Little Daily Miracles | Short Story

Parting a sea is rather ostentatious.

I’ve no need to drown a pursuing Egyptian army, nor feed thousands of people with two loaves and a couple of battered haddock. Isolating dark matter can wait, and my polytechnic didn’t equip me to get into the quantum computing field.

I’m simply hoping to get down to the shop on Colliery Street.

Fifty-eight steps, four kerbs, four door openings, a bastard of a level crossing, and – worst of all – the chip and pin machine at the counter: the tasks rear up in front of me – cold, shadowy, and forbidding.

The problem, of course, is cartilage. No-one is going to waste a miracle on replacement cartilage, are they? Mine’s gone, anyway, worn and rubbed raw until my bones come together with all the lithe grace of a wean using chopsticks for the first time.

There.

Down off the kerb and onto the crossing. Gritting my teeth muffles all but the smallest whimper. Aye, sound your horn all you want, mate. I can’t go any faster, and my nervous system is reacting to far more persuasive stimuli than your tantrum behind the steering wheel.

Up…the opposite kerb, and eas-sy does it. Every touch of the walking stick against the pavement sends a jolt of pain through my gnarled pork joint of a hand and up through my shoulder. For a horrible, horrible moment it feels as though I will overbalance and fall backwards onto the road, my bones splintering and crunching on the tarmac. I catch myself, though, my centre of gravity righting itself like a mast on a choppy sea.

The shop is right in front of me and – thank whoever’s up there for small miracles – a man is leaving and holding the door open for me. I shuffle through, cringing away from him in case I accidentally brush against his jacket. Thank you. Thank you.

The jingle of the door announces my achievement amongst the aisles of canned goods and questionable frozen produce. I catch my breath in the queue, inching closer to requests for twenty Marlboro Light or an ounce of Drum. Soon enough, a downwards-looking cashier asks what she can get me. Lucky dip, hen. I hardly even flinch when the chip and pin machine with its stiff, grime-encrusted buttons is pushed towards me. Little daily miracles do happen, and there’s no harm in hoping for the bigger ones.

*Thanks for reading, folks. image courtesy of Geograph. My recent short stories include ‘The Lamplighter‘ and ‘Those Abroad‘.

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 and tweets at https://twitter.com/mjrichardso0.

Those Abroad | Short Story

Chalky water lying low amidst the reeds, the bullrushes easing to and fro in the wind. Crickets chirp in the gloom before being silenced by some animal shuffle, some errant footstep.

Voices carry over the water, but those abroad at this hour have a desire for secrecy in common. No-one wants their confidences told, nor to tell others’.

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The Lamplighter | Short Story

The greasy cobbles make life difficult, and the man spends several seconds ensuring the feet of the ladders have adequate purchase before stepping up. It is not unknown for back-alley scamps to try to knock the ladders out from underneath him but this evening the streets are quiet, the rain from earlier already starting to freeze on the slates.

The well-oiled lamp casing swings open easily, and the hiss of gas seems loud in the silence. The man reaches his pole towards the jet and covers his nose with a handkerchief. It is quite the bouquet – coal gas, tannery piss, and the Thames. A greenish light flares across the cobbles and the blank, grimy windows. It is as though the street is recoiling from the sudden intrusion.

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After | Short Story

The child trudges after her mother in the lengthening hill shadows. No child of her age should trudge; she should gambol, leap, perform clumsy cartwheels, but not this thickset stride, this downtrodden lope.

The older woman does not keep an eye on her daughter as she works – she knows the child will not wander far. As she picks mushrooms in the woods or washes clothes on the flat rocks in the brook, the little girl follows.

Before, chores would have been set to the soundtrack of aimless chatter, of primary school gossip and playground politics. The nearest the child gets to playing now is trailing a stick in the water, watching as the linen billows and gutters in the icy burn. There is mostly silence between them, the silence of shared experiences, of common understanding.

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Property for Sale – Grym-on-Wye | Short Story

Corroded metal bolt on an old wooden door

Arryn Road, Grym-on-Wye

£30,000

Flat

1 bedroom

1 bathroom

40 sq. m

Tenure: Freehold

Greys Estate Agents is pleased to present a rarely-available investment opportunity. The property requires substantial renovation and updating. Buyers are advised to take this real estate opportunity at face value. Local newspaper articles often exaggerate, and a professionally-produced home report is available on request.

Property description

The accommodation comprises entrance vestibule, combined kitchen and lounge, bathroom, and bedroom.

Entrance vestibule

Extensive security measures on the front door bely what is now a very safe neighbourhood. Visitors are advised to ignore the smell. The key to the property will be underneath the door mat in the common close. Prospective buyers are asked to show themselves around the flat.

