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I make pictures and write stories

I make pictures that bring me joy, that delight me and that allow me to be mischievous. I make pictures to illustrate my own stories, and just for the pleasure of using paints.
If you'd like me to make you a picture, or if you'd like to buy prints of my illustrations, just send me an email: david@okdavid•com

I write stories--novels, quite-shorts and even shorter folktales--that anyone can read, but will feel familiar to anyone who knows YA fiction. I was longlisted this year for a competition for promising but unagented writers, called Undiscovered Voices.
To see my portfolio of pictures and stories, scroll to the right. Sometimes it refuses to budge and you have to reload.

Thanks for dropping by! It's very nice to meet you.





david•at•okdavid•com
@okdavidtales

From time to time I send out a newsletter.
It usually has a piece of my writing and a picture.


(c) O.K. David
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Here's a number of illustrations I made for Liberty.
They've been printed onto fabric as a pattern called Queue for the Zoo. It's Liberty's best-selling wholesale print. and is being used worldwide by companies like--these are the ones I know about--House of Fraser, Simon Carter, Globe Trotter and J.Crew.•





Above: Look - here it is as a shirt.








(c) O.K. David
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I drew these for a storytelling night called Spark London.
You go onstage and tell a true story: I've told a few and really enjoyed myself.
These are just used on their newsletters etc. All of these are paintings of past storytellers.•

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I designed the album art for the new EP by Me for Queen.
The band liked the idea of a haughty cat.
Check out their website.•

Here is the EP cover, the back of the case, and the design to be printed onto the CD:







(c) O.K. David
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What’s the mind of an urban fox like?
The life of any non-human mammal in a city must be strange.
I get the feeling rats own cities at least as much as we do.
But foxes are scavengers, refugees, banditos. An unnatural habitat has become their norm. •

The fox I saw in the street tonight


This December evening I saw a mange-ridden fox with lumps in the full glare of a bulb in the street. Conspicuous from most angles, in the lemon streetlight, then from specific others so shadowy.


A glance told me it was not as street-smart as those particular urban foxes because it showed zero guile: a-prowl at 90' to those railings that skirt the pavement, looking long-nosed and furtive but highly conspicuous to me, walking along the pavement looking down the length of the street, and the railings were low enough look over and down. The fox looked stupid and vulnerable.


But when this blundering animal clocked me staring at it and our eyes found the others' eyes, its' gleamed sinisterly like milk and who knows how it'd have described mine, for that instant I hopped bodies and imagined myself the fox, David the Fox, or Coughs the Fox, and felt out how it maybe feels to be a thing so completely clandestine as an urban beast, born into the heart of a Man-made place, London. But equally any city.


A network of corridors and doors that Man holds the keys to, and Man strutting upright and often with rigid insectoid habits: in columns at significant times of day. Some travel within devilishly fast metal pods that cruise in channels. They stream by like glimmering fish, and transfix me with long glares from brilliant eyes. Cruising without stopping for me, so I stay away from them. I have had friends who limped leaking with dark fur shuddering to pass away beneath an object, unseen until daybreak. Mortally wounded.


My whole life I creep feeling hunted, hiding briefly in the city's shady groins until the coast is clear and I can dart out to the next hiding spot. Flatten my body and slink, do not be seen. I tug at binbags with my mouth, desperate for food.


A concrete warren that goes on and on on all sides. I know its alleys well yet it will always be completely alien to me. As I slink between dazzling signs in the belly of the beast. The smells are completely bewildering too, complex with factors: everything is artificial, addictive sugars drive me wild.


And what happened to architecture you could understand? A garden, a park, a simple wall: these offer a bit of calm, but people always come and I flee. 'Look!'. They always react, as if I am unnatural. In their park. And yet incomprehensibly in this foxy dreamscape I see dogs: dogs who the Men think are also Men like them, who live in their homes and stroll together down the streets. They shit like dogs, but then afterwards do this brisk shake, like Men.


We smell each other – them us from the pavements and us them from the grottos. Perfumed. They even ride the metal fishes, and pull faces out the sides, and look more like Men than ever when they do that.


Just seeing it meant that it had been foiled. Loping back towards the estate, totally wretched and scummy as hell, and as I watched the fox go wherever it was going my human brain returned and I realised I'd like to have beetroot for dinner. And then I thought about how beetroot turns your pee pink, and I can't remember what else.



(c) O.K. David