Matthew John Fletcher is a British writer, currently working on his first novel. His short fiction has been published in STORGY, Horla, The Fiction Pool and The First Line. As an undergraduate he studied English and German Literature, but has tried not to let this deter him from putting pen to paper, or rather, fingers to keyboard.
He started out writing poetry as a teenager. This was in the days before word processors and, thankfully, most of these early efforts – seething with adolescent angst as they were – are now lost. He then had a long break from writing – sidetracked by university and working life – and only started up again when he took a sabbatical. The break must have done him good, since he was seized by inspiration and quickly wrote around twenty stories, which he has spent the last few years polishing.
Q: If you could travel back in time, which of the great writers would you like to meet and why?
A: I would have a huge wish list on that front, with my tastes ranging from gothic literature to the great prose stylists. However, if I had to pick one it would be James Joyce. In Dubliners he manages to somehow fix those fleeting epiphanies onto the page, and Ulysses is just crazily brilliant.
Q: Do you have a favourite quotation? (From a book, film, song, speech…)
A: I never tire of Walter Pater’s ‘To burn always with this hard, gem-like flame, to maintain this ecstasy, is success in life.’
Q: What superpower would you like to have and why?
A: Bilocation – I’ve always aspired to be a ‘Renaissance man’ and with this power I could follow multiple careers simultaneously.
Q: If you could teleport yourself anywhere, real or fictional, where would it be and why?
A: I think it would have to be Belle Époque Paris. It would be fascinating to experience first-hand those cultural cross-currents – decadence, symbolism, modernism, esotericism; to watch the disparate influences conjoin and undergo strange transmutations into literary and artistic alchemical gold.
The afternoon sun hit the terrace at a one hundred and thirty-five-degree angle. The shadow cast on the wall by a figure about halfway through a yoga routine suddenly straightened up and stood motionless, silently observing. The figure continued with its routine, oblivious, until, reaching the floor sequence, it abruptly stopped mid-pose and turned its …
He loved Rose, he married Myrtle. The seeds of the latter event were sown in that period towards the end of his final year at university when the accumulated disappointment he had suffered at the hands of Rose had made him particularly vulnerable. Myrtle filled the vacuum which we are told nature abhors and, a …
The window was open just enough to let in the cool night air. ‘Bring me seed.’ ‘Make me blossom.’ ‘Fly to me along a moonbeam, oh thou winged marauder of the night.’ The figure on the bed cast off a duvet and emitted a moan – it was unclear whether of discomfort or relief – …