Shop Mobile More Submit  Join Login
About Literature / Hobbyist Member Matthew Peter WilcoxMale/United Kingdom Groups :iconwriters--club: Writers--club
A group for all writers!
Recent Activity
Deviant for 2 Years
Needs Premium Membership
Statistics 123 Deviations 1,545 Comments 15,417 Pageviews

Random Favourites

Newest Deviations


The Confrontation by Musicman30141

A very beautiful manipulation you got going on here =D The model is gorgeous, her dressing I like. (Is it Gothic, not sure?) Anyhow, to ...


From the ground I grow
Using water and light and space
From the soil and so
Allow me to express my grace

Water is fine
But not too much
For that is a bad sign
That one day
You will put me out of touch

Water is okay, I guess
Water will help me grow
As water will not press
Unless too much, I say oh no

But will you listen, how can you
All-knowing autocrat
You shall not regret or rue
And eventually, you say oh drat

Flood me with water
And know that I will die
But know this, o thwarter
Of knowledge, of freedom
Know that your end is nigh

You may suppress me
With rock and steel and stone
But I will still rise, you see
And your end, only you postpone

Water me, sure, but not too much

Or water me, no, not at all; be such
Demarcus sits stone-like in a chair, his hand supporting his weighty, sleepy head. Frequently—about every two to three seconds—he clicks his pen. Click. Breath. Chatter, chatter. Scribble. Click. Sigh. Demarcus sits up and tries to focus. He might as well. There’s only, what—hang on—Demarcus checks his phone—twenty minutes left until the end of the lecture. Twenty-two minutes if you were really being smart about it. But twenty.

He did the maths in his head. Twenty minutes. Ugh.

Twenty, whole, solid, slow, backbreaking, knee-cracking, mind-numbing minutes.  Demarcus stares at the digital clock. It finally ticks a minute. Great. Twenty-one minutes. Fantastic.

Tap. He places his phone aside and looks forward.

“Now,” the lecturer says. “I assume that you’ve all read this book. If you haven’t, read it.”

The lecturer holds up a book like a king would hold up a sceptre. There’s no response from the class. There never is. Slam. The lecturer places the book back on the table and resumes talking.

Demarcus shakes his head and breaths out heavily.

He hasn’t read the book. And he knows full well his three friends sitting next to him haven’t either because they all look at one another with confused smiles and thin eyes as if to say “no, never heard of it.” However, he also knows, full well actually – and he could bet his left arm on this – that someone in the lecture has read it. He respects this.

“—which brings me on to your homework that I asked you all to do. You all should have read the novel Non-negotiable Dictators and Autocrats.”

Demarcus hasn’t. He didn’t even make a sizeable dent in the thing. It’s thick. Thicker than thick. Thick isn’t the word. You needed to squint to see the font as well. Size eight. Worse than that, the book is a whole six-hundred pages. Six-hundred. In a week. He read fifty-nine pages, and, to Demarcus, this is an achievement; though pitifully small in the eyes of his lecturer.

It’s not that he didn’t want to read it, he wanted to, he had to read it, but he seldom found the time for it. Demarcus has a life outside of reading books. He blogs daily (semi-daily if he can help it), goes out on long walks with his family, does digital paintings, attends social gatherings with his friends, and cares for his grandparents. He hasn’t the time to read. Not much, anyway.

“Nah,” his friend next to him mutters. “Only read twenty-eight pages.”

“Sixty pages,” Demarcus replies, knowing that he actually read fifty-nine. He likes to round to the nearest ten. “Stupid.”

“Two-hundred-and-sixty-two.” His other friend adds.

“You what?” Demarcus is shocked.

“Yeah. Made this freaking book the bible for a week and still didn’t complete it.”

Demarcus and his friends all shake their heads. Horrendous. Honestly. It is.

“If you haven’t read it, then I suggest you read it as quick as you can! ‘Cause you’re doing an essay on this next week.”

