Here in the candlelight
under the stars,
the empty table and chairs,
intimately close,
welcome customers even at
this late hour to take their ease.
The owner who lives upstairs
still works by his
own light.
He is balancing his books,
recording his inventory,
and trembling from fear.
His fear never abated,
not even after what
they did
to welcome him
into their circle.
His preternatural patrons
kept the place open long after
they slaughtered his friends,
neighbors, customers,
and family.
They allowed those who fled
to settle elsewhere.
They pay him with all sorts of things.
Jewels, coins from centuries ago,
and the occasional comfort of
one of their own kind.
And though he’s past the ages
of competent consummation,
he takes what comfort a widower can
from a form he doesn’t love, since it vaguely
reminds him of a form he once did.
He weeps when she leaves.
He sleeps when the sun’s up.
There’s no industry to speak of,
nowhere for him to be.
They provide all he needs, and
during the nights, no matter the weather,
they expect him there, standing behind the
well-worn counter
to serve them.
He fills their cups, glasses, and steins
from the corpses on tap,
hooked to copper tubes that feed
the pouring station.
The flavors range from
fresh to rancid.
He adorns the drinks
with cherries, or strawberries,
or slices of mandarin oranges.
The punctures in his neck throb,
an ache
dull and faint as a whisper in the dark,
with even more power to
hold him in thrall.
They will never heal.
Tonight, it’s quiet.
The only sound is the
scratching of his pencil
on the paper.
He will leave the list on the table.
One of them will take it and fill it
before he runs out of what they require.
They will bring
fresh bodies
in due time.
Leaning back in his chair,
he puts his glasses on the desk
and rubs his eyes.
In a few moments,
the pencil’s in his hand again…
Not much longer to go.
But oh, so very much longer
to live.
BlackQuill 