Elegantly Wasted

Tom was an alcoholic. First thing every morning he made himself an extremely dry martini: straight gin, but in a martini glass to feel classy. In the evening, he put on a tuxedo and drank champagne. Not sparkling wine. The French stuff.

Tom worked downtown. He took long lunches at the club and came back to the office smelling of mint and tangerine. He was a partner, so no one ever complained. Not to his face.

Tom considered himself a functioning alcoholic.

His ex-wife and her phalanx of lawyers considered Tom a threat to harm himself and those around him.

Father

Father threw his coat on the chair and announced, “I'm tired of trying to see the good in people.”

“Tough day, Father?”

“You have no idea. All day long, problems, problems, problems. I can’t fix chronic poor choices in partners or unfulfilled dreams of success because of laziness.”

“Did anything good happen today?”

“Well, the steps were repainted. It was a decent job, considering it was done by a recovering alcoholic.”

“See, that’s a start.”

“But there was a parade of people coming to confess all sorts of stupid things to me.

“Well, maybe being a pastor isn’t for you.”

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

Delhi Rape Case

Cell 1: Driver. Charged with rape and murder. Known as "mental/alcoholic."Escaped punishment by suicide.Cell 2: Brother of driver. Charged with same. Kept in solitary confinement after assault from inmates.Hung to death.Cell 3: Gym instructor. Guilty of kidnapping, robbery, rape, murder.Death sentence.Cell 4: Fruit Seller. Guilty of "rarest of rare." Raped so hard; intestines bled.Death penalty; followed by cheering by crowd.Cell 5: Unemployed man; commits atrocities to pass time and have a laugh.Death penalty.Cell 6: Minor. Charged with rape and immense body mutilation.Tried as juvenile. 3-year sentence.

Fuck Justice.

From Guest Contributor Suhasini Patni

Suhasini is a second year undergraduate at Ashoka University, in India, studying English literature. She has previously published a book review in The Tishman Review and a micro-fiction piece with A Quiet Courage, and hopes to publish many more. She is new to the publishing world but loves to write.

Cat And Mouse

"If I ever see you here again, I'll kill you."

So began their game of cat and mouse. Every night, Owen skirted past the Clover Patch, careful never to show his face where O'Riley might see him. O'Riley kept his shotgun under the bar, hoping for the day Owen crossed the bar's threshold.

Owen lamented he'd never again be able to sip of the island's best stout. It seemed especially unfair, with him being the bar's owner and its chief brewer, while O'Riley was just a bartender. Hiring a belligerent alcoholic to tend bar was in hindsight a poor decision.

Hit And Run

Sully swaggered out of the office on the upper east side. In his pocket, he carried an envelope stuffed with a photograph and a thousand dollars in small bills. This might be the biggest case of his career. That's when the silver Pontiac swiped into him and broke his leg.

He only saw the back of the driver's head. Whoever it was didn't want Sully to take this case. But Sully had a stubborn streak when it came to someone handing him a grand.

Seventeen drinks later, Sully's alcoholism finished the job that the mysterious driver had failed to accomplish.

Riding The Rails

Whenever I see a steam engine locomotive, I think of hoboes. Hopping on boxcars, riding the rails, free to travel the entire country, taking orders from no one.

As a child, I dreamed of life as a hobo. On Halloween, I would dress up in a tattered jacket, cut the fingers from my wool gloves, and go begging for candy. We once rode the Amtrak to Chicago, and I tried to board the freight car.

I have since learned that hobo life is not so romantic after all. Hoboes are just homeless alcoholics like the one who murdered my father.