By Fionntán Macdonald
“Stout, Jim,” the big fella said.
“Expecting trouble?” the bartender replied, angling the glass under the tap. Malty beer flowed like a fresh spring, smooth as velvet.
“When have I brought trouble?” the fella grinned.
“Seat’s free,” Jim said, passing the stout. “But I want a quiet one, Mick.”
“Not up to me,” said Mick, walking to the nook. He took his regular stool beside the back door.
The front one smashed open.
“WHERE IS HE?” the uniforms screamed, rifles up. “THE REBEL?!”
Jim looked to the nook. There was an empty stool, a stout, and the back door swinging closed.
Very cinematic. You have brought a short drama to life.