The Last Supper Club
We live in a world where notices bring every day something bad to our lives. This story wants to see this problem from another point of view. I present you the first part of it.
Act 1 — The Seeds of Discontent (and Dinner)
The air in Harmony Falls hung heavy, thick with a dread that clung to the skin like humidity on a summer day. It wasn't just the unsettling news reports blaring from every radio and television, each painting a fresh tableau of global catastrophe. It was something deeper, a primal fear that whispered in the rustling leaves and lurked in the shadows of quiet streets.
People moved nervously, their smiles strained, their eyes darting to empty shelves as if the apocalypse could be staved off with enough canned beans. Whispers replaced friendly chatter in the grocery store aisles, each hushed conversation revolving around the same grim topic: the coming war.
Neighbors, once jovial and relaxed, now exchanged worried glances over picket fences, their small talk replaced with anxious speculation. “Did you hear?” they'd murmur, leaning closer, “Old Man Hemlock's dog hasn't barked in three days.” Or, “They say the hunters went up Black Ridge and found the woods crawling with snakes, all heading down the mountain. A sure sign, they say, a sure sign.”
The playful banter of children had been replaced by a subdued quiet as if even they sensed the shift in the town’s collective mood. Harmony Falls, a place that once lived up to its name, was now a simmering pot of anxiety, ready to boil over at the slightest provocation.
Fresh off the bus from the slightly-less-panicked metropolis, Sara surveyed the scene with a mixture of amusement and a familiar pang of… well, she wasn't quite sure what to call it.
She'd grown up in Harmony Falls, and this collective anxiety wasn't entirely new. She remembered similar panics during her childhood – the Y2K scare, the bird flu frenzy, the time everyone was convinced the local reservoir was infested with mutant frogs. But this felt different, more pervasive, more… real. And yet, beneath the genuine fear, Sara detected a current of absurdity.
It was like watching a play in which everyone had forgotten their lines but was determined to keep acting anyway. She'd always had a knack for finding humor in even the most stressful situations—it was a coping mechanism to deflate the balloon of anxiety before it burst. Back in the city, she'd even started a small “Stress-Free Sundays” group where people would gather to share ridiculous news stories and laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of modern life.
So, as she watched Mark wrestle with his rice mountain and Jenna dash off in pursuit of squirrel-related conspiracies, a familiar idea began to bubble in her mind. “What if,” she thought, “we could channel this energy, this… preparedness, into something a little less frantic, a little more… fun?”
One sweltering afternoon, Sara encountered Mark, her childhood nemesis turned neighbor. He was wrestling a sack of rice the size of a small car up his front steps. He grunted and strained, his face the color of a ripe tomato.
“Mark! What in the name of dehydrated potatoes are you doing?” Sara asked, trying to keep the laughter out of her voice.
“Preparing!” Mark gasped, finally heaving the sack onto his porch with a resounding thump. “You know, for… you know.”
“Mark! Seriously, that rice could feed a small country,” she might say, lowering her voice conspiratorially. Are you planning on bartering it for gold after the… you know… happens?”
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Mark, still slightly breathless, might chuckle. “Hey, you never know. Better safe than sorry, right?”
“The… uh… potential… thing?” Sara offered helpfully.
Mark nodded sagely. “Exactly. Gotta be ready. They say rice is the new currency.”
Before Sara could inquire who “they” were, Jenna, another neighbor, darted past, her eyes wide with a terror usually reserved for encounters with spiders.
“Did you hear?” she whispered conspiratorially. “They’re saying the squirrels are acting strange! That’s always a sign!” And with that, she vanished into her house, presumably to barricade herself in with her squirrel-proof bunker gear.
Sara exchanged a bewildered look with Mark. “Squirrels?”
Mark shrugged. “Hey, you never know. Maybe they’re carrying tiny, radioactive acorns.”
Just then, Jenna reappeared, her eyes still wide. “They're gathering,” she whispered, glancing nervously at the trees. “I saw at least five, maybe six. And they were… organized.”
Sara raised an eyebrow. “Organized? What were they doing, holding a tiny acorn convention?”
Jenna shivered. “I don't know, but it didn't look good. They were… plotting something, I tell you!”
Mark chimed in, “Maybe they're building a giant nutcracker. You know, for… defense.”
Before Sara could respond, Victor strolled by, a knowing grin on his face. “Ah, the squirrels,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Reminds me of the Great Acorn Uprising of '78. Lost three good pairs of trousers to those furry friends…”
“Victor, please,” Sara groaned. “Can we not add fuel to the fire? Everyone's already losing their minds.”
Victor chuckled. “My dear Sara, losing one's mind is often the first step to finding it. Besides,” he added, his gaze sweeping over the group, “a little levity is just what we need in these… trying times.”
Sara grinned. “You know, Victor, you're right. All this talk about preparedness… it's got me thinking. What if we pooled our resources? We could create a… a squirrel-proof bunker!”
Jenna looked intrigued. “A bunker? Really?”
Sara laughed. “Well, not exactly a bunker. It's more like a… support group. We could meet regularly, share survival tips, cook with our stockpiles, and make the most of the… situation.” She winked. “Call it… the Last Supper Club.”
Mark, still eyeing his rice sack with suspicion, nodded slowly. “Food… I'm in. But only if we can use some of this rice.”
Jenna, still preoccupied with the squirrels, looked hesitant. “But what about the… the threat?”
Sara put a reassuring hand on her arm. “We'll face the threat together, Jenna, with good food, good company, and maybe a few laughs along the way. Besides,” she added with a sly smile, “who knows? Maybe we'll even come up with a recipe for squirrel stew.”
Jenna managed a weak smile. “Okay,” she said. “But if I see any of them wearing tiny helmets, I'm out.”
Victor, who had been listening with amusement, clapped his hands together. Sara turned to him. “You know, Victor, you've got that spacious basement, right? Perfect for a… secret meeting place. We could even pretend it's a real bunker, just for fun.”
Victor's eyes lit up. “My basement? With its questionable plumbing and even more questionable décor? A perfect hideout! I'm in!”
And so, the Last Supper Club was born.
That evening, they arranged their first launch in Victor’s basement. As they choked down the pudding, the conversation turned to the latest rumor. This week, it was the “Great Toilet Paper Conspiracy.” Apparently, the government was secretly hoarding all the toilet paper, planning to use it as… well, nobody was quite sure what. Theories ranged from “insulation for underground bunkers” to “a new form of currency.”
The Last Supper Club, it seemed, was more than just a dinner party. It was a refuge from the storm of fear, where laughter was the best defense against the impending apocalypse – or at least, against Mark’s cooking.
I’d love to hear your thoughts about this new chapter!
What resonated with you? Have you had your own mystical experiences? Feel free to reply to this post—I genuinely appreciate each response and may even highlight some of your stories in future stories!
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