Writing Exercise – Sarah Alstott March 19 2014

 Apocalypse Dinner Party

Gary swirled the tilted dish of melted lavender ice cream with a spoon until the blood was blended and the pale purple turned a stout mauve. Beryl flitted over dead guests at the dinner table poking the ladies’ coifs and picking at the ties of their dead husbands.

“I don’t know what their hurry was! Dead at eleven is just as dead as dead at nine-thirty!”

Gary kept his head down but looked at his wife over the rims of his glasses. Their dead host, an old money businessman, rested his dead head on the side of dish tipping it sideways. No more blood was going to be dropping out of the late Mr. Cole’s nose. It had congealed and hung from his nostril like a soft ruby. Gary stopped stirring and set the spoon down.

“Who’s next? You said we received an invitation for next week, yes?”

“Oh,” Beryl paused, her hand on the back of Ms. Timmons’s French braid pushing the woman’s face further into a half-eaten soufflé, “The Maxwell’s. Oh, but that’s no good. I told them we’d be attending here. How will I explain myself to Marcie? ‘Oh yes, I know I declined your invitation for the 17th because we were all set to die in the most elegant of company on the 13th. But you see we had this flat tire, and our driver didn’t bother to have the spare fixed because of the apocalypse and we had to walk four miles to the Cole’s and wouldn’t you know it? They had already served dessert.’ No, she’s been properly snubbed and is just lady enough to know it and just common enough to hold a grudge.”

“Well, we were deceived weren’t we?” Gary said taking a fistful of Cole’s hair and shoving the dead man’s face into the crotch of his dead business partner, Mr. Faust. He then walked over to Mrs. Cole and pulled her brassiere from under her dress up onto her head. The dead woman’s arms flopped into the lap of her dead husband on one side and her brother on the other. “Look at how they were behaving! Incestuous affairs? Blatant carnal lusts? Hardly civil. Hardly the sort we would want to be caught dead with!”

Beryl smiled. “Tomorrow we’ll call the news stations, let them know of this scene and how we left after the first course, disgusted and shocked, SHOCKED, by how they began to loosen their hair,” she ripped out Mrs. David Allen’s seed pearl comb and twirled it into Mr. Poaches’ thick curls, “and threw themselves at each other!”

“Braying like donkeys!”

“Howling like monkeys!”

“Oh the headlines: End of Days Dinner Ends in Debauchery!”

“Everyone will be talking about it and I’ll call Marcie.” Beryl said smearing marmalade on Lord Geoff’s nipples, “I will be contrite and full of remorse over my own poor judgment and ask if she would be so kind as to set out two dishes of Baked Alaska ala cantarella on the 17th.”

 

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About Jim Hilton

Just having a good time writing about our little adventures.
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