[Subterfuge Grocery: A Short Story]

Small town life was nothing like it was rumored to be. Sure, the eternal optimists tried to sugarcoat the fact that their lives were as boring as everyone else’s by labeling the monotonous and the mundane with “small town charm,” but that was like slapping lipstick on a pig and calling it a beauty queen. It was the same damn thing, the same damn people, and the same damn life around every same damn corner. Nothing was what it seemed; nothing was what people made it out to be. Ever. Sulfur Springs, Alabama, was no different from any other small town.

Sometimes, you got stuck behind a godforsaken tractor driving down the road at a mind-numbingly slow crawl of speed. You were just itching to pass the dumbass redneck. The steering wheel was gripped tightly as you veered across the median to see if you could, but you couldn’t. It was always the same damn thing: either a car was coming or there was a curve up ahead and you couldn’t tell if it was safe. 

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This is the repetitive nightmare of the main character in my second novel. I love writing dream sequences. Anything goes. You just have to think outside the box.

Sharp intake of breath zipped in-between clenched teeth. Falling. Forever falling. Forever waiting for the concrete of the sidewalk to scrape my knees. The world circled around me. Trees blurred into green as the horizon tilted. The sky, the houses, the church steeple. Everything spiraled out of control. Faster and faster.

Trees. Sky. Houses. Church. Trees. Sky. Houses. Church. 

Treesskyhouseschurch. Treesskyhouseschurch. 

Treesskyhouseschurchtreesskyhouseschurch.

Faster and faster and faster they spun out of control. Momma, I promise I didn’t run. I was a good boy like you told me to be. Treesskyhouseschurch. Daddy, I swear I was a good boy. I even minded my manners. Treesskyhouseschurch. I didn’t do anything wrong. Please.

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Death Like Hungry Fish in a Garden Pond

I have often fantasized how my life would come to a momentous end. Perhaps, I would be diagnosed with terminal cancer and my days on this earth would be limited with the expiration date of my untimely demise. Of course I would undergo treatment in my vain attempt for a little more time. My hair would fall out, and I’d shave my head, signaling to the world of the battle I am fighting. Pity would descend upon me, but I’d keep a brave face while I prepare to meet my maker. I’d fly through the stages of grief with agility and pose, taking a swan dive into the great unknown. Onlookers would lay their eyes on me with hope and inspiration as I lived my last days with my bald head held high.

The purpose of my life would finally present itself with those blaring trumpets of gloriousness. It would be then—right then and there on my death bed while I took my last breath—the meaning of my life would dawn on me while the sun set: the reason why I mattered.

And so, my soul would depart. The afterwards of my death is all I really cared about. I have lived a life I didn’t ask for. At least grant me the amusement of commemorating my exit how I see fit. 

Prepare my body. Inject the embalming fluid into my corpse to preserve what little longevity I had left. Let my life stand as a testament to the battle I’d fought. I don’t want any of that emotional, weepy shit either. Fucking celebrate it.

Don’t roll my casket into a funeral home. I’m going to be buried in a box, so let people view me outside in the sunshine. Let whatever residing force take please in the warmth before the cold ground swallows me whole.

Don’t play some tacky, tear-jerking music either. I swear, I will come back and haunt whoever’s ass I have to. I want my favorite song by my favorite band blaring as loud as speakers will allow. Sing along if you know the words because somewhere—wherever I am—I know I will be.

Don’t read some sappy eulogy either. Read passages from my favorite books. Read little notes I might have written. Read my damn grocery list if you have to. Make it mean something.

Don’t you dare wear black either. You had better not. Wear that tacky sweater you wore to the Christmas party where we met. Wear those jeans that I said made your ass look great. Wear that shirt I bought you for your birthday. Just wear something that I know is you. Just be yourself without the pretenses of the occasion. Just be the you that I knew.

For my final request, could you show me why I mattered? Could you whisper our inside jokes to me as I am being lowered into the ground? Could you comfort me? Could you prove you aren’t going to let my existence fade away? Could you sweep the debris from my grave when you visit? Could you forget about all the fake flower arrangements and leave something real? Could you keep my whirlwind of a life relevant? Could you keep me in your life?

Would you?

Morbid though it may be, but at least I would have some impact. It wasn’t that I wanted to die young under heart-wrenching circumstances, no. I just wanted to know I mattered. I just wanted to know that my life had purpose. That’s all I really wanted—to mean something to someone.

