Wow. I’ve long held the belief that fiction is more real than non-fiction and this story is a perfect example of this in action. You can just feel the reality, the authenticity, the emotion, the truly lived nature of it bouncing off the screen.
Think-pieces are all well and good but I am more interested in feel-pieces whether they are a story or an essay that clearly comes from the heart. This falls into that category.
As with every time I read a submission and write it’s introduction, I am marvelled at the level of talent that the STSC has attracted and continues to attract.
Enjoy.
CW: Eating Disorder. This story’s metaphors obsess over what one eats, what others are eating, and ultimately the scrupulous refusal to eat.
Picture a scene with me for a second. You won’t exactly be welcome in it, so don’t sink into the couch or pull up a chair in the kitchen. Still, it’s important that you see this, so find a shadow and skulk: make sure you can see the single lamp in the corner, casting jaundiced light from an upturned shade. Keep an eye on the desk in the shadowed room to your right; the heavy old Sauder made of dark plywood, with sharp cubbyholes and heavy drawers where you might lose a bill forever. Or maybe entomb a muse that isn’t doing its job.
A drawer squeaks, slams. A clatter from the darkness announces someone hard at work on a keyboard. A printer spins up and whirs over the squeak of a chair.
The man who gets up from this desk might be your age, maybe a little older. He’s on the lean side, lanky in a way that worries you. He keeps his sleeves rolled up, his face unshaven. He combs his graying hair to one side, wipes and worries his thick glasses. Tonight, we’re going to watch him die.
Jon Egovic steps past you into the kitchen and hands a sheaf of stapled papers to the woman waiting there. Her small features glow in the television light, as she watches a dozen people leisurely pulling cakes from ovens arrayed in a green English garden. She’s shorter than him, but her spine is straighter. In fact, everything about her looks a little more defiant of gravity than everything about him. She turns off the bakers, takes the papers, and lays them on the island, leaning in close to scan them.
“What do you think?” Jon asks while she’s reading.
“It’s good,” she says. “Really good.”
You might notice the air sweeten as she says this, becoming warm, nutty. Like rising yeast and cinnamon; egg-washed monkey bread turning gold in the oven. Hold on to that. It’s an important trick of this place.
“Just really good?”
Jon isn’t displeased, exactly, by the smell in the air. Monkey bread is great. Homey, hand-made compliments have their charm. But where’s the milky unctuousness soaking the bread? Something like, “You’ve really outdone yourself,” or, “God, I forget how talented you are sometimes.” Is it too much to ask for the nutmeg zip, the sly citrus tang of a word like “genius,” furtively spoken?
His stomach rumbles, but he can’t eat frigging bread now, knowing what he really wants.
(Again, I remind you, this is a man about to die. Or a man about to choose death, which is arguably more horrifying. Jon Egovic is going to starve himself to death.)
His partner wrinkles her nose as he tries to explain his appetite. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I like it. I do. But you know I don’t gush.”
“You could, though,” he says. “I mean, you could a little. Give me more detail?”
She shakes her head, apologetic, and he waves it off. There’s no point going around like this. She’s not a bad reader, only incurious, and more than a little stubborn. She falls back on the very basics of nourishment. And that’s fine for a lot of people. Just, not for him. He’s not asking her for anything Michelin level. Maybe a little gourmet, a little upscale, sometimes. This’ll be easier if he finds her a recipe.
He opens his blog and scrolls through the comments. People have left him plenty of worthy meals in the past; he can always ask her to make one of those once in a while: “This is great!” “So dense, yet it never drags.” “Thought provoking.” “Amazing.” “Inspiring.” “I love it.”
Jon chews through the morsels again. Was the flavor always this…dull? Sure, the words are buttery, well-salted. But they’re lacking spice. A crack of pepper. He carves into the word “inspiring” and realizes that part of the problem is the cut. You need to braise a word like that to make it really palatable, and this one just tastes…dry.
He hesitates for only a moment before clicking over to a rival blog. No one knows they’re in rivalry with him, of course, and he’s not about to tell them. But he passes by their window almost every day, looking at what’s being served. A word like “brilliant” just crackles differently in someone else’s comment section than it does in his. Why is that? Maybe his partner really does need to focus on technique after all.
But it’s more than that. “Your stories are exactly what I’m looking for.” “Your essays always make me feel so warm inside.” “I shared this with all my friends.” “I don’t regret subscribing; $50 well spent.” The quality is on a whole other level.
Jon’s stomach squeezes into a pit, like he hasn’t eaten in weeks. In a way, he really hasn’t. Not since he was in middle school, even. He still thinks about that time in the gym, his shoes squeaking across the floor to receive that ribbon and that special diploma in front of all the kids who weren’t as talented as he was. The pretty teacher smiled at him, clapped for him, spoke such honoring words—for him! It was like someone had served him a plate of perfectly grilled fish: tender, flaky, pearlescent flesh under crisp and blistered skin.
And then the other kid went up. And she smiled at him, clapped for him. Served him what, to Jon, sounded like all the sense and spectacle of a broiled filet, medium rare, ruby red through and through, soft to the teeth and charred to perfection. Superior to his own dish in every way.
He chews his own tongue and his mouth waters. He’s been chasing that steak for years. He’s even gotten it, sometimes, only to realize that it wasn’t really what he wanted. Not in the moment, anyway. Sometimes, someone else gets the fish, and then he realizes that that’s what he was hungry for, after all. Someone else gets a fire-grilled squab, or a bed of hand-pulled pasta. Meanwhile, people are always feeding Jon things he’s not hungry for. And he can’t ask for what he really wants, because that’s against the rules.
