Every week when Whisky Wednesday and Writing Wednesday collide, I share a dram and a writing prompt over on Instagram. I don’t usually share the outcomes of these exercises, choosing to keep them private, composed just for the joy of the practice.
But there’s something to be said for sharing, even when the writing is unfinished and unedited. So here it is, a little bit of whisky-inspired flash fiction, presented with minimal editing, for January 7.
Whisky & Writing Prompt for January 7, 2026
🥃: Laphroaig Càirdeas Cask Favorites (2024)
✍️: Whoops!
Flash Fiction: Spilled Whisky
“It’s okay, don’t cry over spilled whisky.”
“But it was good whisky,” I whined, reaching for a towel to sop up the spirit. The glass, a curvy glencairn, had miraculously survived the three foot drop from the table to the hard tile floor. I placed it, still glistening with the whisky, back on the relative safety of the table.
The glass had been almost full, neglected by the same enthusiastic conversation that sent it flying to floor. I’d like to say we were discussing something important, like politics or philosophy, when my elbow connected with my glass.
Instead, we were debating a topic as old as time: were Ross and Rachel really on a break? I said no, he said yes, I flung my arms out in disbelief, and here we were.
I could smell the whisky seeping into the rag, warm and inviting and, now, unattainable. It was the sweet smoke of peat aged in sherry-soaked oak, rich raisin and orange and toffee.
“It was also the last of the bottle,” I said, straightening up again. I dropped the towel on the table and let my hands come to rest on my hips, defeated.
“Have mine, then.”
I waved off the suggestion. No, there were no take-backsies in whisky sharing, unless the recipient hates the pour. Then you hope the alcohol sanitizes the rim, because there’s no reason to waste it.
Not that I was worried about germs in this case anyway. We’d already shared our fair share of spit.
I picked up the towel and empty glass and carried them to the kitchen sink a few feet away, setting the glass in the sink and draping the towel over the edge. From the cabinet, I pulled a fresh glass, small this time—a wee Glencairn as punishment for dropping the first one.
“You were right about it being a good whisky,” he said gently, sipping thoughtfully and holding the glass aloft. I called that stance the whisky world version of The Thinker. We all do it, pondering between sips.
I smiled, “Yeah, it was.”
I pulled another bottle from the cabinet, a steady Laphroaig 10, always available unlike the special release Càirdeas from which we had both been sipping before my dram’s untimely demise.
“But all good things must come to an end.”
“You could just save it, you know,” he said. Pragmatic.
“Save it for me, or from me?” I asked, laughing.
“Both.”
“But then what’s the point? I responded, smiling. “Whisky is for drinking. If you never open the bottle, how can you know what you’re admiring?”
He paused, considering this. “Then why do people collect hundreds of bottles that they’ll never drink?”
“You’d have to ask them that question.”
“But you spilled it.”
“So?”
“If you’d saved it, you wouldn’t have spilled it. You wouldn’t have lost it.”
“And I also wouldn’t know what I lost.”
He was considering this, resuming the pose of the whisky thinker, staring off into space or maybe at the top of my refrigerator. In the meantime, I studied him. 6’2″, clean cut, the type of guy to bring home to your mother, the type of guy that makes other women gush and ask when you’ll be getting a ring. A big one, considering that he had a good job and a savings account and a car that was fully paid off and parked in his neatly mortgaged garage.
“It’s an investment,” he said then. It wasn’t a question, not even a conversation. I could hear the confidence in his declaration. He was staring at my whisky cabinet now, and I could see the dollar signs over his head as he calculated the value of the bottles, opened or not.
I sighed. This is what I get for dating a finance bro. If his views on whisky weren’t bad enough, his collection of Patagonia vests would have sealed our fate. He had seven. All in black, grey, and navy. And he wore them to the office over his button-up shirts. With khakis.
We were doomed from the start, but at least it was fun for a few weeks.
Sorry, mom.
“It’s not an investment,” I said, barely hiding my contempt for the idea.
“But you have unopened bottles,” he countered. “You could sell—”
“No.”
“You haven’t opened them.”
“Yet.”
He shrugged. “I just think—”
“And I didn’t ask.”
Suddenly I felt very tired, or that’s what I told him. He kissed me on the cheek when he left, saying “I’ll call you.”
“That’s okay,” I said, the look in his eyes ensuring that he had caught my meaning.
Five months later, I heard that he had gotten engaged. She was a lawyer, from a good family. I opened a new bottle that night, a good one, and toasted to their eternal happiness—and to mine.
Happy writing, happy sipping, and sláinte, y’all!
The Whisky Type 