‘…vivid evocation… compelling energy…’ Ian Gregson, Cinnamon Press
Rooted in the realist tradition but frequently crossing boundaries of time and space, Matt’s stories have won the Ink Tears and Momaya short story competitions, been shortlisted for the Bristol Short Story Prize, been published in the Stories for Homes 2 anthology and read at Liar’s League.
The Blue Man of the Minch
(Performed at Liar’s League’s Old and Young event)
Just after eleven, Colin raced down the hill to tell Johnny Dey that one of Marjorie’s cows was calving. No more than eight years old, with hair cropped so close you could see the bones of his skull, his face shone with a look of wonder and self-importance… Watch the performance and continue reading.
A Handful Nails
(Winner of the Momaya Short Story Competition)
In the thin, early-morning light, Rebekah watched her husband strike the hot metal he was working on. It was the day before execution day, which meant plenty of people would be drawn into the city for the market. She pulled the blanket more tightly around herself trying to keep out the chill air…To continue reading get your copy of the Momaya Trading Places anthology.
The Last Damn Peach
(Winner of the Ink Tears Short Story Competition)
Ninety-three-year-old Faye Zuckerman, who was a good time girl in the 1940s and 1950s when – hell – it took balls to swing, put on her blue, rhinestone bikini and started to make her way to the garden where the last peach was waiting in the branches of the only tree in the grounds… Continue reading
Let the Bloody Colours Wave
(Shortlisted for the Bristol Short Story Prize)
In the ring was the bull, its coat glistening in the sun. It didn’t know its destiny, and perhaps would not have cared if it had, would not have believed it. What animal, healthy, young, full of anger and intent, could imagine itself lying in the sawdust, the black flies gathering round its corpse like excited spectators anxious for a glimpse of death…Continue reading
The Sound of the East Dry River
(Published in Stories for Homes 2)
The bus sped past and the raw power of it made him shudder and want to weep. He hadn’t put his arm out to stop it. He’d seen it turn the corner at the bottom end of the High Street next to Oxfam, and watched it hurtle up the road, the driver obviously trying to make up time. Now he could still feel the air buffeting around him…Continue reading
(Published in the Momaya Annual Review)
Whenever he looked down, there it was with something else in its mouth – a shoe, a sock, some old papers. It was a hot listless day, the air in the room hardly moved, shafts of sunlight forced their way in through the half open curtains, while outside the pavements baked and people walked around with barely concealed irritation… Continue reading