Stories tagged beer

The Motel

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She dreamed of a beach.

While She Works on Her Marriage, I Get Drunk

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At least Scotch leaves, he chases the eighteen year old variety the perfect age, so smooth, tasty, he admits, too readily

Running Out of Gas on the Highway of Love

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“When I get like this? What about what you get like this? If you know my answer you know you look like my answer. Otherwise, how would you know my answer?”

Last Night, I Had a Beer with God

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"So" he started, which troubled me enough to turn back around and make such focused eye contact that I did not even notice his glass was again full, "you wanted to talk?"

Trying to get drunk in Los Angeles

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Getting the beer was easy enough

I will be your girlfriend, Sam Pink

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I don't really know, though. I've been locked in a beer cave for the last ten years of my life. I was just let out by some frat boys who were looking for Natty Light.


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I stood in line behind him and waited my turn

Brown Paper

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“Americans like beer, right?” he asks. “It’s not acceptable for a woman to buy beer.” He proffers it in a brown paper bag.


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the door openedhe came inopened the fridgethought of hershe was on the roadbusinesshe grabbed a beerthe tv didn't workhe couldn't watch the news it was snowingshe was gone

it's just death, so what

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Unfortunately, there is nothing to be done about the coupling of tombstones. First of all, their copulations are deafening — how they grunt and sigh! — and secondly, the sparks spewing from the friction — blue, green, yellow, and purple - ignite fires

Imperfect Gifts

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With your belly filled with beer and your eyes squeezed in squint I'm almost magic almost enough dirty angel barred from broken jukebox heaven for you to believe in

The Outlaw

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But my scars run deep.

At the Fair

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You're on the Ferris wheel, and the wind is blowing just a little bit, and the sky is invisible behind a wash of white clouds, and your little yellow box tips when you look down, down to the fairway swinging. In the boxes below grandmothers are shrieking …

Wood Turtle

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The picnic area sizzles. Barbecues gloat in tombstone fireplaces. Sweaty men and women gargle beer.

That'd Kill Ol' Bob

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I step over a big black dog that's sprawled, fast asleep, across the doorway. “Best to let sleeping dogs lie,” I think, but the snoring dog doesn't budge. Clouds of tobacco smoke hang in the air and mix with the glow from neon bar signs, illuminating the …