What it says on the tin really. I’m asking for funding. It’s that simple, I need help.

About me:

Name: D Michelle Gent – known by various friends, colleagues and acquaintances as Michelle, Shell, Mich, Chelle and universally – Trouble – No I don’t know why… that’s not true, I DO  know why but I can’t help it, I promise.

I’m a writer, I have a few books out, all of which are Urban Fantasy/Horror. I have seven short stories written too, they are Young Adult Urban Fantasy and I’m getting good reviews all round for all of them. You can check the first of the short stories out for free if you like, here: Dusty the Demon Hunter

Family: Yes, a good, supportive and slightly unorthodox family that love and support me in everything I do.

Life: Ups and downs but more ups than downs, especially the last few years. Although a few of the downs have been cataclysmic and life-changing (not in a good way), we’ve got through relatively successfully.

Reason for this fundraising: There is no room for anything but the absolute truth in this, which is why I’m baring my soul and putting everything out there.
The reason I’m starting this fundraiser is because I’m scared. Actually, I’m not just scared, I’m absolutely bloody terrified. My husband is my life and soul, soul-mate, best friend, companion, rock and wind beneath my wings. Since we met when I was 16 and still at school, he’s been all I ever want and all I ever need.
Three years ago, he had a heart attack. He was underground at the time (he’s a coal miner) and he was alone. He managed to walk, stagger and struggle for almost half a mile to find others who could help stretcher him out of the pit (mine) and help make sure he didn’t die.
The phone call I received altered my life immeasurably. I could tell you how it cut my legs from under me, how it collapsed my world around me and everything else I felt, but I’m sure you can imagine the helplessness and utter despair I experienced when I was told he’d had a heart attack and was on his way in an ambulance to the hospital.
He spent three days there, being checked, observed and helped.

He's on medication for the rest of his life now.
I decided then that I would do whatever I could to make sure he never had to go underground again.
Well, it turns out I’ve not been able to pay off the mortgage, we still need his wage.
This year, the mine where he works has been in trouble, big trouble. It is closing next year and Trev will be out of work – which means more struggle and worry for us.
Rather than hoping that something will come along, I’m getting my head into gear and doing something about it right now.
I’m in the middle of a few projects, at least one of which will be finished by the end of the year. I have the 4th in the Urban Fantasy/Horror series started, mapped out in my head and rattling around in the background. There are a number of themes for the short stories running around, alongside a brand new Paranormal Detective type story. The last of the main projects is the more contemporary, almost true to life story about bikers, set in the 80s. I’m VERY excited about that one, I must admit.
This fundraising will enable me to concentrate more on the projects in my head.

Bear with me, you’ve read thus far:
The utterly unrealistic, pie-in-the-sky goal is to pay off the £90,000 ($153,000) mortgage before next summer.
The wouldn’t-it-be-wonderful, I’m-so-bloody-lucky goal is to raise a (FABULOUSLY) healthy year’s wage of £50,000 ($85,000).
The totally-awesome wage of £25,000 ($42,000) is the next goal.
£15,000 ($25,000) would ensure peace of mind until next summer, allowing me to work on my writing and get at least three of the full novels finished.
£10,000 ($17,000) would allow me to finish at least two of the novels.
If I raised £5,000 ($8,500) – which is a more realistic and attainable goal of course – I could concentrate on getting the 80s project out and give me time to work on other contingency plans for the summer when the pit (mine) eventually closes.
Of course, I’d be grateful for every penny and cent that came my way and I would show my gratitude in a number of ways, so I’m setting a goal for my fundraising of £2,500 ($4,250).

In return, there will be ebooks, printed books – including a full collection of all my works to date, signed paperbacks, hardbacks and limited editions, numbered hardback books. Along with various thank you pieces – bookmarks, postcards, posters, mentions on Twitter, mentions on Facebook, a character named after you, personal thank you in the form of a hand-written letter, PLUS each donator will be mentioned by name on my personal Blog and in a specially filmed Vlog.

Not only that, but my undying and unending gratitude for helping me to keep my family, my peace of mind and what’s left of my sanity intact.

I will also promise to answer every email, post and connection on Facebook and Twitter asking about the progress of ALL the projects.