Olly Olly Oxen Free

Everyone loves the childhood game of hide-and-seek, do they not? When the seeker starts counting with eyes tightly closed, that’s when the spirit of the game begins. You take off in your search for the perfect hiding spot as the numbers are counted with anticipated echoes, filling the air with exhilaration. What could be more fun than spending hours outside in the dusk and hiding with the thrill of getting caught?


There is something about both the game and the risk involved that lends a sense of unadulterated excitement: the way your heart goes pitter-patter with a sense of levity, the way your breathing catches as you wait to be found, the way your eyes dart around in suspicion.

“Ready or not, here I come!” rings out with a declaration of determination.

Now, it was time to lie in wait. Now, it was time to see if your hiding spot was as good of a choice as you believed it to be. Now, it was time to see who would be the last one to be found.

The game can last for hours—that’s one of the drawbacks about the childhood pastime. As the minutes tick on by, the hider gets fed up with being on pins and needles while waiting to be discovered. It’s all an internal battle. Does the hider give up knowing they are too hidden for their own good? Should they give it another five minutes in hopes the seeker stumbles across the hiding spot? Do they keep the hope alive that the seeker hasn’t given up the search or, dare I say, forgotten about them?

That’s life though. You find yourself sitting there with controlled breaths while you wait—just waiting to be discovered or forgotten or rejected or cherished or needed or wanted or loved. You are waiting for life to happen so you can start living. You’re waiting for that godsend of “Olly, olly, oxen free!” so you can come out into the open while remaining safe.

Maybe you’re waiting in vain. Maybe you aren’t the person who should be hiding. Maybe, just maybe, you’re the one who ought to be seeking.

Want to WIN a FREE copy of my e-book DROWNING?! I’m giving a few away! REBLOG for your chance to win!

DROWNING is exclusively available for Amazon Kindle and B&N NOOK. More information is available on my website here. 

EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT: One of the characters in my novel DROWNING performs at a strip club to “Charmer” by Kings of Leon. To better prepare myself in order to write it, I acted out the routine repetitively in front of mirrors. With that in mind, here’s the strip club excerpt…

Mia took a deep breath, looking at herself in the mirror. The lighting in the backstage bathroom shined fluorescently, giving her a pallid look. Either that or she was nervous. She pulled a white lab coat out of her bag along with a pair of safety goggles. She fastened the jacket over her lingerie, feeling the roughness of the fabric over her exposed skin. She strapped on her heels and adjusted the safety goggles, and then she opened the door. “I’m ready.”

“Why are you wearing that?” Josh asked incredulously.

“I needed a gimmick,” she said. “I figured this would work.”

“You know you aren’t supposed to take those from the lab.”

“And you know you aren’t supposed to sleep with the students,” she fired off, stepping around him.

She ignored the startled expression on his once alluring face, and dug into her bag for a CD. “Here,” she said, pushing her bag to him. “Make yourself useful and hold this for me.” She grasped the CD tightly in her hand, motioning at the stagehand. “I have my own music,” she called.

“What track?” he asked, taking it from her.

“There’s only one.”

She took a calming breath, telling herself, You can do this. Her stomach was a jumble of knots; adrenaline surged through her veins. The spotlight called to her, beckoning her to the stage.

The instant King of Leon’s “Charmer” blared over the sound system she knew her body craved the attention, the thrill of it all. She couldn’t deny how much she wanted to cast off the shadow. Not only did she have to prove to Josh she was strong—stronger than he gave her credit for, but she had to prove it to herself.

She stepped out on stage as the intro played. The buzz from the excitement seemed to vibrate against her skin, sending her tantalizing chills. The drums came to life, and she turned her back to the crowd, twisting her body in sync with the pulsing rhythm.

Her body was losing itself to the music. She could feel her heart beating in her chest, and she was freewheeling into a thrill ride. Her breaths echoed in her lungs with erotic moans. She prepared herself, letting the music take control.

As the singer screeched the opening word to the first lyric, she flung her body around, rotating her head seductively. She dipped her shoulders and shimmed, swaying side to side. Following the flow, she pulled off the goggles and shook her hair loose as “whoa” screamed through the speakers.

