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.

Magnolia

Pink Patsy’s throne was her porch, where she roosted like a proud poodle through the better part of a century. She was all pretty pastry and puffball in oodles of swaddled satins and mega bijoux, with cloudward curls as epic as her jewels. Her communal vat of ice cubes and iced tea was legendary among heat-struck fieldhands and thirsty children alike: there was more gin than lemon or sugar, and we fished out ice with silver tongs that looked like chicken feet. They said she kept a tiny pearl pistol in her pom-pom mules, and she only used it once.From Guest Contributor Lorette C. Luzajic Lorette is a widely published writer of flash fiction and prose poetry, with recent appearances in Tiny Molecules, The Citron Review, Ghost Parachute, Dillydoun Review, and more. She is the founder and editor of The Ekphrastic Review, a journal of literature inspired by visual art.

It Would Be The End Of Prohibition For Harry

HISTORICAL FICTION SUBMISSION:

Harry didn't know what the big deal was. Sure, alcohol was prohibited (it was called Prohibition after all) but it was readily available if you knew where to ask. Harry knew where to ask.

His favorite place to get a bottle was the jazz joint by the river, the one popular with the colored folk. As far as Harry was concerned, they had the best gin and the best music. There were plenty of white folks there too, but Harry did his best not to be seen.

If his Ma ever found out he was drinking on a school night...

From Guest Contributor Jesse Debbins

What We Might Deserve

The snarling saw cuts off and the groaning fir drunk on gravity takes its first step. A full ocean is born in the soughing fall and over four centuries whumps the earth like a five-dollar moll on a sprung stained mattress. And you stand there, hands numb and belly tight and you wonder why something so old saves its final words for someone like you. Someone who knows the glass bite of gin straight from the bottle while slouched at the tilt kitchen table as rain plunks a pan on the floor near the hot squat stove in the corner.

From Guest Contributor Casey Hampton