Steve's Daily Blah.

 As the gears idled and steam hissed, I marvelled at my creation. This is the defining invention of the century. This machine will change the world and advance human understanding and comfort beyond measure. My innovation, my masterpiece: the Acme Earwax Dissolving Nasal and Ear Hair Extractor Mark I (pat. pending). It is, I must say, a tall, magnificent, gleaming and imposing brass and cast iron apparatus. Its governor balls reflect the light like a spinning constellation, and its pistons speak powerfully of capability and precision. Each dial, knob, tap and lever is a true exposition of engineering excellence. It gleams in the faint light of my laboratory, ready to go on its mission to free humanity from the tyranny of unwelcome body extrusions.    I looked at my creation with a mixture of pride and nervousness. Will it operate as I intended? Will it bring about the personal hygiene revolution that I had pictured? Of course it will. But, as the critics and detractors wo...

 The mist and drifting smoke hung low over the battlefield, concealing the awful reality beneath. The stink of sweat, terror, and blood filled the air as the clang of steel rang over the valley, punctuating the roar and anguish of thousands of men gripped in fierce battle. In the midst of the turmoil stood a grizzled warrior, his aged face marked by the scars of countless wars. He was known simply as Durstan, but Dirstan was a name that instilled terror in his opponents and commanded respect among his men.   Durstan was a man forged in the fires of war, a seasoned veteran who rose through the ranks through pure tenacity and drive. His whole life, from the age of twelve, he was a soldier. As the commander of a squad of spearmen, he expected nothing less than the best from his men, and he led them with an iron will that tolerated no disobedience.   But even Durstan's leadership was put to the test on this day, since new to his troop were two men whose hate for one other was...

 On the walls of the dimly illuminated basement that was located beneath the impressive MI6 building in London, the cold and damp air, soaked by the river seeping in from the Vauxhall bank of the river Thames, misted the walls like fog in a forest. This was just another night in the hazardous world of espionage and illegal gain for the burglar and spy who went only by the name Shadow. The sound of his footfall reverberated softly on the stone floor as he moved with a purposeful silence. His mind was totally focused on one thing: the encrypted communication device that was concealed behind the seemingly harmless disguise of an Apple Pencil. Shadow had methodically studied the layout of the MI6 facility, analysed the guard rotations, and exploited every flaw in their security measures in order to organise this theft, which had taken him several months to complete. Now as he was making his way through the maze-like passageways of the cellar, he could feel the negligible weight of the ...

  In my long and distinguished career, I have had the displeasure of dealing with some truly difficult cases. The big problem about the criminally insane is that very often they seem to be entirely normal. They are believable, credible. Some are even likeable. People you might meet at the pub and think ‘well, he/she is a decent sort.’ But, of course you would be entirely wrong. Behind the civilised facade, they are dangerous ravening monsters and belong firmly beyond the poorly lighted hallways of the criminally insane asylum. Let us recall Case 439 and let us call our patient Michael. Michael’s shadow cast deeper than most. His tale was one of gory horror and a spiral into insanity brought on by the unceasing summons of an inner voice that only he could hear. For the most part he seemed an entirely reasonable person, one might wonder why he was incarcerated at all. Save for his story. Every night at precisely 3:33 a.m., Michael would wake to hear a faint murmur that started as a...

 The solicitor, a man in his late middle age with vast and somewhat alarming eyebrows, read out the will. Emiko could not grasp what she had heard. Or rather, she could not grasp what she had not heard. The solicitor packed up his papers and clearly feeling more than a little uncomfortable, hurried out of the rather well appointed library. The reading had taken place at her parents' opulent, vulgar but very grand estate. The solicitors avuncular voice seemed to continue echoing from the library walls, amplifying what he hadn’t said. It seemed that she, the favoured daughter, had been forsaken. Left out. Passed over. Her inheritance was nothing at all. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Her older sister, Ayako, sat beside her, entirely still and feigning, but failing to convey, sympathy. Perhaps it was the self satisfied smirk, but Emiko couldn't bear to look at her. It was the betrayal as much as anything. It cut deeper than any knife. She had always been the dutiful daug...

 The first sign was a whisper, a tremor on the cosmic background static, a rhythmic pattern unlike anything encountered before. Xel, the Watcher, hung in the void monitoring. The Watcher monitored everything, electromagnetic, gravitic, isentropic, everything. A jolt of curiosity pierced his usual AI stoicism. He honed, tuned, filtered and refined the signal, and a holographic image flickered against the consciousness zones they had allocated to vision. A pair of hairless bipeds in a tumbling ship, blistered down through the thin band of gases that surrounded the planet. He had never seen this particular species before and his data banks, spread over his many dispersed selves across the galaxy had not encountered them. They made it to the surface alive, much to Xel’s surprise, they had calculated the probability of survival as a very low number indeed. The creature’s small ship was utterly destroyed and Xel calculated again that the probability of survival against the hazards of the...

