Saturday, January 2, 2010

Last Drink

He put down his glass and raised his legs four inches off the ground in front of the leather chair he sat in. His legs were pressed together tightly and his whole body went rigid with tension, pausing in mid-motion. His head tilted back and his eyes rolled towards the ceiling for a moment as if searching for strength or clarity. At once he slammed his feet back to earth with a shake that nearly upset the end table with the empty glass. His head came back down and with a sling like motion he propelled himself into the center of the living room. He had done it now and his forward hurl sped him hurriedly towards the mantle and the fireplace underneath. Oh the manic clipped steps of a tumbling terrestrial. His gaze fell upon the bottle that sat quietly and undisturbed on the mantle as he himself did a singular foxtrot or waltz moving one step backwards then forwards then two to the side and back again. With a sashay he cut the dastardly distance in half and in a slide and a skip he made a felonious foray and grasped the bottle with a loud bark and a sharp retort of his bowls. He had his prize but as his other hand reached searchingly for a perch on the mantle it was hard pressed to find a home. His momentum had carried and spun him like a slobbering yet nimble ballerina driving him like a drunk locomotive heading towards a bridge that has been torn down, the gully being the unsuspecting fire grate and the extra warm contents on the other side of it. Smash was the sound as he took the fireplace head on taking the gate with a swoop of his large arms. Whiskey bottle up, whiskey bottle down, whiskey bottle smashed all around. Cracked and angry the whiskey bottle sprayed its pressured contents towards the man and the already outraged fire and its protesting flames. Whoosh went the man; fizz went the bottle feeding the frenzy of the moment.

1 comment:

  1. I think you should write a book.

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