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Category Archives: The Press Club

Work-in-progress about the last days of the newspaper game.

Blake Replies

By Daedalus Howell | December 16th, 2004
Read yesterday’s to follow today’s… FROM BLAKE: Attn. Daedalus (if that indeed is your real name) – Poor sir, you’re a fool. This search for yourself in the eyes of women is dull and ordinary. Moreover, the identity motif in your slipshod reportage is not only trite but telling. No wonder you haven’t made any satisfactory gains [...]
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Her Many Lovers

By Daedalus Howell | December 15th, 2004
Blake, man – Forgive the lapse, chap. Been waylaid conducting important research: indeed, the search for a unified field theory of women continues. At least ex post facto. And no thanks to the Lumaville Daily Echo, by the way. It’s with some relish that I admit to having spent a week on the clock, wine-soaked and [...]
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Scene One

By Daedalus Howell | November 9th, 2004
FADE IN: EXT. DESERT – DAY A wind-swept desert plain. Dervishes of dust dance over the cracked earth and lead to an army-issue tent, which is tiny on the horizon. Close on the tent — a hand-painted sign reads “Lumaville Daily Echo: K—istan Bureau.” Below it, seated at a makeshift desk is a weatherbeaten young man. He has [...]
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Prelude to Drinks at Dawn

By Daedalus Howell | October 28th, 2004
It was late when we started drinking. And hours since our host had abandoned us in his kitchen with a blithe “Help yourselves” before trundling out to the still waters of the River Lumaville and the boathouse astride its banks. The carelessness of the nouveau riche, I thought. His guests comprised the press club after all [...]
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When Blake Speaks of Love

By Daedalus Howell | October 19th, 2004
For Rigby, our paper’s theater critic, every evening was Opening Night, every meal jug wine and cubed cheddar, and every aspiring actress a Sarah Bernhardt — so long as there was a dressing room door to lock. That the dressing rooms were locked to keep Rigby out of them only caused him mild consternation like [...]
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