OK, so this is very much disorganized and out of the blue, but I've been thinking of what my character Barnaby would look like if he were "translated" into a human. I definitely like the idea of him being plus-sized -- he *is* a big sheepdog with all-white fur. What are your thoughts about him being Black or POC?
{Tumblr ruined the image quality -- not quite sure how to crop the image either, haha. I was inspired by @partycoffin with their series "Welcome Home" as well, but I had no idea the name Barnaby was taken until I saw fan art of Barnaby Beagle, lol. [As a side note: I adore Clown's ideas! Highly recommend you check them out!].)
So, my characters have been living in my head rent-free again — and for some reason, my Walt Disney autism brain has decided to fixate on voice claims.
On one hand, it’s a lovely way to explore character development — not just for the three silly cartoon animals I’ve been working on lately, but for my cast of characters as a whole. Voice gives texture. Voice gives nuance. It’s like suddenly hearing characters in color.
On the other hand, however, I can’t stop thinking about finding the “perfect fits". You know the kind — the ones that make you go, “Oh, there you are.”
That being said, does anyone have any insights as to what Barnaby, Lucy, or Marcel could sound like? I'm curious about your thoughts and would love to hear your ideas!
Also, I thought I might drop these in, as well -- little character descriptions that descriptions are beneath the cut.
Barnaby Fleece: A cheerful sheepdog with a heart as big as the stage itself. Barnaby is a warm, plus-sized sheepdog with a gentle face and slightly unkempt floofy fur that makes him look perpetually huggable. Once the beloved host of a children’s variety show, Barnaby carries the energy of a performer who still believes in the power of play. He has a nurturing, fatherly presence and a soft spot for misfits and dreamers. Though naturally optimistic, he is autistic, often masking his sensory sensitivities to keep others at ease. He adores storytelling, playing dress-up, and quiet tea breaks. Barnaby sees the world through a lens of make-believe and kindness — the kind of character who'd hand you a crayon and say, “Let's made something beautiful!”
Barnaby’s voice: Earnest, playful, a little old-fashioned but deeply sincere. Though he often plays the role of the silly one, there’s a quiet wisdom behind his speech and mannerisms. With Barnaby, nothing is exaggerated, just tender.
Lucy LaRose: A petite jet-black poodle with iconic poise and a flair for the dramatic. Lucy is elegance and imagination captured in the form of a cartoon canine — always dressed to impress, always with a rose in her hair. She’s the theatrical soul of the trio, once choreographing elaborate skits and musical numbers with effortless grace. She thrives on creativity and aesthetics, with a lifelong love of French culture and romanticism. She's expressive, passionate, and incredibly tender when it counts — a dreamer with strong opinions, an eye for detail, and a heart that beats in waltz time.
Lucy’s voice: Elegant, theatrical, with a British melodic lilt — eloquent in speech, often carried with the poise of a Hollywood Starlet. Serves as a homage to actress Dame Julie Andrews and the late French singer Edith Piaf.
Marcel Clawthorne: An auburn tabby cat with dry wit, deep wounds, and an even deeper resilience. Marcel is the sarcastic backstage tech who somehow got roped into being a co-star. With rumpled fur and eyes that say “I’ve seen things,” he’s the realist of the group, often balancing out Barnaby’s softness and Lucy’s flair with biting humor. He’s not unkind — just deeply guarded. Formerly a stagehand turned reluctant performer, Marcel hides a fondness for old records, solitary evenings, and people who make him laugh without trying. Beneath the sarcasm lies a loyal friend and fiercely intelligent mind. He doesn't like the spotlight, but he’ll burn it down to protect the people he loves.
Marcel’s voice: A raspy mid-tenor with a sardonic, slightly nasal edge. Marcel’s voice is dry, quick, and always sounds like he’s a little unimpressed — until he forgets himself and actually laughs. Inspired by the late singer David Bowie and the actor Alan Rickman — if they were cats, of course.
Hi! So, I’ve been wanting to post this for a bit. I’ve been writing about some characters for a while, and wanted to challenge myself and place my writing skills to the test. Any constructive on the story so far or how I can improve would be greatly appreciated.
Tags: @miss-freak // @silly-lil-lee
Son of the Alleyway
Marcel Clawthorne never spoke about the alley.
Not really.
Sure, he’d toss a few quips now and then. Little jabs. Streetwise bravado.
“Gourmet leftovers.”
“Dodge-the-boot.”
It worked. Mostly. People heard him, chuckled, thought they had him figured out. Tough guy. Scrapper. One of those cats who wore their scars like badges. But they never really looked.
Lucy LaRose — damn that perceptive poodle — she saw it.
