of a gone inn
The place smelled like stale cigarettes and regret. The kind of smell that sank into your skin and stayed there, like the kind of memories you can’t get rid of.
The air was thick with the ghosts of everyone who ever walked through the door,people who came looking for something, but left with less. It was the end of the night, but it wasn’t the end of anything that mattered.
The lights hung too low above the bar, flickering like they had a death wish. And the jukebox? Still there, like an old dog nobody bothered to pet anymore. Its mechanical hum buzzed weakly in the background, too tired to do much else. Every so often it let out a note, just one note and then the whole place would be drowning in that same damn tune again. Some bluesy, broken down song about love gone wrong, or some shit like that. It was the kind of song that burrows deep in your head, and you swear you’ll never hear it again, but it’s there anyway.
Every damn time.
Cian Doyle. A fixture of the New York City health services, navigates the labyrinth of bureaucracy with the weary grace of a seasoned sailor. Most of the time he wrangles spreadsheets and calms irate patients. But later at home he channels his frustrations into darkly comedic short stories about the eccentric characters he encounters, from hypochondriacs to bewildered bureaucrats, proving that even in the most mundane of settings, life provides endless fodder for absurdity.
Ovi eBook Publishing 2025
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