Georges le Macon

Picture of Willard Georges le Macon/Willard Wiggins (William G. Rooney) from 2019
I am a nineteen-year-old writer from Hertfordshire. I like to think I am unlike any other author out there, I constantly chase perfection in everything I do, am possibly the most competitive writer in the world. I love to build worlds that I fall into when I am writing, create relatable characters with interesting stories trying to steer clear of any cliches, and develop the best content I possibly can. Every day I write 1000 words or six pages as a minimum, then constantly edit and think up new interesting ideas and start crafting them into my stories. I hope you will see my writing as I do, which is one of a kind, in the instant that it doesn't fall into categories and are pretty much their own thing. I love writing, I adore every moment of the process and cannot wait to have my work published and made into movies for all to see. I will be the next big thing in the world of literature because I work hard every day to make my dreams a reality. Every day I go to sleep and wake up thinking about my books and envisage myself at the premiere for their film adaptations.

Want to get ahold of me?
Award Category Finalist
Award Submission Title
The Human Pelt
The Great War left its scars on America, the nation didn't see the war, but the men who came home did. Deep wounds spread with infections, ruining the minds of the youth forcing them to do the unthinkable. Murder and betrayal run through their veins, pumped by a heart of no love, to a broken brain.
My Submission
Chapter One

To the Garden of Eden was the gaze of sinister intent. In Eden’s long grass, there walks no men, only monsters. Stood beyond the green was the fawn accompanied by his buck. A pair of white-tailed deer, native to Illinois. Guided by the strength of its father, the fawn let out it’s growing teeth to the sweet taste of ripe berries from the bramble bush. Such vibrant flavors burst out as the skin was munched away. Teeth stained a thin red to the juices as the fawn kept on at his meal, whilst the buck watched out in the lowering sun and orange sky to protect his young. A clear day in the season of snow and rain, though not present, they were jumping on the horizon. Warmth in the air omitted over all the bodies of those who frolicked in the tall grass, joyful, unaware of the oncoming monsoon. The weather to come was like the pouring waters which soaked Noah, for forty days and forty nights terror would flood these streets, with murder. The skies were ruined by black smoke, industrial empires, and men running on nothing but greed. To see this vibrant scene in such a tranquil setting, it was quite the relief.

The bushes showed the edge of the property, a house of marble with a gaping stretch of open green all finely cut with the feeling of a thick carpet in between your toes. To the far side was the epicenter for a tranquility divider. A man of youth with dark hair and a sharp saturated suit stood up against a stone railing of the porch with one leg posed on the higher mantle. His cat-like eyes beaded down the green to the berry bush, buck and fawn, they all lay in the top half of his sights. Beneath the beasts and hedges of Eden, gripped loosely in his hands, was a marble butted Lee Enfield, with a long scope of gold reaching nearly as far as the barrel’s end. Gradually running his tongue against his pearly white teeth, in a sweet preemptive sense of satisfaction, he readied his shot on the game. Slippery hands, a sinister touch of death, pulled back the trigger to boom a shot into the dusk air, thundering down the green grass carving its way through the sky, till it smashed into the torso of the buck ripping it’s life and soul apart not a second after the bullet left the rifle. The buck rocked to one side staggered before collapsing into a heap at the, now howling, fawn’s side. Rushing around the carcass of the buck, the fawn had no place to go, it’s legs had not long been made, let alone taught to gallop.

Pray insight, out came a second striking thunder tone, bombing the same pattern as before to wipe out the fawn’s back legs. Howling on the floor, unable to stand, the child dragged and scraped its hoofs on the mushy dirt. Crawling with tattered pieces of meat dangling from the hips. These cries refracted back across the fields to the shooter’s ear, such horrendous screeching sounds of agony promoted a showing of his teeth and a subtle grin to perk up at the corners of his mouth. Bringing the rifle into his shoulder and looking down the sights, he poised himself one last time. As the trickling precipitation descended.


Mary D Mon, 31/08/2020 - 13:07

Wonderful! Congratulations on your success Georges.