Browsing Archive: August, 2014

THE REAL “ME” GENERATION – OUR AGEING PARENTS

Posted by Matt McAvoy on Friday, August 22, 2014, In : Observations on Society 



So there I was yesterday, approaching the A41 near my home – a particularly busy arterial route - descending the slip road, about to join the carriageway.  Keeping a steady, controllable speed (one which would permit me to either slow down or burn rubber as required), I checked my wing mirror and looked over my shoulder to confirm plenty of a gap ahead of the next approaching car, if necessitating a bit of rev, calculating the speed consistency of that vehicle.  So I put my foot down and pr...

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FREE SAMPLE OF MY NOVELLA "GRANJY'S EYES"

Posted by Matt McAvoy on Thursday, August 21, 2014, In : My Work 


ONE

Granjy’s eyes punish.

They threaten, warn, scold and torment me. Blind and blinding, milky-white like acetylene, they cut deep into me; the agony is every bit as excruciating.

I’m the only one that can see them, as clear as day - as clearly as I see that light-switch, or that chair, or those curtains. I see them all the time.

Nobody else even knows they’re there – nobody sees them; but one day, maybe soon, maybe not so, they will. They’ll all see them, and they’ll know, just like ...

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FREE SAMPLE OF MY NOVELLA "THE BLACK LINE"

Posted by Matt McAvoy on Thursday, August 21, 2014, In : My Work 


SUNDAY 7.50pm
ENFIELD UNDERGROUND STATION

“It's not even black,” remarks one amongst the crowd, without displaying the slightest hint of irony, “it's purple.”  Those within earshot shoot ridiculing glances at the evidently dimwitted youth; someone calls him a “muppet”.  He runs his finger defiantly along the newest colourful addition to Beck's iconic diagram of the tube network, emphasizing his wisdom.

The crowd is varying in content; some jovial, absorbing the atmosphere as if it is...

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FREE SAMPLE OF MY SHORT STORY "CLOUDS"

Posted by Matt McAvoy on Thursday, August 21, 2014, In : My Work 



Am I dreaming?

I feel wide awake, but this can't actually be happening.  It's the stuff of nightmares, too outlandish to be real.

Yet the icy cold, rasping friction of the wind tells me it is only too real.  It scorches my face and hands with bitter, angry chill; the burn is agonizing, threatening to tear off my flesh and rip my hair from its roots.  The ringing in my ears is deafening.  That, and the pressure of the atmosphere, vowing to burst my eardrums, to crush the inside of my head, implo...

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