There are very few times when the telling of a good drinking story is inappropriate. This is a collection of such tales.
by Stendhal, March 26, 2023
We’ve all been there. It's Friday night and you've paid all the bills to prevent becoming homeless, having your power disconnected, and averting a car repossession. But now there's only twenty bucks left and a drink is needed more than ever. Seasoned drinkers will take this budget as a challenge to be overcome, rather than suffering the indignity of a sober weekend...
by Chris Drew, March 18, 2023
..."Holy Mother of Christ!" There was a huge tattoo. Not just any tattoo, but one with all the colors of the rainbow. A "Lucky Charms" horror of marshmallow hearts, pots of gold, orange stars and emerald clovers danced like diamonds off a man-in-the-moon design. At the bottom of the hideous spectacle sat a pink poodle with a periwinkle butterfly sitting on its nose. To make matters worse, his private parts had been shaved...
by Hugh Blanton, March 12, 2023
...the "Big Terrible Thing" is alcohol. Perry emphatically states in the prologue "I didn't write all this so anyone will feel sorry for me," and that's not even the biggest line of bullshit in the book. It gets bigger, much bigger...
by Bill Cushing, February 25, 2023
...After the ritual of chilling a can down to optimal temperature, he settled into his favorite armchair, all set to become a light beer pioneer...
A memory of the author's father, as he sampled light beer for the first time.
by Colin Deal, February 15, 2023
...were you a hot little number at some point?
it’s hard to imagine
with your nightmarishly ratty, badly dyed hair
and your methadone dentil work
and your stupid butterfly tattoo over your left tit
and your insistence on calling me “hun”
fill my glass and leave me the fuck alone...
by J. K. Durick, February 8, 2023
Fearing the dregs,
The bottom of
I head out to
The nearest store...
by Ryan Coke, January 28, 2023
She walked into the restaurant and changed everything. A small, single-strapped dark green dress hung tight from her hips. She had electric hair and a full-lipped smile... This woman’s eyes spoke of a hunger for life, death was far from her mind....
by Kees Kapteyn, January 20, 2023
... Another beer. I haven’t had enough. I still feel the same. Somewhere down there, the little fucker is hiding, trying not to drown, that little niggling ball of anxiety. I’m going to dilute him until he tastes like rotten barley and I get to burp out his last breath...
by Rp Verlaine, January 15, 2023
we’d ever be again,
with no sense
by Kees Kapteyn, January 9, 2023
I live alone. I’m alone because I’m fat, I’m ugly, I drink too much and I fucked off on my wife and two sons. My sons are almost in their thirties now and they haven’t talked to me in ten years because I’m a right dishonourable asshole. I’ve gotten what I deserve in life because it’s what I’ve worked for, which is nothing. So I’m alone...
by J. K. Durick, January 6, 2023
I remember it as a kids’ game – I’d spin
around and around, around long enough
till I became dizzy...
by Hugh Blanton, January 2, 2023
The bottom shelf is the place frugal drunkards go to find true love. That's the place where whiskeys can be found that keep a drinker drunk without consuming an entire paycheck or draining a bank account. The bottom shelf is where "notes" and "finishes" are undesired and meaningless—it's where you go when you want nothing more than to get drunk. And the top dog of the bottom shelf is Kessler Whiskey.
by Colin Deal, December 24, 2022
Who the fuck goes out for dinner on Christmas Eve?
It is your first year away at school and you’re working as a waiter at a high-end Italian restaurant. It’s packed with customers right up until you close at 7:00 P.M. You knew that this would be the case and have plans to leave straight from work to make the three-hour trip home to see your family. They must really miss you, or maybe feel sorry for you, because they have rearranged the regular Christmas Eve schedule to have dinner ready at 10:00.
by Bill Cushing, December 21, 2022
...St. Nick now moved to another table and started in on “Oh, Christmas Tree,” refilling his empty mug from that pitcher of beer. At times, our St. Nick conductor forgot some of the words but filled those gaps by loudly belting out “Da-Dadada-Da-Dadada” followed by “Da-Dadadada-Dada!”
