Occasional Sputterings

(ref: here ) A bottle. Covered with dust, the remaining evidence of a fully-stocked wine cellar lay disregarded in the wine rack under the stair; memories of laughter and general gaiety oozed from the air. Slowly, the bottle rotated in place and, with label up, took a sharp breath. Fifteen minutes! A new record! Humming quietly to itself, the bottle tried counting the empty rack holes again. After reaching forty one, it began to argue about: whether some of the holes were counted twice; whether some weren't official holes; whether the interference of the stairs didn't interrupt the count. Finally, the bottle became calm and let its mind's eye wander to home. Open fields of grapes, of reserved and smiling old Matt, of the well-worn smell of the distillery, and the quiet joy of feeling the sun's rays warming everything caused the bottle to smile. Memories of being formed in fire and pain, of sitting in a roughly-hewn container with nearly a dozen identica

(ref: here ) Hidden, beneath the pool of faintly gossamer light, the moxie of angry flora and fauna danced in a tandem.  The eerie stomp of ill-matched beasts and rudely-swaying trees gave way to a repetitive, atonal melody.  Bush, thrush, tree, sparrow, grass, and oxen all moved in concert.  As the tempo increased, the intensity of movement followed suit; at the apparent apex, as branch, limb, hedge, knee, and head all collide, the darkness fifty feet to the east moved. The strange melody was interrupted by the call of 'Cut!'; a small man, wearing jackboots, waving a military-grade riding crop, and brandishing a megaphone. "You are the absolute worst crew I've ever seen." said Cal.  Flushed-red cheeks and tired eyes sat beneath a dirty beret.  "Be back here in five!" Grumbles of weariness followed the various animals; Marcie, the uncommonly-short bush, whispered "I just wish his wife had actually flown back in from New Orleans.  His timing is