Steve's Daily Blah.

In the heart of the Lincolnshire Wolds, where the rolling hills cradled the picturesque town of Fleetby, three gentlemen gathered at their favourite cafe which was tucked away up a tiny alley called Stinky Gowt for their weekly breakfast outing. A small brunch and a gallon of tea being the order of the day. Stinky Gowt was just off the town’s Main Street and in years gone by was a throughway to various tanneries that had once existed here. Nowadays it was full of little shops selling glittery crap and other stuff which served no practical purpose but which seemed to attract buyers nevertheless.  Anselm’s Cafe, was something of a wart amongst the glittery windows. It was one of the finest examples of 1950’s industrial town greasy spoon. Complete with tin chairs, dirty tea towels and running, yellow condensation on the windows. The perfect venue for a good, sensibly priced breakfast. It even had suitably sticky and sauce-encrusted plastic tomato-shaped ketchup dispensers on almost ev...

Evie perched on a barstool, nursing an ice-cold gin and tonic, the slice of lemon being slowly jiggled about in time to the rising bubbles. He was a lanky chap, all angles and shadows, sunken deep, dark eyes, prominent cheekbones. He was drinking a pint of lime and soda water. He hunched over his drink, as if someone might steal his drink. He wore a threadbare hat with a wide brim that cast his face in perpetual dusk. "You look like you could use a proper drink," Evie said, her voice husky from too much smoke and laughter. Evie was the sort who liked it on the edge, life, action, partying, everything. Death looked up, his eyes still, bottomless. "And you," he rasped, his voice quiet but strong, as if you would hear it in the next room, if only you listened, “you look like you could use a proper goodbye." Evie, looked at him perplexed by his response. The thought popped into her mind that she could see him holding a large scythe and an hourglass, but when she re...

The old bookstore had always been Cal's escape, but today it felt different, somehow. She didn’t really know why, it was just a feeling she had. She’d lost her job a week before. She had ditched her boyfriend of three years a week before that having found out that he was having a series of affairs with bookmakers, coke dealers and other women. Things had not been going well for Cal. She felt downtrodden, beaten. But for some reason this morning she’d got up and decided that it was time to change. She would make a positive move out of the gloom. The bookshop was always her ‘go to’ place for an hour of simple, easy pleasure. She always felt better for visiting, even if she hadn’t found a book she liked. Just the browsing was enough. And today, well maybe it was the dust motes dancing in the early morning sun that slanted through the small shop window, or the way the silence calmed her, or the  energy of storytelling encased in the thousands of books on the shelves. Whatever it was, s...

 Penelope Proud, a woman whose life was a cornucopia of certainties, was, in addition, a walking, talking vortex of woo-woo nonsense. And when I say talking I do mean incessant. Her belief system resembled a poorly constructed fruit salad, cobbled together from scraps of new-age jargon, self-help platitudes and an interesting mix of druidic and eastern mysticism. Chakras swirled around her like hula hoops, her aura (allegedly a dazzling turquoise) shimmered in the lights of the supermarket, and her chi, according to Penelope, flowed with the untamed vigor of a mountain stream tumbling melodically after heavy rainfall. To encounter Penelope was to be bombarded with a relentless barrage of unsolicited pronouncements. The cashier at the supermarket became privy to a ten-minute lecture on the karmic implications of choosing non-organic apples. The mailman, a stoic soul named Stan, was subjected to a diatribe on the healing properties of amethyst crystals while simply trying to deliver ...

 Edwin awoke in a room bathed in a soft glow. The scent of aged leather and mahogany filling the air. Tapestries and art adorned the free walls, the rest filled with beautiful dark wooden shelves lined with leather-bound books reaching towards the high ceiling. The air was pleasantly warm and all in all it seemed to be a very pleasant space. Except that he had no idea where he was or how he came to be there. Edwin stood up from the plush, high-backed armchair beside a crackling fireplace where he had awoken. The flames in the fireplace danced above the coal with a warmth that hinted at the fire being laid with no limit set by cost. As he explored the shelves he realised that the room was a sanctuary of literary treasures and the collection encompassed every aspect of knowledge and interest he could imagine. He marvelled at the details of the room, the intricate woodwork was outstanding, stained glass windows were an incandescent splendour, and a grand chandelier that cast a gentle ...

 Within great heart where love has built its nest a serpent lurks unseen with poisoned fang. Where passion burns a seed of hate may rest and wait its hour disguised, a rope to hang. A lover's word a glance that seems unkind can spark a flame or ignite hidden ire. That bond once strong by doubt and anger blind fractures and falls consumed in jealous fire. From fiery trials love emerges whole, refined by pain its spirit soars anew. Like diamonds forged in depths where shadows roll, it shines sharp bright its loyalty ever true. So love and hate that sweet entwining move, a tangled waltz, a bitter, tender groove. Or, it might go like this: In shadows deep where love and hatred twine, A dance of contrasts, passion's fierce ballet, Two warring forces bound by hearts' design, Yet inseparable night and careless day. Love that sweet rose in bloom, its petals fair, unfurls its fragrance sweet, a pure delight, yet in its beauty lies a thorny snare, A cold paradox unveils darkest night...

