Turning Over A New Leaf

An Envelope Collection Vignette

By Morgan Starr

Copyright © 2016 Morgan Starr

Written by Morgan Starr - http://morganstarrauthor.weebly.com

Cover Design by The Carter Seagrove Project LLC

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Disclaimer: The material in this book is for mature audiences only and contains graphic content. It is intended only for those aged 18 and older. This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

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First Edition 2016

Contents

Contents

Author’s Note

Turning Over A New Leaf

About the Author

Also by this Author

The Carter Seagrove Project

Author’s Note

I would be very happy to receive your feedback. If you wish to contact me directly, please email me at: MorganStarrAuthor@outlook.com.

Please visit my website, www.MorganStarrAuthor.weebly.com, for updates on my next story.

Thank you,

Morgan

Turning Over A New Leaf

Restrained. Practised in the art of restraint. Yes; these words should appear on my epitaph - born on such and such a date, died recently, after a lifetime of restraint.

It all hails back to the time when my father caught me and my best friend - Jeremy - having a bit of a thing. I was positioned strategically between his thighs with his cock in my mouth. Father saw it as his life’s work to shame me into abandoning my debauchery and to conform to the family template for the ideal son, telling everyone, including my grandfather - the redoubtable Edgar Martin - what an ugly, debased coin he had minted. My mother had died a few years before, and I am grateful that she never had to hear the disgusting words that issued from his mouth.

Progressively, like a snail retreating into its shell, it was just easier for me to hide myself away in books. At first, it was a question of just study them to gain admittance to the most prestigious colleges around the globe. Then I found a placement with one such institution to translate reams of ancient Greek texts. Old, musty books - as far removed from my best friend’s fragrant pit as I could get. It also closed the shutters on my relationship with my father. Not so the relationship with my grandfather but, as he lived in France, it didn’t really matter too much. Our contact was limited to cards and presents on birthdays and at Christmas. I saw my maternal grandmother from time to time. She alone appeared to understand, but her efforts - as I define them now - to help me to find myself, were all in vain because the shell became so difficult to leave, and restraint was its own kind of release.

How I hate my father.

oOo

If he moves any closer, I don’t think I am going to be able to help myself and I am going to have to kiss his neck and bugger the consequences. He’s wearing a vest top because the sun is shining. Usually, he wears a standard tee shirt. His tan lines should be traced onto a canvas and hung in the Tate. I am reminded of that sculpture - The Dying Gaul. Altogether, too perfect, too real, and too tragic ... a text that I cannot translate.

He is not actually perfect - therein lies his perfection.

Perfection is unapproachable - like the sculpture - and best viewed from a safe distance; yet many of my neighbours find him extremely approachable, asking him to do all sorts of odd jobs and run errands. He has the rustic little cottage at the end of the lane. His name is Renard - which I know means fox. It could be his surname, of course. For a living, he climbs; mostly very tall pylons for the electricity company. I know him to be an experienced climber because he has a sticker in the back of his van that advertises a school somewhere down South. I have the little vineyard bequeathed to me by my grandfather that borders his property. Twenty hectares - not very big - but it has a proper chateau albeit in miniature. We grow Pinot noir grapes - a variety of grape that favours this soil and altitude, which is approximately one thousand metres. We produce a true red wine, which ages nicely and is best enjoyed after five years, and which will reach peak maturity after about fifteen.

The vineyard and the chateau have been here since before The Revolution. I suspect that the settlement was originally Stone Age. We are blessed with a very good spring, which feeds a river that we call locally La Fache, which also turns a wheel that once ground flour. These days, it generates electricity.

I say we but that is a royal we - I am on my own, being the inevitable consequence of restraint. I am sure that if I were to look, I would find that my cock has fossilised.

It’s Madame Eugene’s birthday and all of the neighbours are gathered in her orchard to wish her many happy returns. I am seated roughly halfway along one side of the long table that Maurice brought up this morning from the bar. Renard is seated next to me on my right. For now, his attention is being monopolised by that skinny little harlot who runs the terrible bistro, which is nothing more than a tourist trap because none of us frequents the place, preferring Maurice’s bar and his heartier fare. And for my part, he does buy a good deal of the wine that I produce - or rather I should say will produce, seeing as the grapes are not yet picked.