She strutted down the stage, ripping open the lab coat. Contorting her body, she stuck her chest out and letting the lights catch the sequins on her bustier. She pitched herself forward, letting her hair flip through the air. Snapping back up, she let the coat slip off her arms and onto the stage floor. She dropped to her knees as she rubbed her hands all over her body.

The horde of men whooped and called to her; she couldn’t suppress the smile on her face. I’m doing this, actually doing this, she kept thinking, taking satisfaction in the fact they wanted her, taking pride that every eye was on her.

Slinking across the stage on her hands and knees, she arched her back in pure sexual pleasure. She rolled up to her feet as the music picked up, swishing her hair all about her as she gyrated. Her breathing picked up, matching her heart rate.

Her hands groped at her body, sliding over her chest. She hadn’t planned to bare herself, but her hands had a mind of their own; she unbuttoned the bustier. The crowd’s enticing catcalls only fueled her fire.

The bustier dropped to the floor, exposing her breasts. She moaned from the adrenaline rush, pinching her face into an orgasmic expression. Faster and faster she moved her body, rolling and dipping low as the music quickened. She rode the rhythm with pelvic thrusts.

She reveled in the thrill, the chance to shine. Right then and there, she was second to no one. The spotlights cast away all doubts of shadows, all doubts of inadequacy, all doubts of her not being her own person. She was Mia Burke…and she was most certainly a charmer.
______________________________________

DROWNING is now exclusively available on 
Amazon Kindle and Barnes & Noble NOOK.

Amazon
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00C8WM1IW

Barnes & Noble
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/drowning-matthew-hubbard/1046430434?ean=2940016546407&isbn=2940016546407

Hey everyone! My novel is now exclusively available as an ebook!

Amazon

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00C8WM1IW

Barnes & Noble
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/drowning-matthew-hubbard/1046430434?ean=2940016546407&isbn=2940016546407

My personal website
www.matthewdalehubbard.com

DROWNING is currently in the works with Apple’s iBooks, and it will be in print at a later date. 

Here’s a synopsis: 

The lives of four college students twist together with psychological drama during the fall term of freshman year. 

From the beginning, Aidan Sawyer is disturbed. His warped perception is the product of being bullied and teased. He lives in an apartment with Callie and Mia Burke—the typical, bickering sisters. Callie is the perfect daughter. She’s smart and beautiful, and she can do no wrong. Mia is jealous of her sister and the attention she receives from their parents. She’s willing to go out of her way to cast off the shadow she’s been living in, even going to the extreme of performing at a strip club.

Meanwhile, Tom Harris gives into his sexual urges. He revels in living a double life of being a nice guy and one of promiscuity. A series of events is set into motion when Tom manipulates his way into Aidan’s life. 

Aidan spirals into madness as his dreams pull him into a Wonderland-esque world of his own imagining. Inner demons manifest themselves in the mirror, haunting him and taking control of his body. He attempts to exorcise them by self-infliction and succumbs to temporary highs as he rejects everything he’s feeling.

Unable to trust anyone, Aidan finds himself alone. He grows desperate, looking for an escape route. His life has become a rip current, and it’s pulling him under. He’s drowning. He can’t keep holding on. He wants to let go. 

With his last breath, he only has one decision to make: sink or swim?


If you would like to contact me, share you thoughts, or just say hi, then feel free to message me!

Until we meet again,

M

A little something I’m working on…

There is plenty I do not know about love. It would be easier to list all the things I do know. Everywhere I have looked, it has been the same. Fairy tales, movies, books—love is made out to be some highly fictitious concept that sits pretentiously on a pedestal always out of reach. At first, it feels as though love is some grand idea I am unable to grasp. Second thoughts leave me with the notion love is just an island with a civilization on one side and a seemingly deserted beach on the other where I have been shipwrecked and rendered hopeless. All I have to do is wield my way through the jungle, creating my own path instead of following some example set forth by the likes of Hollywood. It is a journey, an adventure, a quest to prove yourself. The jungle is a treacherous place, my friends. Little did I know just how dangerous it was until I set forth, proverbial machete of willpower in one hand and a flask of burning truth in the other, on my yearlong journey without sex to find the greatest love of all—the love of self. 

