A story by Sebastian Pearce based on the WordPress Daily Writing Prompt:

The Perfect Dinner Party

If I could host a dinner and anyone I invited would come, the choice would be obvious. I’d invite myself—every version of myself I’ve ever been.

The preparations took weeks. Seven place settings around my grandmother’s oak table, each one perfectly arranged. The good china, the silver that only comes out for special occasions, candles that cast just the right shadows. I even hired a caterer, though I made sure they left before the guests arrived. This evening was too important for interruptions.

They arrived precisely at eight, just as I knew they would.

First came the seven-year-old me, eyes wide with wonder, still believing in magic and monsters under the bed. Then sixteen-year-old me, all sharp edges and raw ambition, dressed in that leather jacket I thought made me look dangerous. College me followed, softer around the edges but burning with possibility. Then came the versions from my thirties—the new parent, exhausted but glowing; the divorcee, brittle with fresh wounds; the career climber, all suits and calculated smiles.

Finally, the oldest version shuffled in—eighty-six and bent with age, eyes clouded but somehow seeing more clearly than the rest of us.

“Fascinating,” murmured my sixteen-year-old self, studying the others with clinical interest. “I always wondered what we’d become.”

“Disappointed?” asked the divorcee, bitter laugh echoing in the dining room.

“Surprised,” the teenager admitted. “I expected… more.”

The conversation flowed like wine—sometimes sweet, sometimes sharp. We shared stories the others couldn’t possibly know, finished each other’s thoughts, laughed at private jokes that spanned decades. The seven-year-old was delighted by the fancy food, while my elderly self ate slowly, savoring each bite as if it might be the last.

As the evening progressed, I noticed something strange. The candles weren’t burning down. The wine glasses never emptied, though we kept drinking. And despite hours of conversation, the clock on the mantle still read 10:09.

“Time’s funny here,” observed my college self, following my gaze.

“Here?” I asked.

My oldest self smiled—a sad, knowing expression. “You haven’t figured it out yet?”

The others had gone quiet, watching me with expressions ranging from pity to curiosity. Even the seven-year-old had stopped chattering, small hands folded in her lap.

“The accident,” whispered the teenager. “Do you remember the accident?”

Fragments flashed through my mind. Headlights. Screaming metal. The taste of copper. Then… nothing.

“This isn’t real,” I said, but my voice sounded hollow.

“Define real,” said my thirty-something self gently. “This dinner is happening. We’re all here. We’re having exactly the conversation you always imagined we would.”

“But I’m—”

“Dying,” my elderly self finished. “Have been for the past six minutes. Your brain is firing its last synapses, creating this elaborate fantasy while your body shuts down on a hospital table.”

The dining room flickered, like a film reel skipping. For a moment, I could hear the steady beep of machines, smell antiseptic instead of roasted chicken.

“Don’t fight it,” urged the divorcee. “This is your gift to yourself. A chance to make peace with who you were, who you became, who you’ll never be.”

“The doctors are working on you,” added my college self. “But your skull is fractured, your brain is bleeding. This is probably all the time you have left.”

The seven-year-old reached across the table and took my hand. Her skin was warm, real. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “We had a good life. Parts of it, anyway.”

I looked around the table at all of my selves—the dreams achieved and abandoned, the love found and lost, the mistakes that shaped me, the triumphs that defined me. Each face familiar, each story mine.

“Will it hurt?” I asked.

My oldest self shook her head. “It’s like falling asleep. Peaceful, actually. And we’ll all be here with you until the end.”

The room was growing dimmer now, the edges blurring. The machines’ beeping was growing more erratic, more distant.

“Thank you,” I said to my assembled selves. “For coming to dinner.”

“Thank you,” they replied in unison, “for inviting us home.”

The last thing I saw was the seven-year-old me, smiling as she blew out the candles. Somewhere far away, a heart monitor flatlined.

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© Sebastian Pearce 2025