english,
There have been rumors of a wandering chef who doesn’t charge coin, but rather one’s story in exchange for a meal. When I was walking home one night, I noticed a silhouette in the distance, gesturing for me to wait. A few meters away, the lamp post’s dim light revealed a man in white, carrying an assortment of pots and pans. The man smiled and politely asked, “Care for a meal?”
In two shakes of a lamb’s tail, the man was able to set up a rotisserie and a cooking pot. Effortlessly, he skewered a few pieces of meat onto the spit and chopped up a couple of potatoes.
“What are you making?” I asked curiously.
“Stew,” answered the man.
Roughly 20 minutes later, the man declared that the meal was ready and urged me to take the first taste. He handed me a bowl filled with his stew. Although I was reluctant, I still decided to try it, anyway. “What could go wrong?” I thought. The moment I tasted the dish, I thought I was in heaven. It was simply marvelous!
“Seconds please!” I said, excitedly. However, the man proceeded to block the bowl with his ladle.
“I believe you owe me a story,” he said.
I told the man my life story. There wasn’t much to tell, really. I was a simple salaryman, who had been fired for the third time this month. If there was anything remarkable about me, it would be my luck and how terrible it was.
The man seemed slightly dissatisfied with my tale, as he seemed to stare at me indifferently, as if what I was saying was worthless.
“I told you I was completely ordinary,” I said to break the silence.
“It just wasn’t remotely entertaining, or interesting,” he said, coldly. “But a story’s a story,” He added, now gesturing to the pot.
As I went for seconds, I asked the man to share some of his stories, to which he happily agreed. He started with the tale of a farmer who struggled to make his crops grow, but who actually forgot to sow the seeds in the first place. He then followed up with a man feigning as a tax collector, to pay his debts to an actual tax collector. Lastly, he told me about a couple who only discovered that they were cousins on the day of their wedding.
After a while, the man had already gone through countless stories, and I have finished the entire pot of stew.
“Finished at last?” he asked.
“Yeah. Hey, if you don’t mind, could you teach me how to make it?” I replied.
I felt the air turn cold and eerie. A chill ran down my spine as the man uttered the following words:
“It would be better if you were IN it.”
Literary: Last Supper
There have been rumors of a wandering chef who doesn’t charge coin, but rather one’s story in exchange for a meal. When I was walking home one night, I noticed a silhouette in the distance, gesturing for me to wait. A few meters away, the lamp post’s dim light revealed a man in white, carrying an assortment of pots and pans. The man smiled and politely asked, “Care for a meal?”
In two shakes of a lamb’s tail, the man was able to set up a rotisserie and a cooking pot. Effortlessly, he skewered a few pieces of meat onto the spit and chopped up a couple of potatoes.
“What are you making?” I asked curiously.
“Stew,” answered the man.
Roughly 20 minutes later, the man declared that the meal was ready and urged me to take the first taste. He handed me a bowl filled with his stew. Although I was reluctant, I still decided to try it, anyway. “What could go wrong?” I thought. The moment I tasted the dish, I thought I was in heaven. It was simply marvelous!
“Seconds please!” I said, excitedly. However, the man proceeded to block the bowl with his ladle.
“I believe you owe me a story,” he said.
I told the man my life story. There wasn’t much to tell, really. I was a simple salaryman, who had been fired for the third time this month. If there was anything remarkable about me, it would be my luck and how terrible it was.
The man seemed slightly dissatisfied with my tale, as he seemed to stare at me indifferently, as if what I was saying was worthless.
“I told you I was completely ordinary,” I said to break the silence.
“It just wasn’t remotely entertaining, or interesting,” he said, coldly. “But a story’s a story,” He added, now gesturing to the pot.
As I went for seconds, I asked the man to share some of his stories, to which he happily agreed. He started with the tale of a farmer who struggled to make his crops grow, but who actually forgot to sow the seeds in the first place. He then followed up with a man feigning as a tax collector, to pay his debts to an actual tax collector. Lastly, he told me about a couple who only discovered that they were cousins on the day of their wedding.
After a while, the man had already gone through countless stories, and I have finished the entire pot of stew.
“Finished at last?” he asked.
“Yeah. Hey, if you don’t mind, could you teach me how to make it?” I replied.
I felt the air turn cold and eerie. A chill ran down my spine as the man uttered the following words:
“It would be better if you were IN it.”
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