The students begins to mutter irritably amongst themselves.

“This is what you signed up for, guys. Christ…” Moans the lecturer.

False. Wrong. Oh so fell and poison. Demarcus did not sign up for this. He signed up to become a journalist. He had this fascination from a young age to become one, to voice his opinions, to write on matters he felt important. This course, English Language, promised that it would catapult Demarcus in the right direction; that it would teach him the fundamentals of journalistic writing; that it would prepare him for journalism as a whole, but here, it isn’t the case: Demarcus reads books and writes essays on texts that have no relation to journalism (unless he writes about them, but why should he? He doesn’t care about them; they don’t interest him). When does he start learning about journalism? Your guess is as good as his.

Demarcus sighs, louder this time.

The lecturer notices.

“Is something the matter, Demarcus?”

This question stirs ungovernable excitement and anxiousness within him.


“There is.” Declares the all-knowing lecturer. “There is, all you’ve done today is click your pen, sigh obnoxiously and shake your head as if you were being paid for it. Come on. What is it?”

Demarcus holds the lecturer’s burning gaze.

And finally, he says it. “Yeah, there is actually—”

“Go on then—”

“If you’ll let me speak—you never let anyone speak. God. It’s… all we’ve done is read books and write stupid essays on stuff that has nothing to do with journalism. That’s what I want to do: I want to become a journalist.”

“Yes, and that’s in year two.”

“Year two? Wow, I’m wasting a whole year doing this crap? And another year after that—”

“Crap? How dare you—”

“No, but it’s true, though, isn’t it? How does any of this help me?”

Demarcus’ question stuns the lecturer. A mixture of shock, anger and deep thought come about his face. Demarcus, however, feels, well, he feels triumphant. His pulse thumps against his wrist from the adrenaline coursing through his body.

“Well, Demarcus, if that’s how you feel, how about you leave.”

“I’m not leaving—no way—no—I’m staying, because this course is my only way to becoming a journalist. Why—why not just do a course on journalism alone? Why have I gotta do all this crap for?”

“It’s because it’s English Language and journalism uses the English language. Christ, Demarcus, do you even have a brain?”

“I get that it does, but why am I doing essays for? And reading books on…” he holds up the book and reads the title. “Dictators and Autocrats? What’s that got to do with Journalism?”

“You might write about them one day.”

“No! That’s not the point! I want to write—I want to learn how to write professionally, not know about potential topics or read books or write essays on stuff that I don’t care about. Do you have a brain or what?”

Again, the lecturer is stunned. He has little to say to Demarcus.

On the other hand, Demarcus is both furious and victorious.

This isn’t the first time Demarcus has encountered a problem with education. Back in year seven, Demarcus was exceptional in Maths. He was a master at fractions, and so were his new friends he had there. Well most of them were; some didn’t know fractions well. In his maths class, though – he was in top set – the teacher never taught fractions. He stuck with the basic addition, subtraction, multiplication and division. For an entire year. Throughout year eight, Demarcus studied charts and put a foot in the hellhole known as algebra. And by year nine, Demarcus forgot how to do fractions. Good thing they taught it again in year ten, right? Three years later. Right?


This was the same with painting. Demarcus loved to express himself, and, in year ten, he chose to do art. All he wanted to do was to paint. But, like now, he had to do an essay. This essay counted towards his final grade, from which he got a B, not an A. No doubt his skills in painting were tremendous, but because of the essay (an essay about Picasso), of which he did poorly on due to his reasonably negative attitude towards it, he was docked a grade.

And he just wanted to paint.

The lecturer looks at his watch. Eighteen minutes to go. Briefly, the lecturer stands there. Waits. Thinks. He can smell his cologne and the half-drunken just-gone-cold cup of coffee on his desk. He muses: is there a point? No. No there isn’t.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he holds up the book. “Read it for next week. Prepare for the essay. Lecture is over.”

