The Great Milk Hunt

This is a short story  that Caleb wished me to "publish." 

The Great Milk Hunt

By

Caleb P. Murray

My mind and heart raced.  The thought of it, yes, I could almost taste it in my mouth, feel it flowing down my aching throat, but getting up seemed far from possible.  So I lay.  Tortured. The temptation was unbearable, and the hours seemed to never turn.  By now, I could hear it:  the sound of the jug sliding across the shelf of the open fridge,  the delightful  "pop" sound the cap makes, and the clink of glasses in the cupboard above, and I could feel the cool, refrigerated air on my face. There it was, just one hallway down and a flight of stairs away,  but it might as well have been on the far side of the moon. So there the thought stayed, my illness keeping me chained to the bed with  my lips parched, and my tongue deprived of the cold white liquid.  What time was it now? The question had crossed my mind so often.  Battling my present condition, I managed a sitting position, my body quivering with chills and tears of suffering running in rivers down my burning cheeks.  Still, the thought of the icy cold glass of milk waiting for me remained.  Calling me.  It was practically screaming in my ear.  A headache from the raging battle formed, adding to my misery.  Throwing the boiling covers off, I broke the chains that held me down and courageously stood up.  My legs felt like I had left them in bed.  After my head cleared, I proceeded to the door, my mouth dryer than ever.  Out in the hall, I felt like fainting.  Gripping the walls, I inched toward the stairs with determination in my eyes.  I do not recall going down the stairs, but I must have succeeded for I found myself in front of the treasured ice chest.  As I opened the doors, the sudden and unsuspected light blinded me and my headache returned.  The cool refreshing air gave me such chills that I nearly ran back to the bed which seemed so hostile only minutes ago.  After a long recovery,  I could make out the milk sitting between lunch and dinner.  My weakened arm reached out for the jug with hopes rising.  The sliding sound was like nails on a chalkboard, not what I remembered.  I did get  a nice "pop", as the lid flew into the darkest depths of the kitchen. The clashing of glasses rung in my ears as my hand fumbled for one of them.  After hastily pouring the milk, I took a moment to savor my victory as I looked at it glistening in the moon,  which was just behind some rain clouds.  I downed the whole thing in seconds.  Brain freeze was upon me in half that time.  With my parched lips now frozen,  my sore throat now throbbing, my stomach flipped and tied itself into a bowline, half hitch, and a square knot.  My mind yelled at my legs to move, but there I stood, drowning in my unexpected defeat.  Then it happened.  My throat transformed into Mt. Vesuvius.  Next thing I new I was involuntarily throwing up my white gold into the toilet.  Back in bed, I lay dejected.  It was not even yet midnight.  Around one a.m,, I had a sudden craving for juice.  I was to have dozens of these yearnings throughout the endless night.  I will never be able to appreciate milk ever again.   

The End

A true story that is true, except for the last sentence. : )