Abian

About Me

I’m Abian. And I live in Africa; down south where the Indian has skirmishes with the Atlantic and makes a mess of things. I hit the world open-eyed and slimy, and have ever since been startled at the unfathomable oddness and beauty of it all. My childhood was sort of muddy and sunny, stained the colour of grass. It was stuffed with Lego, garnished with handmade bows (best aimed at a sister), and iced with wonder at how perfectly similar sticks and swords are. That’s probably why I write. And illustrate.

More About Me

Ours is a world bewitched by gravity and burdened by the weight of glory, a place where fishermen fish for men and a dragon was slain on a tree. Freedom was won by the calloused hands of the Carpenter who wrestled with death and won. Now the skirmishes continue in the bedroom with the screen, in the kitchen with the dirty plates, in the garden with the sweat, at school with friends. And somehow we seem to forget. We forget how real the struggle is, how startling our world. Good stories help us remember; they recall in us the joy of creativity and life, inspire the endurance and faith we need when the car breaks down or exam time comes. There's a reason Sticks look like swords. Lads are made to fight. Adam's children were given a mission. There's a struggle to take up, battle lines to be drawn, banners to raise. There's a King to fight for, beauty to restore. And it starts in the living room and the garage. I write to inspire kids' imaginations so that how they see the world is shaped and matured in a way that is beautiful and God-pleasing, and because I don't want the little men to grow up without courage and tasting the joy of dirt between their teeth, and staying upright when Nebuchadnezzar says to bow.

Meaningful adventures have real bad-guys, relatable struggles, lots of humour, and the good type of magic.

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Chickens

There once was a backyard farmer. He had chickens. Real chickens. The type that could fan their neck feathers, make dinosaur sounds, and draw blood if you tried to steal an egg. And the real problem, see, was that was exactly what he had bought them for: eggs. Healthy, they had said; good for the soul, having your own poultry, they said. Right now, he was leopard crawling to his coop, his own coop! with double thick gloves and goggles (just in case). The hatch opened with the creeeak-WHAGLUP of a rusty spring, and there she lay: a wonder of a chicken, if it wasn’t for the bloodshot eye making daggers at him. Nasty creature. And she lay over the eggs like a dragon over gold. Gingerly—gently—he lowered his hand down into the pit and eased it toward her back end. The hell-red eye followed. As the gaze lowered, feathers rose on the neck—long, dangerous-looking feathers, made by the same creator who formed Tetradactyls. THE SOUND began when the glove touched down. She was a rumbling, as if the earth had had beans for supper, only worse because it ended with a serrated, almost reptilian edge. It was a sound lost to the days when dragons kept castles. And still she didn’t move. She didn’t blink. The glove went down … through down and touched the bony bottom. Feather and beak exploded and latched onto his forearm, right above the glove. There was an expert twist, the crunch of skin, and the farmer’s petrified yelp as he let go of the hatch, had it bounce on his bloodied arm, and fell back into the mud. As he picked his way back across the lawn, behind him the rustle of feathers and a gentle purring came from the coop, with the click-click-click of eggs being rearranged.

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The Website

I grew up on a plot. The grass is green in summer, but prickly with dusty stubs in winter. Pine trees cover most of it, and below them lie the greatest arsenal of toys any child could hope for. Pinecones make for great grenades, the dirt is wonderful for constructing miniature houses, and the sticks ... they make perfect swords.

It is my aim to make stories like those pine trees. Tales that leave plenty of playing material. Story moments that inspire imaginative creativity, that give tools and thoughts for the young souls to practice living at, the type of material that trains them with sticks so they can one day wield swords.

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Where To Find Me

I'm not currently on social media, so if you would like to stay updated consider subscribing to my newsletter. I also have a Substack publication for thoughtful writing and an Artstation where you can stay updated with my artwork. I have an Amazon author profile where you can stay updated on new book releases.