A kind of sickness wraps its hands around my parched throat. Tightens its sweaty fingers like a vise. Throws me violently to the ground. And sits. Heavy. An ancient heft on my chest, pressing, squeezing. As old as humankind. Can’t breathe. Can’t talk. Can’t cry. Can’t walk. But still… I crawl. Slowly lifting arms and legs. Low to the ground. Crawling like a snake to the box, prying open the door, grabbing a can of cold, rolling it back and forth across my forehead, and pouring it into the desert of my mouth. Yes. The cooling, healing, bitter sustenance—beer.

Jim Woessner works as a visual artist and writer living on the water in Sausalito, California. He has an MFA in Creative Writing from Bennington College. His publishing credits include The Daily DrunkFlash Fiction MagazineClose to the BoneAdelaide MagazinePotato Soup JournalThe Sea Letter, and others. 

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