PRECIOUS THINGS: ADAM BROWNE

It’s been too long since we’ve visited fellow artists’ precious things: the KSP Residency kept me away from all but the most basic blogging, and since I returned to the day job, the weight of work has been ramping up so that I’ve had very little time to myself for such things. Thankfully, the skies have cleared (I can’t wait to tell you about The 18 Month Plan tm) and we have a chance to get back to business with one of Australian Speculative Fiction’s most divine lunatics, the brilliantly unique Adam Browne.

For a start, Adam’s more than a writer: he illustrates his own works, and they have titles like Pyrotechnicon: Being a True Account of the Further Adventures of Cyrano de Bergerac Among the States and Empires of the Stars, by Himself (dec’d) (a wonderful confectionery of a book I was proud to read pre-publishing), “Other Stories,” and Other Stories, and his latest, The Tame Animals of Saturn. He has a tendency not to appear in major presses: such is often the fate of truly original voices, and Adam is truly original– if you’d like further proof, my favourite of his short stories involves the soul of Michael Jackson being implanted into an immortal spaceship, and grooming a street urchin to travel the stars with him forever. And that’s the easy version of the synopsis.

Spend five minutes at Adam’s blog, luxuriate in the writing and drawings, then come back here to enjoy an insight into one of the most intriguing and fascinating writers Australian speculative fiction has ever produced.

Continue reading “PRECIOUS THINGS: ADAM BROWNE”

SOME FREE LEE TO READ WHILE THE ADS ARE ON

On a whim, I entered a competition for 50-word short stories last week. I didn’t win, so I thought you might like a little bonus reading for your day: here are my entries, for your reading pleasure.

 

ASCENSION

The fences were electrified. Designed to keep us from the world. Topped by razors. Patrolled by wolves. Governed by black eyes. Grass stopped at their edges. Water refused to flow. Inside, damnation. Outside, gun barrels. I closed my eyes. I gripped the wires. I burned. I climbed. I flew.

 

MOTHER CALLS

Mother calls. We answer, our voices muffled. We strayed from sight, and it is late. Home promises warmth, and rest, and love. We have strayed, and cannot find our way. Mother calls. We answer. The earth is cold. It fills our mouths and eyes. Mother calls, and calls, and calls.

 

THE ASSASSIN’S BENEDICTION

The bullet changes everything. You hear it before you feel it: a whistle that nature has never produced. Then a punch that turns the world upside down. And she’s gone. Your love. Exorcised. Nothing is ever the same. Your life is a ghost. That is my gift to you. Knowledge.

THUMBNAIL THURSDAY IS PRETTY MUCH GUARANTEED TO GO TO HELL

I’m just going to leave this here without comment, other than to say this is probably my favourite one so far: I haven’t seen it since I scanned it a few years ago, and it still made me cackle.

Also, it’s a perfect example of how comedy turns on the choice of a single word: in this case, it’s ‘rarely’.

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“This is a small town, Father Michael. The bitches in the house rarely go ‘Ho’…”