By nightfall snow had piled up against all the windows. We couldn’t see the access road that connected our land to the town’s highway. We had burned through all the firewood, so we broke chairs and fed them to the flame. Then we shattered the antique liquor-cabinet -- not for the booze, but for the wood.
"Dad’s going to kill us," I said.
"I know a trick to keep us warm," my sister said. "A game I learned at college."
We took turns swigging from a bottle of tequila every time a storm warning sounded on the radio. The forecast kept changing from terrible to worse. I was smashed before the batteries died.
When there was no more furniture left to burn we connected two sleeping-bags, covered ourselves with a dozen blankets, and nestled for warmth, but my sister knew a kissing game too. And that was bad. Because then everything got terribly out of hand.
submitted at 8:23pm
27 April 2009
Bob Thurber is an old, unschooled writer living in Massachusetts. More of his micro-fictions are available at: