A Very Raw Short Story

In 2013 I got drunk and wrote a short story concerning my cousin. Before 2013 I had ignored writing as though it was a waste of time.

The story is raw and at times tough to read. Descriptive in nature. The story is not fully edited and full of ridiculous errors I wouldn’t make now. However, it’s real. My wife, Megan, self published the book for me. I wrote the story hoping it would help my cousin. Though he loved the writing, I’m not sure that it helped in any way.

If you want to read a moving story about a man trying to handle his demons, loves dogs, but not himself enough, here –

 

I took the photo. Sugarloaf Mountain, South Dearfield, MA is on the right of the Connecticut river and Sunderland is on the left. This is where the story takes place.

This catapulted my mind back to where it belonged.

Cheers,

Matt

Should I Call Her – Short Story

Should I Call Her
Short Story
Written by -M. Taggart

‘You’ve been sitting here for an hour thinking about calling her.’

The sun wouldn’t set for another two hours. He liked sitting on the deck and doing this. Watching. Thinking. Drinking beer. What would be the same if he did call?

‘Honestly. Tell me what you’re doing with this? It’s been three days.’

‘It’s a bit like holding onto sleep when you’ve first woken up. You know you’re awake. You want to get up because you know you should be up, but you don’t get up and instead you do nothing.’ Nick said feeling he’d described it as best as he could, but also feeling like he’d left something out.

‘I think you should. There’s your phone. Pick it up. Call. You said she’s interested. How do you know again?’

‘She told me she was. She walked up to me and told me to call her. She took my phone and put her number in the contacts. Smiled and walked away.’

‘And now it’s been three days and you’ve done nothing. Why? Want to sit on this deck forever and look at the sun go down?’

A Blue Jay was screaming. It had just landed in a bush, down below the deck, and now screamed. He wished he knew if the bird was male or female. He should know the difference, thought he had, but now wasn’t sure.

‘Do you have any more of that whiskey? The Whistle Pig whiskey?’

‘I do. Not sure that I want any. It’s where it always is.’ Nick said without looking at Chad. Chad walked into the apartment and came back with two glasses, ice in a dish, and the Whistle Pig whiskey.

‘You know, Nick, you not knowing if you want this whiskey is much like you not knowing if you want to call her. There’s no point in doing nothing other than wasting time. It’s either you do, or you don’t. Once you’ve made that decision, the rest happens. And, you can’t control it.’

A second Blue Jay landed near the first Blue Jay. They both sat on branches near one another and screamed. The sun had dipped. Chad poured two whiskey drinks, added one ice cube to each, and sat down.

‘I don’t like ice in mine.’ Nick said. He let the ice float. Watched as it diluted the whiskey.

‘Nick, she might not be interested anymore. Think of that? Maybe she’s found another guy to give interesting ideas about being interested. You taking three days to call her isn’t ideal. Not in my opinion. Maybe she doesn’t want to hear from you now. Better not call.’

The Blue Jays had stopped screaming. They sat and looked at whatever it is that Blue Jays look at. The sun had dipped slightly more.

‘Maybe she isn’t. Maybe I don’t care. Maybe this deck and this view are all I need.’ Nick knew what he said wasn’t true. He felt his lie inside him.

‘That’s fine. Let’s not talk about it more. Did you see the game last night? The Celtics picked up a good one. He’s 6ft 8 with a wing span of a 7 footer. I think he’s an MVP in the making.’

‘Yea. I guess.’ Nick picked up the whiskey drink. Watched as the ice cube floated to the back of the glass as he tipped it. He sipped the diluted drink. ‘Maybe I’ll call her right now.’

‘Good. What’s her name?’ Chad asked.

‘Jenny.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s O.K.’

‘I shouldn’t have asked. I didn’t know.’

‘It’s O.K. I’m fine.’

‘I wish I had known, I wouldn’t have asked.’

The sun had dipped slightly more. Chad refilled the whiskey in his glass. ‘Do you want more?’

‘Yes.’ said Nick. ‘What do you suppose happens to the male Blue Jay if he loses her? Do you know? I thought I knew. But now I don’t remember.’

 

**

thanks for reading

ps, it’s my birthday. i’m thankful to have another with my wife. i didn’t mean to write this. it just happened.

Matt

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

death as it stands

Death has a sound unlike any other-
listen! The same melody plays in the early hours
We know this song

Let Prometheus spark again-
a sip of fine wine
a bit of our favorite scotch
a taste from the most velvet soft lips
the scent of the back of her neck
26.2188 with delivery
this is true
this Is true
but who am I to ask

Death is more than a balcony’s plot from which we grieve. Death is not evil. An echo inside spewing a self-made matrix without end. Have we touched the sun today. Have we given thought to the mirror behind. So many rules to place our hearts on shelves.

for others to dismantle.

Death as it stands
has a sound like no other
and yet I’ve never heard it

My favorite cigar is the one left overnight in the rain. The next morning it’s billowed with intelligence. A thing to know. It’s more wet than not. and it doesn’t want to dry, but it does because. Eventually the sun reminds the cigar of its now and we are again reunited. I’ll take my life left to light that cigar and see it live again.

 

  • M. Taggart

Happy Ending

My cousin has been in my thoughts lately. For things I’m unable to discuss, or write about, for the time being. Twice last week friends from home called me. Twice they pulled over and let my cousin use their phones to call me. They’d found him walking down random roads.

If all anyone hears is the negative said about them, we as humans, often fall into what those negatives are. Rather than focusing on what’s great about them. I prefer to focus on what’s great about someone. In this story I wrote about the good, the bad, the raw. The truth. This story is not PC. I do not write PC.

Grab a whisky, or wine, or a bottle of cold beer. Or room temperature porter, if you so enjoy a room temperature porter. I know I do. Open said drink(s) and take a little read.

Cheers,

I took the picture for this. I stood on the top of Mount Sugarloaf in Sunderkand, MA. Thanks for reading. I’m finally becoming more comfortable with commenting back and forth with a few of you. Thank you for that. It’s certainly not because of me.

Matt

Smile – It’s a good day

‘Great ideas come and go. Execution hardly happens.’
-M. Taggart

I’ve spoken these words thousands of times. At one point I taped the quote on my computer. Forcing myself to take the book I was writing seriously. To ensure I wouldn’t fowl my intention. I did finish the book. And since that time I’ve written two additional books. I know one of them is not good. I also know the other is very good. However, I’m learning it doesn’t fit the current market.

I’m now on chapter five of a new project. And yesterday morning I pushed myself to again submit a batch of poems to a publication. The only shame would be if I hadn’t. I cannot be that man who says and never does. I cannot. I will not.

Finish your chapter. Finish your poem. Let it live. Once you’ve found completion you can relax. Submit your work. And submit it again. The feeling of rejection is art.

If interested, below is a link to the only book of mine that’s available online.

 

 

Or you can visit this-
https://mtaggartwriter.wordpress.com/category/dont-be-a-sally-based-on-true-events/

Thanks for reading,

Matt

A Simple Truth – A Short Story

A Short Story
‘A Simple Truth’

Fiction- Written by -M. Taggart

Warning- Adult Material.

She use to wash my feet, he thought. The water from the shower would land on her breasts and he’d watch the beads of water collect and trickle down her stomach, to her naval, and then the tub. She’d take her time and scrub one foot at a time. He didn’t know why she did this. He had taken it for granted, he thought.

Now he sat on the couch, looking at his feet, and wondered why she’d ever cared enough to touch them. He opened a can of beer. It made a suction sound. Bits of beer flew up and out of the can. Some sprinkled onto the coffee table.

‘Want to go for a walk?’ He asked her.

‘No. It’s too cold out.’ she replied.

It was 50 degrees. The sun was shining. It was November.

‘We could bundle up. You have that L.L. Bean wool jacket.’

‘I don’t like it. It itches my skin. Besides, I brought it back.’

He took a long pull from the beer. It foamed in his throat. Soon he would need to spit. The sun looked graceful. He wanted to be in it. Walking. Anywhere. He knew if he left for a walk she would become angry. If he sat and made conversation, she would pick it apart. If he sat and said nothing and drank more beer she might ignore him and that was the best plan.

The shower almost always ended with her giving him a hang job. He would be close to sleeping. She would message his calf. Then his quads. Eventually she’d start to tug. How to get back to the shower and the washing of the feet?

