David Stevens

Posts Tagged ‘art’

Happy Poeday

In Uncategorized on January 20, 2018 at 8:43 am

HAPPY BIRTHDAY EDGAR ALLAN POE!!

Even though you are dead, you are still keeping up the good work, I see.

(Everything here blatantly stolen from somebody else, but that’s what good artists do.)

 

Image result for teletubbies poe

Oh … and this (late entry)

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Quick, drop everything!

In Uncategorized on January 18, 2018 at 10:33 pm

Check out the winter 2018 edition of Space and Time magazine, featuring “Store in a Dark Place” by yours truly. It takes place in a dark, dark world that I have visited before in “Avoiding Gagarin” in Aurealis and “The Big Reveal” in Kaleidotrope.

Must … read … NOW!

And they said you’d never make it …

In Uncategorized on January 14, 2018 at 11:26 am

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SHANE MACGOWAN!

“I believe in miracles,” Shane MacGowan said recently in response to a question about his religious beliefs … . “I’ve seen miracles happen in my life. It’s a miracle every morning when you wake up.”

“I’m concentrating on my health at the minute,” … and to this end he has given up spirits and now only drinks wine.

What more is to be said, when all has been said?

Greatest dancer of the 20th Century

In Uncategorized on January 6, 2018 at 8:18 pm

History should not be rushed. It is important to take time to reflect, and to have access to all relevant materials before coming to judgment. And while all views may be subject to revision (just ask Stalin), I am fairly confident of our maturity in the cultural sphere, and so believe that this is one historical assessment that will stand the test of time.

It is important when assessing cultural phenomena to be separate from fads and not to be ideologically blinkered. Gentle readers, you know that I stand apart from the crowd, and that while others may be subjective, I am objective. (Lord, that was said to me, not about me, by a fellow panellist on a recruitment panel. Apparently, because we described a candidate in words, and they assessed them using a numeric scoring system of their own invention, they were that rare thing, a truly objective person.) So after catching up on some favourites of my youth last night on Youtube, I am very well placed to declare that the greatest dancer of the 20th century was Alexei Sayle. To see a chubby bald guy in a tight suit make those moves was inspirational. Forever more, every time I take to the dance floor, regardless of the koinos kosmos, in my head, that will be how I look. Except I have hair. And my suits aren’t that tight.

 

YMV

In Uncategorized on January 1, 2018 at 1:11 pm

I’m writing a story featuring a blind person, which led me by some circuitous and probably inappropriate path, to think that I should mention two of my stories that are available free for your listening pleasure, via podcast.

First up is my first ever published story, “Good Boy”, no longer in print, but available in audio in a slightly redacted version, on Pseudopod right here, just one click away.

“Some Corner of a Dorset Field that is Forever Arabia” can be read or listened to at Three Lobed Burning Eye, by clicking here. Your reader is yours truly, under the pseudonym Lloyd Connor, which seemed like a good idea at the time, but probably wasn’t. Delight in the fact that my written vocabulary is wider than my oral vocabulary! The story will be appearing again early this year under my own name.

Oh, and Happy New Year, Space Cadets!

Happy birthday Winnie the Wombat (not womb-bat)

In Uncategorized on December 16, 2017 at 10:47 am

Happy birthday, Winnie the wombat. You look fun and cuddly. But …

 

Wombats are big furry buggers that look like a giant crawling teddy bear and the unsuspecting say “oh cute, so cute” until they turn and outrun your wife and trip her over and you keep running you coward because you have soiled yourself you are so scared, they just keep running and you hear your wife scream because its stopped now, only a fallen victim will stop it, and you hear it, you hear her flesh being torn, it makes a ripping sound, and you cannot ever forgive yourself but you also hate her a little bit forever, because she cannot forgive you, and it is no consolation that the wombat does not eat the flesh, it tears and nuzzles for a moment then returns to its business, it does not eat her because it is a herbivore, but it rips her because it is a nasty big furry bugger, and it could answer the question if it could speak, it could tell you if your wife tastes like chicken, because it has tasted both even though it does not swallow, but even if it spoke, you would be too chicken shit to ask, you gutless wonder.  The relief you felt when she fell.

Not to be confused with the cryptid womb-bats. And what are they? you ask …

 

Womb-bats

The dry evening scurry

Falling leaves

Crackling open before

They hit the ground.

Tiny, not unnoticed as they swarm,

but unmentioned in polite company.

Huge amniotic eyes take in

the miracle of the world

each night.

Before the dawn,

unborn

Rustle along the sheets

A slight disturbance,

a shifting of knees

A minor annoyance

at the early morning turn,

the slight parting

as they enter

to nestle in.

Read for free …

In Uncategorized on December 8, 2017 at 4:02 pm

… you know you want to!

Christmas is coming, as I can tell from the 4.30pm sunset. O Southern Hemisphere, I miss you and your heatwave Christmas! A hot roast lunch with a side of cold prawns. Hot Christmas pudding, followed by pavlova with chilled fruit and cream. Everyone knows Jesus wasn’t born in winter …

I digress. If you are so interested, the following of my tales are available for your (free) reading pleasure. In the words of my father, don’t say I never give you anything. Just click on the titles to be transported to a winter wonderland (possibly of hell and suffering, but a wonderland nonetheless). All this by way of prelude to a new story being published in the next few days.

