Spirits of Alchemy
Cocktail mixers? How about places. People. Vibes. With minimalist packaging dominating the drink mixer category, we did the opposite—leaning into maximalist design and LANGUAGE. From website copy to short stories, I used language rich in color to turn each unique flavor into a destination on the tip of your tongue.
Tags: website copy, storytelling, campaign strategy
Agency: Arthur Elliott
Role: Copywriter
Velvet Mood — A short story
Like a magnet of class and sophistication, she entered the room. All eyes were on her. Intentional or not. Some lingered longer than others. Even the band’s focus shifted. Momentarily held prisoner by the unforgiving glint of her silk gown—as if it had been dipped in chocolate. The feathered tap of the snare drum faltered, just for a second—like the skip of a heartbeat. But smooth jazz continued. An incline of her head toward the bartender revealed the subtle hint of a tattoo nestled behind her left ear. A crescent moon. The bartender set an espresso martini down before her. A cocktail that mimicked her very state of being: bold, powerful, and demanding of grace. Perched in the corner of the dimly lit room, arms gently warming the marble bar, she surveyed her surroundings. The space was crowded, but in a comfortable sense. A glimpse of elegantly crossed legs here, and loosely buttoned dress shirts there. An air of understood mystery wove throughout the eloquent rumbles of soft conversation. The disco ball that hung above the dance floor sparkled as it quietly listened to its subject’s desires—collecting them as if it were their very secrets that spun the mirrors they found themselves reflected in. Whether it was the mirrors themselves or the reflection of sequins in the former that won her attention first—she didn’t know. But her attention held. Hypnotized, she pushed away from the bar, gliding toward the dance floor with such intensity that each step forward seemed to melt the ones behind. Her gown followed her, trailing like a soft curtain of silk. Her hair, near black and flecked with cinnamon, flowed down her back and settled just below her shoulder blades. She inhaled, senses swirling at the subtle hints of sweet orange and vanilla that wafted through the cool air. Then, looking toward no one in particular, she began to dance. Luxury and charm met her—intertwining on the magnificent floor below. Their shadows wrapped around incandescent eyes as others in the room took notice and joined her. With each dip of her hip, she commanded the room—controlled the whispers—encouraged desire. She set the mood.
Hibiscus Habanero —
A short story
Before we’d even stepped out of our taxi, we knew tonight was going to be epic. My friends and I exchanged glances, all silently agreeing with the previous statement, and strode into the club. Confident grins were plastered on our dumb faces. Brilliant string lights littered the Havana sky above, reaching like a spider’s web over the outdoor space before us. Everything was tinted in a warm glow— including the sweat that glazed our damp skin. It was hot. But the temperature was not entirely at fault. It was the fierce intensity of movement all around us. Passion laced with fire danced … everywhere. And we were dancing. Timid at first—reserved, as if searching for our own fire. Perhaps we found it, or maybe it was the Hibiscus Habanero margaritas that were thrust into our open palms. Where they came from, we didn’t care. And then we were amidst the chaos—and enjoying it. She spied me before I her, stalking me like prey from across the room. Her hair was pinned up on top of her head—a bright petaled flower adorning the side of her face. The look in her eyes was curious, as if asking a question. I’m surprised I missed her to begin with—her red dress layered like a burst of red fireworks. And the way it moved—the way she moved—was hypnotic. I bridged the few steps of hot air that stood between us. And she extended her hand—an invitation. With a dramatic twirl of her skirts, we were whisked into the middle of the dance floor—my friends eyeing me with looks of excitement, surprise, and encouragement. I guess I was doing this. Falling in tune with the crowd around us, we danced. Dramatically, wildly, and full of passion. Here I was with this stranger, who now felt like a long-lost friend. Spinning under the setting sun with a smile that was five seconds from hurting—but I didn’t feel it. the Spanish music picked up, and so did we. Spinning faster and faster—our feet playing a high-stakes game of Twister below. I heard a bellow of contagious laughter—and realized it was my own. Her eyes met mine as we both threw our heads back in shared excitement. Although the music began to mellow out, the adrenaline coursing through my veins didn’t—and wouldn’t until the end of the night—bordering on early morning. And this fire, the ferocity of this feeling would surge on the next morning as my friends and I sat around a small kitchen table, sipping orange juice, nursing our hangovers, and reliving the whole night again. I’d never forget my dramatic dance with that beautiful stranger in red.
