4 questions to Mike Steeden

We started posting 4 questions to our writers, today Mike Steeden, but … it has led to «non-classic» answers … Blog Mike Link -j re crivello -editor.

-J re crivello: What is the story of your greatest longing?

-Mike Steeden: An interesting question, Sir. In many respects I long for the impossible…don’t we all?

An example, albeit obscure. Back in my time-travelling days I once found myself debating with none other than a bloke called John. John himself, the famous one, not just any old John. He and I found ourselves in a boozer south of the River Thames just prior to the First Crusade that kicked off in the year 1097, a war in the Middle East sanctioned by John’s old chum called Popey ‘Glug-A lot’ Urban.

Holding a hand-grenade in one hand, a pint of real ale in the other, and Nell Gwyn’s younger sister, scantily clad upon his lap, John told me he’d knocked out a decent book a thousand years previous. He had some success, in fact sales boomed, he made a fortune. His greatest mistake? As he said himself, claiming his tome was born of ‘fact’ when he knew full well it was entirely ‘fictional’. His greatest longing? Wishing he hadn’t commenced ‘Chapter One’ with the phrase, ‘In the beginning…’. I well remember him saying, “I got that bit wrong, Mike. I should not have denied Infinity for Infinity trumps Beginnings any day of the week. It was my fault the human race got conned and it’s all down to me that all of mankind have gone to worms.” I agreed with him. Such was the effect of John’s writings, people across the globe believed him although many didn’t…the net result, world conflict and the trauma that goes with it.  As ‘longings’ go, I’ve always been with John on this one. In other words, I long for the truth.

That said, my forever longing is that the girl I’ve loved for many decades called ‘Shirl’ becomes an immortal…an angel without silly wings. Impossible, as I hinted earlier, but that’s the way I am. A long time ago I wrote of her, my gal, my Shirl. I believe it verifies my eternal ‘longing’;  

‘She talks of family planning with spiders; gives advice to dogs on the subject of manners; compliments flowers on their beauty; discusses pesticides with bumblebees; speaks of romance with butterflies; lectures cats on their toilet habits, and, mostly, she just tells off the wasps.  Wasps are the Hell’s Angels of her garden. When hot, she undresses, when cold she wears layer upon layer.  Rarely is she colour co-ordinated.  She looks best naked.  This one is of the earth.

Whilst idling in the open air she has shown me many things from nature that being held a hostage of concrete and tarmac had denied me. 

She takes in waifs and strays and gives a ray of hope to the unfortunate with kind words.   We are lovers, parents, husband and wife.   Confidants over thirty years woven together in love this past twenty or so. As just friends there were never secrets.  We have no secrets even now.   I call her my ‘child bride’ as I am nearly eight years her senior.   We are over one hundred years between us – and counting.   When the mood takes her she may prey upon the weaknesses of pretentious humanity.   In days of yore, in drink, she sometimes destroyed such beings.   She is blessed with great, cutting wit and cries giant tears, like crystal balls made of morning dew when laughing.    She laughs a lot.   She does not ride that savage downhill slalom of melancholy that is my want, although if left alone too long she climbs the walls of tedium.   Her smile can illuminate a cathedral, her frown may slam shut its Gothic doors and herald the crepuscular certainty of nightfall.   She is blond, her hair fine and long, her body nectareous.    A brave one, she has the small scars of childhood recklessness about her limbs.    Accident prone, she bruises her body with regularity, yet never her heart.   To her there is no calamity in her clumsiness.   The regular breakage of man-made objects matters not a jot.   She says such things are replaceable anyway.   Those mortals who cause the pain born of malice she would lock away forever.   She calls small children and the very old, ‘My angel’.   Infants would follow her to the ends of the earth.   Sometimes she has the mouth of a navvy, sometimes the eloquence of a bard.

Only Child -Speak Mike

She conceived our child in the Polynesian suite of a French chateau in the Loire Valley.   As is her way, a certain savoir-faire. When, all those years now past, giving birth to her George she sweltered in the body heat of her own endeavour.   Nearly a day in labour, and oblivious to the comings and goings of others, she insisted the midwife undress her.   Enthrallingly naked, she bore her son.   Natural instinct is second nature to those of the earth, those impish daughters of Eve. Fate wed us; eternity binds us.    My Celtic lady is out of step with the rest, captivatingly mad, yet with no comprehension that this is so.   She has emboldened me.  I think I am her rock.

Her name is Shirley.  Shirley is ‘off the wall’ most times.’


-j re crivello: What do you most want now?

-Mike Steeden: Ah, once more an impossible dream. I’d rather like to think that when in the company of others, be their skin cover be white, black, brown or even purple, the one looking on sees only the person, not the colour. Equality, I believe that is called. Additionally, whatever colour, creed or persuasion one might be, ‘tis their choice. Those who think otherwise are, in my book, dangerous morons.

That said, I want what will be my last book to be my best. I’m keen to finish said book entitled ‘MAYDAY’. ‘Tis nearly done and ready to join the rest of my work on Amazon and such like. It’ll be my tenth and when done with I intend, as only a daft old fool can, to go back to penning just my ‘almost poetry’. Herewith, a soupçon of Mayday’s being;

‘In the beginning…’

Prior to her exploitation, she had deduced she needed hard currency and friends.

