Whiskey Fiction

Timothy the tree cursed. It had again tripped on a human knee sticking out of the ground on its hiking trail.

A grapnel springs from one rooftop to another. Clothes black as the night itself hang from the line tightened between two chimneys. The cat burglar patiently waits in his tighty-whities for the morning sun to dry his attire.

The family had been using the same secret recipe for centuries: corn from their own fields, limestone water from the river flowing through their land and human sacrifice before each distillation. As grandfather explained to the little one, who was eager to learn the tricks of the trade, the bodies buried between the rows of corn also attributed to the terroir present in their lovingly crafted whiskey.

To make sure the apple would fall far from the tree, Russ stood by the tree ready to swing his baseball bat.

On Halloween he handed out candied glass balls on sticks. It was his way of choosing trick over treat.

“What are we going to do today, Brain?” “The same thing we do every day, Pinky. Try to be slightly better versions of ourselves.”

Sergeant was about to sink his teeth into a soft slice of thickly buttered bread when a private stomped to his camp to complain about the lack of cheese in his ration. Sergeant calmly offered to supply the private with some self-made schlong cheddar. Unwittingly the private agreed and watched as his squad leader dropped his trousers, pulled back his foreskin and rolled his penis over the private’s bread. Dumbfounded, the private took the slice back and walked away.

A baby was lost in the desert with its toy rattle. The search party suffered several casualties caused by snakebites.

Their love was a forbidden one. Every night Fahrenheit 173 would climb down and sneak over to The Catcher in the Corn’s shelf, and every morning the librarians would mercilessly separate them and take the eloper back to the science fiction section.

Fireman Brooks was able to extinguish the fire that threatened to burn the cornfield to a crisp, but in the process he sparked new and unquenchable flames—those dancing inside the heart of the lonely scarecrow he so valiantly saved.

Nietzsche was wrong. God is not dead. He is tied up in my basement, waiting to be punished for crimes against humanity.

Jenny Almond, the girl who became famous for living in the clouds for eight years, committed suicide on her 21st birthday. “The Balloon Girl”, as she was widely known, never got accustomed to living on solid ground.

The knife Samuel’s son forged for him as a birthday present was so blunt that Samuel could only use it to cut off the tuition payments for the blacksmithing school.

Nothing revealed that the basement’s lock had been picked. There were no fingerprints or footprints on the scene of the crime. The jars had been reorganized to make it seem like nothing was missing. Only dried-up jam stains around Will’s mouth told Grandma that the boy who struggled with reading and writing in school excelled at the fine art of thievery.

Tommy, a little boy who was not so little at all, heard whimpering from the old well. While trying to see what was down there, he fell over and got stuck in the hole. As the two trapped cottontails had nothing else to do in the ensuing darkness, they started to breed like the proverbial rabbits. Soon their mounding offspring reached the top of the well, and pressure started to grow. Finally, Tommy popped out like a cork and the colony of rabbits flooded to freedom.

The brave knight-butcher-chefs who lost their lives on a quest for dragon meat roasted by dragon fire had ceremonious funerals. Their remains were laid in ships and set on fire as the ships were sent out to the sea. The burning was mostly ritual as there was generally very little left for the flames to consume.

Emil might have been spared a spanking when he climbed on the roof and fell down the chimney—which hadn’t been swept for a good while—if the sitting room hadn’t been painted bright white only a few moments before.