Author: Matthew J. Richardson

Words in Gold Dust magazine, Literally Stories, Close to the Bone, McStorytellers, Fiction Junkies, Soft Cartel, Whatever Keeps the Lights On, Flashback Fiction, CafeLit, Best Microfiction 2021, Writer’s Egg, Idle Ink, and Shooter.

Spidered and Still | Haiku

We’re ice-bound in Scotland at the moment – some appropriate haikus as follows…

Frost patterns on glass

Spidered

Spidered creep across

Night-chilled glass, untouched by the

Hill-hidden sunlight.

Red bird on a feeder in winter

Still

Frozen and fat balls and

Frost-fingered nyger, hanging

Still, in the chill air.

*Thanks for reading, folks. Images courtesy of Marco Verch and Chiot’s Run. My recent short stories include ‘Night Out‘ and ‘Plausible Deniability‘.

Matthew Richardson is a writer of short stories. His work has featured in Gold Dust magazine, Literally Stories, Close to the Bone, McStorytellers, Penny Shorts, Soft Cartel, Whatever Keeps the Lights On, Flashback Fiction, Cafelit, Best MicroFiction 2021, Writer’s Egg, Idle Ink, The Wild Word, and Shooter magazine. He is a doctoral student at the University of Dundee, a lucky husband, and a proud father. He blogs at www.matthewjrichardson.com.

Plausible Deniability | Short Story

Bobbing, just down there to the left. 

It’s the time of the day that I resent. I need to finish walking the dog in fifteen, leave the house in twenty-five, be at the train station for six-thirty, into the office and at my computer for eight. 

That’s enough, Charon. 

There will be questions, that’s the problem. People following procedure, people showing initiative- 

Enough, I said. 

Continue reading “Plausible Deniability | Short Story” →

Steadfast and Slate | Haiku

Happy New Year folks,

A couple of bracing haiku for early January…

A dry stone wall

Steadfast

Wind-worn coping stones,

Stacked batters, wedged pinnings and

Steadfast throughstones. Still.

Long-stemmed grass, covered with ice

Slate

Crisp, frosted fronds,

Pure amidst the rutted tracks,

Beneath the slate skies.

*Thanks for reading, folks. Images courtesy of Michael Manning and Creativity103.com. My recent short stories include ‘Night Out‘ and ‘PLANET 4662/1183J/983!/11C‘.

Matthew Richardson is a writer of short stories. His work has featured in Gold Dust magazine, Literally Stories, Close to the Bone, McStorytellers, Penny Shorts, Soft Cartel, Whatever Keeps the Lights On, Flashback Fiction, Cafelit, Best MicroFiction 2021, Writer’s Egg, Idle Ink, The Wild Word, and Shooter magazine. He is a doctoral student at the University of Dundee, a lucky husband, and a proud father. He blogs at www.matthewjrichardson.com.

Night Out | Short Story

Eight bells, and stepping out of taxis, the sharpeners, the cashpoint visits, nervous chittering and you look fabs, and backslaps, bouncing on the balls of their feet as they wait for some straggler.

Nine, and the rush of warm air from the pub, the I’ll get us a tables, and this one’s on mes, and at the table it’s coats on the backs of chairs and seat swapping and the tacky surfaces, the beer mats flipped and everyone finding their places in conversations.

By ten the latecomers have arrived with embarrassed excuses and never mind you’re here nows, the finding of extra chairs and sorry is anybody sitting here, the tray of shuddering shot glasses that someone’s ordered on the sly, the this is how it started last time, the bonhomie a little less forced.

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Planet 4662/1183J/983!/11C | Short Story

RECONNAISANCE REPORT – URGENT STOP

PLANET 4662/1183J/983!/11C STOP

FOR IMMEDIATE ONWARDS TRANSMISSION TO TRANSGALACTIC ANALYSIS CENTRE STOP

FAO ADMIRAL PEATY STOP

MA’AM STOP

AT THE MEDIAN LARGE SENSOR ARRAY YESTERDAY 2526HRS A NOTABLE OBSERVATION WAS MADE STOP

AS PER PROTOCOL WE ARE NOTIFYING YOU AS THE OBSERVED OBJECT AND PHENOMENA MEET THE CRITERIA FOR IMMEDIATE FLAGGING MEMO 62 V.3 REFERS STOP

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Loch Ness Monster, Stamped Long | Poetry

Loch Ness Monster, stamped long

Across a once-round coin.

A penny,

Pressed into nothing,

Into something more than money.

What route to the heavy, glass-bound rollers?

Which grasping hands, dark pockets, upholstery crevices before

Arriving iron-smelling, earth-born, newly pressed again?

How many through my own fingers

From museums and galleries,

Raucous funfairs and till-chimed gift shops?

Lost, slipped behind dust-bound bookshelves

Or down churning gutters beneath rumbling, work-bound feet.

That fate perhaps,

But for now a clammy, toddler’s hand

An o-shaped mouth,

A treasure, gleaming gold.

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