by Rp Verlaine, December 18, 2022
Just near empty bottles
of very good whiskey
2 women and I drank
during the course
of a week that ended
with us not speaking
to each other since...
by J. K. Durick, December 5, 2022
“Happy hour” around here begins quietly enough. The first arrivals, the greetings, the half waves, The nods. This group knows all the bartenders by name and enjoys the waiter who likes to call himself, “the medicine man”...
by Mike Dailey, November 30, 2022
That hard drinking buddy of mine
He says he’ll go drinking with me any time
As long as I’m paying
You know what I’m saying
That hard drinking buddy of mine...
by George Gad Economou, November 3, 2022
she used to be my whiskey girl,
always downing Wild Turkey 101 and even after ten drinks
she’d walk straight, hardly showing the effects of the elixir...
by Scot Walker, October 23, 2022
...Perhaps I'll go back to the church…Life was so much easier when the Pope made all my decisions.
Pope. Drinking. Pope. Drinking. Drinking. Pope. Drinking. Beer. Beer. Beer. Beer. Beer. Beer. Beer.
by J. K. Durick, October 18, 2022
Feel like old friends
With the friendship
by Bill Cushing, October 16, 2022
As the this year's baseball season heads full speed toward the World Series, Bill Cushing reflects on his experience during the 1978 pennant race.
by Stephen House, October 14, 2022
walking alone along the road, i decided, on the spur of the moment, to go into a gay bar. that’s no big deal; i’ve walked into countless places like this in my life, probably thousands of times, in cities all over the world. but not for many years...
by Hugh Blanton, October 11, 2022
Hugh Blanton delivers a skewering review of The Night of the Gun, David Carr's 2008 addiction/recovery memoir.
by Lisa DeAngelis, October 8, 2022
Lisa DeAngelis' one-act play about a man's unwavering love for his ailing wife, and booze.
by Philip Dean Brown, October 5, 2022
...We were the only people in the bar. We had
driven from our small town to Chicago where
we hoped a life might be waiting...
searching the ads for a place we could afford...
by Philip Dean Brown, October 3, 2022
On the street of broken dreams, she saw
the dyed-blond hipster she’d always wanted
to be. She followed her into the blues club and
watched as her unfortunate role model sat down...
by Mike Dailey, October 1, 2022
They’ve been with me each evening
Since the day I got back
Stints in the jungle, stints in the sand
If you had been with me
Then you’d understand
They help me remember
They help me forget...
by Tohm Bakelas, September 28, 2022
the gang was huddled together,
some loud regiment of drunks
that found sanctity in the exchange,
one spoke up: “listen boys” he said
“i got cancer… "
by Philip Dean Brown, September 23, 2022
Do you know Bobby Ray?
Yeah, I know Bobby Ray.
Why you asking? I don’t
know. You believe his shit?
by George Gad Economou, September 22, 2022
longing for the embrace of
bourbon as I’m having an
affair with wine...
by Hugh Blanton, September 17, 2022
The death of a most beloved person can stop the world in its tracks... The world was one way just a day ago—now it's another... Mourning throngs will fill the streets.
No, not Queen Elizabeth, you dumbass. Fred Franzia...
by Matt McGee, September 16, 2022
...Buddy said “Hey, you remember Poopstone Jones?”
Frank, his elbow bent and glass of Firestone halfway to his lips, stopped mid-sip, something he rarely did for anyone. “No,” he said. “And you don’t forget a name like that. Don’t think I ever knew him.”
Buddy pointed toward the end of the bartop. “Guy who always sat over there, by the video machine.”
Frank’s eyes flicked over. “Don’t remember.”,...
by Thomas M. McDade, September 14, 2022
in a dirt lot behind
where we’d grown up.
Giant Imperial Quarts,
a 20% bonus provided
more than forty ounces,...
by Rp Verlaine, September 13, 2022
Of beauty, rancor
to lose one's self in...
by Bill Cushing, September 11, 2022
Scott Robinson and I shared a few classes together although I wasn’t at many of them. So “classmate” isn’t the best label; “drinking buddy” would be more accurate...
by Tohm Bakelas, September 8, 2022
drunk again at the exchange,
it’s been five months since
i’ve found myself here...
by Mike Dailey, September 7, 2022
She sat on that barstool most all of her life
This honkey-tonk woman – this long ago wife
Sitting there drinking her memories away
But the barstool is empty today...
by J. K. Durick, September 5, 2022
Perhaps if we had time for all this.
