The Bar



  The Bar: Shades of White #1

  June Faramore

  c. 2011 June Faramore

  Published by House of Harnoeth

  License Notes

  Lucas was having a normal enough day. The grind had been the grind as always.

  Working in a cubicle was soul-draining, but it left his evenings free. Nothing like working for the man to finance a life in the art district.

  Hopping off the Light Rail at the University of Baltimore, he made the short stroll to Mt. Royal Tavern with a smile on his face.

  Nothing like the prospect of drowning your dreams in a dive bar to chase the cares of reality away.

  Something seemed a bit strange to Lucas as he approached his favorite haunt. But the coeds streaming by didn't take any notice of him-button down removed and tied around his cargo pants to reveal a "Make Love, Not War" t-shirt; or the bar-in its regular house, door open, darkness streaming out, millions of band fliers attached to any available space around the entryway. Shaking off his feelings of trepidation, Lucas stepped inside.

  The lighting was as non-existent as usual. The patrons were very different.

  Lucas realized he had no idea where he was. Time seemed the same here, as there was no one yet guarding the door, but the barmaid was not to be believed. Flaming red hair, a bustier made of chain mail-and spikes, somehow, and a face that reminded him of an elf. After his cursory glance that ended at her amazing bust, he looked up at her face again. Oh yeah, I've done fainted and gone to other land, he thought.

  It was the ears that did him in. Pointy, covered in earrings-mostly involving spikes, and lacking the matte look of latex. "The Tavern could not have gone this biker bar," Lucas muttered.

  "Can I take your order, Sie?"

  Oh Christ, she’s realized I’m here.

  "Erm, beer please?" Lucas replied.

  "Per your flavor, Sie?"

  "House, madam, at your leisure," Lucas ordered, hoping ordering the house beer was understood in all realities. How did I get this close to the bar, he wondered, and how on the Earth I'm no longer on is she understanding me? English is not that universal of a language.

  His confusion must have shown on his face, "We serve all denizens of Nieondred at Urkhai's Tavern, sie," said the barmaid. "The translator pendant and spikes help keep the chaos to a minimum. You shall see, sie. Enjoy your fire beer."

  Lucas sat back and enjoyed his first contact with unreality turn away and glide down the bar. Her skirts appeared to be made of actual flame, crackling and smoking while tongues of light danced about with each other. Looking down at his red beer, he was encouraged by the thought of a theme to guide him. Lucas picked up his still smoking, yet ice cold beverage and put his back to the bar.

  "Whoa!" He had to perform a Matrix-like move to keep his fire in its glass. "I see why she has spikes now," he muttered.

  In front of him, right in front of him, was a bar room brawl in full swing. Just in time for the action, he thought. However, after watching for a few minutes, he realized how oblivious he'd been to his surroundings. Tables were overturned, in pieces, and on fire. An incalculable amount of mugs were scattered about the floor and on the few tables and benches, mostly in pieces, some still on fire. The brawlers, well, he was reminded of those folks that head down to Crownsville every year, in corsets and high suede boots. Chain mail abounded, though only the barmaid had spikes. They looked…human enough, although red and black seemed the norm for clothes, hair, AND eyes.

  A voice whispered to Lucas' left. "Stop staring. You're Khari, they'll think you want to join in. You only narrowly escaped the last time."

  As it had stopped burning, Lucas slurped a heaping gulp of his ale before responding. "Huh?"

  "Look at me, not at them. There, there, that's a good giant," chided his whisperer.

  Lucas didn’t see anything to his left till a hissed "Down, idiot!" snapped his chin to his chest. Looking in the prescribed direction he beheld the oddest midget he'd ever seen. That is, the small being was a lavender hue, with mulberry hair and golden, mischievous eyes. Strange as he appeared, Lucas' new acquaintance didn't appear to possess any weapons, so Lucas went for the macho response to such taunts. "WHAT! You wanna fight?"

  "Erm, no, sir, it's against my religion," replied the midget.

  "Why taunt me then? Especially in a place like this," asked Lucas, whose fire ale was gone in an attempt to calm his nerves.

  "You'll want another of those." The midget waited for Lucas to talk to the barmaid, then proceeded. "You see, sir, as I watched your eyes grow wide, I determined the reason I was dispatched. Thus, I had to get your attention as soon as possible, as you have no business here. Do you know where you are?" Lucas shook his head. "Well, then, you are my man. You call yourself human, not Khari, correct?"

  "Yeah, I'm 'human'. What gave me away?"

  "The 'Make Love, Not War' shirt. Doesn't fit here at all. Also a Khari would have chugged the flaming beer, clocked his closest fellow with the mug, then joined the fray. These idiots think they're in Pishtar. At least the women have some sense, or the whole race would have died out down here long ago. But I shall stop ranting about the people and explain the mistake."

  "Mistake!"

  "Yes, mistake," the midget droned on. "You see, sir, I am a gnome. That is not the proper term, but it shall do for our purposes. As one of the lonely members of our race who can make it further than two steps without blowing something up, I have the onerous task of fixing these little oversights. First of all, I at least owe you my name, which is Traskarillabelldonon Overbelhanon."

