Lysander and the Whiskey :: Short Stories Alcohol Essays

Lysander and the WhiskeyOnce upon a time, in a thick enchanting evergreen forest, lived a youthfulness man. He was tall but scrawny and his skin was a incomprehensible chestnut from spending his life with nature. His hair was assumed brown, but it was preposterous in so much filth that it could be a inflamed or even a blonde color. It was summertime and the lad was restful on a hammock he built with willow channelise branches.His mouth spread open slowly and his chest rose as he breathed in a deep, lazy yawn. He stretched his bring down arms high above him, and smiled as he felt his muscles tense. He fisted his hands and rubbed them over his eyes to help unglue his lids stuck shut. His eyes received handfuls of soil and the son blinked wildly to cleanse them out.Lysander the voice boomed, waking the lad from his peace-loving trance, and sending him tumbling off his hammock. A chariot comes near score goin, ya rascal Lysander was dragged up off the ground by his ear. He lo oked up to see another scraggly boy, with flaming red hair. Lysander hurried to attend the red-haired boy, keeping sight of his freckle splattered back as he rushed to lead the way finished 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 antiquated 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 neer heard of any Humphrenfrankster. Id be damned if I was wrong in saying 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 s uppose I can do you a favor. I can let you through if you would pay some small tolls, eight shillings of gold, sir.Eight shillings Im not that meek Boys make an honest five at the blacksmiths for a week