You can’t grow grapes unless you understand the soil, and you can’t produce wine unless you have the nose for it. I have neither, but I do have my grandfather’s journal, and his father’s, and his father’s father’s too, which dates back to before the Great War. I am determined not to be the Edgar Martin who let the side down. Actually, I wouldn’t be. My father has that distinction. He shunned the chance to take over the business, preferring to sail yachts. Grandfather held out for my father to change his mind - he didn’t. Grandfather died last year at the ripe old age of eighty-five. My father, then aged sixty-five, and in the process of retiring, evidently thought that he would inherit the chateau and vineyard. He didn’t. I did. I’m pretty sure he would have employed a manager and then sat back to enjoy the fruits of everyone else’s labours. I’m also pretty sure I would be better off if I employed a manager, but that feels like cheating. If this year gets too difficult, I will do what Grandfather said in his letter to me that was waiting for me when I arrived here last year - In the cave, you will find a thousand bottles that are unlabelled. The weather being what it is, it would not be the first time that I had to dip into the reserve. If you do, remember to replace it for the years ahead. Good luck, my boy.

I could have cashed in but it sounded altogether too romantic - a chateau and a vineyard - Chateau Martin.

Renard smokes - a fragrant blend, which, if I am not mistaken, is Drum. He carries his tobacco in a leather pouch so I can’t be sure. Would we say wolfish? His face is a little on the narrow and thin side - perhaps renard is more apt than I thought. But, unlike his woodland counterpart, he sports dirty blond hair which, as the summer has progressed, has turned wheaten in colour.

The fact that he is seated beside me is obviously Groiselle’s doing; she was given the task of making the seating plan. Do I thank her or curse her?

Oh, shit! He’s picked up his glass and, in the process, has turned so that I get the full effect of his profile. Unlike our neighbours, he does not hail from these parts - they are generally pugnacious, whereas he is Romanesque, and I believe I am correct in saying that he comes from Avignon. There is a slight flare to his nostrils, which could be construed as haughty. I doubt that he has a haughty bone in his body. Haughtiness, I think, is born out of insecurity - my father is haughty. Renard appears to be as comfortable in his skin as any man, and as secure as the foundations of our properties, which are anchored in granite.

I catch the tail-end of his reply to one of the harlot’s questions.

“Si tu veux ...”

If you want.

What can she have asked him?

It apparently signalled an end to their conversation. He takes a glug and replaces his glass on the table, after which, he ferrets for his pouch.

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

He has asked me a direct question. His eyes are the colour of my computer screen when it just decides, for no apparent reason, to hang. I am a bibliophile and a technophobe. For years, I thought Office was a product by a company called Microbe - seems I was not that wrong. I am beginning to feel like my computer screen but manage to stutter out a, “non; s’il te plait ...”

I take some solace in the fact that he didn’t ask the harlot if she minded. He asked the question in English because everyone knows that my language skills are on a par with my wine-making skills. Both will improve if I dedicate myself to this new life that Grandfather has bestowed upon me.

“If there is no rain next week, they say this year will be a vintage ...”

I have absolutely no idea what I am talking about but I heard something on the radio, and this is a rare chance to converse with him. My grandfather’s wine - Madame Eugene ordered a case for the party - is lubricating my tongue. I just hope my brain catches up with it before I make a complete arse of myself.

“I usually help at the harvest. Your grandfather was very often at my place to discuss the wine. I have to confess to knowing very little except that the wine you produce is a very good one ...”

He said ‘you’ - I’ve never picked a grape. Up until I moved here, I drank wine out of a box.

“I am trying to understand everything but it is very difficult.”

“For whatever reason, Bronté left after your grandfather died - he had a lot of knowledge but he was also a difficult character to get along with. Next weekend, the pickers will arrive, and they will work their way from one end of the valley to the other. Your vines are last - but also the best. Maurice is usually asked to provide the victuals.”

“I will speak to Maurice. I understand what should happen - in theory.”

“I can help - I have my vacances now.”

“Seriously?”

“It would be my pleasure. Shall we walk back together? I can show you where the pickers usually pitch their tents, and where the water standpipe is normally located.”

“Th-that would be awfully kind of you.”

“Maurice will soon give his little speech like he does every year; perhaps then, we can leave?”

“That suits me very well.”

