David Stevens

Posts Tagged ‘fiction’

The final hypotheses of Professor G

In Uncategorized on June 3, 2019 at 10:12 pm

The final hypotheses of Professor G is available for your free reading … pleasure? … at Silver Blade. Just click on the link.

Unhappy in his retirement, Professor G turns his analytical gaze upon the world immediately about him, and discovers more than he would like.

Due to international clamour, constant requests on social media, and pressure each time I emerge from the house from the gathered horde, the story features world famous and universally acclaimed characters from beloved classics and kiddies’ favourites such as The Boulevardier, My life as a lizard, and Mr Cranky.

For English teachers planning to add the story to their syllabus, themes include: mortality; retirement; rats; naps; neighbours named Brian; and Things From Outside.

Advertisements

Among the dead

In Uncategorized on February 10, 2019 at 8:39 am

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 only ever shook hands, even with children. 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.

I love him, I miss him, I miss them all. All the faces from the Christmas photographs of my childhood, who no longer gather around the table.

My aunt, white gowned against the window, arms raised and pressing the glass. Could only I see her? I am staring at the house, the others have their backs turned to 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 when I caught them. 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.  They have covered the verandah, hung a little sign advertising a business. 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 the emergency ward with her 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.

My child, shaking, terrified in the night. Eventually telling us that someone else had been in the house with us, while we all slept. She struggled to get the words out. Her eventual description: “he was like a cricket man”. Cricketers dress completely in white. She could not see his shoes, for his feet were beneath the floor.

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, all of us 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.

A summer story

In Uncategorized on January 27, 2019 at 2:30 am

Summer time here in Orstraya. Floating in the ocean yesterday in between the waves, all the beach moments of all my life joined together, as though the rest of life is a mundane interruption to that Eternal Now that is me floating, I was reminded of how that is reflected by the end of my story, This Neil Armstrong is not dead. Without meaning to be, it is my (not “the”) quintessential Australian beach story – I will never write a better Australian beach story, than this story which is not about Australia, or the beach. Of course, I hope one day to write a better story, which may be about Australia or the beach. Oh mind, be still.

Read “Miracle Cure”

In Uncategorized on December 31, 2018 at 3:58 am

Read Miracle Cure, just click here.

 

The gods of the gaps

In Uncategorized on December 30, 2018 at 6:20 am

3LBE 29

The gods of the gaps

 

Baby, cold outside

In Uncategorized on September 27, 2018 at 10:05 am

Dear Reader, the latest edition of BREACH magazine, featuring Australian and New Zealand writers, is available for your reading pleasure. The former group includes yours truly, with my contribution being a weird tale, “Baby, cold outside”. If you are cold outside, what do you want more than anything, baby?

I wrote the first draft of this story last year, during breaks on a work conference to Krakow. The next day, we travelled to Auschwitz. The story is not about the Holocaust or Nazis, but perhaps it was informed by the strange mood I was in.

Breach #8 is available for $2 USD here and here.

Breach #08

Flip a coin

In Uncategorized on September 15, 2018 at 3:09 am

It is quite possible you can learn something from feedback accompanying a rejection. I’m sure someone has. A recent rejection of a story of mine was accompanied by feedback from two of the slush readers for the magazine:

“… really strong narrative voice and prose control.  …  it’s all developed and described quite well”

and

“This piece is unfocused and almost stream of consciousness and difficult to get a sense of what it’s about”

Guess what I learned?  Flip a coin.

 

Its a miracle …

In Uncategorized on August 30, 2018 at 2:21 am

You can check out my latest published story, “Miracle cure”, at Liquid Imagination – just click on the link.

(Sitting at home just now with my new friend, Gastroenteritis, but I’ll put up with the illness in preference to a miracle cure like this one … stomach, I have cared for you so well all these years, and this is how you betray me?)

Serial Killer Blues

In Uncategorized on May 28, 2018 at 5:41 pm

The latest edition of The Literary Hatchet, is available now, just click here for details.

Which reminds me, you can read my own contribution to The Literary Hatchet, Serial Killer Blues, for free – just click here, fill out the form, and a PDF of volume 14 will be sent to you. You can also buy hard copies at Amazon if you are so inclined.

Three-Lobed Burning Eye Magazine – new issue

In Uncategorized on May 22, 2018 at 5:47 pm

After a 19 month hiatus, Three-Lobed Burning Eye Magazine is back. I am particularly pleased as the latest volume contains a new horror story by me, The Gods of the Gaps. Click here to read it for free. Additionally you may wish to spend 17 minutes of your life listening to me narrate my own tale (no doubt proving once again that my oral vocabulary is more limited than my written vocabulary).

witches