The Story Of Drinking

The steam from the kettle had condensed on the cold window and was running down the glass in tear-like trickles. Outside in the orchard the man from the smudge company was refilling the posts with oil. The greasy smell from last night’s burning was still in the air. Mr. Delahanty gazed out at the bleak darkening orange grove; Mrs. Delahanty watched her husband eat, nibbling up to the edges of the toast, then staking the crusts about his tea cup in a neat fence-like arrangement.

The mouldy, rotting, brown house stood in front of Emily, only fear keeping her feet planted to the ground. Moaning and creaking noises being projected from the house. The grass was damp from the evening fog and every time she took a step the mud squelched. The bottom step squeaked as she applied pressure with her foot, she let out a sigh of relief as the old structure hadn’t swallowed her up. The door, slightly off colour from the rest of the house, loomed over her like a giant as he reached for the brass door handle. A shiver ran through her body like an electric current, the musty smell of a house that had been long abandoned filled Emily’s nose. It was dim and uninviting. The furniture dusty and old, looking as if it would crumble to dust if she was to touch it. Mould ate away at

Curley sat on a small hand-carved stool that his grandfather had made many years ago to think about the day's events. After a while of collecting his thoughts, Curley stood up from his chair and walked over to a chest that stored his rations of the food. He took out a fist sized piece of bread and milk that was stored in a small clay jar. He spotted a small glass bottle in the lower right-hand corner of the chest. Curley poured a small bit of milk into the tiny glass and took a sip of the slightly soured beverage.

I made my way to my aunt’s house. Her home smelled of fresh cut pine, and she offered me a cup of coffee with a cinnamon stick in it. I accepted, and we went to the kitchen table and discussed our week. As she talked, I looked out her kitchen table. A small oak grew in the front yard. Snow capped the birdfeeder beside her bird bath.

Standing at the top of the stairs, the savory scent of baking biscuits drifted up from the kitchen below. She could understand why Fiona’s traveling salesman always picked this room. The luscious aroma filled the house with mouth-watering delight. The growling of her stomach led her to the dining room where she slid into a chair at an already empty table.

The protagonist illustrates his Mother’s physical stature, saying, “Ma’s shoulders were clipped, slipping away from her tiny bird neck” (45). The audience gets a sense of what kind of build the Mother has here, like she is a very slim and delicate woman. Further down the page the author uses words like “fragile” and “easily broken” to describe his Mom. Viewing the Mother as having a tiny bird neck or a bird altogether, you can see that she is very weak and vulnerable when it comes to her husbands’ irrational beatings. Knowing the Father is a muscular and fit man, she has no way of winning a fight against

Raindrops ran down the window pane, creating streaks of water on the glass. A lightning bolt struck lazily, and a quiet roll of thunder followed. Fragile clouds let loose a few rays of sun, illuminating small parts of the city. The woman lounging in the window seat languidly drew a few finishing strokes on a piece of paper, then set the sketch aside, allowing her eyes to roam to the outside. She rubbed them gently, blinking out the dreariness that came with stormy days. No balloons today, she thought with disappointment. They were beautiful with their bright colors and elaborate designs.

The maid then came with my tea she then gently poured it into an old tea stained cup, i watched the steam slowly rise and dissipate in the air.

Make yourselves at home. I'll cook something for us all," he said as he stepped inside. The apartment was nice. Lots of brick and open masonry, with roughly hewn timber rafters and open piping in the roof. His furniture seemed brand new, even though it was nearly four years old. The only area of the house that seemed to be dusted properly was the kitchen, or some might see it more of a distillery. Four large glass containers held varying liquids in shades from light yellow to pink to an odd sort of green. At the top were all things varying from pine needles to berry mixes. Each had a spout and a mug next to

The brief description of the brewing storm and the close, humid heat emanating from and surrounding Calixta establish an almost palpable sensuality early in the story.

When I passed the baker’s, the smell of fresh bread was so overwhelming I felt dizzy. The ovens were in the back, and a golden glow spilled out the open kitchen door. I stood mesmerized by the heart and the luscious scent until the rain interfered, running its icy fingers down my back, forcing me back to life. (Collins 29)

Each crack is the separation of a water-flooded green leaf. The rigid lettuce is diced in to strips of cool and refreshing zest, with all of the emerald foliage compiled in a stack they drip with the wash that was entrenched into their membrane. The weeping of workers faintly reaches me from the back of the kitchen. Each tightly wound onion is gradually uncoiled with care, and then is delicately stacked on top of the moderately big heap. Every mauve strand is rich with enchantment and tingling tang. As the fibers are diced into minute cubes packed with a world of enriching taste, the tears swiftly roll down the cheeks of the attendant’s face. All of the fumes mixing throughout the moist air add a savory sweet scent—enough to make even a cow drool. Few could withstand this erotic whiff and not fall under the trance that it forecasts over the

In the background of the living room, it was evident that the glass doors are wide open. This technique corresponds with the smell of freshness when laundry is finished, and the smell of fresh air from the outdoors. Moreover, the sunny day and the sound of birds chirping may give the viewers a sense of peace and happiness, allowing Tide to connect with them on an internal level.

He dropped a dollar into the tip jar and scrambled back to his seat, a table for two tucked away in the corner but with a clear view of the front door. He took a sip of his latte and scowled. The flavor wasn’t the problem – the coffee here was the best in Lake Avalon – it was his damn nerves. And why had he ordered a drink with so much caffeine? A water would have been a safer choice, preferably one laced with a strong anti-anxiety drug. But no, he sipped a drink that would infuse his bloodstream with a stimulant he didn’t need, and he’d probably have a heart attack. He pictured the headline of his obituary: Percival King, Dead of a Heart Attack at Age Twenty-Two. He Should Have Stuck with Decaf.

For one, in an attempt to shield myself from the day’s spell of muggy, enervating heat, I had glued myself to the small fan in my room. I tried not to think about how today marked the eighteenth day in a row without ice cream or sufficiently cool beverages, and how at this moment, Jasmine was probably choosing between a mimosa and a glass of crisp, refreshing limeade. Too late. The very thought of Jasmine knocking back a dinky champagne flute filled with liquid the colour of goldenrod was enough to make me want to wail in frustration. All I had in my hands was the cap of a biro I’d stolen from my sister the previous day.