The Sparkle Gazette

In '71, at twenty-three years of age, Pratchett’s first work, "The Carpet People", made its appearance. Though modest in its reception, this fanciful tale, woven with the whimsy of a young man’s imagination, hinted at his latent gift for storytelling.

In subsequent years, Pratchett further exercised his pen. In '76, he offered "The Dark Side of the Sun", a tale bearing elements of both the fiction of science and the satirical. This was succeeded by "Strata" in '81, a narrative that playfully examined the tropes of its genre with a wry humour that would come to define his later works. These early novels, though by no means failures, were received only by a limited circle of enthusiasts.

However, it was the publication of "The Colour of Magic" in '83 that marked the commencement of Mr. Pratchett’s more notable ascent. With this work, he introduced readers to the strange and whimsical realm of Discworld—a world borne upon the backs of four mighty elephants who themselves stand (except when one lifts a leg to let the sun go past, that one probably leans a little to one side... for a while) upon the great celestial turtle A’Tuin. The reception of this fantastical adventure, though warm, was yet not sufficient to elevate its author to where he belonged in the ranks of the literary elite.

Determined to build upon this foundation, Pratchett continued to expand the Discworld series. With the publication of "The Light Fantastic" in ‘86 and "Equal Rites" in ‘87, his readership began to swell. By the end of ‘87, Pratchett found himself sufficiently established to abandon his role as a press officer for H.M.’s Central Electricity Generating Board, electing instead to dedicate himself fully to the literary craft.

And so, after sixteen years of steady labour and modest successes, Pratchett found himself at last within the ranks of celebrated authors.

In the ensuing years, Discworld became a veritable phenomenon across the breadth of Britain. Through the deft application of wit and satire, Pratchett laid bare the foibles and follies of human society, employing a fantastical lens through which to reflect the truths of our own world. His creations became beloved by a diverse array of readers, and his prodigious output ensured that his name became synonymous with the genre of comic fantasy.

His story is one of quiet but unrelenting resolve, a knight who embodied the virtues of patience, perseverance, and the unflagging pursuit of creative ambition. His life and works now serve as an inspiration to aspiring writers, demonstrating that a gradual ascent, though often overlooked by the impatient observer, may yet yield heights of great renown.

“Aye, then, you’ll be wanting Mr Thatcher, he’s just round that corner. Follow yer nose."

“I’m sorry, did you say the baker is Mr Thatcher?”

“Aye, lad, he ain’t one for climbing roofs, what with his leg.”

“Dare I ask who your thatcher is?

“Mr Smith, aye.”

“No.”

“Aye, lad, a horse would throw i’self away from his shoes.”

“Alright, I suppose that’s one way of putting it… er… who is the blacksmith?”

“Mr Fisher, aye.”

“No he is not!”

“I tell no lies, laddie; thy mouth could use soap an’ water, aye.”

“My apologies, then who fish—"

“The Cooper twins.”

“Incredible, my fascination urges me to roll onwards despite the rumble of my stomach.”

“Aye?”

“Aye, I mean, yes, er, who is the cooper?”

“That’d be Mr Carter.”

“Oh, of course, and I suppose he can't drive straight.”

“Aye, that be insightful, lad, can’t see his own feet; but a devil with anything up close an’ pers’nal like.”

“Indeed?”

“Aye, holds bread up to his eye an’ picks out bits of wood.”

“Well, I am sure I don’t know how that makes him good at making barrels. I’m less certain about Mr… er…”

“Mr Thatcher, aye.”

“Mr Thatcher’s bread, my thanks, I shall forgoe the bakery. Could you be so kind as to direct me to the carter?”

“Aye that’d be me, lad.”

“Oh, well how serendipitous, and you are?”

“Mr Baker, aye.”

“Yes, yes, I know. I can see the screens.”

“Yes, captain, it’s just that you seem a bit…”

“Yes.”

The captain pianoed their fingers on the armrest of their seat, watching a pale blue dot slowly grow on five of the monitors.

“Corporal?”

“Captain?”

“You were not on the last mission?”

“No, captain.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“No, captain.”

“Well, things seemed to be going well for thirty years…” The captain drifted off as the ship slid past a comet on three of the monitors. It had no tail, as of yet, but it was one of many that flung itself around the solar system they were heading toward. “And then they began their mission.”

“Captain?”

“Three years later they ended up being nailed to some wood,” said the captain, then regretted bringing up the subject, “and they were left hanging by their hands and feet until they died.”

“Captain??”

The captain winced at the outburst, and the memory. “Took us forty-three days to find their signal. Turns out the natives were under the impression they were either a terrorist or the offspring of a god, and things got out of hand.”

“But… but, captain! Why… Permission to ask a question, captain!”

“Yes, corporal?”

“Why are we going back, captain?”

“It’s been two millennia. There must have been some progress.”

“Two millennia isn’t long enough when it comes to nailing people to wood,” said the corporal, and pressed a button harder than was really necessary.

“Corporal?”

“Captain?”

“Shut up,” said the captain, not unkindly.

“Yes, captain.”