beauty, blogging, books, poetry, women

If You’ve Enjoyed…

If you’ve enjoyed what I’ve posted, and want to contribute:

Here is my wishlist

Here is where you can buy me a coffee.

The next few posts will round up what I’ve been doing, and how I’ve been entertaining myself through the last twelve months.

No, there won’t be gloomy political predictions. The world is nowhere as bad as you’ve been led to believe. In the meantime, look back but not with sadness and also buy me something. I’m gorgeous, humble and entertaining. I’ve not made you feel bad about yourself and deserve your tributes.

 

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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:

Strong, emotionally engaging story-driven content

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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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.

 

You then prepare a new outline/synopsis based on my findings, which will give you a solid framework to complete or revise your story.

 

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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love, men, short fiction, Uncategorized

Riot Love

An excerpt from the work in progress.

1.

 

Henry slipped his hands into the womb like pockets of his biker jacket, despite having gotten the shuttle bus to campus. It was thick and heavy, like armour and he drew a measure of comfort from it, like the beard he’d grown in over the last few years. He grimaced as he heard the ragged chants which hung in the air like soiled sheets.

 

There were ragged knots of people, some of them holding up hand-painted signs. They laughed and joked like wedding guests but there were those who affected hard pained expressions. Henry recalled such expressions,during the days on patrol and nights listening for the roar of mortars. He saw the lecture theatre, but noted with dismay, how it was where the majority of protestors had gathered. Barricades had been set up, and Henry turned to one side as he made his way through the crowd. People glanced at him, and as he continued through, the weight of their stares scratched at his perceptions. The whiff of unwashed flesh made his nostrils flare, layers of dried sweat, patchouli, pot and cigarette smoke all cohering into a slick bolt which was wedged into his sinuses.

 

‘Sexist. Fascist. Em. Arr. Ay. Nazi Punks Go Away.’

 

His heart sank, but he closed his eyes and powered through before anyone noticed he was walking towards, and then into the theatre. Henry’s temples pounded in time with his heartbeat, as he scratched the back of his neck before he realised he hadn’t taken a breath on his walk through the crowd.

 

When he looked back, he saw a lake of contorted faces. Phones and cameras were held up alongside the signs and placards. Everyone filmed everyone else, until it became a panopticon, a few hundred monologues playing out, with anyone attending cast as the villain.

 

A fluttering irritation beat inside his chest and as he scanned the crowd, his gaze fell on one woman. She stopped chanting and they stared at one another, as she raised her eyebrows and let her mouth fall open before a heavy set woman with a knitted cap to her right touched her arm, as though rousing her from a disturbed sleep and she turned away. Henry swallowed and watched her, struck by the artful beauty of her face as much as the hateful crowd.

 

Henry turned and walked inside.

 

2.

 

Her hair fell either side of her face in silvered wings and when she looked up from her notes, she smiled and looked at the audience. Henry had sat at the back, dismayed by the lack of people here but not surprised.

 

No one wanted to hear about how men were victims of anything, unless it was women. Even other men, Henry thought, or at least the men who were on television and writing the newspapers. He leaned forwards in his seat to diffuse the tension which was pooling in his chest and stomach.

 

As she spoke, part of his attention drifted inwards and then backwards.

 

When Henry had signed up, Simon had written to him, sent care packages and made videos for him, telling him over and over, to hang in there, to look after himself until Henry carried his voice out with him on patrol. Simon wrote about the small details of life back home, and he revelled in the warm memories which they prompted.

 

Simon told him he needed to live and come home so he could be his best man. Or, he’d joked, his maid of honour. Henry, thousands of miles away, had laughed loud enough to make some of the guys look at him and he couldn’t explain how funny and comforting he had found the joke. His service prompted an idealisation which he never felt he deserved. Simon’s gift had been to puncture it at every opportunity.

 

The first night home, Simon introduced him to Keeley and her friend, Lori. Henry took full advantage of the idealisation then, but he was sweet to Lori, who understood what he needed and left in the same spirit. That summer, Henry kept himself under control, but when the recollections grew too heavy to bear, Simon listened and let him purge without judgement. Henry knew Simon and Keeley were wrapped up in one another but their friendship bore absences without complaint. They were in the same part of the world, after all, but Henry left them to it.

 

When he was in country, Henry handled prisoners of war, jihadis who came into custody with a compliance which made him uncomfortable, they had dull, glazed eyes and slumped shoulders. Their smiles would be artificial, as though issued to them by circumstance and would be slipped on whenever they encountered Henry or one of the other soldiers.

 

One night, he saw Simon had the same expression. They had gone for a beer, and once they’d covered television and last night’s game, Simon had sighed and looked into his beer. Henry had been about to ask him, but one of the waitresses winked at him and the flattering gesture had gone to his head faster than the alcohol. By the time he looked back at Simon, the smile was back on and they changed the subject to the waitresses’ backside.

