Wednesday, January 31, 2018

A neat short short story sent to me by William Appleby who lives in Moretonhamstead in Devon England.

By William Appleby

Ever since he went on the office coach trip to Scotland he longed to make a whisky still. Not that he was a whisky drinker but more the desire to make something that worked, something that, in his imagination, had a life of its own.

He read numerous books about whisky and searched antique shops for a still. In his local watering hole, he became a bore with his talk about whisky and its manufacture.

Difficult to know if his latest trip to the council dump was guided by some hidden force or just an accident, but whatever it was, he found an old metal still. It was too large for his car or trailer so he hired a pick-up and bullied two friends to help him.

A month of so later, he had a working still heated by gas cylinders set up in his timber-framed garage.  His ingredients were ripe barley, yeast, and spring water plus heat. He went to bed a happy man, his wife relieved that he achieved something though what it was she was not sure.

It was one in the morning when it happened. A tremendous noise, a fountain of boiling liquid and a garage on fire. The bedroom window which faced the blast scattered broken glass onto the bed and floor.

His dream of crates of whisky shattered as well.

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