  The gnome stuck out his hand.

  "Lucas, Lucas White. Can I call you Traska for short?" Comforted by the hand shake, and the alcohol, Lucas decided this was definitely a dream. Someone at the Tavern must've hit me with the door as I tried to enter, he thought. I'm probably laid out on the sidewalk right now.

  Traska continued, "You may call me whatever you feel you must sir, though as a gnome, I appreciate the amount of syllables in my name. Now that the pleasantries are done with, I can get on with the explanation, and the trip home.

  "You, my friend, are currently in Kharilla. In the main tavern of the capital to be exact. Duck down, incoming-"

  A cup, still flaming, narrowly missed Lucas' head as he did so. Traska, of course, did not have to duck.

  "As I was saying, you are in Urkhai's Tavern, in Kharilla, the capital of Khari, one of the underground nations of Nieondred. I presume this is not where you meant to spend your…evening, is it not?"

  "To me, I suppose," said Lucas.

  "Yes, yes. Well, I assume you would like to know how you came to be here before you are sent back?"

  "It would be mighty white of you, sir," Lucas replied, tired of this officious creature. What, does he do this sort of thing all the time?

  "As a matter of fact, I do. And, no, you do not need to know how I know what you're thinking. I am a Fixer of the Fruit. This means, when the fruits of our garden do unallowable things, like explode in a doorway here and capture someone in a doorway on another plane, I have to make it right. You see, I have weapons on me," Traska motioned to a lumpy bag at his side, "they are of no use to you, is all. This bag contains the Fruit of the Lattice of Chaos, imbued with power from the deep center of Nieondred. In most hands, they do whatever they like, from leveling the nearest building, to playing cupid with everyone in a five span radius, to teleporting an unsuspecting human in the wrong place at the wrong time. As a gnome, I can control their actions. Someone has to, or the world will blow apart." Traska paused, kissed his first two fingers, and touched them to the floor.

  Pulling a fruit out of the bag, he repeated the same motion to it, then mumbled a long string of words Lucas couldn't begin to compreh
end. "Eat this," he commanded, putting the fruit to Lucas' mouth.

  "What? I…"

  Lucas blinked, and sat up. He licked his lips and looked around. Guess I did get hit on the head with the door, he thought. That taste though, on my lips, what is that taste?

  "Lucas, earth to Lucas," his friend Cody called. "I know you're a hippie and all, but you can't have a bed-in by yourself."

  "I can have a bed-in alone if I want to," Lucas retorted. "Who says I'm not with my hand?"

  Lucas breathed a sigh of contentment as Cody helped him to his feet. Yup, just a knock on the head. Little purple gnomes and magical fruit. I've got to lay off the shots tonight.

  Then they passed under a street light.

  "Hey, Lucas, you been playing down Orpheus, man? Your mouth looks stained with blood or something. I told you those vamp girls aren't worth it."

  "Yeah, I know dude, but I had to see for myself." Lucas wiped off his mouth with his left hand. That fruit was the mulberry color of Traska's hair. The juice could easily look like blood in the dim light of a Baltimore alley.

  Yeah, well, I'll pray Cody's brilliant excuse will keep me out of Sheppard Pratt, Lucas mused. One more 'mistake' and I'll be asking to go myself.

  About the Author

  June Faramore is a mother, writer, and musician living in Baltimore, Maryland. She writes whimsical fantasy, poetry, and transgressional fiction. Her interests include stepping on the cracks in the sidewalk and cheese.You can find out more about her at https://houseofharnoeth.com.

  Sample

  Shades of White #2: The Game

  That night he dreamed again.

  The mulberry face was huge, surrounded by a great bubble of water, its swirling surface like oil on asphalt in the sun.

  “Eat the fruit, Human,” the tiny voice droned. “I need you this time, and you owe me for saving your ignorant ass. Eat the fruit, Human.”

  Lucas awoke at seven in a clammy sweat, and when he went to brush his teeth, he had to spend an extra ten minutes to scrub the purplish juice off his mouth.

  *

  The day was typical. Blank stares, blank manila folders with printed labels centered on their anomaly, the tabs. Lucas trudged the path from label printer to file cabinet without thought for the task at hand. His mind strayed to the voice in his dream.

  Was it the same as the midget who helped him the night he got too wasted at the Tavern?

  Though by all accounts, he hadn't had a single drink that night. Everyone, including Lucas himself, wrote it off as some crazy random encounter he had on the way home from the office.

  But he remembered the barmaid, her pierced ears and corset burnt into his mind's eye for the rest of eternity. He remembered the gnome's voice, like someone who sucked the gas out of a helium balloon, yet endowed with a tone of command that couldn't be denied.

  And he remembered the mulberry fruit - almost purple, almost pink, almost red – it sucked him back to his own world with a bite and a word from the strangest creature he ever met. No wonder he was seeing purple fruits and their juice everywhere. A bender like that changes a man.