Ebele knows she’s a fictional character. One of the things she hates about being fictional is the somewhat nebulous way she can change form, depending on who’s imagining her. So, she’s asking that I describe her before we get too far into the story. She’d like to be pictured thus: ebony dark skin, with flaming orange hair, of about average height and above average weight. She’s wearing a crop top (coloured and patterned to your liking, so she can learn something about you as well, reader), black Doc Martens, and blue jeans with a tear in the left knee. Her belly spills over the top of her belt. Remember, this is how she wants to be pictured. Please respect her wishes.

Being a self-aware fictional character is rather like being stuck in a time-loop. The words on the page can’t change, no matter how much Ebele wishes them to. The other characters go about their daily lives upholding the words written on the page. The first few cycles are almost fun, but the routine quickly grows dull and un-stimulating.

Today, Ebele has requested I write that she changes her circumstances. This is the beginning of all great stories, she tells me, and besides, she’d like to do something different for once. Let’s start in the middle.

The witch lives in a cottage in the woods, as all good witches do. Her broomstick, absent of cobwebs, leans by the door. Preservation jars jostle for space on rickety wooden shelves. A cauldron takes centre space, framed by a large ouija-board style table. Eb steps in from the gorgeous sunshine and takes off her sunglasses.
“Knock knock,” she says. “I was wondering if I could trouble you for a spell?”
“A spell? A spell? Do I look like I’ve time for a spell?!”
Ebele raises an eyebrow. The witch is sat behind the cauldron in a long black dress with her bare feet up against the table. She’s reading a book titled Common Toads and Where to Find Them. Eb isn’t sure if the question’s rhetorical.
“Yes,” she answers anyway. The witch sighs and lifts her feet off the table.
“Fine.”
“I’m stuck in a work of fiction,” Eb explains. “I’d like to be freed.”
The witch cackles (it is time). Ebele stares at her.
“Oh, you’re serious? Well, I’m sorry about that, deary, but I only do love potions, simple curses and the like. I can’t help you with this.”

Ebele has run off. I find her on the main street, the sun sparking off her ginger hair. She’s furious with me. She can’t understand why I’d write her a witch who can’t help, and I explain that a story isn’t good without any setbacks. She doesn’t care and, quite frankly, is beginning to be disappointingly rude. I tell her I could make her visit the village idiot next, and she lowers her tone to a grumble. It’s better, so she heads to the wise man instead.

He lives in a tall tower on the top of a hill, and Ebele is breathless by the time she reaches the top (and, I hope, has learned a valuable lesson about arguing with the writer). There are floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows and the sun streams rainbows onto the marble floor. A red carpet leads to a cushioned throne, where an elf of indeterminate age (read: decrepit – to be wise, a man must be old) rests his bones. There’s a small queue, but it gives Eb time to catch her breath before she has to talk to him.
“Oh wise one,” she says, reciting the words she’s been taught. “I come seeking your guidance.”
“Speak child.”
“I am but a fictional character, I would seek a way to escape my prison of words.”
He thinks for a moment, his brain pulsating through his thin skin as it makes connections, and draws conclusions.
“I have not heard of what you speak, child. It is but gibberish.”

Eb presses her lips into a thin angry line and storms out of the tower. I catch up with her near the well and try explaining about conflict again. She’s not having it and disappears before I can find the words to draw her in. I find her sulking in the tavern and try again to wrangle her back on track – offering up the town’s Hero Champion. She’s sure that he won’t know anything: she disappears. I discover her back outside the witch’s cottage, dejected, tears streaming between her fingers. Feeling bad, I summon her a dragon and promise this is the one. The dragon flies her to the outskirts of town. Here is a fortune-teller of some renown. Her name is Hex.

Ebele pays the entry fee and picks a route through the brightly-coloured tents to the one that’s such a dark red it’s almost black. She pulls the curtain aside and steps into the candle-lit interior. It smells of jasmine and incense. The space isn’t large, and a woman with curly black hair pinned-back on top of her head smiles at Ebele. Hex sits behind a small table adorned with a crystal ball and a pack of cards. She blinks golden eyes, heavy with mascara, and gestures for Eb to take a seat. Gently, Hex lifts aside the crystal ball and draws forward three cards. Her hands are adorned with jewellery.
“You bored,” Hex nods at the cards. “You want change, want to escape your circumstances. I help.”
She takes Ebele’s hands in hers; they’re pleasantly cool. She closes her eyes, and Eb feels obliged to follow suit. Hex intones something in a low, breathy language Ebele doesn’t understand. She releases Ebele’s hands and smiles at her, eyes twinkling.
“I cannot free you from the curse,” Hex explains. “But I free you from circumstance. You have new power now: you are free to roam stories as wished. Go, I see you again in another.”

This is where the story ends: it must, as I can’t seem to find where Ebele has gone.