Conor Matthews
Bio
Writer. Opinions are my own. https://ko-fi.com/conormatthews
Stories (120/0)
The Trees Swallow People: Part 14
It's Christmas in a few days, and understandably there's an unease about it. There's an odd feeling of shame intermingled with determined jovial spirits. There are fewer houses than ever decorated (many are without the excuse of being abandoned), yet of those that are, they appear more festive than in previous years. Interestingly, many of the ones I know lie empty are decorated, draped in lights hanging from the gutters, windows frosted in mock-snow from a spray can, and, perhaps a little morbidly given everything, a tree dressed in baubles and lights. Fake trees, obviously, but you wouldn't blame people for breaking from tradition.
By Conor Matthewsabout a year ago in Fiction
The Trees Swallow People: Part 13
I don't know if I believe in anything after death. I think there's something, like a god or something, but not in the “God” sense. I can imagine people going to Heaven, but never myself. I don't think I don't deserve it, I just can't see myself in Heaven, no more than I can see myself in space; I can visualise it, but I'm left wondering where the punch-line is . Thanatophobia; that's what I have. I'm not going to Hell and that scares me. I know it must seem strange; there are trees driving people mad, killing them, driving them to suicide, yet I can't bring myself to believe in an afterlife? Yes. Faith, even in nothing, isn't rational.
By Conor Matthewsabout a year ago in Fiction
Rich =/= Right
I have a guilty pleasure. It’s looking up houses I’ll never afford. The million dollar homes, the five million pound manors, the thirty million euro estates. I’ve noticed a common thread between all of them; no taste. Often garishly ornate with gold this and crystal that, with simpering appeals to aristocracy, it’s what people think you’re supposed to like when you’re rich. New Money pretending it’s Old Money, hoping to impress someone.
By Conor Matthewsabout a year ago in The Swamp
The Trees Swallow People: Part 12
I was sleeping when the bangs echoing across the house finally stirred me. In the blissful, groggy sort of state, where you're not yet a person, still a bag of organs that occasionally moves, I just accepted someone was at my front door without feeling the need to hurry. Before all this, perhaps I would have sprang out of bed, leaping into the air and landing on the unswept wooden floor with my bare feet and unclipped toenails, the patter of slapping soles across the floor marching as I race to answer the front door, but now… now I take my time, rising with monumental effort, a slog of sluggishness. The door hammers once more, bringing back a flicker of a nightmare I endured. I take the time needed to talk myself up enough to stand and make my way to the door, Diva trotting behind me in a spritely dash. When I reach the door, however, she retreats, cowering, whimpering. I ask her what's wrong, but the only answer I get was the lowered stare at the silhouette behind the door's privacy window. Tall, squared.
By Conor Matthewsabout a year ago in Fiction