To say the island had a reputation for the unusual was like saying the ocean had a reputation for being wet.
Every shop was full of potions and spells, every doctor was a magical healer, every homeless women begging change on the street corners was a witch who’d give you a spell for a penny or a curse for a mocking laugh. When the mists came in, the lost walked the streets. Tourists came with their cameras and vanished in the dead of night or found themselves having conversations with strange women who turned out to have been dead for decades.
It was a place with no rules, or no rules that no mortal man could comprehend. (One mortal woman could, but she took a particular delight in not explaining them.)
Amongst this magic and mystery, the bar was utterly unique. Which was to say it was completely normal. The drinks were drinks, the food was food, the chairs were chairs. The barkeeper wasn’t the devil come to make a deal for your soul. The bathroom doors led to toilets and not to an endless howling dark.
The locals loved it. It was such a change of pace.
Word Count: 198
This is for Sunday Photo Fiction! Thanks to Susan for running the challenge! Photo © Susan Spaulding.