On Middwrites this week we feature a repetition prose “Venin” by James Min ’17, a prose narrative written as exercise literature for creative writing (and for those who share a moderate love for liquid courage)
We encourage you to take a break from the towers and spires of piled up work and social commitments and enjoy some student crafted literature. Please send your works to us at [email protected] or [email protected] to be published here on Middwrites and contribute to the thriving community of writers we have on campus.
Enjoy: V E N I N by James Min
Golden whiskey aged in Oakwood caskets deep in Scottish dungeons. Crimson wines from French villages of Meursault, from 50-year-old sun kissed Italian vines and wise hands of California’s connoisseurs. Vodka from the Russians and their snow covered distilleries, vodka made with 100% organic pride. Across the aisle, sits her majesty, English Gin. Vain and pretentious, ignorant of its juniper berries’ crimes. Mexican Tequila and Caribbean rum, two Latin American warlords locking fists over cocaine salt baths. Vermouth, in the far corner, the bitterest of the bitters, sulks neglected inside glossy Martini and Negroni crystals. Of course, Fernet branca, a favourite, darkest of courage .
Poison on ice, always poured over crooked smiles. Poison that stings your throat, like a bead-eyed rattlesnake’s bite. You swallow it until finally it swallows you. Very slowly it embraces all of us in visceral warmth that wraps around the neck, the spine, wraps around desires. It lingers in the blood, coagulating inside the cerebrum blocking life but also death (welcome to the halcyon days of limbo). Poison that sets you on fire with the toss of a half smoked cigarette you smoked lying to yourself. It’s okay; you remember nothing. Venom disguised as vaccine for those who don’t want to get sick in more ways than one. It’s a cure for the heartache, the prescription of choice for ambivalent tears and exhaustion of an honest workday. Some take it for the faint whispers of unrelenting pain; they are the first ones to go, the first victims of this silent killer.
“Two parts poison one part water, please”
It is always a blinding collection in a dark room, perfect for dark habits. Eight seats, stools clothed in rugged leather forever imprinted with stale smoke. Dying men sit across the plastic wood counter where the bartender sloshes poison into their glasses. It’s a rose colored bar; there’s beauty in its confident squalor. It’s a small paradise, blind to gluttony, where the sararimen of the city come to bathe in its fumes. They indulge sitting next to the most unlikely partners: Albanian daughters next to a Serbian fathers, corrupt cynics next to the French poets and of course underage youth next to their thirty-five aged smoky Highlander reflections.