The harsh scent of drink can be smelt of my person. I know it, and so does everyone one else. They can see me struggling to keep my balance, and I know I’m struggling to keep it. It’s like some sort of outer body experience. My legs don’t work as I tell them. Neither do my hands. Or my fingers. Somewhere, deep inside I know my brain is sending signals telling me what to do. Whether or not my body is listening is a different story. I can feel it moving. It can feel it doing what it wants. Can I stop it? We all know the answer to that. It’s doing as it pleases.
I try to walk down the street, but my legs are telling me otherwise. They are swaying – left and right. No matter how many steps I take, I’m no closer to where I want to be. Then all goes dark. Suddenly, I’m home. I’ve no idea how I got there, but somehow I’m there. My mum and brother are both looking upon me with laughter in their eyes. They know, as do I. I’m drunk. So very drunk. “My boss, he bought the last round”, I try to say, but is anyone listening?

By chrism3, March 31, 2016.

You know the pubs are out when the streets are full of folks who walk as if the ground is the deck of a storm-tossed boat. Each foot comes to the sidewalk as if the collision of shoe and concrete wasn't entirely anticipated and the person lurches, stumbles. The sober ones stride like the only adults in a party of infants, shepherding them to a car ride home.


He was a drunkard, plain and simple. His breakfast was whiskey with a rum chaser. He was slurring his words by lunchtime and passed out by the afternoon. What little food he ate was in the form of chips and cold wieners from a jar. He didn't leave the house for anything. He even paid a widow neighbour to shop for him. Empty beer cans and spirit bottles lay discarded about the house. Wherever a can or bottle was when it became empty was where it stayed. Only when his nephew visited once a month or so did the empties get thrown out. No-one else came. His temper was legendary. He detested himself and anyone who showed him kindness. When he was sure he was alone he would often cry for all the regrets and mistakes he'd made, for all the love he had driven away.

By maria, October 25, 2013.

We drink in silence, hoping that the answer lies at the bottom of the glass and then the bottom of the bottle and then the next bottle and the next. And so the night drags on. Few words exchanged between us. And the words that are spoken are slurred and senseless.

By kirstenmae, July 28, 2014.

Levi had been inebriated every day of his life for the past twenty years or so. He had been fired from countless jobs, but was now getting better at hiding his bad habit. He drank just a little less than the amount that would slur his words and hoped the rosiness of his cheeks didn't give him away. He added some vodka to his orange juice every morning and put it in a plain water bottle to keep on his desk. That way he could stay anaesthetized through the day while planning exactly how he'd become paralytic by evening. This he did every day, often awaking in the morning with a cold pile of vomit to clean up either from his bed clothes or from the floor on the way to the bathroom. His ex-wife called him a drunkard, he called her a bitch.


Burning through a bottle of cheap wine, we fell in love in the silence. I felt the earth rocking beneath me and my mind drifting in and out like the tide. Though my vision wavered, there was one thing I was sure of. She was there... She was next to me lying in that cold, wet sand and the moonlight poured onto her skin. In that moment, we were together, and she was so beautiful.

By chynabannister, August 17, 2014.

Lila slumped onto the floor of the bar. It would be hours before her mother stopped serving the rowdy patrons and remembered she existed. Smoke billowed and eddied around her and through the dark room echoed inebriated songs. Her own throat felt more dry than the baked summer earth outside. After the heat of the day it was little wonder she had need of a large drink, but there was no way for her to get through the throng that clamoured for beer and whiskey. The evening droned on until she spied an unattended pint. She was of course forbidden to drink it but her hand clasped around the glass before a second thought could caution her. The drink was as warm as the overheated room but she had it gone in less than a minute, hating the taste but loving the feel of the liquid. When the last customer left her mother found her curled on the floor asleep, she smiled and went to rouse her but she did not wake. She shook her, but she slept on. Panicked she ran for the town doctor...

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, December 13, 2014.

"No, you don't get it!" Kristopher shouted, slamming his fist on the table. The bottle of beer wobbled dangerously. "I've been doing just fin- fine by myself for years!"

By marina.mccarry, August 4, 2014.

He was older than his true age. Years of drinking had robbed him of his youth. He was sober now, and it was a glorious day. It was late afternoon, late autumn, and the sunlight filtered through the trees. Oaks and pines stood tall and surrounded the building like soldiers on guard duty. With the leaves gone, we could see through the trees into the distance. Cliff and I sat on top of the roof of the building. He was the janitor and had scaled the ladder to check for shingles that were loose. Cliff had seizures, so I climbed up there to see if he was Okay. As we took in the view, he spoke of his family from the hills of Tennessee, of how he and his brother made and sold “light lightening.” He became quiet, locked his eyes to the sunlight through the trees, “The main trouble was my brother and I were our best customers. We got drunk every day.”

By wmack99, February 5, 2015.

Bill McDonald.


The chef looked like a man who had given up on life. His once white uniform was stained and his hair greasy. His eyes had a strange sunken look and were threaded with scarlet so densely that they appeared pink. His cheeks glowed under broken veins, his actions were slow, clumsy. The new proprietor looked at the dishes prepared, the menu samples. No wonder he'd bought the place for a song. Time to undo his fathers life work, starting with firing the staff.


The janitor fumbled his keys. His fingers were numbed by the wintry wind and his mind anaesthetized from drinking vodka until the dawn light kissed the clouds and he fell unconscious until his alarm blared. After some minutes of jabbing the metal in sharp motions he dimly recalled the school keys looking different and he fumbled in his cover-all pockets or another set. Once inside the rush of warm air and the smell of disinfectant put him on edge. He was at work now. He patted his pockets for the jar of caffeine pills, still there. Possibly he'd take one before the principal got in at seven thirty. No job meant no money, no money meant no alcohol and no home. Drinking at home was they only thing that dulled the pain, he wasn't about to give it up.


Chad was pretty docile as we drove to his house, and luckily his parents weren’t home so I wouldn’t have to explain why their son was piss drunk. I scrambled out the car and lugged him up the front steps to his house; I managed to fish out his house keys from one of the many pockets on his jacket and unlocked the door. We made our way clumsily upstairs and into Chad’s room. Unthinkingly he collapsed onto the bed with an exhausted sigh and began to doze off.
“Chad hold on, at least take off your shoes and jacket first.” I said sitting beside him and unzipping his coat. He groaned reluctantly and forced himself into a sitting position,
“If you wanted to see me naked all you have to do is ask.” He spoke unexpectedly clear and coherent, and raspier than usual. “Trust me I don’t.”
An obvious lie.
Chad flashed me one of those signature half smiles I loved and shifted closer to me, “You smell good,” he paused to draw in my perfume, “Really good.” I was trying not to get sidetracked at our close proximity, but I couldn’t help it.
“You’re drunk.” I said dismissing his statement as I reached down and undid his boots. He smiled and inclined in again, snuffling the crook of my neck, “And you’re so warm,” he rested his forehead on my shoulder and I felt his arms drape around my lower body. He respired deeply, his shoulders unfolding as he relaxed his entire body against me. I’ll admit I liked having his weight against me. “You feel nice.” He said, causing me to shudder at the rumble of his voice against me. I bit down on my bottom lip gently, and removed his arms from around me, “Chad, lay down, you need some sleep.” I insisted. His smiled faded, his expression grew deep. His eyes stared intently back at me, examining me; surveying me. His eyes travelled down to my lips; slowly he reached forward and pushed away loose strands of my hair,
“You know, I’ve always thought you were a good girl, but man you’ve got some bad girl lips.” He said, gazing at them with absorption. I

By kiarab, July 2, 2015.