Combined kitchen and lounge

Albeit without modern amenities, the kitchen is surprisingly well appointed. Extensive cupboard space is complimented by an antique double range – unusual for a property this size. The range is in excellent condition, despite having seen much use. There is some damage to the room in the form of carvings in the skirting boards and what appears to be a symbol in faded paint upon the floor. A decorator is needed as a matter of urgency. The room comes appointed with excellent quality blackout blinds and, unusually, sound-proof insulation.

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Wean’s Crabbit | Short Story

Wean’s crabbit. Wee pudge-balled fists fleein’ every which way, from side a crib to gummy mooth, scrunched eye socket to ma maw’s knitted blankit. Slevers and tears smeared across those ragin’-red cheeks.

Teethin’ sae he is. Ma pinky gaes in for a sook, but it’s naw what he’s wahntin’. That foot in the onesie’s fair workin’ as well, fat wee knee shudderin’ wi’ ev’ry stomp.

Liftin’ him oot his crib, the blenkit near enough comes wi’ him. The wean turns, mouths, but yeh’ve nae luck son – yer da’s got nothin’ for you. Sook all ye want. Aye, cry then, wee man, scream the hoose down. Wake the dug, the neighbours, a’body, why not? Fat lot of good it’ll dae ye.

We’re stuck here together, ye and me baith, son, in the box room before break a day, each as much use te yun another as tits on a bull.

*Thanks for reading, folks. Image courtesy of Doug8888 on Flickr. My recent short stories include ‘Frost and Fight’ and ‘The Dead Don’t Moan’.

Frost and Fight | Short Story

Dirty mattress and discarded clothing on an urban street

There’s no tradition here, no mistletoe or icing the cake. Frost does however come right through my mattress, through three fleeces and two jackets.

Warmth comes in cups – lentil today. The volunteers have bloodshot eyes and worn chatter. They’re smiling, and fighting.

Fighting against more than just a cold wind.

*Thanks for reading, folks. Image courtesy of Flickr. My recent short stories include ‘In the Ribboned Fog‘ and ‘The Dead Don’t Moan’.

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The Dead Don’t Moan | Short Story

The dead don’t moan.

Dirt-packed and clod-mouthed, they stare silent at earthen skies.

Rain gutters down the slate tiles and the stained-glass windows. It bubbles down into the drain gratings, down through the salt-leached soil. down amongst the dead, where it sits brackish black and silent in the cheapening pine boxes.

Yew roots curl around the sleeping dead, whose wayward ivory pates are held soft in wooden elbow crooks and bark fingers. The shifts and shivers of the topmost branches do not trouble the subterranean silence.

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Cook’s Matches, Lentils, and Sofa Stuffing | Short Story

Siren’s wail and loudspeaker’s bark are dampened as Adam closes the door against the night. One, two, three padlocks go on. Two deadbolts scrape across the pitted iron of the doorframe. The smell of the flat welcomes him home – mildew and rusty water.

Adam lights a candle using the box of Cook’s matches. A man at the food line had told him that, pound-for-pound, matches were now worth more than gold. The expectation had been that Adam would have been impressed, or even disbelieving, but who had use for gold anymore?

The candle is placed atop the cardboard box that serves as a table, and Adam uses its guttering light to place plywood over kitchenette and bedroom windows. It doesn’t stop the wind whistling through the blown insulation, but it might persuade the after-darkers to move on to the next house. The next target.

A dinner of cold lentils, soaked all day, is eaten. Adam’s eyes never leave the guttering, tremulous flame. The wax is cheap. It runs down the sides of the candle and pools, translucent, on the cardboard. The candle occasionally pops and fizzes as it burns, like fireworks.

Adam glances covetously at the book he is halfway through, but he knows he cannot spare the wax. Licking the tips of his thumb and forefinger, he pauses, and then pinches the flame out. The lumpen, darken shapes that he knows so well immediately rush into the grey. The sofa, stuffing removed to supplement his duvet. The bank of bottled water that has to last until spring. The squat radio in the corner – his one link with what now passes for civilisation. Adam only switches on at 5pm Sunday for the emergency broadcast.

It was alright, he thought, picking a lentil from between his teeth. The Prime Minister’s budget would get people working again.

*Thanks for reading, folks. Images courtesy of Flickr and Wikipedia. My recent short stories include ‘Snatched‘ and ‘A Kind of Magic‘.

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A Spaceman Came Travelling | Short Story

Morning folks,

I’ve been lucky enough to have a short story picked up by Idle Ink. ‘A Spaceman Came Travelling’ is an odd little piece that went through several iterations in my head before eventually making its way onto laptop screen. I’m not sure it fits comfortably in any particular genre, but I’m reasonably pleased with how it turned out.

Read it here.

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