Simply, he tosses the book onto the table and retires to the computer next to him. Demarcus smiles inside. His friends look at him with pride, a look on their faces as if to say: “yeah, that’s my man!”

Since the lecture is over though, he dismisses himself quickly, saying he’s going home. He has no reason to stay, and he does not wait. His friends respect this decision, figuring that he needs to be alone after what had just happened.

And what had just happened, and what has attempted to happen throughout his entire education, was the start of a revolution. Of education.

Of diversity.

And personalisation.

Of education.
And education is the enemy.
The trio – an archer and two swordsmen – stagger through the door, panting and wheezing. They made it. Goodness. They made it.

“Close that door, Soren,” orders the leader, his voice shaky.

They can hear ghostly shrieks from beyond the door. They get closer. Somehow the trio outran them. They don’t question their feat, just accept. Soren musters whatever strength he can from his oxygen-deprived muscles and closes the colossal door. Thud – echo-echo-echo.

Soren keeps his back to the door, gasping. He looks at Ander, a beefy guy clad in steel and a mammoth of a blade in his shuddering hand, and nods his head at a stack of thick boxes. There’re no words. Ander shuffles, leans his blade against the wall and drives the stack toward the door. As Ander positions them in front, he backs off and breathes in deeply through his nose.

His nose picks up a smell. Not his sweat, though there is that, but something else. Iron. It’s profound, nose-curling, suffocating. Ander breathes out hard, clearing his throat, hacking wildly as if the smell were sending him to throw up. He feels his morning toast crawl up his neck. An acidic substance sits at the back of his neck.

“Oh my goodness,” Ander coughs. “What is that smell?”

“No idea—forget it, just… just catch your breath.” Advises Finnur, the leader.

He looks about, gets his bearings. They’re in a room, he discovers. Obviously. A dark room. There’s only one light source and that’s a dim lantern above the door they had just entered. The light doesn’t reach far. Probably twenty steps worth of it. After that – darkness. Jet. Black. Darkness. Finnur can’t even make out the ceiling. Because of this, Finnur concludes that they’re in some kind of hall. A huge one. Massive.

Besides the darkness, it’s cold. An ever-present draft seeps through the gaps in his leather armour. A blanket of goose bumps comes over him. Finnur regrets wearing it now. He wishes he could swap for fur, but its weight would only slow him down. And as an archer, Finnur needs mobility. Neither of his friends have fur on them anyway. Both of them are clad in steel. Though cold steel isn’t exactly ideal if not worse than leather.


Thud, crack, splinter. Thud, thud, thud, thud. Scream.

“Think the boxes will hold the door?” Asks Ander, his breathing regulating.

“They better.” Soren hopes.

Ander turns around and stares at Finnur. Finnur stares back. Both know they need to move soon. But where to? Look at this place. It’s dark. Darker than dark. Neither of them have ever seen such impenetrable blackness before. Maybe they could follow the wall? Finnur considers this, but then decides against it. He’d need light to guide him and his friends. No telling how far this hall goes. And what if he finds another room without any light?

Finnur has an idea.

“Um…” his eyes bounce off Soren and Ander. “Ander. Get that lantern. On top of the door.”


“Wh—the boxes, Ander, climb them.”

“No, no way, that smell is coming from them.”

“Be a man, Ander, for the love of my beard. Hold your breath or something.”

Ander doesn’t protest this time. Instead, he examines the boxes with blue eyes. His brows furrow. Wrinkles form on his forehead. Lips scrunch together. Soren steps back, giving room.

Ander lays his sword on the floor and surmounts the boxes. He hides his coughs behind a clenched fist. Cough. Ugh. Cough-cough. Hmm. Ander wrinkles his nose. Right. Okay. He takes a brief look at the lantern. It’s fixed to the wall. The metal seamlessly blends into the cold stone. This both confuses and annoys Ander.

He coughs, waving his hand.

