Awhile back, Ballardian ran a microfiction contest. I entered. The winners are here (I especially liked 2nd place). But say contest-winning microfiction isn’t to your taste? Maybe you’d prefer honourably-mentioned microfiction? I’ve got you covered.
He bought the wine at auction. Included, was a certificate of authenticity showing the bottle’s lineage traced backward from auction house to warehouse to boathouse. Before that, the ocean floor. It had lain there for decades, wedged in the doomed ship’s hold.
He opened the wine at home. The bottle had aged gracefully, he decided. He admired the worn label and salt-textured glass. The cork was decisively intact. People had been dancing on deck when the torpedo hit.
He drank the wine alone. Exquisite. The last of his fortune was spent tracking down Löwenbräu from the Hindenburg.
The more observant among you might realize that the idea is shamelessly stolen from this fantastic Edible Geography post.