Author's note: This won't be very long, because I don't think it should be. I found out about Sir Terry's passing during my lunch at work while I was listening to an audio book of "Thud". Suffice to say, this is the first thing that I did when I was told. It just felt right. He was, without a doubt, my favorite author, and while I know that I can't hold a candle to his style, I can make an attempt out of respect. And I know that they have already done a poetic ending with his twitter account (which made me a very complex version of sad/happy to read), but this is my version. To Sir Terry Pratchett, without whom literature will never be the same again.
Sir Terry Pratchett awoke and pressed away from the bed. He looked down, and there he was still lying there.
"Ah, so that's what that feels like," he said. He gazed around at his family and then at the cat, which fixed him with a glare. A finger raised and then moved side to side, the cat followed it. "Knew it."
Chuckling, the incorporeal man took a step forward, and was dragged back. He looked down and around, this time noticing the faint blue cord that anchored him.
SORRY, said a voice behind him. MY LAST APPOINTMENT RAN.
"Don't you mean 'ran late'?" replied Terry, a slow grin growing upon ethereal features. There was a snick and the cord vanished.
NO.
"Oh, well that's an embuggerance."
INDEED.
The two stared for some time, like pen pals meeting for the first time, neither sure how to continue. After a while, the author hopped off the bed and strode up to his silent companion, the smile never wavering.
"Hello."
HELLO, said Death, offering an arm. I HAVE BEEN LOOKING FORWARD TO THIS. METAPHORICALLY OF COURSE.
"Of course," he replied as he took it. The duo turned, and the cat continued to stare. "So, what now?"
THAT, said Death as he guided the man to the nearest wall, IS UP TO YOU.
The pair strode through, moving together like old friends, and on the bed, the cat purred.
