Steve's Daily Blah.

La Revolucionaria The  relentlessly hot sun was a remorseless killer. It burned what few plants there were to brown crispy, shrivelled remnants. It dried out the water troughs and fountains each day long before noon and turned the dusty air into a blistering, skin peeling scourge as the hot wind rushed to try, hopelessly, to find the cool. A man, known only as The Revolutionary survived here. The town, long forgotten by all but the most diligent of cartographers, was called El Olvido. The town was aptly named and in the Revolutionary’s mind a place called ‘The Oblivion’ was as good a place to be as any. The Revolutionary’s real name was long ago buried beneath layers of whisper and rumour. He was known only as ‘ El Revolucionario.’The good people of El Olvido, beaten down by poverty and oppression, spoke of him in hushed tones, always with eyes darting, searching out hidden dangers and onlookers. Fearful that even the walls had ears. But even so, he remained present, forever on the...

 A world of Wi-Fi wonders and emoji snogs where digital parts prance in private blogs I met a flame a digital delight an almost lover glistering in virtual night. Her pixels were poems her emoticons sweet we'd LOL together our connection discreet But in neural networks of likes and shares I stumbled upon a truth that no one declares. Her messages were cryptic like a well-coded game I deciphered the symbols but it wasn't the same a ghosting phantom she vanished in digital ether leaving me lost, like a redundant feature. In that smiley jungle my heart went astray love in this 21st century a peculiar ballet she left me hanging like an unsent text my almost lover I’m perplexed and vexed. No reply nor a read receipt I pondered our love in this digital suite In our binary forest my heart won’t recover I sighed, defeated, "Farewell, my almost lover."

He adjusted the wire to sit comfortably on his chest. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he prepared to infiltrate the group he'd been cultivating for years. The air, cold and damp, hung heavy and thick with the acrid smell of Karpaten cigarettes, the tab end of one smouldering in the cheap, pressed tin ashtray. His movements were deliberate, calculated; every step calibrated to the tradecraft he had mastered over the years. Herbert headed out. The venue was a dimly lit establishment on the outskirts of Karl Marx Stadt, a city where secrets were sometimes whispered in the backrooms of cheap bars around the rail yards and factories. He hoped that the low hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses would provide the backdrop to the operation he was about to unfold. He blended seamlessly into the crowd, he’d been working in the town for four years. Everyone thought he was an immigrant from further east, from Eisenhüttenstadt, a steel town on the Polish border that accounted f...

Piotr's fingers traced the worn edges of the antique market stall. Dust hung in the air, giving the entire market hall the feeling of being lost in a haze. It was as if some giant had strode through the place swinging an immense thurible that had hurled smoke and cinders in all directions. Except that it smelled of sweaty armpits and dogfood rather than incense. Amidst the clutter of obsolete technologies, rusting typewriters, and discarded photographs, his eyes snagged on a device. A relic, a thing, a whatnot. It was interesting, but he had no idea what it was, a thing perhaps, from a bygone era. He reached for it, his hand dancing over the tarnished surface. The device felt cold, alien in his grip. It had buttons that yielded with a reluctant click as he explored its mechanisms. Piotr didn't quite understand its purpose, but a sense of anticipation, a premonition perhaps, clawed at the edges of his consciousness. Weeks passed, and the device found a quiet corner in Piotr'...

  As the darkness sank into her veins, Victoria felt the chill of its malevolence crawl through her, numbing her feelings but heightening senses. The moon, obscured by fleeting dark clouds, cast an eerie glow on the woodland. A sighing, cool wind whispered secrets through branches gnarled and broken, which loomed like silent sentinels in the moonlit night. An owl hunted in deadly silence while small mammals screeched in the terror of death. Victoria stumbled through the dense woods, the black shadows of the night chilling her to the bone. Her footsteps, sometimes quiet, sometimes loud as dried sticks cracked beneath her tread were the only other sounds to be heard. The ominous darkness played tricks on her mind, conjuring phantom whispers and elusive shadows that slithered through the undergrowth. A distant howl pierced the silence, and the wildlife seemed to sense the encroaching malevolence. Her heart raced, as if it were a paradiddle from some unseen drummer calling from the...

 The puce coloured curtains hung heavy, like a dusty shroud over the window. The air in the room was thick and stagnant. The scrofulous, smelly old man sat in a worn-out armchair, his gaze fixed on the puce walls that enshrouded him. He took a drag from his cigarette, the smoke swirling, dancing with the dust motes, in the dim light. His hands trembled as he reached for the glass on the table. The liquid inside matched the puce hue of the room. He swallowed it down, the bitter taste clinging to his tongue. The clock on the wall ticked on, a marching beat counting down the hours. Outside, the city moved with a muted pulse. Sodium streetlights flickered in the gathering dusk. Shadows danced on the pavement, casting long, puce, distorted shapes. The man's mind wandered through the alleyways of his memories, each one threadbare tapestry woven of that same sombre colour. A knock on the door interrupted the stillness of his dark thoughts. He rose slowly, the puce carpet muffling his shuf...

  In arid hush where whispers roam soft sand the desert's silence wears a shroud so thin its voice a ghostly echo bare and bland tongues of dust quiet conversation spin. In nature's script no tortured rhymes abide nor flowery verses grace this arid tone in stillness where splashed sun dark shadows hide a desert's voice scorched dry and quiet moan. Each grain a syllable that speaks of thirst a parched confession in those shifting dunes no need for flowers when hot wind's dispersed, shush language of great sand hums quiet tunes. So silence here a desert's whispered word in hushed tones dry arid tales are stirred. Links Much more of my stuff available at https://dailyprompt.page.link/X1qUyE2jz2gCFkzv5 Or see my book: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Tall-Tales-At-Bus-Stop-ebook/dp/B0B135RB4D/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3TGEU7HM5LEKT&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.qR5g4YN8X07Isx3scRia7Ky1T06Wa16Wv8RPTZPVWmE.i4Nl12KZvWpS64bNLKk7PdE7r2WvoI8tsiTkFSJoMYQ&dib_tag=se&keywords=tall+tales+at+the...