Tuesday 23 September 2014

Drinks and Drinking

You take a refreshing swig, a drink well earned. Something's not right - the taste? Smell? You look in your vessel, and see…

What do you see?
A pair of long, thin, white worms. They writhe in your drink, and - damn does your throat itch - you can see tiny teeth at either end of the things.
The surface of your drink is acting like a perfect mirror, until you start to speak. The reflection just watches.
Dozens of tiny white spheres. The word ‘egg’ occurs to you. Breathing is becoming difficult.
Something like a weasel in lurid colours leaps out of your vessel and quickly flees the scene. You feel your pulse quicken significantly.
A twig of some unknown herb of tree sits at the bottom of the drink. You’ve never seen the like before. You’re sweating.
A small, unstopped glass vial rests at the bottom. Some oily liquid is seeping out the neck. You feel that the floor would be a great place to rest.
Your drink is frozen solid, but it is not cold. There is not a drop of moisture in your vessel. You feel warm.
Your drink is black as ink, and you feel the residue of it all over your lips, tongue, teeth, mouth, throat, stomach. It stings.
A fresh razor-blade is suspended in your drink. A droplet of blood is diffusing in your drink. Your tongue is bleeding.
The drink smells of rot – no, worse than rot. A thousand years of renewed decay bottled and distilled and infused and enchanted and cursed and hexed and spoiled and sullied. You feel the bile rising faster than is (demi)humanely possible.

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