• Fiction

    Sweater Vests and Whiskey Breakfasts

    by Shadow Silvers Feet shuffle and glasses clink to a steady, silent rhythm. Swish, clink, swish swish, clink. After a while the beat stops and the bartender looks up from drying a glass, asking if I’d like another. Toying with the peppers and onions in my rancher omelette, I peer at the sad tear-drop remnant of a terrifyingly spectacular double straight whiskey. Taking a melted cheesy bite of my boozehound’s breakfast, I contemplate leaving the tally at three. This contemplation reigns my consciousness for a mere second before I decide it isn’t enough. Hell, it’s never enough. If it were up to me, I’d have a bottle. But they get…