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While the children drank hot cocoa and egg nog, the adults all convened around the kitchen counter, pouring themselves glasses of beer and wine and partaking in the smells wafting from the oven. As I refilled my uncle’s glass with Cabernet, I began to notice how much he was already beginning to slur, and I dreaded the idea that I could be enabling a bad habit. Luckily, my grandpa winked at me before telling his son, “That’s the last glass you get tonight, my boy.”
By Belinda Roddie URL on 12.23.2018
wine can be a way of showing one’s wealth, and it also can reflect one’s life quality. I think wine is always so mysterious, and each one brings a different feeling.
By yingke on 12.23.2018
good for some bad for none. people use this when they are sad but it should be used in happiness and to party. sometimes it is used to do a move you don’t have balls to do wen you’re sober
By Asjad on 12.23.2018
The deepest of red glinted and danced in the silverware like stars on a cloudless night sky.
By Shalini URL on 12.24.2018
She stomped her foot in the black grape bucket, knowing it will add to her drink.
Words flow through my head as if they were pouring into my glass. I only with they would pour just as gracefully and purposefully. I know that every one would be better off with out me. I’m the one the bridges the gap, however, in my case, it is not for the good. I seem to be the opposite of what every one needs or wants. Why am I suddenly a charity case? He stays because he’s happy? No; he stays because its what is good for him. I am the one who is nice. Who is a “good mother.” Ask the kids and I am a monster. I am……just nothing. I am useless. I have no joy in life. Why would I want to hold them back from what they could be. That means splitting up the kids and letting them live completely different lives. Separate. I continue to refill my glass, to feel anything at all. It’s just pain inside. And even when I look inside and it’s empty. Empty glass, empty bottle.
By Kari on 12.24.2018
drip drop smart lock
a flesh breath broken
fingers flay the flecks of
aching back breaking
tempted by elasticity
drink drop drip wine
intoxicated by the heat
by the kisses in contact
by the heterosexual contract
By matt m on 12.24.2018
Rain in Berlin. Out in the twinkly-lit streets, on a search for champagne. The wine in every shop is sold out. You end up tracing wet graffiti with your fingertips, slow, just to delay going back.
By Fox Hedgehog on 12.24.2018
Rumi is your go-to seduction technique – the wine of love, all that, and I sometimes wonder what Rumi would think of being used as a tool to seduce, what he would think of his translated lines being printed on calendars with sunsets and circulated as “inspiration” on social media. Last night, at the head of the Christmas table, I pictured you on the other end, all the comedic chaos that would be caused by your presence alone, regardless of your intelligence and your resume and your orderly behavior. I thought, “The minute I heard my first love story, I started looking for you, not knowing how blind that was. Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.”
By Ella Emma Em on 12.24.2018
It doesn’t matter if we can or can’t drink wine together. Maybe you think it does. Maybe you don’t think of it at all. What’s it like for you to be at home, with your mother, with her kennel full of black labs running under your feet? Do you notice that her presence changes you, rearranges your pieces?
By whatever_artemesia on 12.24.2018
She looked at the stain on the floor, large and red. Or at least it was red. She was too tired and it was too dark. Nothing else had been disturbed and her roommate lay on the floor. She couldn’t tell if he was breathing.
“That better be wine.” She muttered.
By Leaen on 12.24.2018
I would never bring you into a wine shop. I know what it would mean for you if I did. But I wish you could’ve met the man behind the register, the one with the tattoo of text winding round his bicep in typewriter font. I asked him what it said, and he spouted off a long Jack Kerouac passage, from “On the Road.” It began something like, “Give me the bad ones…” and went on and on, rich in poetic imagery, and he pretended to be reading his own arm but really he had the passage memorized. I could tell he fancied himself a writer, even if the only writing he does is in his journal, and he was the kind of person who had no perspective on whether or not he was any good. He just knew that he was ignored and that he had to ring up wine for money. You were the only other person in my life who would understand this moment as it was happening. And afterwards, you would laugh with me, and we’d go to the wide zebra crossing, your coattails and pipe smoke billowing, past the baby drag queen in a grey wig performing Christmas numbers in the plaza, past all the street skaters who’ve never landed a trick, up the brick-paved main street of the city towards a sunset subsumed by rain.
The word alone, wine, gets my attention. A recluse at heart, but I can hang with total strangers, it only takes … did someone say wine?
By T. Michael Smith URL on 12.24.2018
a division of Identity Crisis, Inc.