 

Henry had just finished breakfast with her when Simon’s mother rang him. He remembered being sat at the kitchen counter, a fresh cup of coffee and a soft pack of American Spirits when she gave him the news.

Henry wondered if people were disappointed that it wasn’t him who took a shotgun to his skull. Veterans with PTSD died in droves, but Simon was a deputy manager at a hardware warehouse, engaged to be married and looking forward to all of it.

 

It made no sense, everyone said. When he found the videos online, previous lectures talking about male suicide statistics and reasons, her voice slipped between his ribs and squeezed his heart like a piece of ripe fruit. Henry was not looking for answers but he listened and when she announced on her website about the talk at the university, he paid for a ticket and took a bus over.

 

Henry wanted to understand why his friend killed himself. He didn’t hate anyone, group or individual but judging by the crowd outside, he had been judged and found wanting. She was talking about the amount of deaths in the workplace and how men were the majority of victims. Henry listened to her, discomforted by the facts of his circumstances. The chair he sat in made his lower back and thighs ache but otherwise he was focused on the woman’s words.

 

The fire alarm rang out, followed by a ragged burst of cheers from the corridor.

 

A thwarted anger wrenched him from his seat. He had been open, vulnerable and it had been snatched from him. People looked around as the university staff directed everyone towards the fire exits. Henry was saddened by how few of them were there, as they drifted towards the exits whilst outside came ribald cheers of victory. The frustration and sadness lodged in his chest like a stubborn root as he followed, taking deep breaths to assuage the feelings as he prepared to face the crowd.

 

He caught the eye of a young man, with straw blonde hair hung over his face, shaved at the sides, laughing and pointing at them as they filed out.

 

‘Nazi fuckers.’ he said.

 

Henry’s hand clenched into fists, but duty had lent him a degree of control which allowed him to keep walking. He had taken the measure of the man, knowing he outweighed him by a good thirty pounds and a foot in height. Yet, as he examined the man’s face, feminine despite the golden stubble, he knew hitting him would give the man everything he wanted.

 

An enemy.

 

The wisdom was comforting, but he still struggled to walk on without reacting. The women looked angrier than the men did, and were heavier, beneath layers of clothes and the same pear shaped build. Henry wondered if there was a man’s name tattooed on them, skin or soul, it didn’t matter. Everyone was here because of an individual who had hurt them, and he fought a shame so acute it made his eyes water. He had been shot at, eaten shit from lesser men than him, but it took the disparagement of his friend’s memory which covered him in shame.

He wiped away a tear, and heard hoots of derision. Henry’s pain was recreational to them as their outrage was to him.

 

It was not a good trade.

 

He wanted a beer and a cigarette, somewhere dark and cool. All which stood between him and gaining some distance from his thwarted evening was the crowd. A young police officer, about his age, told the attendees they would be escorted through the crowd.

 

An elderly man glowered beneath the brim of his baseball cap.

 

‘Why? What did we do wrong?’ the man said.

 

Henry looked straight ahead at the crowd.

 

‘It doesn’t matter.’ he said.

 

His eyes fell on the woman’s face again. She had scraped her damp hair back from her face, as she chanted with gusto, pumping her fist in the air as she chanted with the others. She looked up and stopped. Henry felt a gloved hand at the small of his back, and he walked down the steps. It was somewhere between a rock concert and a court martial, he thought, which made him smirk.

 

‘I suppose you think this is funny?’

 

He couldn’t place the voice. The woman was making her way to the barricade but the amusement was torn away as the crowd’s focus fell on the attendees. He could not make out individual voices now, the air shook with the hateful, pained roar of everyone vomitting their hatred until he was soaked in it like blood. His heart thumped in his ears, and his palms were wet as he kept walking.

 

The woman gestured to him, jabbing towards him with her index finger.

 

‘Why would you listen to a rape apologist? Because you’re a fucking rape apologist.’ she said.

 

He stopped.

 

She continued. Swearing didn’t come easy to him, but he had found a comfort in the warm vulgarity of the language used by the other marines in private. He was appalled someone would manage to turn rape into a form of punctuation and as she barked at him, eyes blazing, he smiled and shook his head.

 

‘I just wanted to listen to her talk.’ he said.

It was like screaming into a pillow for the both of them. Henry wondered if it was a war of attrition, where they would shout themselves raw and which of them gave up first. Perhaps it was therapeutic for her, but he’d been denied the chance to learn something, or at least, to understand.

 

Henry stood there and took it, letting her exhaust herself against him. The policeman was at his shoulder, telling him to go be a martyr somewhere else. The woman’s friend had lost her hat, and her tobacco brown hair was damp and flat against her scalp as she started pointing at the police officer and swore at him.

 

The officer shook his head, like a parent dealing with a disappointing child as he patted Henry on the shoulder and told him to go. Henry looked at her and smiled.

 

She smiled back.

 

The officer was moving him on, and he started to push past him when the shots rang out and the roar of the crowd broke apart, and reformed from the scattered pieces into screams.

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