  There I was, normal bloke on a normal day. Bugger all going on. All I did was go down one alleyway. Yes, it looked like a nice place for a cup of tea. Yes, it didn’t look too expensive. No, there weren’t any dream-catchers, dangling crystal or other mystic mumbo jumbo hanging about. I ordered a tea, and a biscuit. I should have known then, when she said “what sort of tea would you like?” and then reeled off a long list of things, most of which weren’t tea. I mean, chamomile is a flower and hence not tea. Jasmine likewise. Mint is a herb. Passion fruit is, as it says in the name, a fruit and likewise therefore not tea. And as for Chai Latte Masala - What? “Brown, builders,” I said, “with milk and sugar separate please.” I was, possibly, a bit brusque, but nevertheless, ineffably polite. She did not look impressed. The tea arrived. I drank some. The thought ‘Luke-warm gnats piss' leapt, unbidden, to mind. I got up and left. And then it all went a bit weird. For a start off, I...

 In gusts they twirl, those mighty steel knights, Stealing winds' energy with all their might. Climate change quivers, as windmills prevail, Turning breezy chaos into a renewable tale! Well, there was an epigram. I think that in order to show a level of balance, I should also write a sestina (the single most fiendishly difficult poetic form) on the same subject: The fever breaks the ice, the glaciers weep, an enblaring of warnings, rising deep. Can human hands the warming tide appease? Solar panels blossom, silent trees drinking sunlight, turning it to power, a future bright in every sunlit hour. Sunlit hour, can it eclipse the greed that chokes the Earth, a cancer's cruelest seed? Innovation blooms in labs, a flower of wind turbines, giants in each tower, whispering promises, a gentle breeze, to heal the Earth, appease the troubled seas. The troubled seas, once havens rich and blue, now choked with plastic, skies a sickly hue. Can mindfulness take root, a fertile seed, inspiri...

It was late in the day and a vast vermillion sun was setting. The occasional darkest grey cloud, edged in brightest pink cast long shadows across the dry dusty plains that stretched, shimmering in the evening light, from the sleepy town to the far horizon. In the small café on the corner of Main Street, Sam sat alone, as he did most evenings. His habitual seat was at a table by the window, he nursed a large mug of steaming hot tea. Silently he watched the world pass by into the night. Just another ordinary evening in his ordinary life. Sam had spent the day working at the hardware shop, advising which washer would fix what leaky kitchen tap and selling nails from barrels to old men with shaky hands, who’d really only come in for the nostalgic smell of glimmering paraffin heaters, warm waxed cardboard and dusty old pine floorboards. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened, nothing ever did, and he’d long since resigned himself to the quiet routine of his existence. But then, as he reac...

There’s always been something missing in the social facilities of Clarke Company asteroid mining stations. This one was no different. Nestled out amidst the cold expanse of the Kuiper Belt, they sat, these two miners, in what Clarke Company had originally called Ethanol Imbibing Station 12, but was colloquially named the Pig and Whistle Bar. Despite a hundred years of imported memorabilia, junk and general ‘pub decor’ it was still a sterile space, and the ceaseless scurrying of the maintenance micro-bots kept it that way. Nevertheless, it was the nearest thing to an old fashioned ‘local bar’ that was available at this end of the asteroid belt in 2950. All resemblances to an old twenty first century hospital operating theatre were entirely ‘intended by the Management’. They sat and groused. Their voices just loud enough to be heard over the hum of machinery that ran ceaselessly, maintaining the atmosphere, the artificial gravity, the lights. In the view screens, which were supposed to g...

  Odd things, art galleries. I mean, essentially, they are just one or more large rooms where artworks can be displayed for people to view them, desire them, cogitate upon them, talk inane drivel about them and sometimes even buy them. Galleries seem to develop, despite the wishes of their proprietors, a personality or character. Some are known for this that or the other style or movement. Some are filled with the talentless outpourings of the drug-deranged. Some are pleasant, middle of the road, middle taste monuments to the bland and the beige. Some are expensive, few are cheap. Some are expositions of the owner's vanity and some the expression of a deeply held love of art. Shadow Street Gallery seemed, for some odd reason, to be none of these. In a jokey nod to its address, it had become known as the Gallery of Shadows and stood at the edge of the main centre of town. It was an imposing structure, all vast doric portico and columns. Its main entrance an enormously tall dull bl...