The invisible ink: Exposing the hidden stories in short narratives

The Answered the Invitation

Peter fidgeted with the wine glass, its stem cools against his palm. The conversation had, as usual, drifted to the absurd. His friends, a boisterous bunch, were in the throes of their favourite game: "Dinner with the Dead." The rules were simple: pick any historical figure or deceased celebrity, alive or dead, and imagine a night spent with them over dinner.

"Gandhi," announced Sarah, her eyes gleaming. "I'd pick his brain about non-violent resistance. Imagine the wisdom!"

"Gandhi?" snorted Mark. "Too boring. I'd go for Cleopatra. Imagine the stories! The intrigue! The gossip!"

"Oh, please," came the exasperated sigh from Emily. "Give me Marie Curie. Imagine the conversations about science! We could bond over radiation burns!"

Peter chuckled, feeling slightly out of place. He didn't share their enthusiasm for the game. His usual conversational style was introspective, even melancholic, a stark contrast to the boisterous banter of his friends. He'd rather talk about the existential dread of living in a world where technology was simultaneously a blessing and a curse, or the creeping loneliness that came with growing older. His friends, however, found such topics a tad too heavy for their Friday night gatherings.

"So, Peter," Sarah prodded, "who would you have dinner with?"

He hesitated, searching for a figure that resonated with his own introspective nature. He considered poets, philosophers, even fictional characters. Then, a name surfaced, unexpected yet oddly comforting.

"I think," he said, a flicker of a smile playing on his lips, "I'd like to have dinner with Walt Whitman."

The room fell silent.

"Walt Whitman?" Emily blinked, "The poet? Why him?"

"He was a man of his time," Peter explained, "but also ahead of his time. He celebrated life in all its messy glory. He wrote about the body, about love, about death. I think we'd have a lot to talk about."

A low rumble of agreement echoed around the table, but it was short-lived. The doorbell chimed, a jarring sound in the cozy atmosphere of the living room.

"That's strange," Mark muttered, "I thought we were having takeout."

Peter, however, felt a prickle of something else entirely. A sense of foreboding, almost as if he'd somehow conjured the impossible.

The door opened, revealing a tall, gaunt figure with a shock of white hair and a thick, white beard. His eyes, startlingly blue, held a mixture of amusement and melancholy.

"Walt Whitman," he announced, a gravelly voice filling the room. "You invited me to dinner."

The room erupted in stunned silence. Then, laughter, a nervous, high-pitched sound that quickly subsided as the reality of the situation sank in.

"This is... this is impossible," Sarah stammered, staring at the spectral figure in disbelief.

"Not at all," Whitman chuckled, stepping into the room. "I've been waiting for this invitation for a while now, you see. It's not every day a living soul wants to share a meal with a dead poet."

The next few hours were a blur of surreal events. Whitman, surprisingly, was a delightful guest. He regaled them with tales of his life, his travels, his observations on the human condition. The spoke of the beauty of nature, the joy of companionship, and the inevitable march of time. Peter found himself captivated, his initial anxieties melting away as he listened to the poet's words, laced with both wisdom and gentle humour.

There was, however, a sense of unease that lingered in the air. The friends, initially excited about the prospect of having dinner with a legend, soon realized the weight of the situation. Whitman, for all his charm and wit, was a palpable reminder of mortality. He was a ghost from the past, a living testament to the fleeting nature of life.

As the night ended, Whitman rose from his seat, a wistful smile on his face.

"Thank you for having me," he said, his voice a low murmur. "It was... invigorating. To see life through your eyes, so full of both hope and fear."

He turned to Peter, his eyes softening.

"You," he said, "you are a poet, too. You just haven't realized it yet."

With that, he faded into the night, leaving behind a silence that was as profound as the weight of his presence.

The friends sat in stunned silence, a strange mixture of awe, fear, and bewilderment swirling within them.

"That," Sarah finally said, her voice shaky, "was the most bizarre night of my life."

"And the most real," Peter countered, a faint smile playing on his lips. He looked at the empty chair where Whitman had sat, a strange sense of peace settling over him. He had met a legend, a ghost from the past, and, in a strange way, it had given him a glimpse into his own potential, a spark of inspiration that he hadn't felt in years. He wasn't sure what the future held, but he knew one thing for certain: he was no longer just Peter, the quiet observer. He was a poet, a witness to life in all its messy, beautiful glory. And he had Walt Whitman to thank for it.