‘Do you want to take a shower?’

‘I’ll take one later.’

‘I mean the way we use to. But this time I’ll wash your feet. And you can lay back and sleep if you want to. Let the hot water land on you, I won’t need it.’

‘All you think about is fucking.’

Often, yes. He thought. But that wasn’t what he’d been thinking about. He wanted to repay her and find a way to go back. Fix all the middle ground he and she had trampled on. He was confused about it, but knew somewhere in there was truth.

‘I don’t want to fight.’

‘Have another beer.’ she said.

The best plan was to have another beer and not talk. Not talking was nice because he could still talk in his head. Fuck, he could write an entire novel in his head and forget it all by evening. He might even sit down and write a chapter. Or, he’d tap into some whiskey and relax into a nice long conversation he’ll never have with the one he loved most because he wasn’t sure how to start without chaos following.

‘Want me to grab you something from the kitchen?’ he asked her. He had finished his beer.

‘Can’t I sit here in peace? Why do you constantly pick at me. What’s with all of your questions?’

‘Fuck you.’

The words slipped out before he could stop them. Now it was too late.

‘Maybe if you weren’t such a self-centered bitch who can’t realize how hard I’m trying and how difficult it is to communicate with you, maybe then, you’d fucking get me. But until then it’s more beer and a big Fuck You.’

She got up and grabbed her jacket. He heard the keys in her hand. The sounds of self-served abandonment. He knew it well. ‘Keep being you. You drunk.’ The door slammed shut.

He needed to spit badly now. The beer foam had gathered in his lower throat and was becoming a ball of fucked up saliva. He felt the tension from the fight gathering in the pit of his stomach and rush toward his chest and he spit the wad from his mouth and watched in spin in the air. Parts of mucus broke off and went in its own direction. The bulk of the wad landed near the TV, on the carpet. It clung to the carpet looking disgusting. He’d never done that. He wished he hadn’t. He hated himself because he knew the same emotion which enabled him to cause this mess was the exact same that caused him to destroy his relationship.

Fuck myself, he thought. Then he got up, went to the fridge, opened a new beer and grabbed a towel.

copyright -M. Taggart 2016

Want to read more of my writing? Try my self published short story, ‘Don’t Be A Sally’ found via the link below.

A Raw, Heartfelt Short Story

From time to time I’ll mention a short story I wrote for my cousin, Adam. He was in a tough situation and the only item left for me to give was to write. And I did. I wrote from the heart. He read the story and loved it.

An excerpt, Chapter 1

His heart pounded in his chest and his ears rang. He was in hell. He was sure of it. This moment; with this feeling of sickness, and pure hatred for what he felt, was hell. Welcome to hell.

No vomit came from his stomach. No vomit came from his throat and no vomit came from his mouth. His mid-section wretched up and down looking like an October cat in a filthy dance. Up and down his body rose and nothing came out. Yet he smelled his own vomit lingering all about him. Again, he rose up, and again he produced nothing. Beads of sweat were on his forehead and it wasn’t long before they fell onto the surface of the tub. He lurched heavily downward with a massive cough and something came up. Something vile and red landed onto the tub’s floor. Black. He saw nothing but black as he slowly faded and fainted again.

-Below are links to the amazon and Barnes&Noble website pages where you can download the short story.  There’s a dog, mud, a river, and graphic situations such as the above excerpt.

Thanks for visiting. I invite you to read the reviews.  Cheers.

http://www.amazon.com/Dont-Be-Sally-Based-Events-ebook/dp/B00DYAJ2ZW/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1433349895&sr=8-1&keywords=don%27t+be+a+sally

Barnes&Noble link-

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/dont-be-a-sally-matthew-taggart/1116001656?ean=9781483503097

A Pub Walk – New England Pubs

I enjoy pubs. I enjoy reading. I combined them and learned I am addicted to reading while at pubs. Listening to the drone of public speak, mixed with arguments or laughter, I’ve found a gem of solitude and happiness. I have even met great friends.

In New England we have a number of hidden pubs. When asked how to get to one of these gems, some might answer, ‘You can’t get there from here.’

