text: How I die and the pigeon’s cookbook I happen to know how I die. And I do not mean in any abstract or metaphysical sense. I happen to literally know how I die. As all things in my life, I stumbled upon it. I was in a bookshop looking for a pigeon cookbook. Not a cookbook written by pigeons, but a cookbook on how to cook pigeons. I had always wondered what they taste like, and never really let go of the thought that they taste soda. Anyhow I digress. I was in this bookshop on Brooks Street. You know the place. It is right by the frog fountain and squeezed in between the Jewish baker and that man who shouts about vegetables all day. As I was idly looking for my book. I came to a section of the store, which somehow I had never been in before. I frequent this particular store quite often and yet a new section seemed to fold open when I rounded the corner from Greek food to Helenistic cuisine. This new section was unlike any other in the store. The shelves were made of old and almost rotten wood. There was dust everywhere and it smelled like my grandmother used to: Of mintcake and Chanel no 17. The bookcases towered over me and threatened to keel over at any minute. I paused, wondering whether I should seek the help of the proprietor, Mr. Dunder, but relented as I noticed the titles of the books. “Jordan Dale: Killed by his cat” “Jennifer Kendall: Slipped and fell in mayonnaise” It struck me as weird. Not that anything about this experience wasn’t weird, but this intrigued me. I put down a book named “Scottish Meals and Trantra Sex” and ventured onwards. The section seemed to expand and widen and with each step a new bookcase seemed to appear at the end of the row. Every book was named in the same manner: “Geoff Wintrop: Hit by a car while looking at his phone” “Ismail bin’Said: Choked on a piece of bread” There was no sensible order to the books, so I took one to read. It had 300 pages with the same sentence over and over again. “Danielle Winchester Cotton: Stabbed by her best friend” Over and over again. At first, I wondered how all these authors had managed to get published with such lackluster materiel. It gave me hope of being an author myself, at least if the bar was this low. But then it dawned on me. This is how people died. I took out my phone and googled Danielle Winchester Cotton., but there was no wifi, which was really disappointing for a store in 2021 not to have free wifi. Anywho, I did what anyone would do if they were in a store with a book about how people died. I looked for my family. Not that I hoped that they died, but those whom I knew was dead. My uncle, Frank. He kicked the bucket six years ago while inside a wheat silo, which collapsed and crushed him. I went looking, and searched for what seemed like hours, but no Frank Finkle appeared. There was a Francis Wonderwood who got shot, twice, for being a cunt. A Frederik von Finklevile who died giving birth, which just screamed intrigue, but my search was in vain, until I by chance said his name out loud. “Frank Finkle” And the book just fell from the top shelf into my hands. And there it was: “Frank Finkle. Crushed in a silo”. A thought popped into my head. Is it just people who died or how people will die? And you know you cannot help yourself. I said my own name. And \*plop\* a boo fell into my hands. It had my name on it, and my cause of death.