Mulligan's Entry Point, a quaint little pub nestled in the heart of Dublin, bustled with life as the evening sun cast long shadows on cobblestone streets. The centuries-old establishment had seen its fair share of characters and stories, and tonight, it was destined to be the backdrop for another tale, one that would set the stage for a most peculiar conflict... wouldn't you say?
As the heavy wooden door swung open, a gust of wind ruffled the menu cards on the tables, and the hum of conversation briefly ceased. In walked Fiona, a writer from across the Atlantic, whose journey had brought her to this unlikely place. Her dark hair framed a face that carried the excitement of exploration and the burden of loneliness in equal measure.
Fiona had moved to Ireland in pursuit of her dream – to write her first book, a novel that would capture the essence of this ancient land. She craved inspiration and a sense of belonging, both of which had eluded her since her arrival.
She took a hesitant step into the pub, her eyes scanning the crowded room for an empty seat. The patrons, lost in their own worlds of laughter and camaraderie, paid her no mind.
Then, as if fate itself were guiding her, Fiona's gaze landed on a stool at the bar. She made her way through the labyrinth of tables and chairs, feeling a strange mix of anticipation and trepidation.
Sitting at the bar was a local who had frequented Mulligan's for as long as anyone could remember. Her smooth face gave the appearance of a model, yet her worn-down hands suggested otherwise. "Sinatra," she said. Fiona was nursing a pint of Guinness and seemed lost in thought, staring into the dark depths of her drink. Fiona thought, "Nice to meet you. Wait, I don't remember getting a drink."
Fiona took the seat next to her, trying to muster the courage to strike up a conversation. But before she could utter a word, 'Seems as though you have an uninvited guest,' Sinatra replied. Immediately after, as if emerging from nothing, the bartender flashed her a welcoming smile. 'What can I get you, lass?' he asked in a warm Irish brogue.
"A glass of water, please," Fiona replied hesitantly.
As the drink was being poured, she noticed a curious sight at the far end of the bar. A group of locals, led by a man known simply as Church, was engrossed in a heated debate. Church was a burly figure, his voice booming as he argued passionately with his companions. Fiona couldn't make out the topic of their discussion, but it seemed to be of great importance to them.
Settling into her seat, Fiona sipped her water and took in the ambiance. It was a world unto itself, a place where stories were born and retold, where secrets were whispered, and laughter echoed through the night. Walls were littered with bizarre knick-knacks and vintage photos. Seats were covered with silk and adorned with jewels. The water—oh, wow, the water is what seemed to set her right. Also, what happened to Sin? That's what I'm calling Sinatra. (Redacted) expound. "What was that?!" Fiona yelped. A sudden loud crash echoed through the pub, causing her to jump once more. No one responded; fear and confusion settled in. She finally took note that Sinatra was gone. Her vision started to blur, her legs gave way, and her head fell to the seat. As she began to wonder what was about to happen to her, darkness snapped the lights, and all was quiet.
Unbeknownst to Fiona, as she lay at the bar, she was about to embark on a journey that would take her far beyond the pages of her book. Little did she know that the conflict she would face – a battle to rid herself of an unexpected and unsettling presence. "Hey, I think he's talking about you... nah, I'm just playing." (Redacted) once more graced us with their presence.
About the Creator
Dan Novak
Welcome to a World of Knowledge and Imagination
I'm here to ignite your curiosity and take you on captivating journeys through the realms of information and imagination.
Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
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Comments (1)
Great work! Dublin is awesome 💜♥️