares deeply about her friends, always tries to help out

- has a pet turtle that she found one day. It’s very bad-tempered and always snaps at her, probably because she often forgets to feed it.

- hides a secret sorrow that the date she missed three months ago because she was running late was her soulmate, her one chance for true love, and that no one else will ever truly understand her

- kind of squeamish, won’t even pierce her ears

- completely obsessed by the Chekhov play “Uncle Vanya.” Firmly convinced it is the greatest work of art ever. Constantly trying to get other people to read it or see it, likes to drop references to it into her conversations whenever she gets a chance.

- medium height, build

- is mute, so all her communication is done through sign language. Can hear just fine, though.

- a little clumsy, but is good-natured about it.

Name: Dana

Overview:
Dana has well... problems. She is pathetically socially inept and has little control over her inhibitions. She simply doesn’t act the way she should in normal society.
Orphaned in her early teens, she comes from money, and still keeps her huge inheritance in a bank account she doesn’t want to touch. No wonder why. Her parents were rich snobs, owners of a winery who treated her like a possession to be shown off, like a living piece of artwork. She only became important to them when they wanted to show her off. Otherwise she was largely misunderstood, neglected and hopelessly ignored.
She is DESPERATE for a man, but due to her social incapability, she is hopelessly doomed to have men run away from her. At least partially aware of her inability to keep a guy (or anyone), she has resorted to stalking, figuring out that if she can learn about the guy she can adjust herself and get him.
When she’s not stalking, she spends most of her time hiding her house destroying something or other. She has even dedicated a room especially for taking out her frustrations. It is a mess of splattered paint, destroyed life-sized voodoo dolls, broken glass, wood, and other objects. The room itself is a representation of her mental status. Completely messed up.

Personality: Look up borderline personality disorder – that’s her in a nutshell.

Appearance: Cyndi-Lauper-red short anime style wild hair. Thin, petite. Wears mostly black, dresses up goth but mostly is seen wearing more casual tops, shorts and knee length boots.

Interests: Men.

Job: Morgue technician.

Life goal: To meet a guy that actually likes her.

Ivan leant against the wall, hidden by the depths of a moonless night. He lit himself another cigarette. There was an edginess, a veiled threat in the ease in which he held his lofty, slender frame. The smoke travelled up, collecting briefly under the brim of his black fedora, concealing a hard, slender face, sallowed by years of perpetual movement and the manic, stimulant-ridden days of his youth.

With his cigarette hanging at the edge of his skinny lips, he straightened his black suit, brushing off any traces of dust from the road and checking the flick knife concealed within his sleeve. He still had enemies, and he still had a job to do.

Absent-mindedly, he scratched at the deep scar on his chin. His face contained a million stories of a life lived forever on the periphery, and yet his eyes, sunken, cold and grey-blue, gave away nothing: not a clue about the things they had seen, the things he had lost, or the rage that still simmered quietly in the background, underpinning his existence.

He crushed the spent cigarette underfoot and paused a while before lighting the next, waiting for the clock to strike three. He wondered for how many years could he sustain this existence; only recently he noticed the first signs of grey hair around his temple and it began to concern him that he’d lived so long . . .