Freedom from Want

You are clutching your wrist. You are clutching your left wrist which hovers over your plate. Your plate is spotless and white and filled with turkey lathered in gravy with a side of cranberry sauce. The turkey and gravy and cranberry sauce smell deli-cious. You relax your grip from your wrist. You pick up your glimmering fork and knife and tentatively begin to cut away a piece of your turkey, whose flesh gives way like butter. You eat the turkey and it's incredible, it's the best turkey you've ever had. Almost on instinct, you state this aloud. Heavenly, isn't it? Someone has responded to you. It's Rocky. It's your uncle Rocky, he's seated right next to you, on your right. He gives a hearty chuckle. I mean, it sure is something, right? You tentatively respond that yes, it's some really incredible turkey. A deeper voice comes from across the table. Well, well, well. Look who's come to dinner. It's grandpa Norman, who sits immediately across from you. He turns to grandma Mary, who sits next to him. Mary, Honey, look who showed up. At this point, many other people around the table you recognize some of them as your relatives— take notice of you. They mostly look surprised.

Some of them look a little sad. Actually, uncle Rocky is crying a bit. You haven't seen him cry since Grandpa Norman's funeral.

You haven't— and it is at this moment that you remember how uncle Rocky died three years ago after O.D.'ing on painkillers and grandpa Norman had a stroke right when you got out of college and grandma Mary lost her battle with lung cancer when you were just thirteen and then you look to your left and you look to your right and the dinner table goes on and on and on and on and on until it's too far to see and you say 00000H fuck this is the fucking afterlife isn't it. You look around expectantly for someone to confirm your suspicion. Grandpa Norman puts down his fork and looks at you with a very solemn expression and he says kid, how much do you know about ancient Indian culture the cherokee, the blackfoot, and the like and you say not very much, and also you're not sure if "Indian" is the most sensitive term he could use but he just continues well, turns out they were right. About the great beyond and all that. You croak down there and where do you end up? Not the great infer-no, not the pearly gates, but here. With us. With your ancestors!

At this, he slams the table violently and the glasses clatter about and the china twirls but nothing falls or spills or breaks. There is a small silence during which uncle Rocky tries to offer you a plate of stuffing and, after realizing you're clutching your wrist again, you push the stuffing away. Trying to remain calm, you tell grandpa Norman that you're not sure how well you're gonna get along with your ancestors, that your and their views differ somewhat in regards to politics and social issues and whether or not it's morally permissible to hold other human beings as property and Grandpa Norman says well you don't have to talk to them. But you can see them eating. Just eight chairs down, eating the most decadent food, hungry mouths gnashing, little hard white plates barely visible atop white tablecloth.

You stand up from your seat and you run.

You run down the length of the table. You run and you run and you run and you run for hours and eventually the people sitting at the table are no longer people, and they are no longer sitting.

Their burly, hair covered bodies lie on the floor, lounge on the tablecloth, splay across the chairs. Their huge gray hands clutch intermittently at large piles of fruit that lay heaping on perfect white plates, insects scurrying over the cutlery and silverware.

One of these, your ancestors, lazily reaches an arm to take one of the roaches scurrying on its wine glass. It turns its wide face towards yours and extends its hand. You take the roach. You eat

it.

Asher Stone