Alcohol - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Selina eyed the amber liquid and the golden glow of the glass-like cubes. She poked them with her perfectly manicured nail to hear them jingle in the pre-dawn silence. She watched, entranced, as they bounce back up- remaining mostly submerged like mini icebergs. Wrapping her long fingers around the glass, she felt her heat leach into the drink. Alcohol. The elixir of her life. She raised the glass to sip, feeling the keen burn on her tongue and throat- a burn that made her recoil as a girl. Yet now it was a feeling she longed for right from the end of her night-shift. By the time she inserted the key into her lock the single malt was on a closed loop in her brain, on endless replay until she unscrewed the cap. Selina lowered the glass to the table, letting it fall heavily, but not so much it spilt. She rested her head in her left hand, still mesmerized by the fluid, only now she observed the red lipstick on the rim. One day she'd remember to wipe her face clean first...
Christmas pudding just wasn't the same unless you could taste the alcohol in it. Mom put enough brandy on it every year to get the kids a little bit tipsy at the table and put a rosy glow in every face.
Mac opened the door of the shipping container wider, allowing more of the early morning light to illuminate the contents. Boxes, lots of brown boxes. He'd bet money this was part of Gina's smuggling operation. He put on gloves and stepped into the gloom, the metal echoing under foot. Pulling out a box-cutter he sliced right through the brown card. Inside were large bottles of Perrier water, no different in styling to the kind he ordered at the Italian restaurant on Main Street. Mac removed one glove and tipped a little of the "water" onto his hand. It evaporated quickly and with a familiar coolness- alcohol, likely close to one hundred percent proof. He replaced the cap and handed it to a sergeant. "Cuff 'em."
A sour and vile taste slipped into Ashley's mouth, nullifying her, stealing away reality in favour of fantasy. She came to lust after it like no other, the strong tonic becoming her only "cure."
It could have been water in the glass but it wasn't. It wasn't and everyone knew it. Even at three in the afternoon that transparent liquid that bathed Grandpa's ice was vodka and that wasn't even the start of it. There was brandy in his morning orange juice, "just to give it a little kick". If he was ever drinking coffee mid-morning there was whiskey in it too, cream liqueur if he could get it. By dinner time he was slumped in his chair, dribbling between the snores. It really was best to leave him that way, waking him meant him rambling on about the war, about how Granny died, about how she was the best woman there ever was and ever will be. Drying him out wasn't an option either, not unless he got a hospital admission, Mom wasn't going to try taking care of him detoxing at home. So the cupboard was stocked 24/7 with booze we weren't allowed to touch. There really was no need to tell us though, no-one wanted to end up a drunk of the couch.
Gabby leaned on the bar, her black hair lying over one shoulder of her sequinned dress. She lolled her head to one side, pushing out her red lips just a little. She wasn't drunk yet but she liked to give the impression that she was. The bar-tender was there to take her order in a flash, eyes dropping only momentarily to her low-cut neckline. She twiddled her hair in a seemingly absent-minded way and giggled girlishly before ordering a Barcardi Breezer. She'd practiced drinking sexily from them at home in front of the mirror, just water in them then. She watched him fetch it, there were muscles under that shirt. His face was above average with those light eyes and tanned skin, perhaps she'd come back for him later...
The smoke twisted in its artistic way, forming curls in the gloom, illuminated only by the age-speckled bar lights. Along the wall was every hue of amber liquid in their inverted bottles; every vice that Derek had been ordered to avoid. He raised a shaky finger to call the server, and when they did not appear he turned his head slowly to his right to watch her scrubbing the glass of the chiller cabinet, recently re-stuffed with those stupid garish alco-pops all the teens were slurping faster than coca-cola. "It must be near closing," he thought to himself. Even in his alcoholic stupor his heart rate rose a little and his face flushed even pinker. "Hey!" he called, "'ow 'bout 'rink, 'iskey." The girl turned her head, the professional smile she'd worn all night was quite gone. Her eyes were pink, lids sagging and her face hung loose and long.
"We're closed, Derek. Go home." Then she returned to the glass. He wobbled on the high stool, his leg buckling when he stood...
Mac swirled the whiskey in his glass, listening to the chinking of the ice cubes, breathing in a fragrance that only years in an oak barrel can achieve. Already the worries of his day were beginning to fade, even before the first taste. Just watching its gentle vortex was hypnotizing enough. There was no case to solve, no wife to mourn, no adult kid to worry over; there was just aged single-malt direct from Scotland. It was his one vice and he intended to make a virtue of it, savour it, not race to the bottom of the bottle like he had after the funeral. When the liquid settled he brought it to his weather-cracked lips and let the amber fluid sit in his mouth a while before swallowing. He closed his eyes, dwelling only on the flavour. God it was good. Then he'd retune his ears to the light jazz he'd put on a few minutes earlier, there was saxophone in it; how that instrument arrived in his brain seeming to bypass his ears he didn't know, but it always did.