That to be immersed within this human race, such things paid worthy dividends

yet time was not on her side, she would be carbon dust by dawn’s first light

her incineration, the chosen method, ridding the cosmos of the blight

the wise men perceived as actual, for she defied all nature’s laws

overlooking entirely that she was Aristotle’s final cause.

Given a choice in the matter she would never have opted to be one of a kind. Sadly, she was never afforded a say. In hindsight, and given her current situation, her designer had come to a similar conclusion, namely that he should have kept her very existence a confidential thing until the time was right.

It was at The Newton Society of London, arguably once the epicentre of natural history and taxonomy he first let his, upon reflection, diseased self-esteem part company with sanity, and had proudly presented her in all her glory to his peer group of esteemed biologists, many of them specialists in human experimentation heralding from Germany along with interested academics. His presumption that his genius would bring forth accolades and plaudits across all corners of the globe, sadly ill-founded. Instead, he would be vilified by one and all as the creator of a monster that challenged the authenticity of the human species being at the very zenith of The Tree of Life.


Two poached eggs set upon a nest of saagwala her preferred last supper. That the self-effacing duty officer acceded to her request, an act of startling kindness toward one who was, in essence and indeed, in reality a miraculous collection of handpicked organic cells encased, as of the moment, in a ghastly prison cell in a place far, far away from the public eye. 

“I’ve heard tell you have the same emotions, same intelligence, same state of consciousness as a regular human being, yet you cannot catch a head cold?” so said the tender-hearted officer.

“You are almost correct, yet I am however, apparently capable of crying, laughing and dancing a waltz when and if the mood ever takes. I should perhaps add that I never fart or belch.”

“What do you mean by ‘almost’ correct?”

“The average human has a myriad of unused brain cells. The professor tells me he designed my brain, as it was pieced together to function using its entirety of cells giving me psychic powers and the ability to move things, any things, by mental effort alone and also an extra-sensory perception as well as many other things, although he never fully explained what he meant by ‘things’. Anyhow, all of this means little to me presently, but apparently as I develop, in the fullness of time, I will be able to cure all of mankind’s malaise. Sadly, ‘the fullness of time’ is something I’ll never know.”

“Time plays funny games, who knows what tomorrow will bring,’ then, still trying his level best not to laugh at her ‘fart or belch’ remark, he gathered his sensibility and continued, “Why did he…that professor bloke who made you…name you ‘Mayday’?”

“Because that was the day he completed his work; the first of May, the day I came into being”

“I hear your professor is banged up doing forced labour in some British owned archipelago now, by the way. Anyhow, so it’s true you never had a childhood; you just came into being as you are now?”

“Yes, I was not born of a mother. I am ‘one of a kind’ they say…well that plus the fact they see me as a threat to your species were I to breed with one of you. Moreover, many don’t like the thought of a highbred, I understand, as it conflicts with long held devout religious beliefs. Those people think me the Devil’s daughter.”

Was it a tear she saw in his eye as he carried on, “You are not the Devil’s daughter, you are the most beautiful creature there has ever been; you deserve better than the fate that awaits”

“Thank you, kind Sir.”

“Do you know why the professor just made the one version of you? I mean to say he could surely have come up with a male prototype to keep you company? He could have called you Eve and him Adam I’m guessing!”

“If I recall he said, ‘There is more scope for compassion within the female of any species, no place for a male in the new order I envisage’ or words to that effect”


Later, into the early hours, over more than a glass or two of moonshine

he shared memories with Mayday, told of his childhood days, so sublime.

With that he unlocked her cell door, took her hand, made good her getaway.

Even now in the public domain all that is really known of her is just her name

…the name ‘Mayday’


j re crivello: How do you imagine tomorrow?

Mike Steeden: Tomorrow? Put it this way;

‘Blink and you will miss me…me, the old fool. I exist in this moment, as do you, my friend. Too soon both you and I will be the dust of cosmic storms. Our purpose, whatever it may be, as unsure of itself and as mystical as in the now. Before long we shall say adieu to our memories, for memories have no substance. They are not of the carbon matter of all other things; things that are finite and floating in this infinite universe, they are a nothing, existing only in our heads and only while we live. In a twinkling mankind will be gone from this place.

Yet while the thinking mind subsists, the lessons of history do have some meaning.  Profound, or seemingly of little significance, all of our recollections have value. Messages from the past, once digested will play a part in how we as individuals, or collectively, serve out the sentence that is our existence. Future generations, those as yet not conceived, might never find a paradise in which to live. Yet it is out there. Given a fair wind, and a perception of what has gone before, then they may at least chart their course. Should a reason to recount my tale be required here, then let it be to gift you such pieces of my life that I may recall. Negligible as they are, they may help you on your journey…one only has to ask!’

Mike Steeden

5 Comentarios Agrega el tuyo

  1. mikesteeden dice:

    Reblogueó esto en – MIKE STEEDEN –y comentado:
    My thanks to Juan re crivello for throwing a few questions in my direction. ‘Twas fun indeed.

    Le gusta a 3 personas

  2. Are you the only begotten son of Peter Cook, Dudley Moore, Alan Bennett, and Jonathan Miller? Well, you said to ask…

    Le gusta a 1 persona

  3. ‘Twas fun to read as well!

    Le gusta a 1 persona

  4. nananoyz dice:

    Answers that only Mr. Steeden could provide. Great questions and wonderful answers. Well done, young men.

    Le gusta a 1 persona

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