The Dinner Guest by Aaron

The Dinner Guest by Aaron - February 2016 Scholarship Essay

Ding Dong!

The sound reverberated through the halls while I rushed to the door and my wife put the finishing touches on the platter of perfectly cooked roast and the mashed potatoes; the house was filled with a succulent aroma of rosemary, thyme and beef. I opened the door for the first-arriving guests: Charles Dickens, arm in arm with his wife Catherine.

“Hello!” I greeted cheerfully, taking their coats and escorting them to the dining room where my wife was waiting. It was my wife’s idea to invite them; while I admired the tales of poor orphaned boys finding their families and hearts being changed, Dickens had always been a bit boring for my taste. As the couple was welcomed and seated, the doorbell rang once again. This time, a Mister Samuel Clemens, more commonly known as Mark Twain, and his wife Olivia stood in the doorway. We joked cordially. Although his humor was dry, Twain knew how to keep the attention of all present. His adventures were widely known and riddled with anecdotes and quips that were sometimes lost on those who had no understanding of his sense of humor. While my wife and I agreed that these two couples were entertaining, there was still one special guest I was waiting for. A few minutes passed as the guests greeted each other and my wife, worried that the meal might become cold, asked everyone to be seated. Upset that maybe my invitee may have forgotten that appointment, I resigned to taking my place at the table.

Just as I made contact with the cushion, though, the doorbell rang yet a third time. I sprang from the table, almost upsetting the glasses to the dismay of my sweetheart, and quickly rushed to the entrance. I looked to the windows and noticed that the sky had turned ashy, and a slight breeze rustled the leaves of our great oak tree. It was him, it had to be; his presence always seemed to bring the very fears of the world to life. I reflected briefly on some of his stories which captured my interest from a young age: my heart would palpitate as I imagined a heart under my very own floorboards. I ran through the ruins of an ancient castle near my childhood home, ever-quickening my pace that I might avoid being walled up, left with nothing but the rats and the rattle of chains until my death. Every fallen, dried leaf was a monkey’s hand, and I dreaded the occasion of coming on a black cat during my morning stroll. Although the words on a single page sent my imagination spiraling into a dismal infinity, I enjoyed the quickening pulse, for I knew that I was alive; I sympathized with the tales of a long-lost love and forever was in search of treasures hidden by a long-forgotten pirate. This game did not end when I “grew up,” though. Instead, I allowed my decisions to continue to be influenced by that young child enamored of passion presented by ink and paper, by the memories attached to a key which unlocked the floodgates to the infinite possibilities of expression.

In the last few steps towards the door, my mind cleared and I pushed down the latch, my breath coming in quick, excited bursts from my lungs as the hinges creaked open. There he stood, the very being who had commanded my imagination; he who caused the normal drudgery of life to become a wave of twists and turns; adventure and mischief were his calling; murder and revenge his passion. I smiled wryly, beckoning him to enter.

“Good evening, and welcome to our home, Mister Poe.”