Monday, August 22, 2016

FOREWARNING: Today's post isn't as fun and purely entertaining as I usually do (let's face it, I'm hilarious)

Now when you're done laughing at how I'm not that funny, you may avert your eyes down the page to my short story. I write short stories for fun on my free time. Weirdly enough, I write depressing stuff. 


Anyway, take a look! Hope every likes it!

Broken Bottles

The liquor store’s funk dispersed throughout the surrounding environment, welcoming the stumbling regulars to their daily trips. Day in. Day out. Day in and day out, they make an annual visit getting their booze to drown themselves in for the entirety of what was left of their evening; they’re left with their wandering thoughts of why they chose to purchase that same bottle of The Captain again and again and again. Sometimes their minds travel towards why they chose to purchase any alcohol in the first place, but somehow they are brought back to that same aisle in the same liquor store purchasing the same damn bottle. In their perception it was dream, but it was really a curse. They felt fine during that delicious (but mostly dark nowadays) drunk; where all the worries about whether they could pay their bill that month, or last, has run away. Or how they lost the one they loved to the treacherous curse titled Captain Morgan. Those thoughts sailed out of their minds and drifted away, hiding from them until they took that last sip, because they think maybe, just maybe this time thinking about it wouldn’t tear them to pieces after that drink.

Dean faltered step by step from the last bus stop going through a  town in Louisiana, about an hour outside of New Orleans, a place where people roamed happily. However once night fell, the doors were shut and the drunks, “druggies,” or whoever else awakened from their afternoon slumber after passing out around 7:00 am. No one could ever be too careful in such a secluded little town.
“Keep the change,” Dean slurred as he threw four quarters at the driver followed by a pleasant burp as he slid off the bus. His eyes continued to roll forward and backward in his head.
“Yeah, just get off my bus buddy, you reek of cigarettes and bad whisky,” the bus driver snapped at Dean, “And take a Tic-Tac for the love of God.”
“No…God no Tic-Tacs from the store, that I would—err get them candy,” Dean stammered to himself as the bus drove off in the distance. He wobbled his way into the liquor store where the bottles awaited for his leisure. His stench diffused throughout the store causing a mix between the several scents of the establishment. Watching his feet one by one he made his way to the Vodka aisle. He just had his whisky fix and had to switch his options. He eyed the brands of the Vodka, but suddenly changed his mind and cast his eyes to the Tequila section. He smiled because he suddenly remembered he had salt at home. As he went to grab the Jose Cuervo off the shelf, he realized he had no lime at home to use to take his shots of Mr. Jose Cuervo. He then quickly remembered that he had half an apple left from lunch a couple days ago, though.
“Same difference,” he said to himself as he swayed back and forth attempting to keep his balance. He acted as if he was a puppet being strung along by the puppeteer—who probably had one too many himself.
Dean wiped his dirty, sweaty hands on his worn out jeans that he forgot to wash the day before. His bright purple neon LSU sweatshirt he grabbed from a Lost and Found box at the local recreation center beamed so loudly in the store, the clerk couldn’t help but notice Dean stumbling his way around the store as if he was learning to walk for the first time.
The clerk cleared his throat, and called out to the sad stranger, “Hey buddy, you doing okay over there?”
He looked around folding his hands together on the sticky counter, which suddenly reminded him he had to clean that off before his boss ripped him a new one again for leaving the store “a shitty and utterly disgusting pig pen” again. He scratched his dry hands nervously, his eyes darted back and forth as he shuffled his shirt cuffs.
Dean glanced up at the clerk, swaying back and forth some more and squinted. After a moment of silence between the men, Dean finally replied back with a belch. He rolled his eyes around eventually venturing their way to back of his head again.
“Huh?” he finally said back to the clerk awaiting his response.
He cleared his throat once more.