If you can help, here's the link GoFundMe

A tap on his shoulder took him by surprise, as did the hand pulling his head down for a kiss. He didn’t close his eyes but he did kiss her back. He heard the cat-calls and whoops surrounding him but he didn’t care. Debbie Simpson! Who would have thought it? She slipped her tongue between his lips just as she broke her grip on him and he lifted his head and blinked his surprise. She didn’t wait around for conversation, she just said, “Happy birthday,” and left.

“Go on you donkey, follow her!” Matt said and gave him a push in the direction she’d gone in.

Staffy heard them all laughing as he followed Debbie. Something like ‘something in the water tonight’.

He lost her as he got to the corridor. She had disappeared. He decided to take a quick look see if she’d waited for him close by. As he passed the ladies’ toilets, a hand snaked out and grabbed his wrist, making him spill some of his vodka. The hand pulled him through the doorway and there she was, Debbie Simpson.

Before he could say anything else, she took hold of both sides of his face and kissed him again. Then she backed into one of the toilets and locked the door behind him. She was groping at the button on his jeans before he could put his glass down on the toilet cistern. Luckily, youth was on his side and he was up to the task before his zip was open.

He thought he was in for another blow-job but Debbie had other ideas. She slipped her briefs down and hoisted her skirt up as she was stepping out of them. She pushed him back to give a little more room but a frontal attack was not going to be quite possible so she changed tactic, turned and leaned on the cistern, legs astride the toilet, presenting a strategy for an attack from the rear. Not needing diagrams of explanation, he shuffled forwards. He reached forward and slipped two fingers into her, drawing a moan of pleasure, then guiding his dick, he entered her easily. She seemed to have been building herself up for it, she was wet, hot and slippery.

He pumped her with vigour and she returned the compliment by wriggling in time to his thrusts. Her head was thrown back and she was enjoying him. He realised that she had her eyes closed only when he looked up and saw a row of faces over the top of the stall. He hadn’t heard them climbing up over the noise that he and Debbie were making. It didn’t put him off his stroke, but just before he came, he ran his hand around the front of her waist to hold her to him as he told them, “Just fuck off!” He knew she’d struggle when she realised that she had an audience but she wouldn’t stop him coming. He pulled out of her at the critical moment, embarrassment avoided because their audience had done as he told them. For the second time that evening, he shot his load and watched it slide down the wall as he part-closed his eyes in the ecstasy of the moment, manipulating his cock to get all his ejaculate free. She was mortified at the audience but she was giggling in spite of it.

She pulled a ribbon of toilet paper to wipe herself dry and pulled her briefs back on, then handed him another large wad of toilet paper to mop his dick before he put it back into his jeans.

Debbie kissed him again, slipped a piece of paper into his hand and unlocked the door, pushing him out of the way and leaving him to rearrange his own clothing.

Staffy knew that his mates were not far away as Debbie left, they were all shouting to her and asking if they could have a go now. He smiled as he heard her squealing at them good-natured but embarrassed and then they left her alone as he exited the toilets. A huge cheer went up as he got out into the corridor, followed by loud and off-key singing of ‘Happy birthday to you!’ As he doubled back to retrieve his drink, he shouted to them, “Fuck off, jealous bastards!” and then followed them back to the party.

This is the first chapter of my newest foray into writing. I'm trying something new (or 'retro') and this is set in the dim and distant past. Here we go then, back to the 80s.


Justin Hardy stood at the bar, his freshly poured pint in front of him. The barman returned with his change and turned away to serve others without time for a word of thanks in either direction.

Sighing, Justin stared into the froth on the top of the beer. He hadn't wanted to go out at all but he was alone in a small village B&B in the middle of his sales trip and already fed up of the small room he had rented. He had asked the B&B landlady if there was anything to do of an evening and she returned his question with a glum look and the minimal phrase, "There's the Sitwell."

"Pub?" He had asked.

"Yes." And then she had turned away to continue cleaning her small house. Though she was not much of a conversationalist, her cooking was splendid (better than his mum’s) and the cleanliness of her house was immaculate. Sparse in furniture and home comforts - not even a TV in his room - but the bare floorboards gleamed and the threadbare rug harboured not a single speck of dust. He had no wish to sit in her living room with her, watching the likes of Coronation Street or Emmerdale Farm however, hence the quest for other entertainment.