My Life as a Lizard

Some Corner of a Dorset Field that is Forever Arabia

This Neil Armstrong is not dead

The Big Reveal

 

 

 

 

Among the Dead

In Uncategorized on November 28, 2017 at 8:11 pm

My grandfather sits in the ruin of his house. It is always night when I am here. The sky is my skull, a low dome seen from the inside. His jaw is strong and held hard, grinding the fossils of his teeth. (Even if he still smoked, he could not. His pipe stem could not be forced between those lips. It would be snapped by those teeth. The end of it would stay in that mouth a hundred years, preserved.)

Wind sweeps the ash. I do not feel the cold. I stare at the strength of that head. I remember bending and kissing that head, like a child’s, as it lay on a pillow. The man I never kissed, who always shook hands. The skull beneath the skin.

That he came back to sit here, among the ruins. He does not decay, instead the house does. Each time I come, it has deteriorated further, taking his place in the grave. The elements do not bother him. If the wind wears him, if water drips him away, leaching away the minerals of him a drop at a time, perhaps it is for the best. Perhaps it is what he desires. As he weathers, mountains are ground down, oceans rise, seas fall. Forests grow and are consumed. The constellations shift, all sped up for him. He is the Time Traveller, he is Rod Taylor in his chair, encased in stone, then freed again. In my visits, I am a shadow. I am the flickering ghost. It is I who am death, I am mortality. We are worn down around him.

He gulps sometimes. The throat works, the jaw moves and clenches. He is biting deeper, getting a better grip on the world. Once or twice he has looked towards me. I stand close. He does not stop me. I am calm in his presence, calm with the nostalgia of grief. The longing for those other worlds I can never visit. Childhood. The past. The lives of others. The drowsy warmth of everything will be alright. The knowledge of grief to come.

That he has returned, and so far, not the others. Preserved in his pride, his inflexible ideas of proper behaviour. The feuds that burned silently within, in his room as he read, as he listened to talk back radio.

It is monochrome here. It suits the grey hair, slicked back along his scalp.

My aunt, white gowned against the window, arms raised and pressing the glass. Could only I see her? Were the adults pretending it was otherwise? My other grandmother, from the other side of my family, smiling, her lips uncertain, her eyes betraying an unease. She knew. We mourned when my aunt left, why did no one tell me she was back? Kept inside, a secret.

All the dead are kept inside, a secret that no one else wants to know. We are all haunted, and sometimes they stare out from the windows of our eyes. They come back, but they are not the same.

My grandfather sits amongst the exposed beams, the drooping wallpaper having outlasted the plasterboard beneath. He has made himself comfortable in the chair that was thrown away long ago. Its return is as great a miracle as his. He is silent. Why do we protest? Why do we bother to rage? The brave new world was always coming, and there was nothing we could do about it. We shall consume the whole world, we shall eat our young, the forests will die, the skies will burn.

There is no moon, no stars, no electricity, no peasant mob brandishing torches, but I see him clear in this night. I cannot think how I first found him here. I think I just knew. He cannot be in this house. It was sold years ago, and rebuilt, and another family lives here. Still, it is where I found him. Perhaps we are in one of those other twenty four dimensions of folded string. I do not know. I just gaze upon him and sit in his quiet presence.

The dead stare. What vision is imprinted on their eyes? We fear what they have seen.

His wife is not there. Will she come? Nobody told me my grandmother was in hospital. I could not answer the phone. I was freezing in a bath of ice, sitting with a child who refused to be comforted unless someone was in there with him, trying to bring his fever down. Later, when I finally was told, in emergency as she, unconscious, clawed at the air, as though prematurely buried and scraping at the coffin lid, I prayed and prayed into her ear, a hundred Hail Mary’s to calm her down, and then those arms rested, they allowed themselves to stop. Thank you God for that.

The dead are all inside. How many skeleton arms drag torsos forward through the mud of my mind, skulls drooping, exposed spines drifting away to nothing? How many more bony arms are yet to come? When shall I join them? What shall I see?

Or will death be banished forever, and we infested us with nanobots that work constantly to keep us fit, keep us happy in our jobs, content in the hell we have made?

These are thoughts I think, when I awake after my visits.

Paper Lace, 1974

In Uncategorized on November 23, 2017 at 7:28 pm

I.

Billy

Be a hero

The rest of us will creep out the back

Our wives were happy

Our kids were happy

They didn’t care about Billy

After all, their Dads came back.

 

II.

The night Chicago died

There was nothing good on TV

I went to bed early

and missed it all.

Dammit!

The Partridge Family

In Uncategorized on November 22, 2017 at 9:50 pm

The Partridge Family

I think I love you

But what am I so afraid of?

Cancer.

Drunk drivers.

Faces at the window.

Child abductors.

Prison.

Public speaking.

Rectal bleeding.

All the usual stuff.