Category: Fiction

His the Night | Short Story

Person in dark cloak holding lantern walking on wet cobblestone street at night.

No-one was quite sure what the lampman’s purpose was. They knew that he appeared on still nights when the fog swept up from the Avon and slicked the dark cobblestones. They knew that he was looking for someone or something, but his purpose? No-one could come up with a plausible explanation.

It was not as though the man was shy. His buckled boots sounded loud against the worn stone, and he was unabashed in leaning close in to the shop fronts and the street level windows, cupping his hands around his eyes to avoid his own reflection. A moment’s searching, and then moving on, the flame of his cruisie lamp guttering with his movement.

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Twelve Cans Beans | Short Story

Shelves with canned goods labeled beans, soup, canned meat, peas, and sacks labeled grains, wheat, rice, oats in a basement pantry

Twelve cans beans.

Ditto lentils.

Twenty bags assorted grains.

Enough powdered milk to choke a donkey.

And then the jumble sale – the canned vegetables, the fruits, the canned meats. She sometimes thinks that it is the world’s worst tombola. They are brought forwards, these tin, flush against the edge of the steel shelves. Everything in its place.

There is a comforting airlessness down here. A silence. Everything is in its place. Everything counted, stacked against some half-imagined Event which would send them down here.

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Feedback | Short Story

Wastebasket containing crumpled manuscript pages with handwritten edits

Dear Ronald,

I have had the opportunity to read your submission – an opportunity I wish I had not availed myself of.

As you will no doubt be aware, flash fiction is a flexible format which authors have used in a near-limitless number of ways to tell stories. I suppose your piece meets this criteria, although it was flash fiction to me in the sense that it left the imprint of your hackneyed spelling and of a grammatical smorgasbord of dunderheadedness imprinted on the insides of my eyelids.

As for structure? I can only assume that something happened to your submission between your posting it and the document arriving in my hands. Some intra-dimensional event perhaps? Maybe it was torn apart by rabid, foam-flecked Alsatians before being hurriedly pasted back together by a well-meaning postal worker with an acute visual impairment.

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The End of the Day | Short Story

Becca is lonely. They say it like it is a bad thing, those teachers, that guidance counsellor, the parents whispering behind their hands at birthday parties. They said it as though the condition has a horrifying miasma surrounding it, some sort of accompanying social smell. Rancid, like milk gone bad.

There are worse things to be than lonely, though.

These people though, they don’t take into account the worlds that are visible only to Becca. Universes that only she can see. Walking along a school corridor, she can be anywhere inside her head. The tinny slamming of the lockers is muted, the boyish jostling becomes immaterial, the spitballs seem to arc around her, pulled out of her gravity by the mass of her imagination.

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Shift | Flash Fiction

Cold air shifts, tugged between a closed door and another, closing. Shoes shuffle against the swept floor, footsteps purposeful but never rushed. Speech is superfluous here in the mountains, amidst the thin air and underneath the morphing skies.

There are privations of course, the hardships of rock-hewn bedrooms and straw mattresses, but also the sense of paring back, of the shedding of the unnecessary.

So as the poets, the thinkers, the lost, shift past each other in the shadowed-sunstriped cloisters, do not think of them as poor or desperate. Think of them as rich – rich in spirit, in solitude, in silence.

Thanks for reading folks. Recent short stories include ‘Scale and Perspective‘ and ‘Picking your Mark‘.

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, Down in the Dirt, and Shooter magazine. He has a Professional Doctorate in Education. Matthew blogs at www.matthewjrichardson.com.

Picking Your Mark | Short Story

Picking your mark is important. This is no smash and grab. This is no crime of opportunity. This is tradecraft.

You look for sloppiness, for laziness. Expensive bikes left in back gardens. Hopper windows ajar. Packages left hanging from letterboxes. Easy pickings.

You look for signs of opulence, of wealth. How expensive are a person’s drapes? What car is parked in their driveway? Does security lighting protect their wealth?

Lastly, you look for patterns. When do they leave in the morning? Are their hours regular? Are there neighbours twitching at drapes?

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Scale and Perspective | Short Story

The house on the mountain. It was as good a name as any.

There was a path, such as it was, cutback atop cutback, gouged into the loose soil and the scree on the side of the rockface. The sun spooled out over the mountain face within which the house was crammed for only a few hours every day, fewer in winter. When the pale warmth hit the face, the ice thawed and rocks fell like teeth from blasted gums, hurtling down to threaten anyone foolish enough to be climbing. In the summer, meltwater eddied and gushed from on high, thrumming down and beating upon the weathered rock. What stone and stream did not deter, terrain made fools of. Air and wind yawned around the bare faces; only trembling wildflowers and feather-bustled birds were brave enough to cling on.

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Shadow and Light | Short Story

A highly detailed, high-resolution image of a front door with coloured glass in its windows. The door is from 1940s Britain and is in deep shadow at night. There is an air of mystery about the door.

Keep the home fires burning; that was what the troops had sung in the Great War. And she does, never going out without a carnival glass lamp switched on to welcome her home, its warped, lead-lined shapes throwing up a kaleidoscope of shapes against the wallpaper.

Locking the front door behind her, she starts the Morris and lets it tick over, still glancing through her front window at the bright, coloured glass. The blackout is still in force, of course, but no German bomber is going to release its cargo based upon seeing a carnival glass lamp from twenty-thousand feet. She pulls away from her front door, the gravel crunching beneath the Morris’s thin tyres.

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The Kinmount Straight | Short Story

Front cover of the literary magazine 'White Witch's Hat' featuring a scary-looking witch.

My festive ghost story ‘The Kinmount Straight’ has been published in ‘White Witch’s Hat and other Yuletide Ghost Stories’ courtesy of Heavenly Flower Publishing.

All is not as it seems as a man drives south on the A75 as night falls, one of the most haunted roads in Scotland…

US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FWRP99CP

UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0FWRP99CP

Thanks for reading folks. Recent short stories include ‘A Prompting at Greysteer House‘ and ‘The Clacks‘.

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, Down in the Dirt, and Shooter magazine. He has a Professional Doctorate in Education. Matthew blogs at www.matthewjrichardson.com.