one word [champagne]
(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 identical siblings, of the quiet trip from the glass-maker's shoppe to the sweeping barn of the wine-maker's farm, and the cold nights awaiting use drew elements of sadness, joy, and weariness.
As the emotions cycled through the bottle, it realized it had held its breath as the moment of being finally filled and capped came unbidden. The warm, thick hands of the farm hand had removed the bottle from the box, dunked and scrubbed off the dirt from its various travels, and placed it on the conveyer.
Angles, curves, sloping-mechanized-padding, and various abrupt starts led the bottle along a scenic view of the inner workings of a marvelous machine. Hints of machine oil, gears, and pneumatic sprays tickled the bottle's senses.
Thirty-five small jolts later, the bottle found its way beneath a small nozzle; a mechanical arm whipped out a small funnel and the nozzle spat forth a steady stream of fluid. As the bottle began getting used to this new sensation, the funnel was quickly removed and a small pair of rubber pads grabbed the bottle. The nozzle retracted upwards and the bottle moved forward; the pads comfortably absorbed three jolts until the bottle arrived beneath another strange device.
Comprised of a number of small components, the nibber-arm coalesced around the top of the bottle ... and suddenly the bottle felt somehow complete!
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 identical siblings, of the quiet trip from the glass-maker's shoppe to the sweeping barn of the wine-maker's farm, and the cold nights awaiting use drew elements of sadness, joy, and weariness.
As the emotions cycled through the bottle, it realized it had held its breath as the moment of being finally filled and capped came unbidden. The warm, thick hands of the farm hand had removed the bottle from the box, dunked and scrubbed off the dirt from its various travels, and placed it on the conveyer.
Angles, curves, sloping-mechanized-padding, and various abrupt starts led the bottle along a scenic view of the inner workings of a marvelous machine. Hints of machine oil, gears, and pneumatic sprays tickled the bottle's senses.
Thirty-five small jolts later, the bottle found its way beneath a small nozzle; a mechanical arm whipped out a small funnel and the nozzle spat forth a steady stream of fluid. As the bottle began getting used to this new sensation, the funnel was quickly removed and a small pair of rubber pads grabbed the bottle. The nozzle retracted upwards and the bottle moved forward; the pads comfortably absorbed three jolts until the bottle arrived beneath another strange device.
Comprised of a number of small components, the nibber-arm coalesced around the top of the bottle ... and suddenly the bottle felt somehow complete!
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