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Matt Dovey

8:00pm, 20th March 2016

Shortlisted for the James White Award 2016

Absolutely delighted to announce that I've been shortlisted for the 2016 James White Award for best new writer, supported by the British Science Fiction Association and Interzone. The winner should be announced around 18:00 GMT on Saturday 26th March at Mancunicon; the prize is publication in Interzone, which is huge--it's pretty much the only British SF magazine left standing, and is one of the most respected and reputable venues in the field.

Suffice to say: I am full of excitement.

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TAGS: award, news


6:00pm, 11th March 2016

A Debutante in the Underworld

Skeleton, dancingThis cover of New Order's Blue Monday done with instruments from 1933 is haunting my mind, and I find myself writing fanfiction for a cover song. Listen to it as you read.

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TAGS: nonsense


10:00am, 1st March 2016

New Story: This is the Sound of the End of the World @ FFO

A hundred-year old image of the stars in the night skyIt's finally, properly, actually official: I'm a published author. My story "This is the Sound of the End of the World" is up at Flash Fiction Online today, for free, forever. Go read it! It's a 992-word space opera with giant planet destroying lasers. To quote Suzanne Vincent's editorial, it's "a 'galaxy-far-far-away' offering with a healthy serving of heart". I like that description.

It may not be long, but there's still a story behind it.

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TAGS: new story


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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

“I'm a bone poet,” she said. “The bonethieves only ever work towards violence and supremacy. All the bones they steal are only to help them steal more bones. They never think of all the better ways bones can be used.”

The Bone Poet & God

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Narrations

The crack in the window let in the ghosts. They came with the night breeze, whistling their mourning songs and carrying with them the stink of rotten water that lay across the paddocks, down past the crooked fence that bent and bowed where the earth had sunk away to let the sea creep closer. Where the salt ate the grass brown, then grey, before the water swallowed it up.

Children of the Tide by Dan Rabarts
Tales to Terrify #272

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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.
Elm & Sorrow