Dear Editor,
Attached is my short story, "Lovestruck." Please publish it in your magazine as I see it becoming a runaway success.
Best,
Nancy
(P.S. It's allegorical.)
...
[+]
This man was also well-acquainted with Death, so he invited It to tea on Thursday afternoon at his new beloved's rose garden. It seemed that Death was not stunned by this request, despite It being the usual host of these gatherings. And despite inviting Death to tea, it seemed that this man was stunned that Death showed up with a ruffled collar and breeches. By its side was a black poodle with a half-shaved head. It snarled at the man.
"I hope this is worth my time, Arthur." Death's mouth didn't open as It warbled his discontent.
"I daresay it is," the man called Arthur grinned as he motioned to the white and gold rimmed tea set. "Besides, could I not have tea with my favorite inhuman being?"
"What a humane request," It muttered. The beady black eyes of the half-bald poodle glared at him. "And this is not doused with ulterior motives, no?"
"I'm perhaps in a good mood," he admitted. "Just chamomile, no cunning." He hummed as he pushed the saucer to the thing opposite him.
"Impossible." Death stared at the man. "What lengths have you gone to meet me?"
"Bourbon, vodka, poppy seeds, and poppycock." Arthur shrugged. "I'm already bound for hell in the future, might as well attain filthy irrationality to hone my craft." His dark eyes gleamed with a supposed wickedness found in rambunctious youth. "Dear Death, do you think you can take me now?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"That is not for me to decide. I only ferry souls. Are you excited to die? Are you not a ripe twenty-one?" Death then patted the poodle and let it lie on the grass. It whined a complaint but complied. "So what is it, Arthur Rimbaud?"
While this was happening, the man simply jotted down his conversation with Death on a scrap of paper he hurriedly took from his wallet, mumbling unintelligibly as he scribbled. He only stopped when Death finally took a sip of chamomile. "Is it interesting?"
"What is?"
"The tea. One of the last things I had in Brussels."
Death paused to think, then spoke: "it's interesting."
"That's it?"
"It's interesting amongst all things that interest me."
"Interesting, interesting," Arthur murmured as he wrote more.
"And what's interesting to you?"
The man shrugged. "You. This. My writing, my ideas."
"Is that so?" Death took another sip of tea as It peered at Arthur's messy curlicues. The half-bald poodle growled. "Ah, it appears that this pet doesn't appreciate your words."
Arthur laughed. "Really now? I have perfected the alchemy of words and deconstructed letters—consonants and vowels—down to their base color. What am I to do but play with creation and destruction after this realization? With this discovery, do I not deserve the appreciation of any word?"
Death said nothing, so Arthur assumed Death didn't make sense of his rambling. "Read my poetry, dear Death. Perhaps it'll be clearer to you."
"No, thank you," Death dabbed its lifeless lips with a napkin.
"Why?"
"Why not?"
"Wouldn't it seem flattering to say ‘Death reviewed my work?'"
"You're still going to share your writing in the taverns anyway, with or without my opinion."
"But you will read my poetry. Am I not your seer to share the unnatural with the natural world?" The wicked glint in Arthur's eyes turned sharp as he slammed his fist on the table, the force knocking over his and Death's teacups. Both of them stared at the poodle, which then jumped to lap at the dripping liquid off the edges of the table.
Death sighed—surprising to see Death disappointed—and reached over to the parchment Arthur was writing on. Its face remained unchanged as it skimmed through the lines. "This is interesting."
The man pouted. "I need more than that. What's interesting? Why is it interesting? And how so?"
The deity pointed. "You want words? I am merely Death. It's quite difficult to create sentiment because you have created this idea of me."
Arthur groaned as he grabbed his cup and threw it to the side. It did not shatter, just disappeared as it exited the boundary between time and space. "This is nonsense. I'm supposed to make sense of nonsense!" The poet seethed as he stood up and paced back and forth. "I have celebrated and withered in a season in Hell and managed to jot every ounce of my being into words. I deserve something a little more, don't you think, Death?"
Death was quiet.
"Have you not seen me?" Arthur shouted as he gripped the roots of his hair in dismay. "I have gone all in to my writing, and I have not seen the fruits of my labor."
Death still said nothing.
"Born a poet. Grown to be a scum of the earth. I have seen delusions and grown patient to torture to become a clairvoyant of words! I cannot go back from here, I only need to move forward."
Still, Death said nothing, so Arthur took Death's teacup and smashed it on the grass. Bits of the ceramic pierced the black poodle. It yelped and hid behind Death's chair.
He groaned. "I don't have time for this."
Death finally spoke: "I also don't have time for this. I'm supposed to meet with someone else soon."
Arthur clicked his tongue in annoyance. "Have it your way, then."
Before the man could leave, Death spoke once more: "Do you know why it's interesting?"
Arthur turned back, all ears.
"This reminds me of Paul," Death's lips finally moved to a smirk. (Whether It was referring to tea or the writing of Paul Verlaine, I cannot say for sure.) "Do you think you're the only poet I've met? Or the only writer who turned to me for help?"
Finally, it was Arthur's turn not to say anything. He simply turned around and sewed his mouth shut.
When Arthur Rimbaud walked out of the rose garden, it was time for me to step out of the bushes and take his warm seat. Death waved its hand to adjust the place into a familiar school office.
"Did you get what you wanted?" The cryptic man's 19th-century clothing was gone. Now, Death was clothed like an academic in coffee brown vests and slacks.
"Not really," I admitted. "Hi doggie!" I waved at the half-shaved poodle at the feet of Death's chair, busy licking at its wounds.
It was indeed a sight to behold, to witness the character of the so-called clairvoyant poet and to be able to write it all down for inspiration. "Do you think my professor would like it? I should finally receive high marks for my final project. It's about time I get something good out of my writing."
Death did not reply.
I scoffed. "I get a chance to chat with you; sleepless nights and razor blades have given me an inkling of a good idea to write something perfect. Please, do talk to me."
It simply tapped Its fingers against the white ceramics. "So, why do you want to see me?"
"I'm a writer."
"Is that so? From what you saw earlier, you should know I'm no good with comments.
"I know. I just need someone to ramble to."
"Then, a good conversation should be accompanied by a good drink. Did you happen to get chamomile? I'm getting quite fond of it."
I shook my head and showed the packets I prepared for the teapot. "Sorry, it's instant coffee."
"Pity. Then try to convince your professor that Death loves chamomile."
"If that's the case, may I invite you for tea next Thursday afternoon?"