Tag: writing

Creep and Cold | Haiku

Peat smoke from a small village hanging low across a Peak District valley in the dusk. The houses are low, stone buildings. A cold river winds its way through the valley. There is a quaint, country feel to the image.

The nights are fair drawing in now – a couple of appropriately themed haiku

Dawn just breaking across a dark winter sky, There are still stars in the sky but they are slowly being overtaken by the dawn.

Creep

Sly light creeping slow,

struggling against steadfast stars –

the damp blue of dawn.

Peat smoke from a small village hanging low across a Peak District valley in the dusk. The houses are low, stone buildings. A cold river winds its way through the valley. There is a quaint, country feel to the image.

Cold

Peat smoke ribboning

across Peak District valleys,

above cold rivers.

Thanks for reading folks. Recent short stories include ‘The Kinmount Straight‘ 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.

A Prompting at Greysteer House | Short Story

Sometimes, one has to do a job oneself if it is to be done properly.

The house had looked promising – on the market for years, home report on request only, limited pictures online. The estate agent had been downbeat when showing Max around Greysteer House, waiting in the draughty hallway while his potential buyer picked his way through shuttered rooms and underneath walls spattered with black mould. He had looked positively astonished when Max said he would be putting in an offer for the property.

Max had set up his Olivetti in one of the downstairs reception rooms – one of the only spaces where a peat fire really seemed to drive out the cold – and had waited for the house to tell its stories. He had waited a full month before deciding to take a more proactive approach to listening. The British Newspaper Archive, local historical societies, Facebook groups, even the original drainage blueprints for the house – none of these resources had uncovered the slightest hint of intrigue or criminality. Max found himself wondering how a house could have weathered two hundred years and not have taken on even the slightest echo of the paranormal. Autumn was overtaken by winter, and the Olivetti’s carriage return remained locked.

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Ribbons in the Valley | Short Story

The smell of coal smoke hangs low in the valley, skeined in ribbons of mauve and grey. As the nights draw in, it is the smell which welcomes the men home, filthy and goggle-eyed.

Straight to the outdoor tap, where mountain-cold water brings new aches to already weary bones. Hands move slowly, deliberately, the joints already worn from a day’s work. They will not be allowed in to eat until they are immaculate.

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Warmth and Wither | Haiku

A detailed high-res close-up image of an oak leaf hanging from the branch of a tree. The leaf is beginning to turn brown at the dawn of autumn.

A creeping autumn, and two haiku to match…

A compost pile in late autumn light

Warmth

Autumn compost heap –

settling scraps, writhing red worms.

Slow warmth from within.

A detailed high-res close-up image of an oak leaf hanging from the branch of a tree. The leaf is beginning to turn brown at the dawn of autumn.

Wither

Hurried withering

of once-wick leaves. Reminder

of promise, deferred.

Thanks for reading folks. Recent short stories include ‘Passing Traffic‘ and ‘A Shadow World‘.

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.

Passing Traffic | Short Story

The lay-by is one of many on the A82, hidden from the trunk road by a line of winsome, non-native pines and looking out on the sometimes grey, sometimes Mediterranean Loch Lomond.

It is not a place in its own right, not really. No-one says to their spouse, I’m away for an afternoon at that lay-by north of Luss. You remember, the one with the overflowing dogshite bin and the vicious, hypodermic stinging nettles. Still, it is a waypoint for lives, a parallax for the moments of peoples’ existences.

In the spring there are the young lovers, cloistered by the everyone-knows-everyone villages and emancipated by those pines. Steam rises up windows and tinny, unsatisfying bass sounds from within the Vauxhall Corsas and the Seat Ibizas. Young love is born in the lay-by, only to be set aside days or weeks later.

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