You know – hours, hell, days, or
even weeks, months, years more.
We could belly up to the bar, when-
ever and order from the top shelf,
settle in and watch the room fill,
listen to the general conversation
for the group, chat the bartender
up or the person on the next stool...
by Katrina Kaye, September 3, 2022
...now is the time
when I tell you how unhappy I am
I think you already know
I think you are too...
by Derek Kannemeyer, August 27, 2022
I’ve walked too many hundred
miles in those shoes. Talked too much,
and thought too little, and been unreasonable,
and half right, till it cost me. Like the night
Mike bet I’d never make it
from his flat to the Gare du Nord...
by Heath Houseman, August 24, 2022
...Mr. Morrison and his band of
Feral cats/On sax, guitar, and drums, shipwrecked -
A good thing none of them are driving ‘cause
I can’t follow their notes anymore...
by George Gad Economou, August 22, 2022
...the bottles on the wall are but a challenge,
one day to drink’em all dry and leave your soul
in that barstool to haunt the drunkard that’ll replace you...
by Rp Verlaine, August 19, 2022
...I know the type. their charms traded so often among men they'd long decided to make succeeding night hawks and failed romantics pay in all the devious ways known to them...
by Mercedes Webb-Pullman, August 18, 2022
The poet's take on Lord Byron's Lines Inscribed Upon a Cup Formed from a Skull
by Christopher Woods, August 16, 2022
The goal now, as you see it, is to get home. The front has come in early. Wind jars the car on the asphalt. The rain comes hard and cold, makes flashlight beams of streetlights. It’s hard to drive, but it’s also hard to steer. Maybe one too many boilermakers with buddies at Nightlite...
by Philip Dean Brown, August 14, 2022
The long dead Irish writers. Their larger than life, smoke
darkened faces, stared down at her as she poured drinks. Pulled
taps. Listened to the voices. Politics and art. Books. Voices spewed
with Jamison’s ease...
by Tohm Bakelas, August 12, 2022
I caught a buzz—first one
in a long time. It felt pretty
good, but then I remembered
I had all these things called
responsibilities; namely: my
kids and the cat...
by Rp Verlaine, August 10, 2022
A large angry tattoo on her arm reads- Hell's Gates Are Open-.
How wide? I ask
Wide enough she tells me...
by Mike Dailey, August 9, 2022
In an old fashion bar
In an old fashion town
Sits an old fashion guy
With an old fashion frown...
by Badfellow, August 8, 2022
Yet another message about what everyone has been thinking: Hard seltzers suck!
Does anyone actually enjoy these things?
Why are we falling for the lies?
Why do we put ourselves through this misery?
by Bruce Meyer, August 5, 2022
...Late on summer afternoons when the sun appears dusty from a long hot day in the sky and the jet skis have all been put away so the madmen who race the engines that sound like mosquitoes first thing in the morning, roaring up and down past the cottage, go out and eat their dinner at one of the few restaurants in the area and then drive home drunk and knock over deer and foxes on the highway, maybe a porcupine and a few skunks, a parade of mergansers floats past the dock...
by Norma Jenckes, August 3, 2022
Cumann Merriman is named after Brian Merriman, author of the celebrated eighteenth century Rabelaisian poem, Cúirt an Mheán Oíche (The Midnight Court). Since 1967, it has existed to promote interest in the poetry, history, literature, dance, music, and traditions of the old “North Munster” region of Ireland.
The Author was there. And she was drunk.
by Jerri Hardesty, August 2, 2022
I should have said,
I would not care
For a glass of Merlot,"
But instead I said,
by Doug Van Hooser, July 31, 2022
..."who the hell is Kahuna?”
“That was me.”
“Kahuna? Who was he?”
“It was a nickname.”
“What kind of a nickname is that? What does it even mean?”
“It was a sign of respect. It meant you had balls. The balls to do things others wouldn’t.”
by Katrina Kaye, July 30, 2022
The last time we were here, I read Revelations from the Bible
in hotel night stand with preacher precision.
