Steve's Daily Blah.

Eli squinted, the unforgiving sun blazing relentlessly above. It has been years. A lifetime of this relentless brightness. His aged face, which bore the creases of someone who had lived through a particular era, looked out over the shimmering dunes of the desert, which seemed to go on forever. The tales of a bygone era, when the celestial expanse shimmered with countless stars and the serene glow of the moon illuminated the world, had faded into obscurity. Here, the past seemed to slip away, the moon a distant memory.  He embodied a bygone era, a living testament to a time when Earth's deteriorating ecosystems compelled a frantic quest for a fresh abode. This desolate, scorching planet, Proxima B, had provided the solution. But what is the price?  However, a gust of transformation swept through. The days gradually and inevitably became cooler. The sun appeared to sink lower in the sky. After months of careful observation, Eli confirmed a clear trend: the sun was gradually lowe...

Archibald Wordsworth, a librarian of eccentric tastes, was a man of unique curiosities. His mind, constantly bubbling with a whirlwind of ideas, frequently became engrossed in the most peculiar of topics. And on this lovely spring morning, the humble pigeon captured his eccentric fascination. With a passion rivalling that of the most devoted bird enthusiasts, Archibald had immersed himself in the study of these winged inhabitants of Austin Majoris. Recently, he was regularly spotted sitting by the library window, captivated by the mesmerising spectacle of their elaborate movements along the bustling city streets. "Pigeons," he would mutter to himself, his eyes sparkling with an intriguing glimmer. "Intriguing beings." Some may view them as mere pests, but I see them as the true rulers of the cityscape, gracefully manoeuvring through the busy streets and narrow alleys despite their humble origins in the towering rocks and cliffs surrounding the city.” His colleagues ...

He was definitely what you would call a weird man. No doubt about it. Bartholomew Wizzle lived in a charming little town that was like something out of a story book. The streets and alleyways were all narrow and twisty, with interesting nooks and surprising squares. The buildings all ancient and astonishingly close together. There was a Main Street, but it was mostly a market place and although the Main Street was paved with large stone slabs, the rest of the streets and alleyways were cobbled with the local blue-grey cobble stones from the silvery river that ran through the town. The town was surrounded by whispering forests and rolling hills. It was delightfully old fashioned and quaint. You wouldn't call Mr. Wizzle a regular guy. Nope. Not in a month of Sundays. What he was though, was a master of the esoteric arts, a dealer in anomalies, and a merchant of wonders. Hidden along a winding cobblestone alley, his little shop held an assortment of oddities, many of which would amaze...

When I was a boy, aged about nine or ten, I think, I used to ride my bicycle to a long, narrow wood. It was about a mile long and perhaps a quarter of a mile wide and filled with old, tall deciduous trees. There was a path down through the middle, from which it was not possible to see the edges of the wood in summertime. The path crossed the same stream three times along its length. It was called The Spinney.   A liminal space between a main road and a vast golf course, which was strictly private and where angry men in odd trousers and check argyle pullovers would shout at you if you ventured out of the Spinney and into the bright green sunshine. But it didn’t matter because the Spinney was, in my imagination, a vast and endless forest stretching for all eternity and filled with beasts and birds, hidden dangers, lurking wild men and aliens.   I went often with friends. We would dam the streams and race along the path through the middle. We would cook sausages on sticks over a ...