One second, he’d be still, poised to retreat, and the next, he’d flick his tail and roll his eyes, tossing her the same slick lines.
“City cat, Lucy. Grit’s in the blood, you know.”
It sounded cool. Urban. Romantic. Perhaps it was.
But his body told another story. All angles. Jutting corners. Tight sinew pulled thin over bone. His tabby fur, once a supple auburn, now clung to his frame like damp cloth. His left ear bore the mark of some half-forgotten battle — a ragged tear through cartilage that never healed. His voice carried damage — low and lacquered, as though dredged from tar and shadow.
He moved like smoke. Carried the scent of old ash. Blinked like something that had crawled from fire — and learned to plaster on smiles.
Marcel flinched when the laughter started. Not real laughter — that was fine. He could take jeers. Hisses. Silence. But fake laughter? The canned kind? The kind piped in from speakers or audiences’ uncertain throats? That was cruelty wrapped in a bow.
The theater was an organism.
A living, breathing thing.
It groaned in the small hours, settling into its frame like an old man easing into a favorite chair. Pipes rattled like ancient bones. Walls whispered of a thousand shows. And the stage — God, the stage — it felt like a mouth, always open, always hungry, always eager to swallow the next poor soul who stumbled into its orbit.
Marcel’s dressing room sat at the end of a long hallway, tucked behind a door that never quite closed and a cracked mirror that hurled one’s reflection back in jagged, hateful shards.
The room was too clean. No cluttered color like Lucy’s, where paintbrushes lived in teacups and red scarves hung like vines. No echoes of Barnaby Fleece — that sheepdog soft with stories — no worn books, no framed photos, no threadbare toys in corners.
Marcel’s space was sterile. Bare shelves. A spotless counter.
And candles. Dozens of them.
Tea lights, tapers, stubby votives. Tucked into every edge, jammed into every crack, as though trying to pin back the dark with birthday wishes. The kind of thing that would’ve been a fire hazard in any other building, but here — here, they burned on.
Even in broad daylight, under the harsh, buzzing fluorescents, the candles burned on.
Lucy once asked him why so many; her nose twitched at the scent of burnt beeswax.
“Just like the smell,” Marcel said.
She hadn’t believed him, but she let it lie.
…
Then came the tape.
Barnaby’s confession. Not spoken — not yet. Just sealed in its plastic tomb.
Marcel hovered by the window, arms drawn tight across his chest, tail flicking in short, impatient strokes.
Outside, the city convulsed. Sirens wailed like grieving mothers. A garbage truck wheezed around the corner. Somewhere down the block, a voice screamed something — salvation? Damnation? Who knew?
Lucy was curled on the couch — or what passed for one. She looked folded in, drawn smaller than she had any right to be. Her black fur clung in tufts to her cheeks and elbows, once sleek, now dulled by sleep-sweat and something else. The red dress bunched at her knees, its hem frayed, the fabric a stage-lit bruise. The rose headpiece — always perfect, always poised — hung sideways, one petal torn at the edge, another curled in on itself.
Her paw lay open on the tape’s case. Not gripping. Not reaching. Just still. Nails grazed the battered plastic, tapping every so often, like a clock wound too tightly.
The VHS looked like it had been through hell. Plastic warped and blistered, as though singed over flame. Corners, sharp and confident, smoothed to a bone-white sheen.
A strip of red electrical tape clung to the spine, slapped over the top, crooked and too short, the ends peeling like a fresh scab. Adhesive bled around the edges, pulling at the threads of whatever original label was torn off — ripped clean, departing only dried glue and stubborn paper fibers.
Lucy murmured in her sleep — just fragments at first. Muffled syllables, uncertain shapes. A child’s name.
Then Marcel caught one word.
“Story.”
It slipped from her lips like a spell, lush yet cracked — Barnaby’s word.
Lucy said it like a prayer — or a plea.
Marcel didn’t wake her. Didn’t move to her side. Just slipped out the door with a cigarette from his coat pocket, flat and bent, like it was waiting.
He hadn’t smoked in years — not since before the show — but the weight of it always felt right. Solid. Familiar. Like a bluff rolled beneath the tongue.
Neon hissed across the street. Something wet slithered past. The wind, nippy and unkind, whispered perverse secrets.
Then it hit him — that smell.
Banana peel. Urine. The tang of sour milk.
Marcel’s claws pierced the paper like it had insulted him. Tobacco crumbled under his grip.
A rat skittered across the sidewalk, squeaking like it knew his name.
The alley had a way of calling him home — it always had.
Behind him, the stage door creaked.
Lucy’s voice followed — tender, sleep-rough.
“We’ll find him, won’t we?”
Marcel didn’t answer. Just stared into the dark like it owed him something and let the silence count his dues.
