After Hours: Tales from the Ur-Bar by Patricia Bray, Joshua Palmatier

By Patricia Bray, Joshua Palmatier

Technological know-how fiction and delusion readers have lengthy proven an affinity for an excellent "bar story". Now a few of today's so much creative scriveners have made up our minds to inform their very own tall tales-from an alewife's try and move the gods' curse to Gilgamesh, to Odin's determination to introduce Vikings to the Ur-Bar, from the Holy Roman Emperor's barroom cut price, to a demon hunter who may have met his fit within the final magic bar, to a bouncer who discovers you need to by no means enable somebody in after hours in a global terrorized by way of zombies.

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The sun makes his scalp livid, puffy. No wet towel on his head, no plans to fish in the rust-colored river? But he is distraught. He pours the half-beer on his head. His name is Fred. A tale looks to the past for balance, resonance. Fred has long had a home, and a marriage, such as it is. Children. A garden full of herbs, coffee grounds, manure. Long ago, Fred experienced a professional zenith when, as a surgical resident, he realized it was not such a big deal to make an incision into a patient’s body.

I had grown up, left home, and gone to work. Being without a family, I became less real, which is the biggest cliché of the story but true. I had no intention of really becoming the man, so I sloughed him off me (easy). I strode around the room and praised myself for ridding myself of his recklessness. My skin rang out beautifully because all along I had been the better one, the one who would never hurt a girl. The man with the berry throat now understood I had the girl. He pounded at the door and began scraping his hand on the small window to the left of the door.

I stood up from the bed and looked at my forearms. From nature comes the gift of self-recognition and the core of the self, which really exists (a notion I once would have scorned). I knew myself and my life— not too arduous a study. I had grown up, left home, and gone to work. Being without a family, I became less real, which is the biggest cliché of the story but true. I had no intention of really becoming the man, so I sloughed him off me (easy). I strode around the room and praised myself for ridding myself of his recklessness.

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