Photo by Aron Visuals. From Unsplash.

Hi Every-one-who-reads-this,

Here is a link to my new story, published in White City Wordsmiths fourth anthology book.

Hope you are all well!

Don’t forget to like, comment and share.

And, as always, happy reading!

Mary Matshine

My Other Blog


Hi Everyone-who-reads-this,

This here, Right Here (do I need to put an arrow? no? you are fine? yes. good) is my Other Blog. In Serbian. Because, as Mr Grozdich always says, you should speak a language other than *insert a language here that is not the one mentioned previously*.

If you enjoyed my works here you will have a blast with the ones featured there. It is basically the same, just in Serbian. So, if you can’t read the awesome letters presented there, just pretend. In time, you will be able to. It is not so hard. 😊

Don’t forget to like, comment and share! (if you do you shall receive an Awww, or in Serbian an Ањњњ, from me; it will come silently, carried through the wind of awesomeness and thankfulness) :Џ :П

And, as always, happy reading!

Mary Matshine / Марија Мрвошевић

Photo OBsession…s


Hi Every-one-who-looks-at-these,

A sneak peek at some photos a Friend and colleague took of me. Such art, much professional!

I felt like I would need them for this blog; my Portfolio (these are links; just an FYI) as well, and other business stuff I don’t know about. 😅

Don’t forget to like, comment and share!

And, as always, happy reading/watching/painting/general-art stuff 👮📚🌭‍!

Mary Matshine


My Post

Thank you, Nata Li!


Postmodernistic Love

Hello Everyone-who-reads-this,

No, this is not the third part of my novel, this is a new short story I’m currently working on. I will post a part of it that functions as its own story, I hope.
Don’t forget to like and share.

I would like your thoughts on it.
Did anything like this ever happen to you? (I mean, it probably did, but, you know, give us all the juicy details.)

And, as always, cheers and have a good laugh!

Mary Matshine


Photo by Ferdinand Stöhr on Unsplash.


They met on a clear fall morning.

He was in a hurry to get to work, scolding himself for forgetting his phone there.

She was on her morning run, sweat pouring down her back and from beneath her breasts; music filling her mind. The park was bright but almost empty. Just the two of them, and an occasional runner, dog walker, postman.

„Excuse me, miss?“ he approached her, his breathing heavy from interrupted jogs.

She didn’t hear him but saw that he was coming closer. Stopping, she pulled a headphone out and smiled.

„Yes?“ her breathing was rhythmic.

„Do you know the time?“ he smiled, aware how weird he must seem to her. A man, dressed in a dog costume, with disproportionately large head under his arm.

She checked a multi-purpose gadget on her wrist. It tells her how fast she is running, how far she ran, her heartbeat, and, of course, the time.

„It’s quarter to eight.“

„Oh, man.“ He bit his lower lip, mad at himself. „That’s it. I’ll lose the job now, for sure.“

Her eyebrows raised.

„I’m sorry to hear that. Do you want some water? It must be a million degrees under that thing.“

He looked at her. Her short hair was in an awkward pony-tail, it reminded him of those dogs with their tails cut off. A single strand was hanging loosely across her left eye. Her breasts were moving up and down, slowly; the shirt under them was soaked. He glanced at her entire body. It was curvy, her skin firm and clean. He smiled.

She was holding out a bottle of water, looking at him expectantly.

„Oh. Thanks.“ He drank almost all of it. She found that amusing, but he apologized, and yet, drank what was left. She returned the bottle to a holder fastened to her thigh. He suddenly felt the suit getting even tighter than usual.

„Don’t be embarrassed. It’s fine. There’s a fountain nearby.“ Her voice was melodic, she pronounced every word fully and easily.

His face blushed.

„No, no. It’s not…“ Unsure of what to say, he just shrugged and let his words fade.

„I’m Katie.“

Her grip was firm, confident. His awkward, furry. They laughed.

„Well, John, shouldn’t you be off to work?“

„I guess there’s really no point now. Although, I do need to get my phone…“ He looked in the direction of the building which had a small questionable vet clinic in its basement.

His brows were close together, almost touching, so he looked like he was in deep thought. She liked that. She also liked how his jaw clenched, tightened, revealing his lean neck muscles. He was not a beautiful man, but a dark line beneath his eyes that made him look like he was wearing eyeliner, his unkempt beard, messy locks of hair springing in all directions, all of it made him look innocent and fun. It could all be because of his costume, sure, but the first impression was unerasable.

