Day 4.3 Misunderstanding - WISHES BREW StevenBrandt

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After Chayton finished her story, Jesse lifted up the lid of the desk next to her and dug through the contents, tossing some colored pencils onto the fire. Then with a cry of triumph, she pulled out a brown bottle with the words, "Wishes Brew" and "133.2 proof" on its label. "Hey, look what I found."

"Don't drink that!" Steven cried rushing forward and taking it from her hands. "That stuff is dangerous. Let me tell you the story..."

And while he told his tale, he quietly slipped the bottle into his backpack.

WISHES BREW

By @StevenBrandt

George had come into the convenience store planning to buy a gift to make the woman he loved feel better--a strawberry milk and a bag of trail mix, maybe

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George had come into the convenience store planning to buy a gift to make the woman he loved feel better--a strawberry milk and a bag of trail mix, maybe. He had a song for her too. Well. He had a sequence of chords.

Love, sunshine, and music had always been enough for George, who made a living playing his guitar for donations. But now, his love faced the loss of a business she'd spent decades building. He knew his gifts wouldn't be enough.

Reflected in the glass of the refrigerator case, he saw his tattered jeans, the red-haired skull on his Grateful Dead t-shirt, and a little of the guitar case on his back--but the frost blurred away his face as if he were inadequate. Unimportant.

To the side of his reflection he noticed a door on the back wall standing open. He walked over and peered inside. A staircase led downward, lit with wax candles mounted in iron holders on the wall. What could be down there?

George glanced around. No one was watching, so he slipped through the door, and quietly made his way down. He told himself he was curious, that he wouldn't steal anything. Probably.

The room at the bottom contained row after row of liqueur bottles. On the right side of the staircase, nestled between the shelves, was a wooden desk covered with parchment, quills, and an open ink bottle. An iron-shuttered window loomed behind the desk. He frowned. What kind of place was this?

He shivered. It was a cold place, that's what it was.

He picked up a candle and walked to the desk. The parchment appeared to be a diploma of some kind, though he couldn't recognize the language. Perhaps this was a wine-making school, and this was what they gave to students who graduated? But why wasn't it in English?

Next, he walked over to the window, slid the bolt and opened it a crack. A wave of scorching heat spilled through. At once, he closed the shutter. Of course, it was a furnace and not a window. This was a basement after all.

That didn't make much sense either, though. Alcohol needed to be chilled, didn't it?

Lifting his candle high, George strode through the rows of shelves until he found one layered in dust. Whatever was being stored here, no one had paid attention to it in years. One bottle near the bottom shelf caught his eye and he slid it out and wiped the dust away.

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