I rattled on about the end of the world, in a quick cadence to distant drumbeats played for strange faces and arched eyebrows that pretend to know the secret of mixed drinks.....
by Thomas M. McDade, July 29, 2022
The worst part of being a loner
is that all the stories you’d tell
to anyone in or out of the bag
who’d lend even half an ear....
by George Gad Economou, July 27, 2022
the old boozehound would always come at 11am;
never a minute too early or late.
Jim, the bartender, would get him his draft beer and
I’d greet him with a half-hearted raise of my bourbon. we had hardly ever talked....
by Bethany Bruno, July 25, 2022
The brightly lit glow of purple summons us in our post-liquored-up state of physical exhaustion from grinding and random make-outs with shadowy strangers on a packed dance floor...
by Tohm Bakelas, July 23, 2022
alone at the exchange,
the guy next to me exclaims
'i’m drunk!' and clenches his fist...
by Bill Cushing, July 21, 2022
The author's tale of his first experience in a bar.
The accompanying photo is of his parents in 1952.
by Derek Kannemeyer, July 19, 2022
They sit / They drink / They have no memory of how / or why they came here / or of how long they've sat drinking / Nudge, says Nock / (they know their names, but they forget which one of them is who)...
by Mercedes Webb-Pullman, July 18, 2022
I party hard and dance ‘til three
drink fine champagne as if it’s tea.
I fill my flute and gulp it whole -
may God have mercy on my soul...
by Jim Landwehr, July 15, 2022
Spunkles the clown drove the stolen ‘70 Dodge Charger like it was a rental vehicle; fast, aggressive... For the first time in nearly thirty years he felt alive...
by Heath Houseman, July 14, 2022
...Guinness is good for you...
by Rp Verlaine, July 13, 2022
"Another daughter of a judge
asking questions with
two policeman in the room..."
by Thomas M. McDade, July 12, 2022
"I stop at Frank’s Grille,
full of rednecks but worth
my long-haired risk since
the cheap draft beers make
Nautilus mugs look like shots..."
by Stephen House, July 10, 2022
"... i slide around in utter chaos
recording flashes of the bender
in shaky stream of consciousness..."
We are looking for work that screams drinks, drinking, and drunk. Please, no work from the anti-saloon league; we are not looking for pieces which herald sobriety, the process of getting sober, or the sober lifestyle. Basically, no sober stuff. There are other publications for that.
We would also appreciate if you don’t try to pull a fast one by submitting something that has nothing to do with drinking except for the protagonist holding a drink as he goes about his non-drinking business. If the drink doesn’t play a major role, we don’t want it.
It doesn't matter if you are established or this is your first time submitting. We are just looking for good, entertaining work.
We are not a paying publication.
Submissions must be between 300 to 3,000 words, except for novellas, novels, and other larger bodies of work. If your work is too short, bundle it with other works. If it’s too long, consider splitting it up into a serialized format.
We use Microsoft Word to read and edit submissions. Do not send PDFs or any other format. Also, please don’t copy and paste your submission into your email; send as attachment only.
For fiction, previously published work is fine but we prefer new stuff.
For poetry, send us up to four poems at a time.
For novels, novellas, or other large bodies of work, we’ll be happy to take a look. If accepted, we’ll publish one installment per week until it ends. If your work is exceptionally long and/or good, we will publish multiple installments per week. For this type of submission, please include a short synopsis (100 words or less).
Our response time is fairly quick. If we reject something don't take it personally. If that happens, feel free to submit a rewrite, but please limit resubmissions to one time per piece unless we send you some specific instructions.
Please include a short (100 word or less) bio written in third person, with author’s picture. Images must be in .jpg, .jpeg, or .png format. No .bmp or .gif. Be sure to send images as separate attachments within the same email.
Please also send a list of social media sites that you would like tagged if published.
Send all submissions to: stories [at] dearbooze [dot] com.
By submission of any work, you are declaring that the work legally belongs to you and you are granting us permission to publish.
Colin Deal, your drinking companion
Copyright © 2022 Dear Booze - All Rights Reserved.