Hungry Drunks

Jack fell into a deep red wine buzz, pulling his chair near to the wood heater to stir the ambers about. The crackle of the cabin fire kept him close. The slight whisp of sun was falling into the snow-covered afternoon hillside. Jack had been writing throughout the dull grey day. It was evident, Jacks writing hadn't found certain fame. The publishing company had lost his manuscript in a pile of unpublished disappointments. Jack knew he was far from an exceptional writer, he'd have to wait in line. His fingers stained with black ink and saturated red wine. His old friend kept calling, filled with expectation. He felt Jack's writing was soon to be discovered. It was most likely because of his personal accounts within Jacks stories. Hopeful. Yet, fame hadn't shown face at Jack's door in quite some time. Not since the local authorities had drug his name through the mud to publish in the local rag. Something about "public drunkenness" along his way home holding dear to him his gin and tonic, not to spill a drop. Oh those cops couldn't bare to let such eloquent bliss go unnoticed. So they marched old Jack off to the drunk tank to share space with the pyromaniacs,insomniacs and hungry drunks.