So Justin had wandered across to the Sitwell Arms alone. He went in and chose the Tap Room of the pub, figuring if there were any others close to his age, they would be there rather than the Lounge. He took a quick look around and then moved on to the back of the room, up two steps and then realised that that part of the Tap Room was more spacious than he had first thought. It opened up and more small tables were dotted about.

He spotted a young woman and her friend sat at one table, she was facing him, her friend had her back to him. ‘A nice bit of rough, makes a change,’ went through his mind as he mentally prepared himself. If he had been wearing one, he would have adjusted his tie at that point. She wasn’t what he usually went for, but there wasn’t much choice at that point in time.

She was dressed in tight denim jeans and had on a leather bike jacket. She had long straight hair, dark blonde in colour, too shiny to be described as mousey. She also had on a tiny vest top that barely covered her small but perfectly formed breasts. Her make-up consisted of a little mascara and eye-liner, and shiny pale lip gloss, she was definitely not what he usually went for, he preferred the higher-maintenance type of girl, but she’d do as a temporary distraction.

She was deep in conversation with her friend sitting opposite her, both were leaning on the table, chatting quietly. The other was dressed similarly, black leather bike jacket and jeans. Lovely long brunette hair hung almost to the waist and shone in the light from the sunset glinting through the window. There were two half-pint glasses on the table, both empty. He decided to take a chance to liven up his evening.

"Could I buy you two ladies a drink?" he asked, his most suave smile beaming, his eyes on the breasts of the girl who was facing him.

Her eyebrows raised and she shifted in her seat, he lifted his gaze to her face. She gave a strained smile back at him. Her companion sat up a little, taking time to turn around.

The words ‘fuck off’ only registered after he realised the mistake he'd made in assuming the gender of the girl's companion. The lad was younger than himself by perhaps a half-dozen years, he was slim with gorgeous clean, shining hair but his youthful features were very obviously masculine.

"Oh jesus," he muttered. "Sorry mate." As the lad glared at him, he felt his face colour up and he decided against sitting in that part of the Tap Room. He hurried back down the steps to find a vacant table in a corner in which to recover from his embarrassment. He heard the girl laugh as he fled but her companion did not.

"Fuckin’ trendies." The long haired lad muttered.

"Are you going or staying?" She ignored his annoyance.

"Staying, I suppose. Do you want another?" He stood up and took both glasses.

"No, I'm ok. I've had enough coke for now."

He nodded and left her glass on the table in front of her.

Justin watched as the long-haired 'hippy type' stood at the bar waiting to be served. He moved his resentful glare between the lad’s back and the girl as the lad ordered his drink. Justin watched, ‘The tight-fisted bastard didn't even get his girlfriend one and they were only drinking halves, probably to make his dole money last to the next gyro cheque’. He was smug in the knowledge that at twenty four he had a reasonable job with better than average pay nailed down. ‘What did that girl see in him, the greasy yobbo?’ he thought.

A short time later, Justin had got up to check out the tunes on the jukebox. He was getting more dismayed as he flipped each card over. He had already put his money in and he’d not found any tracks that weren’t rock of some kind or another. He settled for a selection of tracks that were or had been in the charts and went back to sit down.

While he had been busy at the jukebox, more bikers had arrived. They had not taken over the table where his drink was sitting almost finished, but they had surrounded it. He picked the glass up and moved to another table, very aware that it looked like he was intimidated. He still held hopes of ‘copping off’ with a bit of rough, or at least chatting one of the girls up. He figured his chances were good if the girls had any sense and wanted to improve their dating potential. Justin was pretty certain he could offer a better night out than any of the greasy bikers. He knew how to wine and dine his date, the lads in the pub looked like a fish ‘n’ chip supper between them both was the best they could do.

 When another group walked in, the girl he had tried to chat up went over to greet one of them. She kissed him and he went to the bar to get them both drinks. The first lad followed her down and sat with the new arrivals.

Suddenly Justin had bikers on all sides again, so he stood up and went into the Lounge area. He left his empty glass on the table and as he went, he heard the girl tell her boyfriend that he'd mistaken Staffy for a bird. “That’s an easy mistake to make,” the boyfriend said and they laughed at Staffy’s ‘Fuck off!’ response. Resentment flared in Justin’s mind as they laughed and instead of another pint, he started on vodka and coke when he got to the other bar in the Lounge, or best side.