I was engulfed by the tsunami but survived. He turns to say something to Groiselle. I feel like a piece of flotsam, flung high up the beach - safe if a little battered.

His voice sounds like smooth stones being tumbled in a velvet-lined barrel - the hard edges of his consonants are softened by his southern heritage. The locals here sound as if they are growling rather than talking. And to make matters worse, most speak a dialect that is heavily influenced by the Rhine communes that are barely a hundred kilometres away. Yes; in their case, sounding like stones being crushed by one of those giant machines that you sometimes see at the site of a road being dug up to be replaced.

Maurice delivers his natty little speech - he wears a bowtie; say no more - and we toast the old girl.

Renard and I are not the only ones planning to leave now; Groiselle is also gathering her belongings together. She gives the harlot a look that says in no uncertain terms - keep your grubby little mitts off of him or answer to me!

She links arms with both of us and allows us to escort her back to her place, where she weaves baskets with the help of her three sons. I ordered new baskets from her for the harvest this year - the old ones were in a very sorry state. I think the order may have earned me considerable credits points. Grandfather was a champion in so many ways but also a tight-fisted wad when it came to spending his hard-earned cash. It was no surprise to me to learn that it was he who installed the electricity generating equipment to avoid paying EDF’s invoices.

I ordered the baskets and a set of table linen - her daughter is an accomplished weaver and lace maker.

Once she has kissed both our cheeks, we head off in the direction of the chateau. However, as we pass the end of the lane that leads to his cottage, Renard invites me to take a coffee.

“I’d love one ...”

The maisonette is nothing more than a white-washed stone box under a slate roof - but it is perfect. Rustic, not manicured. Anything else simply wouldn’t work here anyway; we are - I am told - rustic folk. Maybe in the Loire, the terrain and the houses are just like the photographs you see in the magazines - stately chateaux, surrounded by their vines, which are arranged in rows like medieval archers, but here, we live simply.

Part of Madame Eugene’s orchard effectively cuts my terrain into two irregular sized pieces - the small corner, hidden from the chateau by the orchard, is closest to Renard’s place. There is a path leading from his garden, through that part of the vineyard, to the herb garden at the back of the grange. I live in the back of the chateau - my suite used to be the servants’ quarters and kitchen. The more modern, front part of the house is self-contained, and I rent it out for the holidays else there would be no income at all. Groiselle’s daughter, Marion, does the changeovers for me.

“You’ve installed a solar panel,” I exclaim, taken aback by the rudely modern equipment, which is bolted to the south-facing wall of his cottage.

“I have taken a leaf out of your grandfather’s book. I don’t really know how effective it will be in the autumn and winter.”

“You know, we can always hook up the cottage to the chateau - the turbine is generating enough power to run a small town.”

“Aren’t you selling it back to EDF?”

“Yes; but the prices are falling all the time. Think about it.”

He disappears inside his front door, which is unlocked just like everyone else’s, and returns a few minutes later - shirtless - bearing a small glass of a brew that I know to be his own eau de vie.

“While the coffee is making ...”

I accept the glass and offer a, “Tchin!” to which he replies, “Santé ...”

Shirtless. His pecs are regular in size and not as pillowy as I thought they would be - unlike his arms, which are very impressive. The space between his pecs is relatively wide, and within the valley, there nestles a coin on a chain.

“What is that?” I ask, genuinely interested, expecting him to be wearing a crucifix.

“A coin - a gulden - they were minted not far from here. I unearthed it while I was digging the garden ...”

He steps forward and plucks the coin from between his pecs and holds it out for me to examine more closely. The chain is not that long so I have to step quite close to him to get a decent look. He smells of leather and oil and Savon de Marseille - like the interior of Grandfather’s ancient automobile, which sits under a dust sheet in the grange.

“Exquisite ... is it gold?”

“Yes ...”

Mindful that if I were to take one step closer, I would be in range and in danger of sticking my tongue out and licking his satiny skin, I step back, and retreat to the table and chairs by his woodshed, stubbing my toe and spilling half the contents of the glass. He appears not to notice.

“Black?”

“A dash of milk if you have some, and a little sugar, please.”

While he fetches the coffee, I settle and sip the drink, finding it stronger than cognac but a good deal smoother on the palette, and without the burning sensation as it goes down.

He returns with the coffee and a platter, upon which there is some bread, a round of apple wood-smoked cheese - I recognise the colour of the rind - and a few slices of the local cured sausage.