„You know what? The fuckers can wait.“

She smirked. He gestured to a bench, and they sat down. Immediately, he jumped up. She jerked and looked at him befuddled.

“Do you want some coffee? I should get some coffee. How do you take it?”

“Um. Sure… Black, no sugar.”

“Black, no sugar. Got it. Be right back.”

He almost ran off, tripping over his suit. Realizing he still had the head tucked under his arm, he returned and tossed it on the bench. She laughed.

When he got to the nearest coffee place, he decided he couldn’t return to her dressed as a fluffy Golden Retriever. So he hurried to the bathroom by the dazzled and confused looks of the employees and customers. He didn’t know what to do with the suit, once he managed to get out of it, becoming aware that he misses his colleague who always helped him with the suit, and, that he hates that place which hosts a secret fight club in the even lower level of the building.

The bartender called: “Jack and Kitty!” But John was in the back, stuffing his suit in a container. He understood he would probably have to go back to the clinic/fight club and realized one good thing — no one can call and bother him now. He returned to the shop to the disgruntled looks of the employees, grabbed the hot cups and rushed out.

While he was busying himself with the trash, she took the time to make sure everything is where its supposed to be. She placed the seemingly runaway lock of hair a bit further to the left, added some gloss to her lips, chewed a gum and threw it away, adjusted her breasts so the stuffing wouldn’t hurt her, and all of that while looking at her small black-mirror around her wrist.

Realizing only when he was halfway to the bench that he was wearing shorts and a white tank top, he stopped. This made a little drop of coffee jump out of the cup, pass through a small crack on the lid and land on his shorts. Good, he thought. It didn’t mess up my shirt. And with that, he didn’t care anymore about what he was wearing.

It took her a second to see that a fairly tall, kind of handsome guy walking her way with a coffee cup in each hand was her very own dog-man. She smiled.

“I was just about to leave,” Katie said.

“Oh, no. You would’ve missed the best part!”

“Which is?”

“Here you go, Kitty.” He grinned.

“Oh, well, thanks Ja… Come on! That’s not half as funny.”

“So, what are you up to?” He made himself more comfortable on the bench by creating a pillow out of the dog’s head. He pushed it a bit further, but not too much, so as to make her sit closer. She didn’t bite.

“Now or…?”

“In life.”

“Not much. I’m studying for a chef. And running. Lots of running. Have to stay healthy if I want to eat all of that delicious food.”

“You look great.” When he said it he immediately wondered if it was too soon.

“Thanks.” She smiled and took a sip of her coffee.

“You know” she added, “when I saw you approaching, I thought, well who is that handsome, elegant, professional man” she barely finished the sentence, unable to stop herself from laughing.

He liked her laugh, it was gentle, warm, it didn’t sound mean, just a tease, a little melodic burst of energy.

“I came prepared, my lady. These shorts didn’t iron themselves, no, no.”

They talked and laughed until there was no more coffee to drink, and a bit after. But she had to go to class, and he had a job to be fired from. So they parted ways.

“I hope to ask you for the time soon.”

“And I hope to run into you.” She winked, excessively hard and long. He smiled.

“I would ask you for your phone number, but I’m sure I won’t remember it. Do you happen to have a pen and paper?”

“Aren’t you the art major?”

“Yeah. Haven’t drawn in years, it seems. Anyway, let’s be pathetic. Give me your number, and if I remember it, it is meant to be, if not, well…”

“Oh, you mean cliché? Sure. It’s easy to remember.” And she gave him the number.

They hugged. It was brief. But for them, at that moment, anything was.


“So, you’ve sent her the text?” said a bald, burly man.

“Yeah. Here.”

John showed to a burly, bald man his phone and on it a message that read:


“Dang. You know, let her go. It was two weeks ago. Forget it. Move on.” He took a big gulp of a sparkling golden drink. While he was doing it he looked through the bottom of the glass at his friend. He could make his face longer, and his forehead huge, wide, so he looked like an alien, or he could widen his chin and mouth, so he seemed like a giant. That made him laugh. That always made him laugh.

“Alien?” said John, taking a sip himself.

“Nah. Giant!”

They both giggled and drank some more beer.