 The crunch of gravel echoed under my new trainers in a very satisfying way. Calming almost. I looked sharp, even though I said so myself. Actually, I had to say so myself, because nobody else would. Philistines. Anyway, I strolled round a bend in the pathway, it was a beautiful day, sun, warm, trees doing that wafty tree thing, birds doing that hoppy, pecky bird thing. Idyllic. And then, bugger me, there’s some tosser doing over some old biddy. I was less than impressed. I'd seen him snatch the old lady's purse. I went forward to try and stop him but then he looked over to me. The old lady was screaming blue murder for help, but the bloke didn’t give a monkeys. He pointed at me, pushing the grandma over. “I’m f*ckin’ ‘avin’ you mate,” he shouted, his face twisted in a snarl and then he came for me. Now look, I’m as brave as anyone right. No really. But he was, well, big. And snarly. And he meant it. Time for my new trainers to earn their keep. Bravely leaving the nice old lady...

Amelia sat, restlessly on the park bench, watching the leaves dance in the breeze, but poised as if she wanted to jump up and run off at any moment. Beside her, Peter, although fidgeting with a small pebble, was completely still and seemed lost in thought. Their friendship was an odd mix of contrasts, with Amelia always buzzing with ideas, bursting to leap into action, like a mad woman with her arse on fire and Peter preferring quiet simplicity, stillness and silence. "I didn't think of that," Peter mumbled, breaking the moment of comfortable quiet. Amelia turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "You didn't think of what?" Peter shifted uncomfortably. "I didn't think of bringing a picnic. I mean, we're in the park, and it's a beautiful day. A picnic would have been nice." Amelia chuckled, "You never think about anything, do you?" He looked at her with a hint of a smile, "Well, you think about everything, so I don't have to...

Mildred was attempting to rescue her cat from the plane tree on the street outside of her house. It, like every other cat, was entirely capable of rescuing itself when it was good and ready, but it found Mildred’s efforts endlessly amusing. So it sat there. On a branch. Chortling to itself. Finally Mildred, exhausted from waving a mop handle about in the lower branches and calling “puss, puss, puss,” until her lips were aching, took a break. She leant against the flaky tree trunk and was surprised to see, right in front of her, a man who looked like he had just stepped out of a romantic novel. His name was Reginald, but everyone in Chortleton-on-Sea knew him as Reg the Romantic. He was Chorleton’s resident poet and self-proclaimed expert in true love. Reg, surprisingly for a love guru, lived on his own. He wrote poetry comparing his paramours to celestial bodies and was fond of ladies who swooned a lot and who, it seemed, often had eyes that resembled limpid pools. It was Valentines da...

  The sky fortress loomed in the distance, a vast dark silhouette against the blood-red sky. Its twisted spires reached into the high cirrus clouds like skeletal fingers, grasping at the last vestiges of daylight. A lone figure moved silently through the desolate landscape, stumbling from shadow to shadow. The air was still and quiet except for the distant hum of machinery within the fortress. The figure pressed forward, navigating the labyrinthine and unrecognisable ruins that lay under the fortress's oppressive shadow. The scent of decay permeated the air as they slipped through the forgotten remnants of what was clearly once a thriving civilisation. Tattered sigils, bearing the insignia of a forgotten regime, adorned the occasional standing pillar. The figure moved with purpose, a grim determination etched into their features. The only sound was the crunch of broken tiles beneath his worn boots as he traversed the desolate landscape. Approaching the fortress, the figure...

The dimly lit cafe buzzed with the soft hum of conversation as I sat across from Sheila, a friend I had known for over two decades. We’d weathered some storms together, we’d shared joys and heartaches. We’d even, once or twice, shared a bed. This evening, though, there was an atmosphere. A palpable shift, a space between us that had never been there before. I could feel something was eating at her. It was unsettling. As we sipped our wine, Sheila's excused herself to powder her nose. Honestly, I thought, women’s noses must weigh a ton, what with being caked in all that powder. Anyway she left her phone behind. I don’t now remember exactly what the reason was - one of those sudden ‘oh, I wonder how much nose powder weighs?’ type of questions I suppose. But I picked it up to Google something and there, staring me in the face, I saw a text draft addressed to Steve i.e., me, that she had not yet mustered up the courage to send. "Hey, I’m done with you. Go away.” You know when they...

  Smoke curled upward in lazy curlicues, tendrils of blue-grey, dancing with the muted light that struggled to penetrate the nicotine yellowed windows. The air was thick with the sour reek of whisky and the muffled murmurs of men nursing their regrets. In the corner, a solitary figure sat hunched over the sticky bar, nursing a glass that more space than liquid. He was no butterfly, this man. No delicate creature adorned in vibrant hues, fluttering through sun-dappled meadows. No, he was a moth, drawn to the dim glow of the long night of the  soul. His eyes, like the wings of the sightless moth he resembled, were a dull shade of grey, reflecting the shadows he favoured. The barman, a compact and stoic man with hands that hosted red, sausage fingers, approached the solitary drinker. Without a word, he poured another shot of amber liquid into the glass that glinted between grubby fingerprints like a jewel in the rough. “And don’t think that one’s one me,” the barman grumble...