Cherry Cola by Ben Hayward

We've been told not to refer to it as a block.
To give it a name gives it presence.
To give it presence means we cannot pass it.
Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate...

Sorry..

I like long walks on the beech,
I don't really enjoy thrillers.
My parents' had me home-schooled.
They said I was special.

They keep telling us not to call it a block
Why not call it a wall instead?

Cherry Cola by Solomon Blaze

Arthur ‘Silvertongue’ O’malley sits in the reception to an executive meeting room, halfway to the top of a 1980’s New York City skyscraper – 1981 to be exact.

These buildings always look the same, he thinks with an exhausted arrogance that most people perceive as charisma – for a short time at least, but is really just the result of too many people telling you that you’ve got ‘it’.

The rest of the Mad Men are sat in a stereotypical square of black-tie suite and faux leather, cherry lipstick red chair. The smell of brand perfumes permeates the air that fills the entire 28th floor; young, hopeful women pass back and forth – the ‘real Mad Men are far too important to be down here, with this lot.

One of the girls catches Archie and his crooked smile; she winks and blows him a kiss, then saunters off with the rest of them.

Another young woman opens the door to the meeting room, ‘Arthur O’malley?’ she calls out in a nasaly voice, scanning over each of the men with matching crew cuts.

Her lips are the same cherry red as the chairs.

‘That’s me.’ Arthur says with a dirty grin, standing up in that effortlessly catlike way and making his way across the reception; the other candidates size him up, comparing his bog-standard look to their own.

‘The Executive Producers will see you now,’ says the woman.

Archie steps over the threshold and into the zone.

The young woman with lips like smack to his eyes closes the door behind him, taking a seat beside three men, each maybe a decade or two older than Arthur and dressed in similar suites, save for the odd pinstripe here and there, with slicked back, crew cut hair.

‘Whenever you’re ready, Mister...,’ the eldest of the men says, looking closely at his clipboard, ‘O’malley?’

Knock 'em dead kid, Archie tells himself.

‘Lady and gentlemen of The Coca-Cola Company, without any ado whatsoever, allow me to guide you, through on a journey to the prodigal son of carbonated soft-drinks, and the saviour from the clutches of the dreaded New Coke Incident ,’ - he could tell, they were already hypnotized. He quickly whips The Poster - aah, thank god for The Poster – out of the tanned leather portfolio and props it up on the chair that was obviously meant for him, ‘I present to you; Cola-Cola Cherry, or as I like to call it, Cherry Coke!’

Slowly, the Executive Producers smile and begin to nod their heads, that each has a grotesquely smug smile painted upon it, as though they called all see 32 years into the future of their company.

Cherry Cola by Sara Travis

We walk through the front door, and the smell of pot hits us like a brick wall. I wrinkle my nose in disgust, but Darren just grins like a loon and starts bobbing his head in time to the beat of the music. It’s so loud the walls are shaking slightly, little flakes of the plaster coming loose. I didn’t even want to come - I hate Gary and he hates me. But I suppose, once in a while, it’s necessary to make an effort and attend one of his parties. I figure 15 minutes is all I need, put on a show of union for Darren, and then I can meet the girls for a cocktail or five.

We dodge the plumes of smoke in the living room and head for the kitchen. Darren hands me a warm can of Stella (I hate Stella) and wanders off to the stereo, so I seek out a quiet corner of the lounge to pretend to sip my drink.

Unfortunately, Gary sidles up next to me and sticks his face into mine.

“D’you want some?” he asks, his rank breath tickling the hair on my face.

“No, thank you.” I reply, side-stepping out of his reach. This doesn’t deter him, he comes closer; now I’m wedged between him and the wall – no escape.

“You don’t even know what it is!”

“If you’re offering it, I don’t want it.”

He laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard, and I risk a glance at his face. His eyes are reddish and wild, his pupils tiny pinpricks.

“You’re stoned.” I say, for lack of anything better.

