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 ...

 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...