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Matt Dovey

9:51pm, 17th November 2015

Fragmented Thoughts for a Fragmented World

Common sense dictates I should refrain from commenting on politics and religion.

Bollocks to that. Politics and religion are central to my thinking, and they'll come out in all my stories. I'm not going to pretend to not be me. Honestly and seriously, though--I don't mean any offence by any of the below. I'm just thinking out loud.

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TAGS: politics, waffle


10:40pm, 12th November 2015

Don't Cross the Streams

I may well regret committing to so much social media distraction. I fear that social media is catnip for writers: satisfying, addictive and wholly useless and unfulfilling.

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TAGS: waffle


9:07pm, 4th November 2015

The Pot of Life Eternal

It can be tough to peak early in your career, and know that it's all downhill from here, but sometimes you've just gotta take what the fates deal you. Will I ever hit the heady heights of local press again? Is this my sole moment in the blinding sunlight of Lincolnshire gossip?

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TAGS: nonsense


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About

Matt Dovey is a professional writer of short science fiction & fantasy. He is very tall, very British, and probably drinking a cup of tea right now. His surname rhymes with “Dopey”, but any other similarities to the dwarf are purely coincidental. More →

Latest Story

Two corners, three, it's still on them, four, six, nine. Then Vik stumbles, trips, scuffs across the floor. When he picks himself up, his fibrous face mask is torn and shredded.

Remember to Breathe

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I met Molly in a real dive outside Zeta 5, called Braker. The kinda joint that sold untaxed synthetics. Clientele smoked but Braker never bothered to filter their atmosphere. When you could breathe, it smelled like grease and heated metal. It was on a moon, always in shadow. Red bioluminescent bulbs years past their expiration, provided the ambient lighting. I was just there to refuel my Boxer. In retrospect, she probably followed me there.

Horror on Habitat Seven by Zach Chapman
StarShipSofa #503

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I cross into the open fields that border the woods, stumbling in the black furrowed mud that has been harvested of all it can give. Crows circle overhead and caw their disappointment at this paltry season, black tatters cast about in blustery winds.
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