“I said, uh, are you doing okay, sir? I have seen plenty of people passing through here. Believe me, they never fail to surprise me with the types of drugs or how much alcohol they physically can consume and somehow still stand, but you, aside from the obvious smell of whiskey on your breath, seem different than the rest.”  
Dean set aback from this rubbed his eyes and straightened himself back up, for just a second, then shrugged back down into a slouch. He felt his emotions and mind sink to the floor, beneath the tiles. He didn’t think anyone would even notice, or care for that matter. He possessed this emptiness inside of him that he never realized would disseminate so quickly in such a desolate town; nonetheless, such a vacant store on this Wednesday night. The Wednesday a week after he lost the love of his life. Well, he thought she was. He didn’t know what to do. His love, the true love of his life gave him that ultimatum: it was her or the bottle he had sucked halfway down already. Dean decided a lifetime with his buddy, alcohol, was better than irrevocable love from his beloved, beautiful woman. Sadly, he made the bottle of Gin, Whisky, or whatever kind he was in the mood for, his soul mate.
“Lemme tell you somethin’ sir,” he slurred out to the clerk, now moving closer to the counter, booze still in hand, “I…am in love…and you know who that is?” He zigzagged back-and-forth until he eventually fell onto the counter, using his Tequila bottle to hold himself up.
The clerk shrugged.
“My love is this beautiful baby right here,” Dean continues. “Awh, you’re looking fabulous tonight baby…mwah!” Dean laid one right on the bottle, and continued to caress it, with a big smile on his face.
“Sir, I’m getting a feeling you’re pretty lost,” the clerk replies, “It seems like more so you lost someone more than something.”
Dean’s face suddenly went down. He finally realized what he was upset about. The bottle wasn’t fixing anything nor did it make him forget. All his memories with her suddenly rushed all back into his brain, breaking down the alcoholic wall blocking everything else.
“I…need her,” Dean sighs.
The clerk looked at Dean and said, “Listen, I work here five days a week, and I have witnessed a lot of things. I don’t say much, because well it ain’t any of my business, but buddy…you got to get yourself together. I’ve seen way too many broken hearts and crushed lives stumble through here, and it’s tough watching it happen. I see people ruin their lives because of this store right here.”
“I feel like I’m ruining my life.”
“You still have a chance to fix it,” the clerk said, “Put the bottle down. Leave this store, and get your woman back. You ain’t gonna do yourself any good drinking your way into the ground.”
“She’ll never take me back...but why are’ya helping me…you’re sayin’ to put the bottle down.”
“You got to try, because there is no life coming through here, it’s only gonna take it from ya. I can’t allow another life to diminish coming through here, so I need to say something before I explode.”
Dean propped himself up, and opened his eyes wide. He scratched the top of his head making sure he was listening, and then smiled big at the man behind the counter.
“I’m gonna get’er back!” Dean shouted, “Damn it, I want her back and I’ll get her. Screw this life. I’m gonna fix it. I’m gonna fix it!” The clerk smiled as Dean raced out of the store, tripping a few times, but nonetheless running with a purpose. Dean disappeared into the darkness, and the clerk sat back in his chair and smiled to himself.

The next morning, the clerk parked his Toyota in the lot right next to store. He got out of the car, and rummaged through his key ring to open the store once again. It was a beautiful morning, and he took in a deep breath.
It was 11:00 a.m. sharp when he officially opened the store for the day, and as he was counting his drawer for the day he heard the bell from when a customer walked through the door. He perked his head up, and checked the clock. It was 11:02 a.m. He heard the clunking of bottles from the rear of the store, and felt the heavy stumbling footsteps near the counter. Startled by the heavy footsteps, he dropped his keys. When he looked up, he saw the same bright LSU sweatshirt staring at him, the overwhelming smell of whisky, and that same bottle of Jose Cuervo in that dirty hand.

The end! Hey, lemme know what you think! To pick up your spirits here's a picture of a cute puppy chilling in a mug. Bye ya'll!!!!


  1. Great story. I guess clowns and midgets would have been inappropriate.

  2. Sad to say, a true story told many times...