“N—” cough-cough. “No. It’s, uh, uhm. I don’t know, the thing is glued to the wall.” Ander explains.

“Glued to the wa—you serious? Just unhook the thing, Ander.” Finnur moans.

“Come and look for yourse—” cough-cough. “Yourself. Ugh. No. I’m coming down.”

And he’s down in an instant.

Finnur shakes his head. “You got muscles. Use ‘em.”

Ander didn’t consider this. Well, he couldn’t. With that stench, and the confusion, and the annoyance, and the constant moaning and nagging from Finnur, nothing rational or complete went through his head.

Finnur opens his mouth, ready to rain more grief over Ander, but Soren steps in, his brows knitting at something in the pitch black; he holds a finger up.

“Listen.” He whispers.

They hear nothing. Nothing! Just their breaths. At first, Finnur and Ander don’t pick up what Soren is getting at. But then it clicks – to both of them. Silence. From beyond the door. Those things have gone. Or have they? None of them could tell.

Ander shoots a long look at Finnur. He throws one back. Their minds sync. Finnur nods. Ander places his ear next to the door. Nothing. No banging, no shuffling of the feet. They just vanished. A smile comes across Ander’s face, he glances up, sees his friends. My goodness.

“If they’re gone, might as well move the boxes,” Finnur suggests, staring at them. His eyes then move left. An agape Ander stands statue-like.

Soren has already turned around, retreating away from Finnur.

The leader swerves about.


A deformed white figure stands before them. With the shape of a straight finger for a body, this creature has five stick-like legs and two stick-like arms, an ear-less and nose-less head, a cluster of beady eyes and an open mouth bearing several sets of serrated teeth. Most bizarre of all, a plethora of string-like tendrils hang out of its ‘back’ and scatter off into the abyss behind it. Its skin is flaky as well as wrinkly.

The creature makes an odd sound, the sound of someone who would choke on their food. Then shrieks.

Finnur freaks out; his stomach falls through his backside. Nothing rational goes through his mind. His hands just go for his bow. Where is it? He had it on his back. Wait. He feels the string. That’s it. Guiding his hand down, he finds the grip. He takes it out and backs off. Slowly. No – sudden – movements. Finnur’s eyes don’t falter—not even blink.

“Ander…” he whispers. “Move the boxes…”

A series of coughs and hacks and gasps respond to his command. That smell again? Finnur isn’t amused. Not one bit. In fact, amusement doesn’t pass his mind. He’s terrified.

“Ander! Grow a pair and—” he sees Ander. Inserted in his neck, chest and temple are white tendrils. The colour from Ander’s face drains completely. He’s stuck, shaking uncontrollably, foam and spittle dripping out of his mouth. The tendrils get bigger. Ander gets smaller. The chokes silence themselves. Ander falls. Dead. Life literally sucked out of him.

“Soren…” Finnur calls very, very quietly.

He looks for him.

He’s on the floor. Dead. The tendrils leave his body, blood dripping from the holes at the end.

Finnur’s bottom lip quivers wildly.

He gains his composure and focuses forward, seeing the creature advance awkwardly, with a limp. And the tendrils behind his back follow. Slither.

One creeps close.

Simply, and calmly, Finnur gets an arrow.

He draws it.

And lets go.
The Transmundane Anomaly
What they were running from, where they are, what they are doing there - that's for your imagination. What happens at the end - well - more imagination. :lol:
Today is an average day for Alfie Moonshine. The self-proclaimed owner of an average house called ‘Catbells’, situated in an average cul-de-sac – which is situated in an average town – trots about, head high. Alfie is a cocker spaniel, a blue roan, with beautiful markings about his body, a huge snout, big floppy ears, and an ego the size of six post codes. An ego which is increasingly expanding by the day.

