The Pantry

They put the mountain at the head of the table after switching out the captain’s chair because of the arms.  The river was running the length of the table, but they managed to work it into a side chair on the left, though it clattered and shuddered and left small pools beneath it on the floor.

Boulders teetered on opposite chairs and played Barristers—one palm up with 8 stones, one with 7.  Eight wins.  The maitre d’, juggling place cards with irritation, scooped up the stones and seated them at the children’s table which was a little runny but otherwise clean as a meadow.

Firs loomed and murmured across from the hemlocks.  Spores hanging from their roots settled into the flutes of chair legs and dozed.  When the clouds over the centerpiece cleared suddenly, the nude bathers were disturbed to see Bavarian waiters in dark suits.  The ferns were asked to help out.  Thunder rolled into position for a nostalgic and humorous toast.  Needles were showered on all.

It was the Equinox, the bears were late, the colors red and yellow kept coming up.  In the pantry, the cooks who thought they had what they needed, didn’t.

The wait became very wearing for the guests who, one by one, left to go home; a slow procession of hunger and anxiety, helping themselves to each other along the way.

Winter was white and quiet.