2025 February Flash Fiction Challenge: Day 16

For today’s prompt, write about the last of a species.

(Note: If your story gets flagged for review, be patient—we will be releasing comments every few hours throughout the weekdays of this challenge. Our system randomly flags comments for review, so just sit tight and wait for us to set it free! If you run into any other issues with posting your story, please just send me an e-mail at mrichard@aimmedia.com with the subject line: Flash Fiction Challenge Commenting Issue.)

Here’s my attempt at a story about the last of a species:

Forgotten Seeds

He was tasked with preparing the last wild-grown papaya in existence. First, the chef guided his chef’s knife to slice off both ends of the fruit. He placed the papaya upright on one of the flat ends, then sliced it in half, lengthwise, gliding the steel through the flesh and juice in one slick slide. He scooped the seeds out of each half with a spoon, laying them gently to one side. Using a paring knife, he peeled back the skin and sliced the remaining flesh into perfectly uniform cubes.

The others in the kitchen stood by, watching. The air was heavy, solemn; their ancestors were in the room with them.

After stacking the cubes in a geometric pattern, he lifted the plate gingerly between his palms. No server would deliver this. He would look this customer in the eyes as he ate.

The dining room was almost silent except for the single pianist on the far side of the room. The entire restaurant had been reserved by this guest—this billionaire—for this occasion. At the largest table sat a skeletal man, his face alight with greed. His bony hand clutched at his fork, and he barely glanced at the chef as the plate was sat in front of him.

“Do you know what I’ve had to do to get this,” the man rasped. He licked his dry, cracking lips.

There was so much that the chef kept trapped behind his teeth. He himself had never eaten wild papaya, even though the textbooks say that they’d hung heavy from almost every tree in Chiapas.

He stayed silent as the man savored his sweet feast. Because in the back, right at that moment, he knew that his line cooks were washing the sweet juice off the little black pearls scooped from the flesh, readying them for drying. They would divvy them up, as planned, tucking them into the linings of coats and hats and shoes so that if one or even a few of them were caught, others would still be able to spirit them away.

This man thought he was making his mark on history—but he had no idea that history was in the making.