Alfie knows no different. He’s the alpha male of the house, the pack leader. If any of his family members were to place authority over Alfie, he would protest. Hard. He protests daily. He makes a habit of it. His mother, for whatever reason, leaves him every day for prolonged amounts of time. This upsets the dog. He doesn’t like his subjects leaving him without permission. However, his mother returns with these huge white balls that rustle at the slightest movement. Alfie can’t comprehend this magic, and from this confusion, and anger for leaving without permission, he spits a series of dog-like profanities at his mother. His mother has none of it – ignores it entirely – and instead just gives him a fuse, which calms Alfie.

To an extent.

His dominance isn’t just limited to his house, though.

The garden is his playground, the street outside is his land, the fields behind the house and to the left of the house are his catch-the-ball training grounds, and the muddy paths that interlink the fields are his contemplation paths – though little goes through his head.

One day, Alfie goes about planting his scent on the bushes and flowers and logs where other dogs have attempted to capture his land. He doesn’t like this. As dictator, as pack leader, as alpha male of his land, Alfie sees this as a provocation. He makes this apparent to his guards, the father – and sometimes the brother – who walk with him daily between five and seven. Neither of them acknowledges this. Ever. And while Alfie feels defeated that his own subjects do not understand him, he feels content that they don’t mark their scent. Ever.

This worries Alfie, though. He has never seen them mark their scent. Ever. Why is this? Alfie understands that he is pack leader so only he can mark his scent because it’s his lands, but he never sees them release anything. Does he exert so much dominance that they were afraid to pee? Maybe. But Alfie draws the conclusion that their stomachs will explode from the build-up of pee inside their bodies. When this inevitable day comes, Alfie will need new subjects to protect him while he caters to his land. He has his mother in mind. And maybe his rarely-seen sister.

Once he has placed his scent back on his lands, Alfie contemplates down the dirt paths, head low, occasionally drinking from the muddy water when he can. His subjects throw disgusting remarks at him for doing so. His ego deflects them and he moves on.

His contemplation on life quickly results in assassination scenarios of the deformed dog that his family keeps. This creature eats different food – from which Alfie steals in hopes of starving the thing – hisses at him when he draws near to inspect the creature, and thwacks him with great power, usually with its claws extended to inflict greater pain. Alfie yelps, both in pain and in an attempt to bring his subjects to him. This succeeds and most times his subjects pet him. Rarely, the creature is banished from his realm only for it to come back later. His subjects feed the creature straight away.

As he comes home, this exact scenario plays out, the thing hitting him, him yelping, the thing getting banished only for it to come back and whatnot. All in the space of an hour.

Alfie considers this an act of treason; he also sees this as an attempt to overthrow his position as alpha male. He can’t have this. So he protests. He goes to his throne, a wide pillow with numerous fresh-grass-smelling balls, tasty white sticks – of which Alfie defends with his life – an inanimate, out-of-proportion, fluffy human and a bowl with his food that he left this morning.

His subjects regularly check on him, talking in high pitch voices and baring wide smiles. They’re plotting his downfall, he thinks, and are mocking him from a distance. Today might be the day where that deformed dog becomes the alpha male. To be honest, every other day, the creature could become the alpha male, but Alfie, through rigorous protesting, denies it this chance. The thing needs to get his throne in order to become the alpha male.

And today it does.

Alfie left his throne to see if the creature had left its food bowl. It did. It manoeuvred around him and went straight for his throne. Alfie whimpers. He gives brief pursuit. And there it lies. Two green eyes give a thousand yard stare from the throne. Alfie, knowing the prowess of the creature, retreats.

He has an idea, though.

He knows where the creature lies at night. He grabs the scent of the creature, his snout smacked against the ground. Round a few corners, up some wide boxes, across a long hall, he enters the throne room of the creature. There isn’t much for him to do. Except sit down. In its throne. And wait. Quietly.

For effect, Alfie marks his scent in a red box that has hundreds of little white balls.

