To be honest, I was not very excited about the “Shadows and Knives” prompt for Elegant Literature, and I thought about skipping that month entirely. It seemed too directive to me, although the submissions that were published were more creative than I expected. Then again, they were also mostly dark and depressing, which is really not what I tend to write. I was not surprised, therefore, that my hastily assembled, somewhat insubstantial submission was not accepted for publication. The only reason I wrote it was to deliberately turn the prompt on its head.
That is not to say that I don’t think it’s a decent story. It’s just not very substantial, with its rather generic implementation of Death as a character, who goes around with a random crow that serves no other purpose than to exist, and a plot that can barely sustain the name. Aside from some minor creativity and thought behind designing the meal for Death, the most impactful part of the story is probably the opening line. Yes, part of the reason I wrote the story was to start out with “On Thursday, Death walked into a bar.”
Sometimes, though, a light story is a good thing, and coming in as always for these stories under two thousand words, A Meal to Live For is light in every sense of the word: no complex plots, no deep characters, no blood and gore, no morally challenging circumstances, no lengthy writing. The darkest part about the story is that it happens in the evening, for all it features Death. If that’s the sort of story for which you’re in the mood, then you might enjoy A Meal to Live For.
On Thursday, Death walked into the bar. He leaned his scythe against the wall, hung his voluminous, cloak upon the coatrack, and the crow perched on his shoulder nodded sagely to the maître d’ as he navigated through the booths and tables, past the arcade and the pool tables, and sat down in the last barstool.
That’s not what everyone else in the bar saw. They saw an exceptionally pale, exceedingly thin man wrapped in layers of black cloths with dyed white hair and a crow perched on his shoulder. Even so, shadows and silence followed him as people eyed him with a wariness that did not befit his outward appearance – the best glamours could not fully conceal his nature. The crow didn’t help matters. As Death waited for the barkeep to attend him, the first mortal customer pushed away from the bar and headed for the door.
Others soon followed, and the barkeep rapidly found his excuses for not serving his unassuming customer who made him tremble just to look at dwindling. Within minutes of Death’s arrival, the bar was empty of paying patrons. Vince the barkeep took a deep breath, and two shots of whiskey for courage, and walked over to the corner of the bar where Death sat, armed with the weapons of his profession: a glass and a polishing cloth.
“What’ll it be, Sir?” Vince was proud that his voice did not squeak; he could do nothing about the trembling.
“I DESIRE A SUITABLE REPAST.”
Vince bobbed his head and found it easier to make eye contact with Death than with the crow on his shoulder. “Of course, Sir. Ah, what would be suitable?”
Death cocked his head to the side at an almost ninety-degree angle such as no mortal could accomplish and live. “THAT IS FOR YOU TO DETERMINE. I RECALL WHEN THE LORD OF THE LEVAIN SERVED ME A LOAF OF BREAD, AND THAT WAS ALTOGETHER SUITABLE. I HAVE BEEN FEASTED BY EMPIRES AND DINED WITH ROYALTY NOW FORGOTTEN. BUT I REMEMBER THE FOOD. THAT IS SUITABLE.”
“I’ll…I’ll let the kitchen know, Sir.” Vince hesitated. “But if it will all be forgotten, what is there, in the end?”
“ME.”
Vince supposed that he’d walked into that one. He splashed more liquor on the bar than into the glass which he presented to Death, so badly were his hands trembling, but he mopped it up as best he could with his rag, wiped sweat from his brow, and hurried into the kitchen to find the chef.
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