First, The Book Mill. Seated on the bank of a river in Montague, MA. Before this converted mill housed a pub (The Lady Killigrew Cafe), my brother and I would walk this river and watch our father fish for trout. Get there early and grab a seat overlooking the river. Outside seating overlooking moving water stirs imagination. Go here. They have good beer and oddly enough good rice. There’s even a bookstore next door.

Outside Brew

bookmill1

 

Next up- The BridgeSide Grill, Sunderland, MA. Ah, Yes! I cannot write this without mentioning some good friends. I would embarrassingly stay at this cozy family friendly hide-away until closing time. At times I would help them vacuum. These were my bachelor days and the owner and staff were incredibly kind to me. They never kicked me out while I read and drank their beer and held up a seat for hours. In fact, I miss doing that to them. I lived close by. I walked there. And I would walk home. The BridgeSide Grille has a nook style bar and outside patio. I once was able to talk the owner’s son into selling a piece of art work he’d created. His painting was once hung on the wall of the bar. I really should give that back. When visiting BridgeSide be sure to also drive to the top of Mount Sugarloaf. BridgeSide Grille is located just on the over side of the bridge.

B Side Bridge

 

And moving on- Rhode Island has many pubs. One of which is The Twisted Vine in Westerly, RI.. Along with a great name, Pat and her employees were amazing to Megan during her pregnancy. The Twisted Vine has a NYC feel with the comfort of New England. Exposed Brick, properly lighted, with wood floors and a fire place- you cannot go wrong enjoying a drink here. Especially in the winter. Seat yourself in one of the high back leather chairs near the fireplace and enjoy a cocktail named after a famous author, such as my favorite, Ernest Hemingway. Just before Christmas I once walked into The Twisted Vine to find a Christmas party ongoing. It was packed. There wasn’t one seat left at the bar. Everyone was dressed very well. I was wearing a hoodie, blue jeans, and boots. I was even wearing my beat up Boston Red Sox hat. In my right hand was a book. I turned to leave. While walking toward the door, someone grabbed my elbow and said, ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Pat, the owner, had observed me leaving. She wasn’t about to let me feel out of place. And it worked. She placed my butt in a seat and told me to enjoy and read. And I did.

I took the picture of The Twisted Vine’s floor just after Pat had them sanded and urethaned. Pat had seen me walking down the street and waved me in to have a look.

photo (58)

porter

And instead of my sub par photography I’ll post a picture that shows how gorgeous The Twisted Vine is.

Vine.JPG

Vine O

 

And lastly, simply because I’m running out of time to write, The Haversham. Also in Westerly, RI. Within The Haversham you’ll find a large sports pub. You literally can’t get there from one side of the road. You must first fight the Rhode Island road system before being able to enjoy one of the best sports pubs in the area. And when you do, ask for Shane. That man you will not forget. He may, or may not, be slightly crazy. Which I consider to be a word of wisdom and I’m flattered when I’m given the compliment.

It’s simple- if you want to watch a Patriots game and shout at the top of your lungs while drinking beer, this is where you need to be. You will have a rowdy good time. I’ve taken too many pictures of myself cheersing a new friend while at the Haversham. I’ve read numerous books and talked at length about authors, town happenings, and even politics and religion.

H Q

And slightly crazy Shane. The beach is just down the road.

Crazy S

I use the term ‘Pub’ loosely in this article. Each establishment I’ve written about has it’s own brand. I call them ‘Pubs’ because I hold that word close to my heart. To me, it’s an expression. A compliment. When I ask a friend if they’d like to go to a Pub it is because I would like to create a memory over a pint. I would like to charge forward and dive into a conversation that might never be forgotten. I want to cheers to them and to the moment and take a long pull just as Hemingway may have done.  And remember- Don’t ask permission to live your life. Live and be well doing it.

Thanks for reading. If interested in reading more you’ll find information on my self published short story via the link below.

https://mtaggartwriter.wordpress.com/my-book/

Cheers.

 

A Powerful Short Story

Recently we moved north.  Changing states isn’t something that slows my family down, but it does interfere with being connected. Which was a nice reprieve.

While I haven’t time to write a meaningful post I do want to again provide the link to my short story. It’s raw, powerful, real and an adult read.

Below is a link to the story. Cheers.