The Alchemist’s Beaker, the local pub
A hulking, dark-skinned man stood behind the massive bar wiping, mindlessly at a spotless glass. The door opened allowing a piercingly, bright light funnel through the pass.
“Afternoon, Mr. Castor. Usual?” The bartender enquired setting down the glass.
“Afternoon, Wiley.” Elder nodded plopping on a barstool, “Always. The usual drink; the usual bar; the usual bartender; the usual BS from Mother; the usual…life.”
Propping his head on his palm, Elder stared blankly as his only friend moved gracefully collecting all the necessary supplies.
“Tell me, Mr. Castor,” Wiley’s deep timbre rattled Elder from his ozone expedition, “why do you drink this stuff? It’s not good.” Placing the drink and coaster on the bar. “I mean, even beer tastes better than this stuff.”
Elder half-smiled as he watched the blue flames lick at the alcohol soaked sugar cube. “Well, Wiley, it goes like this,” taking the spoon and stirring the liquefied sugar into the drink, “when I was in college, my Lit prof told us that my favorite poet drank this stuff; To the point of excess.” Picking up the glass, “Now, I had to wait quite a few years before the US would legalize the use of this particular libation, but once it became available for distribution I jumped on that ship and sailed away.” Tipping his glass to Wiley, “Salud, my friend.” In two quick swallows Elder had finished the Green Faery, smiling widely at the bartender.
Shaking his head at his customer/friend, “I always heard that that stuff was deadly. I can’t imagine taking the risk.” Picking up a rag and wiping at the immaculate bar top.
“It’s not anymore dangerous than anything else you have behind the bar. Besides,” cocking his head to the side, “Have you ever tried it?”
“Yes, yes, I have and I ain’t in no big ass hurry to do it again.” Shaking his head, “That stuff tastes like shit.”
Chuckling, “Yeah, I suppose your right the taste isn’t exactly the best, but it tastes better than that damn castor oil my mother is always taking. She swears that crap is responsible for her living so long.” Shrugging his shoulders, “Maybe she’s right. Maybe that’s why she just won’t die and leave me the hell alone.” Pounding his fist on the bar.
“Castor oil?” Wiley stopped cleaning and stared at Elder, dumbfounded. “Are you kidding
I have spent quite a few years writing short stories that never quite fit into the 'normal' genre. When I came across the different erotica genres I was overjoyed. I had found my writing family. I hope that everyone enjoys what I've written. Please feel free to send me a comment/suggestion good/bad/indifferent. I appreciate all feedback! Bright Blessings!