Brickhouse Tavern Humble Novels & Stories

Life was carrying on. “Now where?” said Keezy. He’d taken the shape of a nondescript man in his thirties. I turned to Jenny. “Anything?” She shook her head, her focus more on the transformation she’d just witnessed. I looked around. “There.” I pointed at a tavern with a sign hanging from it. The Pickled Gherkin. It was where we’d spent a lot of time on our last trip here, and it could be just the place to jog a few memories for Jenny. Plus, we could get a drink and packet of complimentary dry roasted. It would be nice to be around people who gave you nuts rather than took them away.

Perhaps it was weakness, or perhaps it was inevitability, but when Abram suggested we go out, I didn’t refuse. We found ourselves seated in a dim tavern tucked into one of the quieter corners of the city—a place I had visited once or twice in the past, when anonymity had been easier to maintain. The air was thick with the smell of roasted meat and ale, the steady hum of low conversation weaving with the occasional burst of laughter. Shadows danced along the wooden beams above, cast by the flickering light of torches set into iron brackets.

he finally said in a dominant tone. Lucas took the wheel as our proposed destination was the cottage in Bricks district. As we were closed to the districts, the trees became thicker and road was becoming narrow until we arrived at a small cottage near a creek. The cottage was built with stones and very simple. As we entered the cottage, we were welcomed with air mixed with dust and lavender.

(Rowan’s POV) The tavern was barely more than a husk tucked into the forgotten corner of the east side, hidden between shuttered warehouses and ivy-swallowed walls. Its sign creaked above us, the paint worn to nothing but faint ghost letters. No one in their right mind would wander here, and maybe that was the point.

“None of these people deserve me.” I choked back a laugh and shook my head. “All right, Grace Kelly, let’s get a move on, yeah?” “You got it, Mr. Daisy.” Our usual haunt was a brewery in town owned by a local and a long-time friend of Travis. It had all the standard trappings you’d expect at a brewery. Atmospheric orangey lighting, rustic wooden interior and fixtures, comfortable booths in tasteful black vinyl and— “Travis, you missed the turn,” I said as we sped past the street that would take us to the brewery.

She throws one of the emerald-colored scatter cushions at me. “I’ll shower in my room so you can use in here. What’s the name of the place we’re going so I can G****e it?” “It’s a small place, The Hive Bar & Grill. Trust me they do the best pickles and Reuben eggrolls. To die for.” I smack my lips together, damn thinking about it already is making my stomach growl. “Cool. I’m looking forward to it. I’ll grab a chocolate bar and a muffin from the kitchen to keep me going. My legs are so damn shaky.” I laugh.

His new wife and stepson looked down on Jamie's Ma and Pa. Uncle Tyrone owned the only Pub or drinking establishment, as his new wife called it, in Fairbridge. The Pub was called The Crone’s Head and was located on the only main road in Fairbridge. Fairbridge was a small town that was on a key road to the Capital City of Riverwell. The town survived on the travellers, but like everything else in the last few years, trade had died. Farmers and tradespeople use to make their way to the Capital, Riversmeet, to sell excess stock. With the recent famine, people had nothing to sell. The hard times could be seen on the facade of the town. It had become worn, shabby and dirty. Broken windows were c