Here’s a short story I wrote:

“Subterfuge Grocery”

Small town life was nothing like it was rumored to be. Sure, the eternal optimists tried to sugarcoat the fact that their lives were as boring as everyone else’s by labeling the monotonous and the mundane with “small town charm,” but that was like slapping lipstick on a pig and calling it a beauty queen. It was the same damn thing, the same damn people, and the same damn life around every same damn corner. Nothing was what it seemed; nothing was what people made it out to be. Ever. Sulfur Springs, Alabama, was no different from any other small town.

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Over the past some odd years, I have wrote little, non-fictional notes about life in general. Due to unforeseen circumstances, I have decided to start work on a collection of personal essays. Quite frankly, I’m sick of fictionalizing my life experiences. I’m starting this new, non-fiction project. These essays will be truthful and blunt. Screw social niceties. I’ve been silent for far too long, and I’m ready to talk. 

 

Here’s one of the personal essays I’m including in this collection if you would like to get a better idea of what this project will be like. Feedback, questions, comments, etc. would be greatly appreciated! :)

________________________

I have often fantasized how my life would come to a momentous end. 

 

Perhaps I would be diagnosed with terminal cancer or an inoperable brain tumor.  My days on this earth would be limited with the expiration date of my untimely demise. I would undergo treatment in a vain attempt for a little more time. My hair would fall out, signaling to the world of the battle I’m fighting. Pity would descend upon me as I tried to keep a brave face. I would fly though the stages of grief with agility and poise, taking a swan dive into the great unknown. Onlookers would lay their eyes on me with hope and inspiration as I lived my last days with my head held high. The purpose of my life would present itself with blaring trumpets of gloriousness. It would be then—right then and there on my death bed while I took my last breath—the meaning of my life would dawn on me while my sun set: the reason why I mattered.

 

And so, my soul would depart. Prepare my body. Inject the embalming fluid into my corpse to preserve what little longevity I had left. Let my life stand as a memorial to all those enduring my ill-fated diagnosis. That’s all I really care about—the afterwards of my death. I don’t want any of that weepy, emotional shit either.

 

Fucking celebrate it.

 

No, don’t roll my casket into a funeral home. I’m going to be buried in box, so let people view me outside in the sunshine. Let whatever residing force take pleasure in the warmth before the cold ground swallows me whole.

 

No, don’t play some tacky, tear-jerking music. I’ll come back and haunt whoever’s ass I have to. I want my favorite song by my favorite band blaring as loud as the speakers will allow. Sing along with the music if you know the words. I know I will be.

 

No, don’t read some sappy eulogy. Read passages from my favorite books. Read little notes I might’ve written to you. Read my goddamn grocery list if you have to.

 

No, don’t you dare wear black either. You better not. Wear that tacky sweater I made fun of. Wear those jeans I complimented. Wear those shoes I wished I had. Wear that shirt I bought for you for your birthday. Just wear something that I know is you. Just be yourself without the pretenses of the occasion.

 

As I’m being lowered into the ground, please whisper little inside jokes that we shared. Comfort me. Show me that I mattered. Prove you aren’t going to let my existence fade away.

 

Visit my grave and sweep the away the debris from the changing of seasons. Forget about all the fake ass flower arrangements. Leave a real one, a rose if you will, along with a bottle of Cognac. Pour me a shot. Toast to my existence and toss me a few coins for my thoughts. Keep my whirlwind of a life relevant.

 

Morbid though it may be, but at least I would have some impact. It wasn’t that I wanted to die young under heart wrenching circumstances, no. I just wanted to know that I mattered. I just wanted to know that my life had purpose, if not only to teach others the meaning of carpe diem. That’s all I really wanted…to mean something to someone. 

A little something I’m working on:

1—The Introduction

The thought of clearing his desk and packing the last six years of his life into a box crossed Parker Ryland’s mind every day as the boss smiled a patronizing smile and cast off work into his inbox. The gentle whisper of the paper settling roared in his ears. With each deafening, monotonous hush of pages, his agitation thickened. Some unknown force from the depths of his soul yearned for him to say something, anything.

And he always did. 

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From out of the blue, I just had an epiphany—very much so like the one that set me on course for my last novel, I AM. I’ve been tossing around ideas for what I’d like to do without progress. Now, everything has finally clicked into place and makes sense. I haven’t been able to commit myself to writing in what feels like an eternity, but now the thought of writing excites me again! While I AM is currently underway for potential publication, I’m more than happy to begin work (finally) on my third novel, which I’m calling “Doors With Locks That Matter.”

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