Hours pass and his subjects finally find him. High pitch voices welcome him. In the arms of his mother is the deformed creature. It looks down on him evilly.

His subjects call him. He runs up to them. They put the creature on its throne. This means, to Alfie, that he has his throne back! He sprints down, heart racing, tongue out, panting, and he finds his throne. The smell of the creature lingers. No matter, thinks Alfie.

He collapses on his pillow, sighs in great relief, and goes to sleep.

Another average day for the alpha male Alfie Moonshine.
Alfie Moonshine, the Alpha Male Cocker Spaniel
While at University, we had a small free writing task and this is what was born. My dog and his (possible) perspective on life.


Mattchewbackaar's Profile Picture
Matthew Peter Wilcox
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United Kingdom
Howdy-do folks,

Matty is the name and using Photoshop and writing books is my game!

:nod:Follow me on Twitter: Matsudarias
:happybounce:Chat to me on Skype: Matsudaria


Mattchewbackaar has started a donation pool!
11 / 1,000
Saving up for something special! =D

Every little counts.

You must be logged in to donate.
  • :iconallworldworks:
    Donated Feb 18, 2013, 11:09:37 AM
  • :iconskie2:
    Donated Jan 9, 2013, 1:06:12 PM

AdCast - Ads from the Community



Add a Comment:
REINPEIN Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Happy Birthday my good man Yukari Smile Icon 
Mattchewbackaar Featured By Owner Dec 11, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thank ye, thank ye, my good man :)
Rainbow-Flames24 Featured By Owner Oct 24, 2014  Student General Artist
Thank you for the llama! Rest assured, it will be well cared for.
Mattchewbackaar Featured By Owner Oct 25, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome :D
Rainbow-Flames24 Featured By Owner Oct 26, 2014  Student General Artist
In addition, thank you for the watch!
Jordddyn Featured By Owner May 27, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for the :llama: :hug:
Mattchewbackaar Featured By Owner May 27, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
You too =) love llamas :hug:
Jordddyn Featured By Owner May 27, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
(: :hug:
MangekyoMarie Featured By Owner Apr 6, 2014
Thanks for the watch. Much appreciated. :)
Mattchewbackaar Featured By Owner Apr 7, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
You too =D
GoodTomatoPie Featured By Owner Mar 14, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for the +fav 
Mattchewbackaar Featured By Owner Mar 20, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome!! =D
Tina579 Featured By Owner Mar 7, 2014  Professional Writer
Hey there Mattchewbackaar I was wandering if you could take a look at another short writing of mine to critique the grammar on it. I would so very much appreciate it.
Mattchewbackaar Featured By Owner Mar 9, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Of course! =) I'll get around to it as soon as. Is it the note you sent me?
Tina579 Featured By Owner Mar 10, 2014  Professional Writer
Ryna63 Featured By Owner Jan 1, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you for the fave and Happy New Year!!
Mattchewbackaar Featured By Owner Jan 1, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
No problemo! =) And thank you very much. Happy new year to you too, hope it's a good year for you =D
Bahogar Featured By Owner Dec 31, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy new year ! :party:
Mattchewbackaar Featured By Owner Jan 1, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you very much! Happy new year to you too! =)
AiriKanda Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2013  Professional
Hey dear, happy birthday!! :party: :cake:
Mattchewbackaar Featured By Owner Dec 11, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you very glad!! =D Had a great day!
AiriKanda Featured By Owner Dec 11, 2013  Professional
You're welcome, dear! :dummy: I'm glad you did! :)
RafaelGiovannini Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2013  Student Digital Artist

Happy Bday! :heart:

happy DA B-day :3  KimRaiFan's Bday Cake 
Mattchewbackaar Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2013  Hobbyist Writer

Heyyyyyyyy hey!!

Thank you =)!! :heart:

RafaelGiovannini Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2013  Student Digital Artist
hahahah you're welcome friend!
I hope your day was wonderful, all good!
Add a Comment: