books, men, poetry, writing

Fastest Pen In The West

Fill your hand

You son of a bitch,

The scholar with war stained dreams,

Frightened insular genius who lived

With phobias stitched into flesh

Men whose work outlived them

And look

Here you come

Not as quick

Not as ruthless

Call them out

High noon on the internet

Cheap links to cheap books

Shining where the harsh sun

Slaps against your waistcoat

Pocket watches without parts

Soft bellies

You can be trusted

With your lexicon of

Earnest puppy expressions

Such great lengths not to be

In the least bit threatening

But we know

How weak men are more dangerous

Aiming a shaking gun

At the past

Because your present

Is a heap of affectation

Fumes to scratch the back of your throat

So challenge the dead

And their immortality

And all for a smattering of

Cynical applause

Eye rolls like earthquakes

As the notion of your ever being seriously

Dies like your career

Five house points

For whatever dismal house

You were sorted into

But you come at the kings

And miss

But no one hears the bullet

Beyond the damp squeak

Of its arc

And those of us

Who sit in the cool shadows

Writing it down

Not even casting you

As a villain

A fart not a force

Of

Antagonism

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beauty, short fiction, women, writing

Want To See Your Favourite Story In Print?

I’m looking to self publish an anthology of my short fiction and am interested in your opinions as to what your favourite stories of mine are.

Here are some of the popular ones according to the insights page.

Like Dog Bites

A disgraced pro footballer is haunted by his past crimes.

Rain In The Afternoon (NSFW)

A couple resolve their tensions through play.

Extracts From A Taxonomy of Clowns

Some abandoned, partially charred papers found at the scene of an arson attack.

21%

Corporate espionage takes a personal and deadly turn.

Please let me know if you have any favourites and share them in the comments below.

 

Matt

 

 

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blogging, creative writing, social media, writing

Writers and Businesses, Why Do You Suffer This Common Issue?

If you’re a business owner with an online presence

You want to have the following:

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Which understands what you are about and what you want

Perhaps you’re an aspiring writer

You want to have the following:

A process to complete your work

Strong, emotionally engaging plot and execution

These are universal needs aren’t they? Where art and commerce meet and I am offering my expertise to help you negotiate that space.

Why suffer with inadequate content, when you can hire someone who brings quality, craft and insight to everything they do?

I offer a range of services and packages, with client referrals on request.

If you want to stop suffering, get in touch

What else do you have to lose?

 

 

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books, writing

Funding Question

I’m considering crowdfunding and self publishing one or more of my books or an anthology of poetry/short fiction?

What, as my following, would you consider supporting or buying?

Either answer in the comments below or email me thelov3w3mak3@gmail.com

 

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short fiction, the transformation, writing

Caretaking

So, I will put it to you, which series on here should I resume?

The Transformation

A Bridge For The Furies

The Wild Man

 

Comment below with your choice.

 

 

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creative writing, plot, work, writing

Take your story from idea to object

You prepare a synopsis, with all plot points from beginning to end via email. Don’t think of it as a teaser, I will need to see the spoilers and points where your story turns. Also, don’t worry if there are gaps. This will be where I come in.

 

You then fill out  your synopsis, email it to me, with a small consultation fee.

 

I will contact you with questions to clarify points in your story, your wishes and expectations.

I prepare and send you a report which highlights key areas, based on your concerns and my observations. If you have any questions about my findings, then you are free to ask as many as you need to.

 

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For an additional but reduced fee, additional consulting sessions are available if you want further revisions or want a more detailed report. It is all done with the sole aim of making your story the absolute best it can be.

 

You are not bound to follow any of my suggestions. I waive right to any additions you use, nor even entertain the thought of asking. It’s all yours, to use or disregard as you wish. You retain any and all rights to your work, and everything you share with me is in strictest confidence.

Contact me for further details: thelov3w3mak3@gmail.com

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fiction, short fiction, writing

The Chorus

 

The Chorus

 

Purity Clause

 

Thomas had his eyes closed and a wry smile alive on his lips. He heard the chirp of birdsong and the muted tones of the city in the distance. He wrote the script and sent it the studio and in before the deadline so he was taking a break from everything. He had woken at dawn, did yoga on the balcony and then made coffee before he sat and drank it. There were cigarettes in his pocket but he decided not to smoke one. He was trying to be virtuous with no one watching.

 

His phone rang.

 

It was an unknown number, but he answered after a few rings.

 

The automated voice was a digital collection of voices, different accents and pronunciations strung together with care. All women. Thomas shuddered.

 

The Chorus.

 

‘Did you believe you would escape your fate?’ it said.

 

A hint of breathlessness, something which would excite him at any other time made his stomach wrenched inside him and he sat down, his amiable mood evaporated into a needling panic.

 

‘We have registered an accusation. It will activate your belt in three minutes. Please do not pass urine or ejaculate during this time.’

 

The studio made him agree to the implant. It was a synthetic tumour, benign until activated via wireless signal. It threw you into a state of racked agony for thirty seconds if you went near a woman registered online as being NC or non contact. Women could waive being registered, because by then, an entire generation of men had been broken down and rebuilt. There were those who lived apart from the network, but most men went along to get along, he thought.

 

He was being given a multi-million dollar franchise to reinvent. They wanted to protect their investment and reputation, so he had to sign away his autonomy to keep working. Yet he swore he had been scrupulous in behaving himself.

There were cigarettes in his pocket, and he lit one.  He realised being good didn’t matter. His sex defined him, and in the world which he tried to make sense of through his art, had decided he was not only disposable, but he was dangerous.  

 

Simple And Complicated

 

The needle stung as it went into the meat of his buttock but he didn’t react beyond a slow blink.

 

‘You can dress now, Mr Agnew.’ the nurse said.

 

Pete got off the examining table and dressed without looking at her. It was safer to pretend he hadn’t heard or seen her. Once he was dressed, he left the room without speaking. She whispered a swear word under her breath. Once, he would have called her out on it, but it was different now.

 

The implant saw to that.

 

He left the clinic. There would be no paperwork to sign because he had paid for the implant in cash. His insurance wouldn’t have covered it, anyway. His head hurt to think about how much he had handed.

 

It meant he got to see his children again. His lawyer had got the porn clause taken off, so he had means of relief. The excess energy would go into his work, make money and get custody. Yvonne had a lot of friends out there, who used the Chorus to settle scores, creating accounts online and meeting men without deactivating the permissions. They shared videos of grown men on their knees, sobbing and vomiting from the pain. One man had died, and the women sued his estate for stress-related damages. They won, too. His ex-wife and kids had to move in with family for a while.

 

Pete caught sight of his reflection. His face was tight and pale, anxious whenever a woman spoke to him now. He had asked Yvonne out, hands sweating and heart thumping against his ribs, and she had said yes. It used to be simple and complicated at the same time. Some people were better at it than others, sometimes it happened by mistake or design, but Pete mourned a world where it wasn’t used to hurt other people with the resources of government behind it.

 

Castrati.

There were men who paid for the implant with no accusations hanging over them. It made things easier as these men worked from home, video games, the internet and silicone companions who would orbit their existences in a compelled erotic obedience met their needs. Real women were too much of a risk. An exile supported by society was a good way to avoid falling into the slow quicksand of love.

 

If everything told them they were dangerous deviants who couldn’t be trusted to restrain themselves why keep refuting it? Dropping out was easier and so long as they kept producing and spending money, it was something people laughed at without thinking about what it meant.

 

Wrath Of The Gods – The Chorus and the new face of state feminism, I R Mohoney, University Press, pp 124.

 

Let The Fire Come

The conference had sold out. A line up of feminist speakers and activists, hosted in Greece for its symbolism, both a return and an appropriation of ancient times.

Costas set the briquettes of compressed paper in a pile and squirted them with lighter fluid. His eyes blurred with tears as he looked across the stretch of forest. All of it perennial and virginal, soon to be so much ash. The villas would be collateral damage but if the conference centre burned, it would be a necessary evil. He had said goodbye to his children via Skype, alluded to in his cracked whispers of devotion, ignored as they showed him their new toys. Paulo walked past, a smug grin twisting his soft face into a mask of Victory, wearing nothing but a towel. She only entered the frame to end the call, disconnected and yet disdainful towards the father of her children. It had strengthened his resolve for what he was about to do.

 

Once the flames were going, he lifted his phone to his eyeline and spoke the prepared statement, mirrored around the world and released in an instant.

 

‘Men are disposable and our sacrifices are ignored and dismissed by the world. Women create, men destroy is the message and-‘

 

A memory of his daughter, soft and mewling on his broad chest made his voice crack, but he swallowed and continued.

 

‘We will honour this message.’

 

He took the pistol from his pocket, ceramic and put together in the rack of 3D printers which had been running for weeks, all from one design. The curved butt fit into his palm.

 

‘I love my family.’

 

He pressed it against his temple and squeezed the trigger.

 

The flames caressed his cooling corpse, grateful for his sacrifice as he laid there, his skull distended from the pressure of the shot.

 

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