After Dinner Conversation: Philosophy

Soul Reader

A woman, a bird, a Pterodactyl? The thing came fast from the shadows, wings fluttered under the glow of one solitary lamp above the docks. I should never have had that last drink with Deny. I was drunk—maybe… sure, that was it—hallucinations.

Her wings spread wide in a whisper, body mutating fluidly into a bird with sharp talons. She swooped and struck me in the chest, knocking me backward. There was a cracking sound, like an egg, when my head struck the wooden deck. I yelled out in pain. My vision blurred then instantly cleared. She whirled above me, exotic iridescent feathers the color of crushed grapes, quickly recoiling she landed, wings disappearing inside her hooded cloak.

I groaned and felt the back of my head… undamaged. Sober now, I struggled to sit, wondering if I had seen feathers or steel blades? The sharp pain from my chest wound, sticky with blood, spread into my lungs, stealing my breath a moment. Had she poisoned me? No. Dying yes, but not because of this deranged bird-woman. I got up, straightened myself, pushed back my hair, and glared at my assailant, female in every sense of the word, statuesque, slender legs, red stilettos, calmly staring off toward the evening sky as if she’d been innocently standing that way all along.

Like most men, I was drawn to beautiful things, even when dangerous. Besides, what did I have to fear? I’d be dead soon. And as much as I was hurting badly, my foolish fascination had me inching closer. A red velvet hooded cape shrouded most of her features; there was a hint of scarlet lips on pale white skin—smooth as fine silk.

“Michael Hunter,” she whispered, inhaling slowly, savoring the air as if my presence smelled of roses. “The fragrance of death permeates you. Tell me, why you wish to die?”

A tingling sensation started at the top of my head, and moved through me. It felt as if my brain was expanding. “What did you do? I… I feel different.”

She turned fully to me. “I gave you a gift.”

I was struggling to breathe. A smile played at the edge of her lips. “You fascinate me. A valiant contradiction beats inside your heart. Other souls want to live—fight to live. Not you. You will sacrifice all to save lives, as many as you can, until there are no organs left in your body—a living, walking donor, only you are sick and dying. Must be frustrating. And what of poor Meagan?”

“My sister?”

“Stepsister,” she corrected. “She needs a kidney. Although you are not blood, it turns out you’re a perfect donor match.” Her eyes narrowed. “But Meagan despises the sight of you. You killed her father.”

I gulped hard, fighting the urge to scream, to tell her to shut up. But she had talons… frankly, they hurt like hell. Besides, I was too weak to fight.

“Michael, you were scheduled to depart this world weeks ago. You should not be here. Interesting that you’ve told no one, not even your closest friends, about cancer.”

“I despise sympathy!”

She raised one eyebrow, titled her head just so, examining me from inside out. Oh, what an exceptionally beautiful creature, when she wasn’t attacking people. “They have a cure for your type of cancer. You don’t want it?”

I turned away. When I shifted back to speak, she’d vanished.

My world changed overnight. Nausea, dull headaches, constant pain, and moments of blindness, gone. I dumped my medications in the trash. I stood before the bathroom mirror running my fingers over the scarred skin on my chest. It had happened—damn!

Everything felt different, looked different. I’d taken so much for granted, the everyday mundane things were gorgeous… like the sunlight sparkling on the water, the way the sea birds lifted in flight, and how the warm sand hugged my feet. The colors—every object blessed with vibrant pigments and hues, even the rusted boats were a feast for my eyes.

“Hey, dickhead, you didn’t answer your cell,” said Deny, punching me hard in the shoulder. “You forgot your wallet. Man, you were really drunk.”

I took my wallet from his outstretched hand and shoved it in my pocket. The wondrous colors started fading. My short, fuzzy Italian friend was the last person

You’re reading a preview, subscribe to read more.

More from After Dinner Conversation: Philosophy

After Dinner Conversation: Philosophy1 min read
From the Editor
We are continually evolving, and this issue is no exception. We have added a “Special Thanks” section at the end of the magazine for financial supporters. Long story short, literary magazines have three funding legs: paid subscriptions, arts grants,
After Dinner Conversation: Philosophy1 min read
Special Thanks
After Dinner Conversation gratefully acknowledges the support of the following individuals and organizations. Anonymous, Marie Anderson, Ria Bruns, Brett Clark, Jarvis Coffin, Rebecca Dueben, Tina Forsee, Deb Gain-Braley, David Gibson, Ron Koch, Sand
After Dinner Conversation: Philosophy2 min read
Author Information
Julia Meinwald is a writer of fiction and musical theatre and a gracious loser at a wide variety of board games She has stories published or forthcoming in Bayou Magazine, Vol 1. Brooklyn, West Trade Review, VIBE, and The Iowa Review, among others. H

Related