Author: Matthew J. Richardson

Stories in Golddust Magazine, Literally Stories, Idle Ink, Writer's Egg, CafeLit, McStorytellers, Whatever Keeps the Lights On, Flashback Fiction, Down in the Dirt, Close to the Bone, Shooter, Soft Cartel, Fiction Junkies, and Heavenly Flower Publishing

Tendrilling

How can you still love him, after what he did to your mother? Their eyes say it even if their lips don’t frame it.

How could I not love him? He was my dad. You’re supposed to love your dad, aren’t you?

Besides, he never hurt me. Neither of my parents did. Every care was taken with my upbringing. I was fed well, walked to school every day, bought things that my parents couldn’t really afford, given all of the things that they never had. Even their own vices were kept from me. Mum wouldn’t touch a drop until I was in bed, and dad would never light up in the same room as me – never. During the day he’d go outside when he needed a fag. He’d stand with the back door open, letting the cold air into the kitchen. More often than not I’d go and sit out on the stoop with him. Continue reading “Tendrilling” →

Book Review – Wuthering Heights

Wuthering Heights

Emily Brontë

Penguin Classics

GBP 4.99

 

‘”By the first place, his startling likeness to Catherine connected him fearfully to her – That, however, which you may suppose the most potent to arrest my imagination, is actually the least – for what is not connected with her to me? and what does not recall her? I cannot look down to this floor, but her features are shaped on the flags! In every cloud, in every tree – filling the air at night, and caught by glimpses in every object, by day I am surrounded with her image! The most ordinary faces of men, and women – my own features – mock me with a resemblance. The entire world is a dreadful collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her!”’ Continue reading “Book Review – Wuthering Heights” →

The P-Word

This week Twitter has been abuzz over what is always a hot topic in the literary world. I am, of course, talking about the P-word – plagiarism. In her was-to-be-published debut collection of poems, American writer Ailey O’Toole was accused of stealing language from the work of fellow poet Rachel McKibbens. O’Toole was publicly called out by McKibbens and has subsequently had her debut collection cancelled by Rhythm and Bones Press. Since then, several other poets have come forward to claim that O’Toole has appropriated work belonging to them. The writing community, always a febrile place where plagiarism is concerned, rounded on O’Toole who issued an apology to McKibbens. So far, so ugly. Continue reading “The P-Word” →

They

They are well-intentioned. For the most part. They walk into the park in their little groups, merry with lager and rum-and-coke, laden with sleeping bags and thermos flasks and rolled up ground mats. They’ll huddle together with their fellow do-gooders, music and torch shenanigans keeping them amused. They won’t sleep a wink, of course, but that’s not really the point, is it? They’ll have a tale to tell, a shared experience, something to post on their Facebook timeline. They’ll raise some money of course, let’s give them their due. Not that any of it will reach me, huddled on my bench on the less salubrious side of the park.

Continue reading “They” →

Alone Amongst the Beasts

It was big enough for a grizzly but not the right shape. Too wide for a deer and not well enough defined to be a cougar. There was no frosting on the mud – whatever had made the tracks was close. Travis blew into his hands and shouldered his shotgun. Only a pale grey glow was left lingering above the treeline, the remnant of a sun long-set. He began to trudge up the forest trail again, breath clouding over his shoulder in the cold air. Continue reading “Alone Amongst the Beasts” →

The Responsibility of Reading

This week our four-year-old has been learning her first sight words. I, can, said, no, to, not, you, here, help, play, where, and we have all been written onto flashcards before being splatted by a fly swat as she recognises each word. She’s had great fun splatting, and it has allowed her to join in when we’re reading to her before bedtime.

I’m reminded of all the exploring she has ahead of her. She’ll tiptoe along wainscots with Arrietty. She’ll whitewash the fence alongside Tom Sawyer. She’ll grope around Gollums’ cave in the darkness and guess the password in front of the Fat Lady in Hogwarts. To have all of this in front of her, undiscovered, is a precious thing, and one I’m not a little jealous of. Continue reading “The Responsibility of Reading” →

Dirty Talking

The walk has raised our man’s heart-rate and cleared his chest. He is breathing through his mouth upon reaching the crest of the hill. His counterpart’s presence was expected, but nevertheless our fellow’s shoulders droop upon seeing him. He feels duty-bound to approach. Eye contact is made and each trudges towards the other. The encounter will follow a familiar format.

‘Good morning.’

‘Morning.’

Our man rubs his hands and stamps in the frost-hardened mud. His opposite looks to the tree-lined horizon.

‘A fine day for it, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Cold and dry all day, I hear.’

Neither seems to know what to do with their hands. One pair is eventually placed into trouser pockets whilst the other is clasped in the small of a back.

‘A couple of degrees warmer wouldn’t go amiss, though,’ says our man, forcing a weak smile. ‘This weather would freeze the balls off a brass monkey, don’t you think?’

‘I’m sorry. My English-‘

‘Sorry. Cold. Damned cold is what I meant to say.’

Both men look back from where they have just walked as if expecting the landscape to speak.

‘Doesn’t seem to stop the birds though, does it?’ He tries again.

‘All night they keep me awake. The ground…they find food when it is churned like this…’

‘Yes, well,’ he cuts in quickly. ‘I daresay the weather won’t turn any time soon.’

A nod. Our man looks at his wristwatch.

‘Nothing a good coat and a brisk walk won’t solve. You take the usual route, this morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘You know, I’m sure I heard pheasants in that copse over there. I’ve half a mind to take the dogs in and see if I can’t…’

‘Do you think we wait long enough?’

‘I think so, don’t you?’

His counterpart nods.

‘The usual line?’

One more nod, and they leave in separate directions. The mud is not yet thawed enough for his boots to sink in. He’s grateful. The material is ubiquitous. It climbs up trousers and grinds down behind fingernails. The smell of it is everywhere. He finds it repellent.

Dropping into the trench, our man is immediately flanked by subordinates.

‘Any progress, sir?’

‘Was he receptive to your demands?’

‘Are we going home, sir?’

The General enters company HQ and sits behind his desk.

‘Dictate the following and have it telegraphed,’ he barks. ‘Enemy command refuse to countenance cessation of hostilities stop. Further negotiations useless stop. Preparing to initiate main offensive stop.’

He rises and faces his officers.

‘Tell the men I have exhausted every avenue for peace. Tell them to ready themselves.’

 

***Thanks for reading, folks. The picture is courtesy of my four year-old daughter who said that she would like to draw a picture for one of her daddy’s stories. The two protagonists holding hands was her own twist once I had told her what the story was about. Not a bad way to look at life, if you ask me…’