All Write, Already!

After months of abstinence, I found the bottle's hold on me absolute. The flow of the green liquid into this town had been, lamentably, abscinded, and it was thus that I found myself forced to absent myself from my classes to obtain the only liquid capable of granting me even a modicum of absolution for my sins.

Rumor had it that a bottle of wormwood had been absisted in the home of the chief constable, a veritable mansion on the edge of town, surrounded by a high wall. I abseiled down the interior of that wall, landing lightly on the lawn. As I levered open a window to the constable's ground-floor study, I found myself musing over the absurdity of the situation: a student with a public reputation for abstemiousness burgling the home of a keeper of the law who was himself breaking that law.

I slipped into the room and saw it, the bottle at the center of the room, an abscissa, the origin of all my thoughts and desires. The verdant liquid called out to me, an abstergent for my soul. I seized the bottle and absconded with it, back the way I came.

An absonant collection of shouts behind me indicated that the constable had discovered my theft, but it was no matter to me. I sat on a hillside above the manse and quaffed deeply, the bitter flood healing the deep abscess of guilt. Soon the hallucinations would begin, and the abstract would become concrete. In the meantime, I decide to lean back, absorb the moonlight, bask in my absence from the academy, and savor the absinthe in my belly.