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Challenge: Rum
October 8, 2003

By Thalia Weaver
October 9, 2003

~ Rum ~

He drinks rum, when the opportunity presents itself. He likes it-- likes the way it blurs things, keeping them at arm's length and lending a degree of bearability to situations he might not otherwise be able to steer through. Sometimes he doesn't drink it but the look of it is in his eyes anyway, that strange drunk walk, the kohl-rimmed eyes glinting with a spark of something far away. He wears beads in his hair to remind him of a home once loved and then confining, and now he doesn't have a home anymore. He's rootless and shiftless and a scoundrel; and by the swagger in his gait he loves it. He's a sparrow, swift of wing, well-plumaged. Yes, he drinks rum when he can get his hands on it: but Jack is drunk most of the time-- on the seawater spray, filtered through the billowed sails as his hair flies in the wind, staring out to a horizon soon to be captured...

By Gamine
October 10, 2003

~ Rum ~

Rum. Made from sugar cane, and still retains some sweetness, melting on the back of a man's tongue like the taste of a well-loved woman. Bite it has too, like that same woman when `tis time to leave. Loving has its pleasures, but there's always the leaving too, and the bitterness after. Rum is better than any woman, for both bring ease of body, yet one never tires of rum's gentle caress. Rum never blames an innocent man for her foolish heartache. Give this man rum over a comely wench anytime.

Better yet, bring the rum first.

And then the comely wench.

By Kayden Eidyak
January 4, 2004

~ Rum ~

He stared at it.

He ran a finger down its smooth side.

He tapped his ringed fingers against it and played a melody he had come to love.

How could something so simple be so perfect?

He uncorked the bottle and gazed down the neck into the amber depths.

He rocked it in a circular motion, letting it slosh around inside until he became dizzy.

If he could ever have met the man who had concocted this wonderful thing he would have worshiped the ground he walked on.

For it had to be a man. No woman would ever have thought to create something of this nature.

He grinned in remembrance of Elizabeth's description of the drink.

Vile.

Oh, heavens, no. It was exquisite. She just didn't understand.

He lifted the bottle to his lips and let the liquid cascade down his throat, straight to his stomach where it warmed him to the tips of his fingers and toes.

"Captain!" a voice called from outside.

He sighed and poked the cork back into the bottle.

"I'll be right back," he whispered to it. He took a look back before he left the room and in the lantern light, he
fancied that it winked at him.

~.~

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