Oh Sir Pratchett,
Cannot believe you're gone. I looked at your books on the floor of the living room this morning and couldn't fathom this silly roundworld without you in it.
Although we never met in real life, we certainly met in the Discworld. All those places. You remember. Uberwald, where we watched Sam Vimes run from the werewolves… Lancre, where Granny Weatherwax posted a sign that clearly said she wasn’t dead and vampires took over the kingdom; Death’s Domain, where even the carrots were black; and Ankh-Morpork (we were there just yesterday, watching the Alchemists blow themselves up (again), the old Post Office burning to the ground, and Mr. Fusspot buzz across the floor with his new chewtoy (as the grin creeps across my face again.)
We went there, as accidental tourists, like Twoflower, and wound up staying for days. The laughs were many and in all the wrong locales-church, for example (I tried to hold in the snickering and just couldn't do it. God has a sense of humor-he understands.) I nearly drowned reading the bit about Pucci being able to flounce better than a fat turkey on a trampoline. People wonder what I’m laughing at and I don’t even care what they see. It’s hilarious, and I’m going to laugh. You would want it that way.
The real world will miss you terribly. You have changed the way I read, the way I write, and the way I see our stupid old world. Why can’t it be flat and on the back of four elephants and a turtle (gender unknown?) Why can’t we have a Librarian who’s an ape (I’d be out of a job, but it’d be fun anyhow.)
Your stories are a light in my dark little world. My life isn't easy right now; I can run off to Discworld and not come back for awhile.
See, now I’m crying. Why am I crying? I should be laughing. You’re no longer miserable and here; you’re wherever Death walked you offstage to this morning and you’re out of the theatre and into the light of a bright Ankh-Morporkian morning, off to meet Vetinari and Drumknott for a cup of tea. And that’s as it should be.
Farewell, you crazy, brilliant bastard.
Ta,
Bec Koshak
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