it begins with just a glass


the thorn in your side

being passed over

a hundred things

clutch at your throat

refusing to let you breathe


you plod doggedly

gulping in fresh air

whenever you can


a smile feels raw

laughter threatens

to slash your stomach

you are afraid

it might all spill out

powerless to contain it


your heart crushed

in the vice of a cold hand


and then this glass



a sip doesn’t amount to much


the blood around your cold heart

begins to unfreeze



it rushes to your head


giddy now

the world around you

ceases to be


ceases to stifle


a film covers your eyes

your senses sing

and then are lulled






you cannot do without

this escape




this trance-like state

now eludes you


years of suppressed agony

threatens to escape

wrenching life from you

as it struggles

a sapling


on impervious rock


somewhere along the line

you have become the perpetrator

all because you sought comfort

in that one glass


they avert their eyes

they walk away

you are so alone


all you have is this one glass

refills maybe

and an olive

that’s just an afterthought

[200 words]

This piece is in response to the weekly prompt atΒ Sunday Photo Fiction. Thank you, Al Forbes, for hosting it.

Photo prompt courtesy – A Mixed Bag



25 thoughts on “Stuporia

  1. Wonderful writing again. You communicate so well how this guy drinks to numb the pain. It’s not bad to have a few but I think you suggest this becomes a habit and alcohol becomes a fail thing he uses to deal with the pain inside.

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