Here Lies Billie Snorplebee

In the wobbly, toe-the-line town of Marchalong Bay—where the cobblestones never sat still and the weather had a habit of hiccuping—the mail sang show tunes, and the hedges recited Shakespeare, lollipop limericks, and soup sonnets in perfect iambic pentameter. There was a parade for nearly everything. Processions bobbled through town on stilts and unicycles, with juggling monkeys, bubble-blowing tubas, and jellybean vapor that hovered midair, smelling faintly of birthday cake.

But today was different.

Today, the townsfolk gathered in black and polka-dots for a funeral.

It was held at precisely golden hour—Honeylight sharp, as tradition dictated.

There was no coffin.

No corpse.

Just a velvet podium, a few mournful kazoo solos, and a portrait of Billie Snorplebee mid-bounce on a licorice pogo stick. Framed in glitter glue and rainbow beads. Vandalized with a single post-it: “Shame.”

Billie Snorplebee was not quite dead.

Not buried. Not gone.

Not deceased—

Just… deleted.

-

Eulogies commenced.

Whimbly Breezely—dear neighbor, semi-professional hopscotch referee, full-time fashion hazard—took the stage in his freshly ironed pink-and-emerald polka dot suit, complete with razzle-dazzle suspenders and a pocket square that occasionally squeaked.

He cleared his throat with the solemnity of a kazoo solo at a royal wedding, where no one dared laugh—except the Queen’s corgi.

“We gather here today in memory of Billie Snorplebee.

A legend of kite fencing.

A pioneer of underwater painting.

A reverse-cyclist of tremendous flair. A nature enthusiast.

Each morning, he hiked the Tippy-Topsy Trail in moon boots, with invisible maracas and swam in Wibble-Wobble Lake with his signature snorkel sombrero.

Winner of the Annual Sideways Sprint three years in a row—despite pausing for tea and scones at Mile Two.

He liked his pizza with squiggle sauce, his Jiggledoodle Stew with extra doodles, and his salads: 100 percent crouton, 0 percent leaf.

He once taught a flock of ducks to waltz—just to cheer up Mrs. Maplepot after her pet balloon floated away.

He left surprise teacups on porches, always filled with just the right amount of warmth.

And when the Mayor’s toupee went missing?

Billie organized a town-wide search party… with neon flashlights and celebratory cupcakes.

He was. Well. He was.”

“Ah, Blitherton,” Whimbly murmured, gazing into the distance.

A tear slipped down his cheek. His pocket square let out a matching, sympathetic squeak.

“It’s a shame, really.

One teensy-tiny blunder—barely a scandal!

And now?

He’s toast. Crispy. Charred.

Canceled.”

-

From the second row, Miss Kipple—Billie’s beloved Zingaphone teacher—rose in a swoosh of tulle and tears. She wore a mourning veil stitched from sheet music of the Great Wibble Waltz, and a brooch shaped like a music note.

“He had such promise,” she warbled, dabbing at her eyes with a fuzzy metronome.

“His fingers were nimble—his cuticles divine.

He had the ear of a Bingle Bat, tuned to the tiniest note.

He could play anything after hearing it once, catching melodies midair like flutterflies in a jar, then releasing them in perfect key.”

Marchalong Bay went quiet. A single kazoo wheezed a somber note. The ceremonial Unfriending Bell tolled eight and a half times. Billie’s name was struck from all town mailing lists and jam jar exchanges. His parade privileges were revoked. His kazoo choir subscription discreetly canceled. And he was blacklisted—indefinitely—from the Polka-Dot Polka.

“And now,” Miss Kipple sniffled, “he will never Zing again.”

Not due to death, mind you—

but because his name is simply too controversial to appear on any recital program in Marchalong Bay.”

She collapsed into her seat to polite applause, just as ushers tiptoed down the aisles with cups of lavender lemonade—for one last, tasteful toast.

-

As the final kazoo note faded into the air, a small voice piped up from the back.

“Wait,” said a child, blinking. “What did Billie do again?”

The crowd paused. Shifted uncomfortably in their polka-dots. Then, buzzed like bees in a bonnet.

“I think he wore plaid on Stripe Day instead of Plaid Day,” someone offered.