So, he never eats. He starves, little by little. And he’s getting tired of it.
He rifles through a few more blogs, through the recipes contained in the comments. He prints off the most promising ones. God, how are there so many? Of course these other artists are always getting the nourishment they need; they have so damn much to pick from. Compared to them, Jon feels like he’s been rationed to biscuits of hardtack, sailor food. Who’s cooking for these other guys?
One name catches his attention. The name of another writer, in his rival’s comments. She’s quite good herself: clipped and to the point, while being deeply attentive. She makes day to day life feel sacred, and he’s felt compelled to honor her with a meal from time to time. It’s always something a little exotic, something with a little curry or coriander in it; if he’s not being fed in the ways he wants, he at least needs to show off that he knows how to cook. Maybe some of that attention will come back his way. And her words do have zest and spice, when she gives them: she’s called him “a wonderful prosaist”, said he’s “lyrical” and “easy to read.”
It’s nice. It’s not perfect, but it’s something. Like honey on the hardtack. She adds a little puff, a little crunch, a little glaze to his bland life. There’s love and flavor in the humble dishes she makes. She lacks technique, but that could be refined. Starting from something is better than nothing. He wonders how different life might be if he’d chosen someone more like her to —
He shakes off the thought. He’s got a responsibility. To be honest with his partner. To be clear about his needs, to teach her how she can nourish him. She’ll never know if he can’t say.
He takes the printouts back to the island. Red pen in hand, he starts cobbling together a rough nutritional plan in front of her. It’s not fancy, not perfect, but it’ll start, and he even feels hungry and eager as the right ingredients start to stand out: “Engrossing.” “Inspiring.” “Insightful.” “Provocative.” He teaches her how to distinguish protein and carbs, seasoning and sweet. Even the leafy vegetables of constructive criticism are palatable if sufficiently oiled with assurances that he’s a genius, if…
“Jon,” she says. “What the hell?”
He blinks. “I need this, babe.”
She flips the pages, trying to orient herself. She’s dumbfounded by the stack of papers, the color-coded adjectives.
He knows that look. He’s seen it before. He’s seen it a lot, actually. That teacher’s face, after he’d confronted her for treating him unequally. His own mother’s knotted brow, bewildered by his ever-escalating attempts to earn from her the same praise she always had for other children: “Aaron is very mature. Nicole is very polite. Don’t you see how Anna studies very hard?” How dare they all be so shocked at his idea that maybe, just maybe, if he got the same nourishment as everyone else, he could actually live up to their expectations?
He snatches a recipe from his partner’s hand and gathers up the rest with a sneer.
The snap of her hand on the marble stops him as he’s about to step back into the shadowed den. A thwack with a heavy scent: not spicy with anger or sour with resentment, but…fermented, with something closer to defeat. The same smell that wafts up at him every time he opens the drawer of his desk.
“Do you even hear yourself right now?” she says. “Do you hear how insane you sound when you—” She bites her tongue. Presses her nails into her palm. She slides off the stool, stands in front of him on their bad carpet, in the nauseous yellow lamplight. She makes him set the ream of recipes aside, takes his hands and says, “Jon, I don’t have much to say about art. I know what I like, and what I don’t. But your talent isn’t why I’m with you.”
“Well why not?” he says. It scares him, somehow, that there might be anything else. That his talent might be too missable to earn him love.
When she finally speaks, it’s with all the words he’s longing for: “Generous.” “Diligent.” “Empathetic.” “Gentle.” “Attentive.” “Imaginative.” All wrapped up in reasons he doesn’t recognize. She doesn’t actually have the right words, and she tells him as much; she’s pulling out all the stops, throwing everything in the pan and frying it all together. It’s—entrancing. It’s unexpected and rustic. Unevenly chopped, heavily seasoned, but full of heart. A gift.
He eats the meal one bite at a time. He savors it: the soft potato bits and the bites that snap like onions. Perfectly grilled meat, chased with sips of wine. And all of it so practical, blooming right in the heart of him. Even the criticisms add depth — the sweet and tart critiques of his ego and attention. He can eat this whole thing, mashing it all together into generous forkfulls.
… But it isn’t exactly a steak, is it. Certainly not a filet. Not the kind of thing you cut into and marvel at how it just falls apart in your mouth. The words prove tough and fibrous the longer he chews on them. They mean too many different things. “Gentleness” isn’t “genius”, after all. “Diligent” describes a mode, “generous” a style, but it doesn’t make him feel…special. He feels loved, but he doesn’t feel brilliant.
She turns to go. Once she’s shrouded in the shadows of the hall, he glides to the sink. He pushes with his tongue and lets the mouthful fall, washed down by a quiet stream of water. Is that the subtle bitterness of an ulterior motive he tastes? He flips on the garbage disposal, runs the faucet again. Forget high standards; he really just can’t stomach a compliment that isn’t about his writing.
If you’re still hidden, watching him vanish back into the den, maybe you’re wondering what you’ve just watched. Is Jon delusional? Is this really a world where we need words to sustain us?
I’m not sure it matters. All that matters is that Jon spat in the sink. He doesn’t know it—won’t know it for a long time—but this is the start of how he starves to death.
Took me a couple of goes to get the hang of this bur it was worth the effort - in future I'll pay more attention to the clue in the title
Yeah, this is really cool, it’s very interesting to think about. I guess we can all see a tiny slice of this in ourselves, enough to imagine it run amok as it does here.