Rotgut

ROTGUT The whiskey was bad the burn and warmth of it was, if not good, welcome. Hard day, but aren’t they all, Hard ground, hard work, hard head, Hard luck, hard times. The whiskey would fix that, ease the edges of the hardness, deaden, if not soften them. This town, like so many others, a refuge, turned tormentor, daring me to leave, begging me to stay. Same stool, same drink, same day, day after day, whiskey’s treadmill never backward, never forward, always here. Within the confines of a curse to seek its dark oblivion knowing the day, this day, would come again. Amid the muffled noise of others, nameless, faceless, blurry beings going through the motions of a life, devoid of any feeling, save despair. Old pictures propped against the bottle dusty dreams washed down with Rotgut whiskey. The eyes that looked at him were dead, reflections of the mirrors judgment, unable to turn and walk away. He would stay in Rotgut, or find another. Same stool, same drink, same day, bad whiskey, welcome warmth. John G. Lawless 7/8/2014 for Jerry T. Curtis contest A Town Called Rotgut