Tuesday, December 1, 2015

I Unlove You by Matthew Turner Release Blitz





My name is Ausdylan Elvis Ashford, a twenty-two-year-old who leads a rather perfect life. With a steady job straight out of university, a charismatic best friend I’m in a band with, and a girlfriend I’ve loved since the moment I first gazed upon, I couldn’t ask for more. Until my perfect girlfriend, B, changed both of our lives forever. 

It began with the words, “I’m pregnant,” and the realisation I’d soon guide a new life into this world. Embarking on my own journey of self-discovery, I found new meaning in love, living, friendship, and family. This should have become the greatest love story of all, but I assure you it isn’t. 

Sometimes true love and unbreakable trust is built upon lies and deceit. Sometimes those you know better than anyone turn out to be strangers you don’t know at all. My name is Aus, and this is my (un)love story. . .


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Beatrice Butterworth is a bitch. That’s how the dream ends, me shouting and falling into a dark and eerie abyss. My eyes shoot open, and for a few seconds I’m at peace. There is no pain. There is no despair. There are no lies or deceit. There’s nothing but a soothing, calming, numbing nothingness, until everything turns against me and transforms into torture.

“Urghhh,” I groan, my head throbbing and throat dry.

I close my eyes, light’s burden’s too great. My mind continues its unstable spin. Clenching my fists, I try and force my hands to my face, but I’m unable to move. I’m too heavy, far too heavy, as if something or somebody sits on my chest. What can I remember? What the hell happened? Where on earth am I?

The last thing I recall is standing outside of work, catching my breath after storming out of Tony’s office. Did I really say all those things to him? Did I tell him to sit down and shut up whilst I stood in his office? I couldn’t have. I wouldn’t have…only, I did. I remember it. I remember the white room and his drained face. It doesn’t seem real, but it is.

“What the hell?” I whisper, each word whistling through my cracked lips.

Blinking, I open my eyes long enough to explore the strange place where I lay: blue and grey tiles reach up to a cracked ceiling; an extractor fan vibrates in the corner, covered in dirt and murk; and a patch of green mould encircling a brown centre. I appear to be in a bathroom, and a rather grim one at that.

I take a deep breath and focus my thoughts, but all I do is disturb my fragile stomach. I hurt, all over. Not just aches and pains of muscles and tendons, but a throbbing surge running up my left arm. I tap my right fingers against the hard, tiled floor, and run my nails along its surface to my thigh and onto my frozen skin.

I hadn’t realised until now, but I’m cold; numb, even. Running my hand up and down my right side, all I find are boxer shorts, as damp and cold as my skin. “What the hell happened?” I mumble, using all my strength to roll on to my side.
The pain running up my left arm intensifies, the pounding in my head gets heavier, the rumble in my stomach an unbearable tumble. “What have you done?” I mumble again, struggling up into a sitting position and evaluating the chaos around me.

Two fallen and finished bottles of cheap whisky lay to my right, and a half-eaten burger to my left. All alone in this bare bathroom, I’m surrounded by a toilet and a sink, a cracked mirror above it. No towels, pictures, or semblance of life. No toilet roll, toothbrushes or shower. Just me and my mess, and a pile of vomit inches from my hand.
“Oh, God,” I say, edging away from it.

I search the area for my clothes, but find nothing on the floor except the empty bottles and discarded burger. Cuts and bruises cover my knees and shins, and a discoloured purple patch, consumes half my left arm. At least that answers the mystery behind my throbbing pain, although how it came to be remains a riddle.

Closing my eyes, I focus and think, but all I remember is standing outside the office. I suppose I drank, but how much? I’ve suffered through horrendous hangovers before, but never like this. This isn’t me. I don’t do this. Neither do I confront my boss the way I did.

I’m not sure who I am anymore. I may not remember last night, but I remember everything else. All those moments I wish I couldn’t. All those times I wish were different.

Heaving myself onto my knees, I struggle to my feet and stumble towards the chipped and broken sink. Head spinning and body swaying, I cling to the porcelain with all my might.

“Shit,” I sigh, starring at the apparent man looking back: red-eyed, with puffy cheeks, bruised forehead and grazed chin. My hair loops around itself into knotted strands. My nose, blue and tender, even larger and more crooked than usual. Despite feeling frozen and shivering, I drip with sweat. I have chapped lips and cracked skin, and patchy stubble breaking through the surface.

“You did it, B,” I say, my eyes welling like they have so often of late. “You’ve broken me. You did this. I loved you and trusted you so much, but you’ve broken me.” I shake my head and wipe away the tears bulging in the corner of my eyes. “I hate you, B. I hate you.”

AMAZON LINK               GOODREADS                  LANDING PAGE               

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Amazon Author Central:        UK    USA    FRANCE     GERMANY

Matthew Turner is a British author who writes Coming-of-Age New Adult stories about life, love, and those wandering thoughts that roam around your mind.

He’s often found in a Yorkshire coffee shop, enjoying a rich black mug of the good stuff whilst reading or writing. And if he isn’t doing this, he’s often with his son, George - who not only keeps him on his toes, but inspires much of this writing.

You can learn more about Matthew and his pen scratching ways at turndog.co. He doesn’t like the word reader, preferring a friend-in-waiting instead. Be sure to be part of his journey, and to say hello and introduce yourself.


GIVEAWAY LANDING PAGE: tdog.co/ungiveaway (see all the details)


18 Coming-of-Age Books from the Author’s private collection 
(signed, personalized, and delivered in person)



If you live in the USA (or Canada) this is the main prize for you. Maybe you’ve heard about OwlCrate or maybe you haven’t. Either way, if you happen to love Young Adult and Coming-of-Age books, you’re bound to fricking adore these guys!
I go through their service in the video, but to break it down in a few simple words, they deliver a fresh box of sweet books and book-related swag to you each month. In a box. Direct to your door. And I’m happy to have arranged a 3 month subscription for one lucky winner :)
But be warned, this prize is only available to USA/Canadian peeps. If you happen to live elsewhere in the world, keep on scrolling…

Signed Copies of I Unlove You (Non US/Canada or UK Winners)


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