Taking two beers on the way to the television was a habit Liam wasn't prepared to break. After a day punching holes in metal he just wanted to obliterate ten hours of stress-laced boredom. Without the alcohol the sit-coms just weren't very funny. And who wants to sit there like a dummy while everyone else laughs? He chugged the first one back fast on an empty stomach to get the whole process going, then sip at the second. When Tina got home he'd yell for nachos and cheese. She'd huff and suggest he got off his "fat-ass" to get them himself, but in ten minutes he'd have them, the cheese melted on with a pile of sour cream and salsa in the middle. Perfection. For anything other than a call of nature he'd ask Tina all evening long. She'd complain, then bring it; it was the script of their married life...
Just thinking about alcohol made Lily's fingers tingle right up her knuckles. Even before it touched her lips she got a taste of the giddiness to come, as if her brain couldn't wait for the fuzz of intoxication to begin. She should wait for Ryan to start drinking, he was kinda funny over the notion of drinking alone, like it meant something. And he'd taste it too, taste when they locked lips. She pouted, why shouldn't she? It was her rum and he didn't really like its coconut taste anyway. She reached up to the cupboard on tiptoes. As her fingers closed around the bottle her phone started playing "Hey, you sexy thing." Ryan. Grimacing she closed the cupboard and pulled her phone out.
"Hey, babe! Want me to get somethin' on the way over?"
"You haven't left yet?"
"Nah, had somthin' to finish with Dave. Want somethin'?"
"Chocolate, chips and sour cream." All she heard was laughter. She always said that and he always brought beer and nachos.
Ralph would describe his alcohol tastes as refined, but Matilda didn't think a predilection for in house beers counted as such. To her he was just a beer snob.
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy also mentions alcohol. It says that the best drink in existence is the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster.
It says that the effect of drinking a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster is like having your brains smashed out by a slice of lemon wrapped around a large gold brick.
Found in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, authored by .
Ice clinks against the glass, and sizzles in contact with the warm air that's flushed the faces of the bartender and the assortment of people perched on bar stools before him. There's a glass slid across the wood top, an exchange of money, a mumbling rage about the high prices of the booze. A man drowns his sorrow in the elixir at one end of the bar, and a young couple flirts shamelessly at the other end with the nectar in hand.
The drug seems to have very different effects, depending on the situation of it's consumption. A young man having a twenty-first birthday celebration was handed a shot of vodka and promptly spewed it in to a trash bin after a few seconds. His friends laughed, egging him on to try another. The man just lowered his head, allowing the tussling of his hair and the friendly punches to his shoulders. There's a rather larger woman in the corner table. She sits with a cocktail glass, turning the cherry stem in the red concoction over and over again between stifled sips. The woman she is with sits across from her, a thinner creature. She holds in hand a large beer, and there is a plate in front of her that seems to hold the remains of what was a serving of nachos. They both intently stare at the TV screen, which is playing a rather bland match of golf. There's no doubt that they are rather drunk. The towel squeaks in the glass that it is drying, the cup is then placed by the bartender on a rack besides the sink. The young couple tries to escape without paying their bill, but is blocked by a man in a security shirt, not distracted by the frequent vomit being produced by the young man at the birthday table.
Spike and Mac had raided their parents alcohol stashes and taken it to the club house. They surveyed their haul. There was Mac's dad's single malt whiskey and Spike's dad's crate of beer. They also had a bottle of Peach Schnapps that had been Mac's Mom's and a few bacardi breezers that were Spike's older sisters. Then there was a bottle of Champagne that had been lying around for ten years, god only knows why they hadn't drunk it, Mac supposed they just didn't like it much. It was pretty good swag for a couple of fourteen year olds. In fact it was enough to put the pair of them in hospital if the drank it all at once.
Ernie was quite aware that he was underage for alcohol, but since he had quite incredibly grown a thick and splendid beard in tenth grade, he could order whatever he liked. He would take some delight in describing his favourite cocktail to the barmaid and then walking over to his date for the evening, who thought he was 25, and presenting it to her. Then he would return for a beer and sip it with some glee.
His drink of choice was vodka on the rocks, but to Annie his alcohol tasted like nail polish remover, or at least what she thought that would taste like.
She would drink whiskey and diet coke until she slumped on the table and had to be carried out by her friends, where nine times out of ten she would puke in the alley by the bar.
When Charlie had finished describing the alcohol of his choice to the liquor store assistant, a bottle of gin, a bottle of vodka and a bottle of baileys, he paused and glanced at his shoes. This little display of nerves was all she needed to sniff him out as underage and she demanded to see his identification.