The Stitching at the Seam

Hello All:

The concept of the "Doppelgänger" has haunted human folklore for centuries, usually as a dark omen of one’s impending demise. However, the idea of a "Felt-Gänger"—a parallel version of ourselves stitched from fleece and stuffed with polyester—adds a layer of surrealist whimsy to the transition from this life to the next.

Jim Henson’s original Kermit the Frog was actually constructed from his mother's discarded spring coat and two halves of a ping-pong ball. It’s a testament to the idea that even the most iconic souls can be born from the most mundane materials, much like the strange transition our protagonist is about to face.

The Stitching at the Seam

Arthur Penhaligon did not expect the end to be so quiet. There was no bright tunnel, no choir of angels, and certainly no review of his life’s regrets. Instead, there was a sudden, jarring pop, like a bubble bursting, followed by the sensation of being hoisted upward by an invisible hand. When his eyes finally adjusted, he wasn't in a hospital room or a celestial meadow. He was standing in a hallway that looked suspiciously like the backstage of a 1970s variety show, draped in heavy crimson velvet.

The air smelled of cedar shavings and hot stage lights. Arthur looked down at his hands, relieved to see they were still flesh and bone, though they felt strangely heavy. As he took a tentative step forward, a door at the end of the hall creaked open. A figure stepped out, and Arthur’s heart—which he was fairly certain had stopped beating minutes ago—gave a phantom thud of pure, unadulterated confusion.

Standing before him was Arthur. Or rather, it was a three-foot-tall version of Arthur made entirely of tan felt. The puppet had the same receding hairline made of wispy grey yarn, the same oversized plastic spectacles perched on a foam nose, and was wearing a miniature version of the corduroy jacket Arthur had been buried in. The Muppet-Arthur stared up at him with unblinking, black-button eyes.

"Took you long enough," the Muppet-Arthur said. His mouth moved in a stiff, rhythmic "flap-flap" motion that didn't quite match the resonance of his voice, which sounded exactly like Arthur’s, only slightly more nasal.

"You're... me?" Arthur stammered, kneeling to get a better look. The floor beneath him felt soft, like a giant pincushion.

"I'm the version of you that didn't have to worry about cholesterol or taxes," the Muppet replied, patting Arthur’s knee with a soft, four-fingered hand. "I’m your Internal Essence, rendered in high-quality fleece. Every human has one. We live in the Liminal Green Room. It’s where the soul gets its final costume change before moving on to the Big Show."

Arthur looked around the hallway. Through the gaps in the velvet curtains, he could see other pairs. A stern-looking woman in a lab coat was engaged in a heated debate with a blue, furry monster that shared her distinctive mole. A young boy was playing tag with a vibrant, neon-orange version of himself. It was a chaotic, surreal processing center where the gravity felt optional and the physics were governed by whatever would be funniest in the moment.

"So, what happens now?" Arthur asked. "Do we merge? Do I become... soft?"

The Muppet-Arthur laughed, a buzzy sound that vibrated in Arthur’s chest. "Not quite. I'm here to conduct the final interview. I’ve been acting out your life over here on the B-Stage. Every time you tripped on the sidewalk, I did a pratfall. Every time you fell in love, I sang a power ballad to a cardboard moon. Now, we have to decide which parts of the 'performance' were worth keeping."

The puppet pulled a tiny wooden stool from behind his back and sat down. "Tell me, Arthur. When you were alive, did you ever feel like someone was pulling your strings, or were you the one with the hand inside the glove?"

Arthur sat on the floor, leaning against the velvet. For the first time since his diagnosis, he didn't feel tired. He felt light. He began to talk—not about his career or his bank account, but about the time he spent three hours trying to save a bird with a broken wing, and the way the rain smelled on his wedding day. As he spoke, the Muppet-Arthur nodded, scribbling notes on a tiny felt clipboard.

Slowly, the crimson hallway began to fade. The velvet turned to mist, and the smell of cedar was replaced by something fresh and vast. Arthur realized his own hands were starting to look a bit more vibrant, his skin tone shifting toward a healthy, saturated hue.

"Final verdict?" Arthur asked as the light grew blinding.

The Muppet-Arthur stood up and offered a fuzzy hand. "You were a bit of a drama, a little bit of a comedy, and occasionally a technical glitch. But overall? A solid run. The audience loved you."

As Arthur reached out to shake the puppet's hand, his fingers didn't meet flesh. They met soft, warm fleece. He looked down and saw his own arm was now a glorious shade of sky-blue foam. He didn't feel diminished; he felt simplified, distilled into his purest, most joyful form.

With a final "wocka-wocka" echoing in the distance, the curtain rose on whatever came next.