Eternal rest, my father told me when I was a bairn. The long sleep, he had soothed. It hasn’t proved that way for me – there is little rest for those lost at sea. It isn’t the spring tides or the curling undertow that trouble me – vagaries of current are no longer my concern. It is the yearning that keeps me from my rest.
Bars of sun-or-moonlight shaft into the saltwater, unfriendly reminders that there are those above who return to their families at their wont. That is not my fate. My brethren and I raise our heads in the darkness, whatever hair we have left tugged by the sluggish deep. We are all waiting, watching with sightless eyes for the shadow of a ship on the stormy surface and for the thrashing, floundering souls who are soon to join us.
Matthew Richardson is a writer of short stories. His work has featured in Gold Dust magazine, Literally Stories, Near to the Knuckle, McStorytellers, Penny Shorts, Soft Cartel, Whatever Keeps the Lights On, Flashback Fiction, and Shooter magazine. He is a doctoral student at the University of Dundee, a lucky husband, and a proud father.
Not necessarily in that order.