The Dying Party, by Roshanna Sidney Evans

The room was stuffed with people, as many as the platters were stuffed with stacks of thick New York subs sealed with saran. No one but me noticed the dying man sitting quietly in the corner in his last hours on Earth.

We smiled and watched them play musical chairs around the coffee table amidst cackling chatter and fuss. Salivating human vultures mobbing the platters as the saran lifted. Greedy eyes. Faster hands. The subs disappeared in seconds and eyes were already asking for more.

“That” he whispered with twinkling sad eyes, “is what’s left of the meaning of life.”