To celebrate this important event, this week's post is a sort of retrospective. It is also the fourth entry in the Bartholomew Templeton saga (all equally unrelated). So enjoy this story, thanks for reading, and keep coming back as the blog begins year number two!
Bartholomew
Templeton is dead. No, I’m not
saying that he will die. Or that
he wants to die. Or that he’s
contemplating the nature of death.
Simply, Bartholomew Templeton has died.
New
travels quickly in the literary world, so all the other fictional characters
knew of his passing shortly after the event. People and things that are not real tend to stick together;
they believe it will help fight off any speculation regarding their
existence. Therefore, when one of
their own goes on to the next stage of his or her life, the other characters
feel an obligation to pay their respects.
Such was the case with Bartholomew Templeton, who had lived an
adventurous life and met many a character through his imaginary travels.
By
the time the coffin containing his cooling body was brought out for viewing,
there was already a long line of visitors that snaked out of The Town, over The
Bridge, and through The Woods.
These men, women, monsters, children (though in some cases that would be
redundant), rhetorical ideas, sentient objects, personified animals, and
omniscient narrators were prepared to wait as long as needed so they could pay
their respects to their lost friend.
Most of them did not have anything occupying their schedules anyway;
only a lucky few had to get back to their homes to prepare for sequels. The rest had no one waiting on them,
either because their stories were forgotten, no one cared about them any more,
or their reviews were so poor that no one read their tales in the first
place. The latter were a
particularly bitter group.
(Too
many characters had nice things to say about Bartholomew to detail them all
here, so it will have to suffice to only relate the especially heartfelt
messages.)
The
first visitor (that we care to talk about) was massive. If it stretched out all its limbs fully
and added their lengths together, it could reach the Moon. This was not a metaphor; it was wise
enough to be able to calculate this statistic. It approached the casket as quickly as it could. Though it truly desired to share its
memories of Bartholomew, it also desperately wanted (and needed) to return to
the water. This was the
all-knowing Squid.
“I
know you lived a good life, Bartholomew Templeton,” began the Squid wisely,
“because I know everything. I have
lived through many a literary figure death, but yours has impacted me the most
emotionally. You were better written,
were in better-told stories, and spoke better dialogue than most other
characters. And I’m not just
saying that because I’m feeling sympathetic. It’s the truth.”
A
tear glistened in the Squid’s gigantic eye. The water droplet fell with a large splash, soaking the next
characters in line.
“Let
me share one last piece of advice with you,” continued the Squid. “Never let death get in the way of your
life. After all, it’s only life
that gets in the way of death.
Farewell, Bartholomew Templeton.”
Without looking back, the Squid slithered off and sunk back into the
conveniently placed Sea.
If
the Squid was humongous, the next visitor was miniscule. Well, actually the Squid was
giant-sized and the next character was pretty tiny. This was Mr. McGee. He was a flea.
“Oh
Bart, my friend,
That
it should end
Is
oh so sad
And
makes me mad.
For
you are gone,
But
life moves on;
It
does not wait
If
you are late.
I
won’t forget
Your
great big net
That
almost caught
Me
with a swat.
Good
times we had,
They
were not bad.
I’ll
miss you, Bart,
In
my flea heart.”
With
his poem eulogy concluded, Mr. McGee buzzed off back to his own story
world. He knew if he stayed any
longer he would break down in tears.
And rhyming is much more difficult when you’re hysterical.
The
final character that came to say one last goodbye was a hideous monster. He was so ugly and frightening that he
purposefully came at the end of the procession so no one would have to see
him. Also, he had a nasty
proclivity for gobbling up humans that got in his way, so he did not have many
friends in the world of fiction.
Bartholomew had been one of the lucky few that had become acquaintances
with the Gewgaw.
The
Gewgaw cleared its throat, then began its prepared speech:
“Bartholomew
Templeton. I did not eat you. In fact, no one did. I’d say that means you lived a full
life. Unfortunately, it was still
cut short. Such is the cruel way
of the world and writers.
“I
knew you when you were just a young fictional character. You matured into a fantastic old
fictional character. I remember
when you heard you would be in a sequel.
I’m glad I witnessed that momentous occasion. But I thought you would keep churning the stories out for
eternity. It never crossed my mind
that you might not be with us forever.
“I
hid under bridges while you confronted the world. You were a great character, and that’s not even coming from
your creator. I hope you rest
peacefully in fiction heaven, Bartholomew Templeton. Farewell.”
The
Gewgaw blinked its yellow eyes to fight back tears. It uncomfortably chewed on its sharp claws, unsure of how to
proceed now with its life and story.
Just as the Gewgaw was about to return to its home to eat more
unsuspecting passersby, all of the characters that had been to see Bartholomew
Templeton that day appeared. They
had not left the Gewgaw by itself after all. The characters approached, arms around each other, as they
encircled the Gewgaw and Bartholomew.
“Who
would do such a cruel thing?” lamented a cow.
“I
don’t know,” replied a citizen of Atlantis. “Only someone heartless would let such a good character as
Bartholomew Templeton pass away.”
“I
hope that person is miserable for the rest of his life,” added one Mr. Dootley.
“I
agree,” said Bartholomew Templeton.
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