“Still hungry?” I enquire, having stuffed my face at the party.

He looks a little embarrassed, and I have no idea why he should.

“I have a real problem eating in front of other people ... I just picked at the food.”

“Why? Sorry; that was rude of me.”

“No; I mentioned it. I was about twelve or thirteen and my parents got me fitted with braces to straighten my teeth ...”

His teeth are perfectly straight.

“... I hated them because when I ate my food, bits would get caught in the wires and I became very self-conscious about it ... it didn’t help that I was teased relentlessly at school.”

“But you have perfect teeth.”

“I did after the braces came off, but for two years, I was nicknamed Jaws, after that villain in the Bond movie.”

“I’m sorry ...”

“I was always a picky eater, and it just got worse. I managed to drink the soup today.”

Now that he comes to mention it, he didn’t take very much onto his plate and, although I saw him using his knife and fork, he must have just moved it around.

Poor bastard.

But it demands the obvious question - why is he comfortable eating in front of me? He attacks the platter with gusto, but not before offering me my share.

“No; I’m stuffed ... but thank you.”

“Your grandfather understood. We ate together often. He would always bring the wine and I would always roast a chicken basted in herb butter just the way he liked it.”

“Why did he understand?”

“Oh; because he had dentures and they didn’t fit very well, and food got stuck under his plate, he said.”

I let him eat in peace for a few minutes before asking, “So; next weekend, you say.”

“Yes; I know the foreman. He would no doubt have tried to fleece you on the day rate but once he sees me, he’ll charge you exactly what he should - what he always has. Maurice will supply the food, you, the wine, and everything will go smoothly like it always does. You ordered new baskets from Groiselle - that was a good plan.”

“The ones I found in the grange were fit only for the deschetterie.”

“It accounts for why she placed you next to me today.”

“What possible motive would she have for doing that?”

Yes; it is absolutely true what they say; I can be as dense as the granite of these hills at times.

“She likes you and she would like us to get to know each other better ...”

He lifts his eyes to mine and smiles broadly, displaying his perfect teeth.

I go bright red and then the blood drains from my head and rushes to my feet. I wobble.

“Edgar?”

“Sss-sorry. I could have sworn you said that she was matchmaking.”

“Pairing us up; is that what you mean?”

“Yes ...”

“I had an affaire with her son, Phillippe - very brief and tragic. He treated me rather shoddily, and ever since, she has seen it as her duty to get me a decent man ... one who she approves of.”

“So she approves of me?”

“Based on the evidence of today ... yes.”

“Do you?”

I must get my own supply of this liquor if it’s going to free my tongue like his brew has.

“I’ve had butterflies in my stomach since the day you arrived ...”

“Holy shit.”

“After your coffee, would you like to walk by the river?”

“Yyy-yes, I would ... very much ...”

I am stupefied - that is the best word to describe my overall emotional state.

“... Your grandfather told me that he had cancer long before he told anyone else.”

This sudden change in subject matter is very welcome if a little strange.

“He did?”

“Yes. We occasionally went to the thermal baths together - I was very happy to take him, especially if I had been staying in the back of the camion all week long while working on some poteaux for EDF in the middle of nowhere ...”

“I can imagine. Why did he tell you?”

“He had a lump in his groin - he showed me and asked me what I thought it was. I drove him to the physician’s, and to the hospital. He had left it too late.”

“He died of prostate cancer.”

“And it had spread ... they said it was all too common in men of his age to ignore the obvious signs and seek treatment.”

“He did not have many friends, as far as I can tell. You were as close to him as anyone, I think.”

“He was difficult at times but I just told him to lay off or he could hitch a ride to the baths the next time he wanted to go.”

“He always did like his own way; it’s why my father’s refusal to take over the reins hurt as much as I think it did.”

“He could have sold up but he left it to you - that says a lot.”

“Or he was mad - I know nothing about wine-making.”

“Neither did he until he was shown what to do.”

“But there must have been wine in his blood for him to have prospered like he did.”

“So there must be some in yours too ...”

There is altogether far too much wine in my blood right now and a walk by the river is probably a good antidote.

Once Renard has finished the platter and cleared away, we amble along the path towards the chateau and at the little bridge - which is no more elaborate than two planks - we make a turn and join the bank and walk side-by-side as much as the brambles will allow us.