Sofia — A short story
Wind twisted the short tendrils of hair peeking out from the Pucci-patterned scarf that wrapped her head, tied elegantly at her chin. Fighting that same wind, the buzz of her Vespa spoke louder as she traveled uphill. Lines of cypress trees blurred in her peripherals. Her glance landed briefly on the woven blanket that was perched at her handlebars—holding her precious cargo. Confirming that the vibrant red-orange aperitif mixer was still neatly tucked amongst her spread of charcuterie, she looked up—taking a moment to appreciate the nostalgic Art Deco architecture that opened before her. Grand staircases, sophisticated sculptures, exquisite murals—the very definition of where past meets present. As the afternoon sun shone high in the cloudless blue sky, she took it all in. The whim of Italy behind pastel sunglasses. The sweet smell of oranges and freshly upturned soil brushed past her nose as she rode through the romantic fields. The earth was practically singing. Arriving at her destination, she strode up the sculpted staircase, a work of art in its own right—and let herself in. A bottle of Sofia was clutched lightly in her tan arms. Instantly greeting those mingling in the foyer, she handed out bright smiles and light kisses to twin cheeks as she made her way to the balcony. Home to the true party. Stepping into the sun’s open arms, her mind was at ease. An air of sophistication reflected off the deep aqua pool that stretched long before her—nearly consuming the entirety of the large rectangular space. The water rippled slightly at the invisible touch of the sea below. Cliffs dropped off the marble railing, inviting a view of the open oceans that no camera’s lens could do justice. She set the glowing orange bottle of Sofia down amongst other refreshments—and it was without a doubt, hers that shone the brightest. She brought her gaze to the blanket of cool water, watching as bold lines of colored tiles twinkled in the play of light in water. At the tug of her hand, her chin-length bob was set free, the scarf floating to a seat by her feet. A breeze ruffled her white dress as she lifted it over her head, revealing a chic tangerine bikini. Taking a few steps forward, she relished in the salty Mediterranean air. The pool beckoned to her, welcoming her like a long-lost lover. In one fluid motion, she swept her hands high, fingertips grazing the soft white clouds that now littered the sky—and performed the most graceful dive. As her body broke the water, a few heads turned. But she was gone—disappeared. The patrons of the party were left pondering between thoughts. Did they imagine the chic, well-mannered woman with long olive-toned legs? The only evidence of her appearance was a few displaced droplets of water—and Sofia—silently waiting atop the table of refreshments.
The New 1806 —
A short story
Silence settled at the roll of the dice, coating the room like a heavy blanket. But the space was anything but “quiet.” Luxurious furs covered velvet sofas, and exotically patterned rugs overlapped on the floor. Twirls of smoke spiraled toward the striking chandelier that hung high above the cigar room, which also happened to be the room where we were playing poker. Muted earth tones intertwined with those of rich gold to present a taste of refined eclecticism. The men surrounding me wore bespoke suits—myself included. This space seemed to write the very rules of sophistication, of class. Environments like this, and people like these held a certain respect for tradition. This place, The New 1806, upheld those expectations—although … not entirely. Think of it like the new age ring of an old school song. Classic—but better. The glass to my left was full of sweat, a single cube of ice left melting in the embellished crystal. Before I had even finished forming the former thought, a new glass was set before me. A new-age Old Fashioned. As I lifted the glass, swirling its cayenne spiced contents, wafts of cinnamon, bitter spice, and whiskey hit my nose—sending a shiver of anticipation down my spine. I tuned back in to the mutterings of those seated at my table. “Check, call, rise, fold.” The language of poker. There was a black and white film playing in the corner—unleashing so much swagger that you’d think it was playing at a modern funk concert. Perhaps that’s what this was. We were told there would be entertainment. As if on cue, a lengthy gentleman entered the room. His shoes solicited hollow clicks as he stepped onto the small stage, the sound echoing through the otherwise crowded room. With two effortless strides he was at the microphone. It was shiny, yet tarnished—surely taking its own spin on “new” and “old fashioned.” His mates trailed in behind him. The keyboard rang out first, lifting everyone’s eyes from their cards—which was surprisingly hard to do. The electric guitar followed, then drums, and bass—also electric. As if waiting for the symphony of funk to find its rhythm, the lengthy man at last began to sing. His voice commanded the room, ricocheting off every intricate pattern and every shiny piece of leather—leaving everyone with gaping mouths. It was as if his was the very heartbeat of modern funk itself. The new age ring of an old school song indeed. Their striking performance came to a close, and refills made their rounds. After we were once again all seated, attention back on the game at hand, I took a long and careful sip from my stout crystal glass. Meeting the eyes of those around me, the glass still proudly perched between my fingers, I splayed my cards across the velvet table—displaying my Royal Flush. My wild grin grew wide—"Pay up, boys.”
