By Tim Warren
Metafictional character? Of course you have, if you've ever read a novel or a short story.  Now, meet Martin.

Martin is not an alligator.  Nor is he a gnu.  But he doesn't let this bother him.   He is also more or less unconcerned about failing to be a wicker basket.  Each to his own, I suppose.  No, what he gets most animated about is the price of greetings cards.  Five quid for a bit of cardboard! Shocking. But that only happens a few times a year - Christmas, friends' birthdays, Mother's Day, etc. - so it probably wasn't worth mentioning. What might be worth mentioning, though, is that Martin isn't real.  Sorry to shatter your illusions and all that, and so soon, but at least I didn't keep the pretence up for too long, so you shouldn't feel too disappointed.  And if you do; well, I rather suspect you may be one of those unfortunate types who falls in love far too easily. Might I suggest you see a psychiatrist to discuss your underlying attachment issues?  Or, if you're the fashionable sort, I'm led to understand that many more modern therapies are also available these days, should you prefer.  Not that that they'll be of any great use either. But still.
 
Anyway, this Martin character - what is he?  Well, I just told you that - he's a character.  Keep up.  I suppose I could tell you more about him, but why bother?  It's not like he's real. He's just a device employed to allow me to have a gratuitous grumble about the extortionate price of greetings cards. Oh, and some kind of a hook on which I've been able to hang a number of other words - a whole paragraph-and-a-half of them, so far.  So, probably best that he isn't real.  I mean, it wouldn't be much of a life, would it - being made to voice another person's petty gripes; a mere hook on which to hang dubious nonsense?  Or it wouldn't have been. Except, I went and mentioned a mother, friends, and who or whatever else might have been implied by that carelessly vague "etc.", didn't I?  So now Martin has a reason to live, which is rather a nuisance.  Frankly, I'd hoped to kill him off and start whittering on about whether, if religion is the opiate of the masses, are Masses the opiate of the religious?  Erm, I'm about to start a new paragraph now, otherwise that "paragraph and a half" comment I made, just over half a paragraph ago, is going to look increasingly wrong.
 
Hello again.  We met up there; if you care to remember. Now, you may be thinking that I could still kill Martin off; it's not like his mother or friends are real either.  This is true; at least, in part.  Certainly, his mother, friends, and "etc." aren't real.  It would be truly tragic if they were: Martin's mother, friends and "etc." going about their lives somewhere in reality; Martin alone, adrift, in his fictional dimension; each party aware of the other, longing to contact them, dreaming of contacting them, unable ever to do so.  Just think: Martin and his friends, Martin and his mother, Martin and what or whoever the "etc." implied, would never get to speak to each other, to hug, to kiss, to exchange meaningful glances. Never get to comfort each other in times of sadness, celebrate the good things in life, or do all of those thousands of other important things that friends, relations, etc. do together - like bitching about other people, or going out and getting so hopelessly and violently wrecked that you forget the entire night and, having no recollections whatsoever the next day, thus get to assume that you actually had fun; rather than felt somewhat ill, behaved like an arse, then fell over. But, like I said, they're not real, so they and Martin actually are able to get together and do all that stuff.  Which is why I can't kill them off.  I mean, I'd be pretty cruel to put an end to such fulfilling lives, wouldn't I?
 
Which is, of course, what makes it so tempting.  I mean, if I can't even be cruel to people who aren't real, who exactly can I be cruel to?  I'm only human; I've got to find some outlet for my sadistic streak, haven't I?  Don't look at me like that - you've got one too.  Admit it.  You know you have.  Of course, poor Martin hopes I'll find my outlet elsewhere.  As do his mother, friends and that mysterious "etc."  But will that be enough, their combined hopes?  I'm sure his father would have done a bit of hoping too, if Martin still had one; he was quite a one for hoping, but, unfortunately, I killed him off.  Just there.  At the end of the sentence.  Look, for goodness' sake, keep up, or I might just kill you off too.  You know, just stop writing.  After all, what's your role in all this?  You're the reader, aren't you?   You wouldn't be the reader anymore if there was nothing to read.  So behave. Especially as you're now an accessory to murder.
 
So, where does that leave Martin and company?  Currently, it would seem, they are kept alive only by hope, which, I suppose, makes them as human as the rest of us. I guess I should let them live, then.  Otherwise, what would I be saying about hope?  Something rather depressing, probably.  You, on the other hand, dear reader… well, it was inevitable, wasn't it?  Had you never noticed how every story ends with a bullet hole?  Sometimes with a curl of smoke above it: "?".  Sometimes a flash: "!"  But always a bullet hole, one way or another. As for hope, your own hope; if you've read this far, I can only assume you must have given it up. I mean, it's pretty hopeless, this nonsense, isn't it? There aren't even any proper characters. In fact, it's not even a proper story. Still, if it's any consolation, I'll be going too.  In fact, if you believe Roland Barthes , I'm dead already.  Spooky.  But let's not drag this out with talk of French post-structuralists.  Instead, let us take one last quiet moment to convert to the religion of our choice, in the dim hope of ending up somewhere better. Prague, perhaps.
 
Done?  Good.  Now it's time we bit the bullet.
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(OK, I know this looks like overkill, but just making sure)
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