Saturday Story 2025 #13 (Happy Wanderers)
Something new on my Patreon. Synopsis below:
After being stood up, Robin goes to a bar and meets a magical woman… literally.
The goal for today was to publish the final chapter of A Sign of Evil. I wrote it but I’m not 100% happy with it, so I need to polish it some more.
This piece was written at the beginning of this month. I wasn’t going to share it with you because it’s not really an MC tale, more of a gentle supernatural piece but since I need a bit more time with A Sign of Evil, I figured I might as well let you read another side of my creations.
To read this story before anyone else, head over to my Patreon page and become Spell… B-O-U-N-D, too. The minimum pledge for this type of early access is $5 per month.
An excerpt is available below:
https://www.patreon.com/125476247
The neon sign of McGillicuddy’s Bar flickered like a firefly in the damp evening air, casting a gaudy glow over the wet cobblestones. Robin pushed through the heavy oak door, greeted by the familiar scent of aged whiskey and the murmur of hushed conversations. The bar was a dive, the kind of place where the bartender knew your name and your troubles, and didn’t care about either. It was exactly what Robin needed after the sting of being stood up. Again.
He slid onto a stool at the end of the bar, the vinyl creaking under him. The bartender, a gruff, tattooed barrel-chested man with arms like tree trunks, looked up from wiping down the counter and raised an eyebrow. “The usual?” he asked, his voice like gravel shifting in a landslide.
Robin nodded, and the bartender poured a generous shot of bourbon into a chipped glass. Robin tossed it back, the burn igniting a fire in his chest that spread through him like a slow-moving wildfire. He sighed, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease, if only a little.
The bar was half-empty, the usual assortment of lonely souls and late-night workers. A pair of construction workers in dusty jeans huddled in the corner, their laughter booming over the jukebox’s muffled tune. Near the window, a woman sat alone, her silhouette illuminated by the faint glow of a cigarette. She tilted her head back, exhaling a plume of smoke that curled like a ghostly serpent toward the ceiling. Robin couldn’t see her face, but there was something about her posture—defeated, yet defiant—that made him want to know her story.
He turned away, focusing on the row of bottles behind the bar. The amber glow of the bourbon bottles seemed to mock him, their labels telling tales of smooth finishes and aged perfection. He wondered if anything in his life would ever live up to that kind of promise.
The stool beside him shifted, and Robin turned to see the woman from the window sliding onto it. Up close, she was even more intriguing—a sharp jawline, a smudge of eyeliner, and hair the color of dark honey that fell in messy waves over her shoulders. She signaled the bartender, who poured her a drink without asking. “Thanks, Joe,” she said, her voice low and smooth, like the hum of a bass guitar.
(…)
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