“Didn’t he —oh, what was it—he used sarcasm during Sincerity week?”

“He should’ve known better than to speak in riddles on Riddle-Free Raturday.”

“No, no,” another said. “He broke the rule. He whistled forward on Blitherton Road.”

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

“Not forward…” someone muttered. “Not on Blitherton…”

“That’s forbidden.”

“Absolutely forbidden.”

A hush fell over Marchalong Bay. Even the hedges choked mid-limerick, their lollipop rhymes drifting into the jellybean breeze.

But no one could quite remember why it was forbidden. Or who made the rule. Or when it started.

But still—they all agreed it must’ve been very bad.

Probably.

-

The funeral ended as it began—softly, as expected, with a harmonized sigh and a puff of confetti from the ceremonial kazoo choir.

The crowd scattered in burbles. Lace parasols twirled. Someone complimented the giraffe ice sculpture for its posture.

And then came the silence.

A twitch.

A throat cleared.

A glance sideways.

Someone quietly turned their polka-dot socks inside out.

Someone else deleted a compliment from the MarchaLog Feed.

For good measure.

Whimbly Breezely looked over both shoulders, then removed his last BayBuzz update. He still remembered what happened to Bertie Blumwick for liking the wrong marching band announcement on ParadePost. Just a like.

One by one, they backed away from the gathering, shoes scuffing the shifting cobblestones. Heads down. Thoughts quiet. Making sure to only whistle in reverse.

Just in case.

Because in Marchalong Bay, no one wanted to be the next Billie Snorplebee.

And in that wobbly, toe-the-line town —being next was never a matter of if.

Only when.

-

As the crowd dispersed, no one noticed the man in the back.

Wearing black sunglasses and a borrowed mustache.

Billie Snorplebee.

Not dead. Not gone. Just… unfollowed.

He watched as Miss Kipple sobbed into her metronome, as Whimbly folded the funeral program into a paper crane and tossed it into the wind, with a wistful toot.

Billie smiled—just a little—as a child tiptoed past with polka-dot socks on backward. The kid glanced up, wide-eyed, and almost recognized him. But turned away and kept going.

Behind them, a group was already brainstorming themes for the next parade.

“We’ll have glow-in-the-dark gumboots!”

“And perhaps a Great Spaghetti Carousel float with flying meatballs!”

“And a kazoo tribute to the kazoo tribute!”

And just like that, the town began to spin forward.

Then Billie slipped his hands into his pockets, turned on his heel, and began his exile without a sound.

Past the reciting hedges, past the singing mailboxes, past the Welcome sign—freshly repainted to read: “Please Whistle Responsibly (In Reverse).”

He didn’t look back.

He just kept walking, whistling forward on a backward day, imagining a new life in a new town.

Someplace quieter with fewer rules about polka dots and riddles.

And no scheduled kazoo tributes.

Someplace that at least hadn’t heard of Billie Snorplebee.

Yet.

And so he walked.

No one asked where he’d go—only that he was gone.

No one mentioned the teacups he used to leave. Or how Mrs. Maplepot’s ducks stopped dancing. And somewhere, beneath a parade float wheel, the Post-it marked “Shame” fluttered once. Then vanished.

As Billie marched, a black, boxy car glided up beside him. Smooth. Shiny. Unmarked. A vehicle reserved for final exits.

The window slid down. The driver wore a velvet suit and dark spectacles.

“Mr. Snorplebee?”

Billie hesitated.

“We can take you the rest of the way. There’s space in the back.”

He climbed in without a word. The door clicked shut behind him.

The car rolled down Blitherton Road, took a left at Forget-Me-Knot Lane, and melted behind the Cuckoo Clock Tower, just as the hour struck its final chime and the sky turned the color of peach tea.

Behind them, the citizens of Marchalong swept up the confetti, folded the chairs, and resumed planning the next procession—already forgetting Billie, tossing him into the Lost-and-Never-Found bin with Bertie Blumwick and the rest of the canceled mischief-makers.

Because in Marchalong Bay, funerals were easier than forgiveness.

And as the car disappeared over the horizon, its back doors caught the last of the Honeylight, glinting with a golden inscription:

Marchalong Bay Funeral Services

Because around here, you’re either in the parade… or rolling in the hearse.