The Sorcerer At Table

Michael Fantina

The polished plateau-procured white oak, bound with iron hasps held the table top fast, a field whereon the sorcerer took sustenance for mind, body and spirit. Here lay fluted trenchers of pale pewter, plump porcine peaches with grapes of purple, mauve and a sickly, deathly white. Fired clay bowls full of nubile pears, apples to temp the just, green as the eyes of a seductress, red as gowns of opulent harlots grown sated and insensate. Two slim, towering cruets of white and red wine, on opposite ends of the table, stood like silent sentinels awaiting the commands of unseen satraps. A silver grail, inlaid with immemorial scenes of marauding manticores lay upon its silver side. Its contents spilt in tortuous rivulets like the lives of hapless holocausts, and round that slender silver stem of the fine cup clutched the sorcerer’s fingers. His reclining arm reached down the table toward a distant bowl, became the pillow for his head, where, bemoaning all, he breathed his last.

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