Author’s note: This is a Twisted Fairytale from my fifth short story compilation, Ugly: Twisted Fairytales.
I stand staring at the bull’s head that guards the door for almost a minute before it acknowledges me, “You are not welcome here. You do not buy drinks or food. You do not pay. You just occupy a table to stare at the barmaid. So, I’ve been instructed to keep you out.” With those words, it goes silent and begins chewing the non‑existent cud—an old habit that is hard to die even after being mounted on a wall for centuries.
I’m rather crushed. I’ve been a regular for almost 56 years, and nobody has ever said a thing. It is the biggest bar on this side of the world. There are more tables than I can count. It’s not like my occupying a table would hurt their business…
I love the place.
It’s ancient in the literal sense of the word. It was probably built before the first human (What’s‑his‑name again?) was born. Anyone who ever sat with the owner for two minutes would know that his great‑great‑great‑grandfather had paid Irish pixies in emeralds for the intricate woodwork cabinets that hold hundreds of crystal bottles of finest witch‑brewed potions from around the underworld. The rustic urn sitting quietly on the side holds never‑ending fires from the depth of Tartarus as a payment by an escaping titan. The chiller next to the sea‑side window contains glacier ice from the Arctic Sea—investment by a mermaid who holds ten percent interest in the establishment. The colourful murals across the walls speak of the beauty across realms. Portraits of banshees, goblins, dwarves, ogres, trolls, will‑o’‑wisps and fairies adorn the bar walls. And the bewitched guardian bull’s head was a gift from my forefathers for harbouring and feeding numerous wizarding families like mine during witch trials.
*****
But that is not why I love this place so much that I have visited it every evening of my life, except the last month.
I look longingly through the window at the barmaid—my Luni, as I like to call her in my mind. I’m careful not call her that in the face though; she’s not the lovey‑dovey kind. It’s her first day at work after a month’s leave. How I miss her…
I sigh. She’s the prettiest ogress ever; and she looks even prettier when she mixes potions—her luscious grey lips pinched together tight in extreme concentration as she focuses on the exact quantities of the ingredients. Even one extra pinch of the volcanic ash can burn down the ancient wooden bar table; a drop of elixir less and the drink would become poison. She walks a tight rope all day, I’d say, but she never complains.
Hades! How I miss being inside the bar. I look at the guardian bull’s head again as he continues to ignore me. I know it is pointless to force my way in. Nobody can cross the threshold without its permission. My ancestors ensured that. Of course, I can watch her through the window from here too. But she is even prettier up close. Her skin is the colour of fresh cut grass; a sweet little pug nose is set between large onyx eyes that pull me in.
I love her!
Of course, my mother doesn’t approve. According to her, “What you need is a witch who can set her own cauldron and brew her own love potion; not someone who mixes readymade potions from the market. And she should be light enough to ride the broom with grace and not weigh it down!”
As if my Luni is heavy! In fact, she’s not as tall or curvy as other ogresses. Her petite frame barely reaches 8 feet and she’s well below the normal 500+ pounds. And she’s not a hare‑brained husband‑hunter. She always held her own without a man in her life.
*****
She looks up at the window, sees me and looks away smiling her secret smile. Suddenly, the truth dawns upon me—she’s the one who forbade me from entering. Now, I wasn’t taking any of that. So, I look back at the bull’s head. “I think, there’s a slight misunderstanding. The owner never had any problems with me before. Why would he forbid my entrance now?”
“He didn’t. The barmaid did.”
Ah, so I’m right. “Would you please ask her exactly why she forbade me from entering the bar?”
The bull’s head disappears from the mount behind him. I know from 56 years of experience that he has reappeared on the empty mount inside the bar directly behind this wall. He will announce the question. Once he has the answer, he’ll reappear outside. So, I wait patiently.
Soon, my patience is rewarded with an answer, “She said that you distract her. So, you are bad for business.”
“And how exactly do I distract her? I barely speak at the bar.”
The bull’s head rolls its eyes and disappears again. As he announces the question, I can see the customers stirring, looking at me through the windows, trying to understand the cause of the confusion. The cyclops winks at me—
Or maybe, she was just blinking. With only one eye on her head, I can’t be sure, of course. The server elf gives me a meaningful smile and continues serving her table. The owner, a troll twice my size, gives me a thumbs‑up and goes back to his ledger.
The bull’s head reappears after some seconds. “You ogle at her from the table. It makes her itchy.”
“And how is that bad for business?”
The head gives a look of exasperation. It disappears with a dramatic sigh and reappears after some seconds with the reply.
“If she’s itchy, she gets distracted. What if she mixed the wrong potions? It would burn down the bar. She said that the bar table has enough scorch marks as a proof.”
“Well, I have been ogling at her for 56 years now. Could you please ask her what changed all of a sudden? Did she meet someone special during her month-long leave?”
The bull’s head is now close to tears, as expected. It disappears with exaggerated slowness and returns with a reply almost unwillingly. It probably knows that this one wouldn’t be the last, “She says, you know already.”
Of course, I do. She spent the leave with me. That’s why I miss her so fiercely. “Please ask her what she does not like—the ogling from the table or the ogling from the table? I mean, even if I stay out, I can ogle at her from the window too. Is it okay if I ogle at her from this distance?”
The dwarf on table 45 is now laughing so hard that he is in the danger of spilling his tarantula juice all over himself and his oracle date has napkins ready for the impending future.
If it wasn’t mounted, the bull would have gored me with its horns. Nose flaring with frustration, it snarled, “Look! I think, you two have mistaken me for a postal pigeon. I’m pretty tired with all this hanging around and I’m too old to be stuck between a newly married couple returning from honeymoon. Why don’t you sort this out with your wife directly?”
As expected, with those words, the door unlatches itself and hangs open so that I can enter. The pretty barmaid gives me her naughtiest smile as I take a table close to the bar a little later than usual and go back to gazing at my Luni.
END
Author’s note: If you would rather read it all together in the book, Ugly: Twisted fairytales is available for free download here: Link
Photo by Kathya Meza on Unsplash
Short Stories 