Lysander and the Whiskey :: Short Stories Alcohol Essays

Lysander and the WhiskeyOnce upon a time, in a wide enchanting evergreen forest, lived a young man. He was tall exactly scrawny and his skin was a deep chestnut from spending his breeding with nature. His hair was assumed brown, but it was soaked in so a great deal filth that it could be a red or even a blonde color. It was summertime and the lad was relaxing on a poke he built with willow tree branches.His m go forthh spread devote slowly and his chest rose as he breathed in a deep, lazy yawn. He stretched his thin arms high preceding(prenominal) him, and smiled as he felt his muscles tense. He fisted his hands and rubbed them over his eye to help unglue his lids stuck shut. His eyes received handfuls of dirt and the boy blinked wildly to improve them out.Lysander the voice boomed, waking the lad from his peaceful trance, and sending him tumbling bump absent his hammock. A chariot comes near Get goin, ya rascal Lysander was dragged up off the ground by his ear. He looke d up to see another scraggly boy, with flaming red hair. Lysander hurried to follow the red-haired boy, keeping sight of his lentigo splattered back as he rushed to lead the fashion through the brush. They ran for the main road that passed through their forest.Sure enough, there was a fancy chariot pulling up alongside them. Lysander and his friend jumped in front of it and shouted, Yield The chariot slowed and an old man peered his shriveled-up face out the side.Gentleman, this is private property, Lysander heaved his chest high as though he were a proud aristocrat, The land belongs to my master, Sir Humphrenfrank. I am not to let you through.Oh, crock. I been round these parts an I never heard of any Humphrenfrankster. Id be damned if I was wrong in axiom youre a prankster.Be warned, you oughtnt show disrespect on land that aint yours, sir, The red-haired boy answered.Aw, come off it boys. I gotta get my way through so cut it out with the ploys.In honesty sir, I suppose I can do you a favor. I can let you through if you would pay some abject tolls, eight shillings of gold, sir.Eight shillings Im not that meek Boys wangle an honest five at the blacksmiths for a week