“Groiselle and Marion will pick the berries and make jam,” he informs me.

“I think I remember that from last year.”

“It is a good life if you can find the rhythm. You do not seem at all pretentious, which I expected you to be after your grandfather informed me that you were a kind of celebrated academic. So I was expecting you to employ a manager and hide in the library like a mouse.”

“It’s true that I am - was - an academic. I specialise-d in the translation of rare manuscripts. I drank wine out of a box.”

“Putain!”

“Do you know what he sent me each birthday and Christmas?”

“No ...”

“A case of wine, and the card he sent had a freshly printed wine label on the front. I’ve kept them ever since I was ten years old.”

“He had belief in you.”

“At the time, I was miffed and wished he had sent me money so I could buy books.”

“Books are a lot easier to come by than belief - especially in oneself.”

We wander along the bank, and at some point, we reach out and hold hands. His big, square mitt engulfs my rather more slender one.

Where a little stream joins the river, there is a clearing - also a ruin of what I understand to be an ancient piggery - a porcherie. We stop to survey the digitalis purpurea, which grows everywhere here.

“Why did Phillippe treat you so badly?”

“I suppose you must ask him the reason why. I was often away at the time - less so now - he got bored waiting but feigned devotion, secretly fucking anything that took his fancy. I found out when he got a dose of the crabs. When Groiselle found out what he had been up to, she bagged up his clothes and took them to the bar he frequented in Ferdrupt, burning them in the street outside while he looked on, screaming ‘you filthy pig’. You never want to get on the wrong side of Groiselle ...”

“He still works with her, though ... doesn’t he?”

“He had no choice - he had no clothes.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Three or four years ago ... much has changed since then; Phillippe the most, but ...”

“You didn’t think he was worth a second chance?”

“When you open the bottle and find that the wine is corked, you don’t pour a glass ...”

By now, three-thirty in the afternoon, it is very hot, especially under the trees where the air is barely stirring. Madame Eugene begged us to eat earlier than usual so that she could avoid the worse of the sun. The river is incredibly tempting.

“Fancy a dip?” I ask innocently.

“In the river?”

“Of course ... it’ll cool us off nicely.”

“Not too much, I hope ...”

Oh, fuck.

My confidence evaporates when I sense a swelling and a throbbing in my groin - proving the existence of living fossils. Now I wish I had kept my trap shut.

“We have no towels; perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea.”

“Coward ...”

There must be a jot more of Grandfather’s blood in my veins than I realised - no Martin was ever accused of being that! My father sailed the globe single-handed for fuck’s sake.

Using a low-hanging branch as a clothes horse, I disrobe, neatly folding my trousers and shirt over the bow, and tucking my socks into my shoes ... and then I freeze with my fingers gripping the waistband of my underwear.

My heart stops when I sense the heat of his body on my back as he approaches from behind. If I turn, everything will change ... like grape juice turning into wine. I don’t get the chance because he slips his arms around me and pulls me back against his torso, at the same time, nuzzling in behind my ear to kiss my neck. I can smell his breath - garlic, wine and herbs. If you don’t need to pour a glass to prove that the wine is corked, what do you do when you find that the wine is very much to your liking?

oOo

“Are all bibliophiles as skinny as you? And do they play so mean?”

“I have a very high metabolism ... There isn’t an ounce of fat on you either ... and you splash like a girl.”

“I do not. Too bulky ...”

“Really? I would have said perfect ...”

Rather than feigning ignorance of the fact - he knows he is without equal, at least in this petit coin - he dips and sucks my nipple, eliciting a gasp as if I was stung by a bee. One of his big, flat palms is resting on my groin, kneading it gently. The other is cushioning my head as he lies beside me. I have never felt more like an insect being held between the points of the tweezers of some botanist - I can even imagine him saying, in that velvety voice of his, ‘what species are you?’

A new one. I am the academic who found a chink in his own armour - a trapdoor in the shell - and squeezed out through the gap and found a butterfly waiting for him to wrap him in the folds of his rainbow-coloured gossamer wings.

“R-e-n-a-r-d ...”

