Steve's Daily Blah.

 Fluorescent purgatory. That's what I called it. The I in this story being me, Subject 47. Never really had the chance to become a ‘me’. The sterile white walls, the rhythmic hum of ventilation, the constant, cloying smell of disinfectant - it had been my entire life. Memories, if you could call them that, were fragmented, like a dropped snow globe, the figures within blurred and shapeless. Subject 47. A fittingly clinical moniker for a creature born not of a mother's womb, but of sterile petri dishes and lab reports. I am, apparently, unethical. I never worked out whether that was my personality or my existence. My existence, such as it is, revolves around tests. Prodding, poking, endless blood draws, the sting of needles, when my body demanded a rest from the endless, both arm canulas, is as constant companion, as commonplace as summer midges up a highlander’s kilt. Not that I’d ever seen a midge. Or a kilt. Or a highlander come to that. Sometimes, there are others like me, I...

 The typewriter clacked its staccato rhythm in the dimly lit newsroom. The ding of the carriage return bell and ratchet of the carriage return acting as an audible punctuation to the incessant clatter of the keys. Not for Miles Caldwell the relative quiet of the new-fangled electric machines, he liked his trusty old Royal, which he’d used for more than twenty years. Miles was a seasoned journalist with a face carved by the harsh edges of truth. An unlit cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth as he hammered out the exposé that would rock the city. The corruption of Senator Robert Thornton had festered beneath the surface for too long, and Miles was ready to lay bare the festering wounds to the cauterising glare of the public. The ink-stained pages, heavy with his story and filled with the damning evidence, rolled off the press like a manifesto of justice. Miles's article landed on the front page of the city's most respected newspaper, a sledgehammer blow to the facade of...

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 ...