“Hey,” bald, burly man said after they’ve finished the glass and John was pouring them more. “Why didn’t you ask for her name?”

John frowned. “I did. It’s Kitty.”

“No, no. Her entire name. So you could facebook her.”

John’s eyebrows raised. “Oh. Damn. Could’ve done that. Should have.”

This time, he took a long toothful of the cold, bitter drink.

The Pull


            She looked around quickly to see if anything was missing. There was a dark bulge on the floor which wasn’t in the room before, and she couldn’t recognize it, but for now, she let it be. It was too dark to see anyway.
            Her eye caught a book, it was sticking out of its usual place on the shelf. Shit. Behind the book, there was a small pouch. She sighed in relief. He didn’t take the runes. The pouch was heavy in her hand, and, after removing it from its place, she saw that there was something in that little dark corner behind the purposefully narrow book, but the shadow was too thick. She had to check the rest of her small bedroom, anyway.
            Suddenly, she felt a sharp pull somewhere on her spine. What the… Her hand reflexively reached that spot, but that movement caused another one. She steadied herself, and it ceased.
            The large wooden box was sitting under the desk. Inside were candles, different sticks, bones, bundles of different herbs, and a leather-bound book. Everything moved around one at a time, changing places, as she checked if he took something. But it was all there.
            Only the altar was left. A small table with circles and triangles drawn on it with a black marker. I never thought it would really work. She crouched. Two candles and a metal bowl were lying on the floor. Blood and wax mixing. The black bulge too close now, hard not to look at. Swiftly, she stood up and immediately cramped up, ready for the pull. Nothing happened.
            Tired and hungry, she decided to grab something to eat from the kitchen.
            She stopped by the mirror. With the corner of her eye, she could see into it. But something was very wrong. Her mind was sending her short panic impulses even before she realized. Slowly turning her head towards the glass, she gasped, silently.
            There was one thing missing.
            Her entire body.
           And behind, where her reflection should be, she saw thin purple and black shadows stretching downward, she felt the pulling, the pain. And down, down, she went.

My Twitter



So, for some reason I’ve decided to make a Twitter account, even though I have no idea how that platform works, and I really don’t have the time or the nerves to read about that. There are simply more important things to read about.

That is why I’ve decided to make an account and just write some stuff there. See what happens. Mostly really bad jokes. So if you are interested and/or like bad jokes, please visit: https://twitter.com/loretnamm

The Mechanism of Creation

Universe: Horse Nebula

Hi, everyone. This is something new from me. It’s prose!
“But, where is your poetry?” you ask frightened, uncertain. It’s safe, no one stole it. It’s fine. This is another part of my writing, the other side of the moon, if you will. Unlike the moon’s other side, this one isn’t dark. It’s bright and funny (I guess… it’s funny to me) and cheerful… but, it can be ironic, sarcastic and with just a hint of dark. Don’t let that perturb you, just keep reading, just keep reading… (that Dory is always finding her way into my mind! *holding my fists up in protest*).
So, yeah, this is how it looks like, more or less. If you liked this short intro — well then, thanks, keep on reading, if not — read anyway, the rest is much better, it’s about artists! 😉

Artists are a special bunch of people who have something others don’t.
That something is called a Mechanism of Creation.

Everyone is able to create something, of course. But, this mechanism is a vast network of interconnected elements: thoughts, dreams, experiences (life and reading), imagination, and that little thing called “something”. And in the middle of all of that is a Spark.

No, not the imagination one! Spark of Creativity!

That means:

  • it’s creative (duh);
  • it’s created;
  • it’s alive.

The third one is the most important feature. It means it is susceptible to change. And so It does. So many, many times… until finally It is taken from the center, pushed through the smallest of particles of writer’s soul, concentrating into one tiny dot which then expands into a line, a light, a bolt, a rush through the body… and BAM!… Well actually, it isn’t a “bam” (unless you are a very loud writer), it’s more of a click-clack sound, or if you are old-timey it’s a pshh-hshh-kshh sound. Who knows what kind of sounds other artists make! Well, they do. They know. Ask them.
This Mechanism can be used to explain how all artists work. And that is why we are such a weird bunch, we are not human!

No, of course we are. This is just one of the ways I like to explain how I experience the sensations that happen while I’m coming up with something and writing stuff.