After flashing me a look with those deep, fathomless blue eyes, he glides down and, gripping me firmly, envelops me in his hot mouth, sucking in immediately. I won’t last. Releasing his grip, he slides his hand under my bollocks and pushes further, curling his fingers slightly to find the lip of the divot in which my hole hides like some cornered rodent. One, strong, square-tipped finger probes briefly, just enough to locate the tight-mouthed entrance. Lubricated on nothing more than my own sweat, his finger has some difficulty in making much progress, and I tense in the face of the intrusion. Sensing my discomfort, he withdraws his finger, and backs off, letting my cock slip from between his lips.

“Turn over ...”

Perhaps it is the thought of grinding my cock into the bare earth or the thought of his cock thrusting into me, but I flip without questioning him. No preface; just cool spittle that rolls down between my modest buns - I cycle to my workplace, so they are not pancake flat or squishy. Positioning himself like the dedicated worshiper at the altar, he presses down with both hands, splitting my buttes, and ravages my poor, tight hole until it gives up the final vestiges of any kind of restraint, and allows his tongue to dip in deep. It was that and not the sensation of grinding my prong into the earth that got me off the first time. Before I have reconnected with any real notion of what I have done, he is pushing in on a river of spit, and it makes me hard just thinking about the fluids he is fucking into me. Once inside, his hands grip my shoulders - vice-like. His knees are outside of my thighs, pressing them together. The effect of his cock rocking back and forth is amplified as the shaft rubs against my skin - which is a kind of preface to the regular sensation of his mighty crown burrowing into me. Under his weight, I struggle to rise up on my hands; succeeding, I throw my head back and he bites down on my neck, simultaneously doubling his speed. Flesh against wood; pressed like a grape, my juices are flowing. A grumble is vibrating in his throat, which is being transmitted through his lips and tongue to my skin, heralding a finale. Thrusts that feel and sound like the final turns of the screw of the press - a juddering, accompanied by a groaning and a kind of squeaking. He bites down harder and sucks strongly. I end up with a hickey that looks like the rosette that Groiselle was given for her jam at the harvest festival last year, which she wears on her lapel whenever she wants to rub the harlot’s nose in it.

He pops his cork and fills me to the brim.

Vintage.

oOo

I have never worked so hard, or been so tired, or ate and drank so much, or had so much fun. Even if everything goes tits up in the future, I will be able to say that I laid down three thousand bottles of Chateau Martin. I say I, and I mean we but I ultimately had to take responsibility for the process. I carried Grandfather’s journal with me throughout the whole thing - it lent me a kind of gravitas - apparently, the old fella did the same, making notes along the way, barking instructions and cuffing a few ears to boot. I didn’t do those things; I didn’t have to. The pickers were young and enthusiastic; mostly students on their gap years. It was a little sad to be told that the number of old Romany families that used to come every year had dwindled to almost nothing. The students all register via a very efficient service in Holland, I am told. Maurice fed them and I plied them with wine. Renard took care of the logistics, and together, we accomplished what I never dreamed possible.

One evening, well after the thing was over, I finished up the journal, copying the text from the previous year and simply changing the numbers. Every year, Grandfather signed off with the phrase - for the generations to come.

I struggle to write the words, knowing that there is no little Edgar Martin running about outside, oblivious to the heritage contained in those oak casks. A cold, cruel hand tugs at my sleeve, inviting me to crawl back into my shell.

“Why are you frowning, Edgar?”

Yes; why? I did the work. I did more than my father probably ever expected me to - and perhaps I was trying to impress him. I wasn’t really trying to impress Grandfather - I think he knew - knows - that growing grapes and making wine is a tough business and especially so for the complete novice. I hope he is pleased with the result. And I have plenty of time to worry about who I pass the journals on to.

“Bit of a headache,” I lie.

“Let me massage your shoulders ...”

I will send my father a newly printed label, stuck to a card, and inside I will write - FUCK YOU.

About the Author

Morgan Starr is an English author of LGBT fiction, poetry, and plays. He is a resident on the South Coast of England, living and working in the town of Brighton, East Sussex.

Morgan doesn't write full-time and does have a day job, in the field of education, but increasingly, hopes to spend more and more time writing and publishing. His stories tend to be centred on very personal situations, often coming out events.

You can contact Morgan Starr using this email address:  MorganStarrAuthor@outlook.com

His other published stories can be found here: http://carterseagrove.weebly.com/books-by-our-authors.html

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ASPD Films

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Tonight It’s You