2026-04-21-tavern

T is for Tavern (short fiction)

The thing about riding the same twenty miles every Saturday is that you know your route. You know it and you memorize what you see along the way. The faulty sprinkler that kicks off in your far neighbors yard which rockets water when it starts up. The elder beagle tied to an HOA sign who, while no longer pulls, howls as you ride past. The empty corner lot where the hardware store went under in 2020. The chain-link fence standing around it, weeds growing through the concrete. But wait, that isn’t right.

Its not an empty lot and the fence has a hole in it. So that’s new. I got off my bike, and did my usual routine of locking my ride up to the fence. Leaving my helmet on the handlebars, and ducked through the hole.

Walking toward the new building, I looked for signs of what this structure could be.

Its timber, I think, actual timber, darkened with age with grain raised like veins. Its roof peaks sharper than the flat tar covering everything else on the strip used to have. No signs except for a wooden sign which hangs from an iron bracket that looks forged rather than manufactured, the kind of bracket that should be holding a lantern in a museum diorama.

I squint at the sign, the carving reads EST. 665 AD in chipped letters that have been painted and repainted so many times the grooves hold centuries of color. Below it, in brass and in newer, almost apologetic letters ~ NO WIFI.

My breathe leaves me for a moment, as I look back towards the street and then back at sign. I was really only expecting to find a ‘what is coming’ poster. So for a second, my feet had begun to turn back towards the bike. When, on the air, I smelled the bitter scent of.. hops.

And I was, I realized fairly thirsty from the ride thus far. So turning back and my eyes finding in the dark timber, a door, already partially open.

“No way its open” I say into the air to no one. My hands already going to the door and finding a grooved opening. Pulling, I walk in and take in the scene.

The ceiling vaults up into darkness, metal chains reach down linking to simple iron bowls, candles, electric-wired? into them, bulbs meant to flicker. The air smelling of wood polish, spilled beer, fresh hops and something else. Cold stone. Damp earth.

As my eyes adjust I catch sight of the bar, running the length of the left wall, a single slab of something darker than mahogany, scarred with initials and symbols that I can’t quite make out. Behind it, shelves hold bottles without labels. They only have shape and color to distinguish them but very noticeably, in the center is a large wooden barrel with a large brass tap attached, its handle worn smooth.

Tables are scattered haphazardly about, as I start my march inside. Some round, some trestle, one that might actually be a converted barrel. Chairs paired are also as random, not one seems to be the same its brother or sister which surrounds. A large fireplace at the far end burns despite the summer just outside, the white smoke vanishing somewhere into the ceiling without any visible chimney.

As I make my way towards the nearest bar stool, a bartender stands where the shadows pool thickest. Already reaching for a glass he speaks, “Hi Stranger”.