Piece of Fiction: Behind the Bar

Writing is in my blood. It always has been. I've been writing silly stories since I was a small, quirky kid - delighting teachers and family members alike. My peers often thought I was strange, but that's okay because the less time I spent with people who didn't get me the more I spent on crafting entire universes inside my head.

That's pretty intense.

Anywho~ In between working on entries for this little slice of the blogging corner, I also write novels. Well, I try to. And when my creative well is running dry, I dabble in short stories and fictional blurbs.

This is one such blurb. Enjoy.


Writing Prompt: 

There's an urban legend that's been circulating for years about a taxi cab that doesn't take you where you want to go, but where you need to go. One night, you step into this cab.


She had missed her bus. She knew this immediately after exiting the office and checking her phone - 5:15 pm. The bus came, more or less, at 5:10 pm. But today had been chaotic and several emails needed to be addressed before she could safely clock out for the evening. And now that she was finally freed from the grip of that corporate hellscape, she was stranded.

The apartment she rented, a dingy lower-level 4-plex unit, was halfway across town and more than ten miles away. There was no way she could walk that far and make it home before midnight. The next bus didn’t come for another hour, either.

Rummaging through her purse, she pulled out a wad of cash. Would it be enough for an Uber driver?

As she was counting the bills, a small green sedan pulled up in front of her and honked. The money almost slipped from her hand as she jerked up in surprise.

“You look like you need a ride!” the cabby called over to her from his open passenger window. He was young looking, but in hindsight she wouldn’t be able to place his ethnicity, with cropped dark hair, dark eyes, and a wide smile.

For a moment she felt uneasy, she didn’t recognize the cab company name - Hansom Cab. But it was a big city and there were more than a dozen cab companies in this neighborhood alone, so she shrugged it off and hopped in.

“Thanks,” she mumbled to her driver, after relaying her address. “It’s been a long day and I didn’t want to stand at the bus stop for an hour.”

He glanced at her haggard form in the rearview mirror. “You look like you could use a drink.”

“I always need a drink,” she smiled ruefully. Her head dropped back against the seat and she closed her eyes. The cabby grinned to himself.

The ride was quiet and calm, and more than once she nodded off, catching herself in the act and making a valiant attempt at wakefulness. Finally, the car rumbled to a stop and the cabby gently shook her awake.

“Oh,” she groaned. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to take a nap on you or anything.” She handed him her wad of ten dollar bills. “This should be enough right.”

“More than enough,” the driver laughed. “You have a good night, now.”

“Thanks.” As the car pulled away from the curb and sped off into the night, she looked around her. This was not her apartment. Hell, this wasn’t even her street. Where was she?

Fitzgerald’s Bar and Restaurant.


It was an unassuming building, just a corner bar with porthole windows facing out into the street and serif-font lettering above the door. Peering through the double glass doors, she found that not much could be seen at all from the outside.

She’d been here before, years ago, when the restaurant had been something else entirely. The street was familiar to her and she knew there was a bus stop just down the way that she could use - but this new place fascinated her.

And why had her driver dropped her here?

“Well,” she squared her shoulders. “I did say I could use a drink.”

What surprised her was how empty it was. The square bar that sat centered in the room held only a few lone guests, keeping to themselves. Two bartenders moved brusquely around the inside of the square, cleaning glasses and pouring taps. The large mounted tvs reflected back various muted sports channels and some classic rock thrummed softly throughout.

Hiking her bag further up on her shoulder, her heels clicked on the marble floor and she selected a seat at the bar, furthest from the door and near the corner edge. It had the added bonus of being in view of the restrooms.

“What are you drinking, sister?”

She looked up sharply at the man who addressed her. At first, there was nothing remarkable about him - average height, average build, average looks. But there was a mischievous and wizened air about him. Eyes that had seen everything, a mouth that had probably flirted with every pretty patron to pass through the doors, a curly ginger almost mohawk belied his age...

“Summit,” she shrugged.

“Summer ale or EPA?”

His eyes weren’t quite blue or green. But they were boring holes through her.

“Surprise me.”

He nodded and moved off to make a selection. She let go of the tension in her shoulders and took a steadying breath. Christ, she hadn’t been attracted to a male in years and here she was making eyes at a man possibly twice her age.

But then again….there was something almost otherworldly about him. He could be twenty-eight or forty-two, for all she could tell.

A tall glass of something dark, yellow, and carbonated was slid in front of her. “Just you tonight, sister?”

She took a small sip, definitely the summer ale. “Just me.”

“Long day?” He queried as he mixed up a fancy cocktail for the two ladies across the bar.

With a grin, she replied, “It could have been longer. At least I got out of there before the sun went down.”

He nodded once, and moved away to wipe down tables on the other side of the establishment. She kept her eyes on him.

There was something about the bar, she decided, that she liked. The prices were a little steep and the food menu really wasn’t to her liking, but she liked the place anyways. Time felt slowed or maybe stopped altogether in there, and it seemed like she had all night to simply sip her beer and unwind from the day.

No one else bothered her. Occasionally, her bartender would make the rounds and ask if she was up for another. She only indulged once before closing out her tab.

She signed her receipt with a flourish and stood up from the bar. Without looking up from his station, he waved her goodbye.

“Have a nice night, Michaela.”

The sound of her name gave her goosebumps. This was bad.

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If anyone was wondering, some of this is kind of based on real events. This lovely bartender man does exist but no, I no longer have a crush on him. He does call me sister though. :)