“It’s this new stuff, Stace,” he whispers, bringing his bearded face even closer, and pulling from his trouser pocket a blister pack full of ruby little gems, “I’m calling it Cherry Cola. It’s fucking rad.”

“No, thank you,” I repeat with a little more force, “now if you’ll excuse me …” and I raise my can to my lips to take a swig. But of course, it’s warm Stella, so I swill it round my mouth for a second before gulping it down. I hate Stella.

Gary’s still leering, so I sigh and shove my shoulder into the wall to pry myself away from him. I hear a mad cackle behind me.

“Enjoy …” he wheezes, and skulks into the haze of pot smoke.

I frown for a second. The taste of the beer still lingers on my tongue, but something seems off. A strange aftertaste at the back of my mouth, almost acidic, but with a hint of … cherry. I stare down at the can, a knot of panic forming in the pit of my stomach. The can slips from my hand, hitting the stained carpet with a thud, the contents glugging out in spurts.

“You fucking bastard,” I say, but the words echo, as if spoken in a tunnel. I blink and the party has slowed down, the smoke seems thicker, brighter, it’s almost glowing, and the music is still pounding, I can feel the beat in my chest, I blink again, but it takes an age for my eyes close, and if they make it I’m not sure they’ll open again.

“You fucking bastard.” I say once more, but the words never reach my lips.

Cherry Cola by James D. Irwin

She chose the name because it was her favourite drink. It wasn't the worst name in the industry, but she regretted it all the same.

Cherry Cola by Nick Trussler

Cherry cherry cold. Your lips taste like cold soda. Cherry cola.

I pull back and look over your bright red lips, painted fresh for this occasion. I kiss them again, this time I slip my tongue between them. Your teeth are in the way. I could always knock them out but you look so beautiful, like a painted portrait. I don’t want to disturb one hair on your body. Nothing must be out of place. You are perfection. You are my marble Aphrodite. I rub my cheek against yours. It is rosy, painted blush on white skin. I kiss both cheeks, leaving my damp imprint on your timeless skin. I want to climb in beside you, no, on top of you. But I dare not. I cannot disturb you too much. So I explore your body, with my mouth and my hands. Every orifice, every dent, every crook and every hair. Like a sculptor carving living tissue out of lifeless marble I am engrossed in my work. Time passes and I am done. I walk slowly away from you, leaving as quietly as I can and, with a last glance at you, I leave and close the morgue door behind me.

Cherry Cola by Lesley Whyte

"Oh, hey, they're bringing back cherry Coke," Stephanie said.

I looked up from my guitar. "They never stopped doing it."

"Are you sure?"

"Certain."

Amy was obsessed with cherry Coke. Every time I kissed her, I could taste it on her breath. It was the only thing I didn't really like about her, because I'd never liked the drink myself. I mean, I'd tasted worse things, a lot worse things, but I'd never been a fan.

She always used to take a bottle of it to house parties and then frown when other people drank it, that tiny puckered line appearing between her eyebrows. We'd be sitting in someone's garden, surrounded by music and laughter and warm bodies, and she'd get that little line because she'd spotted someone coming out of the kitchen with Coke. It could have been regular Coke, but the suspicion was enough to bother her.

I remember she even took a couple of cans to my cousin's wedding, stashed in her handbag. The first time we slept together, she shared her cherry Coke afterwards. Sometimes, when she was low on funds and she ran out of the stuff, she'd be really crabby, like a smoker denied her nicotine fix. She always asked for it in the pub, even though we went there at least twice a week and she knew they didn't stock it. Then she started bringing it with her and we were asked to leave, so we ended up in the park, swigging from her smuggled cans like teenagers with a can of cider, only somehow less glamorous.

Cherry Coke was Amy's one and only vice. Well, that and the part where she slept with my best friend.

"Oh, you're right," Stephanie said. "It's vanilla Coke they're bringing back. Gross."

I nodded. Vanilla Coke was just awful.

Day Three

And today's prompt is...

Cherry Cola