Today I'm sharing some flash fiction from Crystal Rast. Crystal has a Master of Arts in Professional Writing and prefers writing horror and fantasy. This one's called The Last Supper.
The Last Supper
“‘Prey,’ I said,” Father began, “but some things get lost in translation.” He laughed, seeking approval of the dinner guests. When his eyes caught Paul’s across the table, Paul smiled politely.
The feast was about to begin, and each guest was seated according to his station. They waited with mouths watering. Many had not eaten in decades. Some, like Paul, hadn’t in centuries. Father’s plate had remained empty for more than two millennia.
“It’s time,” Father said, and all eyes turned to the pearled gates. Everyone, but the slavering demons, was silent. Even though the demons feasted each night, their jaws smacked like jackals.
As the gates creaked open, diners scrutinized each entrée march past. Sweat glistened on Paul’s brow. His tongue thickened. Each man, woman and child waited to be cleansed by the flame. Some souls were brave, and they strolled, heads high, into the fiery brazier. Others had to be thrown in by the angels who stood beside the floor-length fire, waiting to retrieve the charred souls and bring them to the Host for distribution.
Paul was famished. He knew he should not envy the demons and angels, but it had been centuries since his last meal. He remembered her well. Her supple young flesh tasted of triumph, sprinkled with a foie gras of defeat. Jeanne had been—delicious. An erection stirred in his robes, as he remembered how he’d gnawed her tender thighs and rent her fleshy lips with his teeth—so long—ago.
He watched the dead file past, enter Judgment’s flames, and then be delivered to the diners—each according to his deeds. Paul’s erection waned, watching the demons and angels fighting over the lesser spoils—a politician and a rather wicked priest. His only consolation was that although the baser beings ate every night, their dinner would not even sate them until the next day. Paul was hungry, yes, but he knew a martyr could sustain for many more centuries, if necessary. Father, after all, hadn’t eaten since the Christ son, and Moses before him. And to his credit, he only took a leg from each, honoring them with seats by his side.
When Father commanded a plate be delivered to him, Paul wavered on his feet.
“For you, Master,” the stewards purred, as the charred soul of the former pope cowered on the platter. Paul licked his lips and reached for his fork.
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