As the night crawled over the sky, the saloon doors closed and opened in a rhythmic pattern. Rounds of beer were gladly enjoyed by those who wished to cherish the night, and those who wished to forget it. Tommy, who was a regular attender as well as an astute drinker, grabbed the nearest seat and ordered, "Fill me up." The bartender gladly welcomed Tommy back home, and filled up a tall glass of sparkling amber liquid, some rumored it to be the cup of life. Tommy smiled to the bartender and spoke in slurred words, "You, my good friend, gift me with such an infallible miracle." Tommy glanced proudly at his beverage of choice as if it were the first time he laid eyes on it, tilted his head back, and took a drink. The moment the beer hit his tongue, he felt at home and at peace once again. He swallowed it quickly and took another swig, but before it reached the bottom of his throat, it became warm and alcoholic. It was as if he was chugging gasoline, which he had only tried once, with little success or enjoyment. He delineated his misfortune to the bartender, who had set much higher precedent for his beverages. The bartender simply stated, "I didn't think you'd be able to notice it, considering..." He didn't go on, but only mumbled the last few words. It was true, Tommy was at best an alcoholic, but if anything that meant he knew his liquor. Honestly, this bar was interdependent on Tommy, the two running hand in hand in a field of daisies. Tommy had to ask, "Why is the beer so warm? I didn't want to drink scotch tonight!" The bartender only replied with, "We've run out." Run out of what? Tommy posed the question to himself, hoping to interrogate the situation. "Alright," Tommy yelled as he got out of his seat, wobbling, "if your beer is going to be the death of me, then I am going to resurrect by product of my beer, which will be exuberant, but still chilled." Tommy stormed out of the bar, racing to the nearest bus station he could find. Once the bus had finally arrived, he yelled to the bus driver, "Take me to a farm or bust!" The driver tiredly replied, "Sir, I can't do that, it isn't on my route." Tommy stormed away from the bus stop, angry and fired up with excitement. Suddenly, an idea sprung into his drunken mind. He raced to the pet store, and grabbed a baby pig. It had to be exactly twelve weeks old, or it wouldn't work. He then bolted to the convenience store, and bought two cups and a bottle of apple juice. After he had collected all of his supplies, he stumbled back into the saloon where everyone was waiting to view his new discovery. After a few oinks and trials later, he had created the perfect malt beverage. He gave it a sip, careful to ignore the pig discretion -- the secret ingredient -- when testing his invention. It stung the tongue, gave a blast of flavor, and tasted good warm! A success! "Alright, here you go bud." A group of men exclaimed to the bartender, bringing a chunk of ice into the warm saloon.
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As the sun began to set, the sky lit up as a fire would in our small cabin, red fire engulfing the clouds. My eyes drifted downward towards our family barn, and the sky reflected upon the already red barn to create a deep burgundy. All of the cows mooed from the inside, harmonious in their consolidating voices.
"Johnny! Johnny!" "Yes, papa?" "Are you alright? I heard the cows practically screaming out, and I wondered if there was possibly a stampede or fire of some sort!" "Yes, papa. I'm alright, but just as confused. All I saw was a fiery sky, a burgundy wall, and then the sound of a hundred calling cows." We both had no explanation for this mysterious and markedly obscure moment. I couldn't allow myself to wonder the true causes of this event. "Johnny," papa said pithily, "I need you to listen to me. I must tell you a story. It's more important than any other." I listened, scared it would polemics about how are colony came to be and why the Natives were so horrible. I couldn't hear more of those lies about "only beasts roaming the land, having it as ours for the taking." "The year was 1524. I was just a boy, about your age, and my family had shipped me here on account of my conspicuous rebellion. I couldn't stand to stay in the muck of the city, living with the rats. I came to the New World running on hope of land and riches. They never told us that there were people, whole civilizations already living where we planned to go. It was a battle through ignorance to see past the lies they fed us. I couldn't stand to live in constant anger at another people. I would never act on my anti-anthropocentric views, but didn't understand why we had to kill to survive, when there was always the option of peace. Of course, this never flushed through anyone's mind, and they found war to be rewarding." I was shocked at hearing his story, as I thought he understood the same way as those who killed for fun. I believed for so long that he say the Indians as nothing more than a small obstacle to slaughter and forget. "Johnny, are you listening? This is important." "Sorry, yes papa. I was just thinking." "well, anyhow, one of my friends who I had met on the farm we had built that year was determined to slaughter the chief and his baby of a nearby village. I had told him multiple times not to do it, but he could never follow along to rules of those around him. In fact, he may as well have thought of himself as king. I couldn't stop him, no matter how much I yelled, screaming for sense to be sent to his brain. His impious thoughts matched his actions, as he set out with a small group of rapacious young males to burn their village, aiming to bring the chief's heart back as proof of their declension." "Papa, what does this have to do with our barn?" "I'm getting to it. When he came back, he was alone, bloodied and red, seeming as if he completely missed the village and burned himself. He spoke with a shaky voice, 'They all cried out, spoke in ancient tongues. I-I couldn't... they didn't make it.' It was as if he had seen a ghost. The next day, the clouds were dark, charcoal colored. Rain began to pour down, a never ending stream of tears, wept by those who were taken by the selfish hands of the English. As the sun set, fiery hues tinting the sky. Our only farm began to darken, seeming as though an invisible fire died for it to char. We all could hear our cows clearly screaming out in a mix of moos and ancient callings. All of our people became frightened and paralyzed by the words shouting towards the sky. I don't remember much after, although once I awoke again, I was lying face down on the dirt. I could hear moaning and groans coming from limp bodies around me." "Papa, I'm so sorry, but what do we do now? What if this happens to us?" "It won't, as long as we repaint the barn with the brightest red we can find. It must pierce through the darkness of a charcoal sky." "How dare thou doeth this! i was one of thy most loyal buccaneers!" I screamed with all of the might I had left in my body.
My lover from the last port would miss her John "Doe Eyes" if I wasn't allowed to keep her company, as my body would then be owned by the sea. "Oh John, wherefore would I keep a traitor on mine beloved Black Death?" The captain's soft voice disguised by the harsh wind, whipping in my face to force my eyes' tears. The impious crew shouted slurs at my half beaten body. "We'll make an example out of you!" "Traitor of Black Death!" "If only we could burn you, but instead we'll sink you!" My adept thinking only led me to one solution: To survive one must first recreate one's birth, anew in the endless opportunity of an infant world. To mollify the captain, I shared a story of my childhood years with no regard for his lack of exuberance or inclination to hurry the job up. I felt as though my poor upbringing could show my interdependence to booze, and therefore to the risk of the drinking. Gambling was a game I would never fail to lose, but the ignorance of drunken fun had overruled my prior opinion. "Dear captain, I would ne'r let anyone steal this ship, Black Death, from any foe, e'en in mine depths of gambling at the highest of stakes, for we are pirates and doeth not followeth rules to keep our ship afloat." The captain and crew nodded in despair, and he spoke with a sharp tone as though a blade were to slit my throat to disallow any talking back, "I pity the poor soul who wilt ever sink next to thou." A pervasive sickness spread suddenly throughout my body, and as I held my hand in the air to signify surrender, my body had completed the task thoroughly, sending me down as my eyes shown nothing but black and my limbs became numb. A slip from the wood and I was a dead man, my lover would have to travel to the middle of the sea to ever beware of my presence in her lifetime. The captain belatedly said his last words, then opened his rapacious eyes to see the empty sky carrying nothing more than a lone seagull, the water with a large ripple sent outward, eventually to hit land or die as nothing more than one small wave. |
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