Matt Pointon
Bio
Forty-something traveller, trade unionist, former teacher and creative writer. Most of what I pen is either fiction or travelogues. My favourite themes are brief encounters with strangers and understanding the Divine.
Stories (30/0)
Georgi Shopov and the Bottle of Rakiya
There was a tradition in the Shopovi family that had been handed down through many generations, and the tradition was this: For as long as any could remember, upon marriage, the first bottle of rakiya that a Shopov made would not be drunk immediately, instead it was kept until the couple's eldest daughter was married and then drunk by the happy couple at their wedding feast. This practice had been handed down through so many generations that it had become unbreakable, and indeed, the week following his marriage to Bilyana Filipova, the newly married Georgi Shopov went to his parent's village of Svoboda and along with his father and distilled his first bottle of marital rakiya, which was promptly bottled and then placed on a prominent shelf in the couple's small apartment in Stara Zagora. The bottle then waited patiently in anticipation of the marriage of their (as yet unborn) eldest daughter.
By Matt Pointon2 years ago in Fiction
Carlos
She saw him approaching her a good ten minutes before they actually met. Out on those long and lonely stretches of the Meseta, that is not unusual. You can see all around for miles and so are forewarned of any other peregrinos in the vicinity. And that day there were not many. The walking season was drawing to a close; it had already rained twice that week.
By Matt Pointon2 years ago in Fiction
The Rose
Selma glanced up at the small sliver of evening sky that she could see through the kitchen window. What time was it? Only half past eight, another three hours to go before she could knock off and then the long bus ride home to her little flat. She was tired but more than that, she suffered a fatigue of the mind. Life was an endless, monotonous routine. Wake up, eat. Clean the house, get ready, go to study, eat go to work. Work, work and more work. Then back to bed and start the entire process all over again. This was not how she had envisaged her life to be at twenty-five in a strange and alien country. She looked at the two stars that she could see and wondered for a brief moment what life – if there was any – was like on the countless planets that surrounded them. Were there people like her working like she was, looking back and wondering the same. Did they feel, hope, suffer and love as she did?
By Matt Pointon2 years ago in Fiction
Star Cross'd
22nd July 2010 ‘Around 813 a hermit called Pelagio came to see the Bishop of Iria Flavia to report that he had witnessed a shower of stars. This star shower began above the mountain we know today as Pico Sacro (sacred peak), and fell over a field near the forest of Libredon. When the Bishop and his entourage searched the site, they found ruins, an altar and three tombs. The largest was identified as the Tomb of the Apostle Santiago. Word was sent to King Alfonso II, who ordered the construction of a chapel. This original chapel was the foundation of the Cathedral and the city of Santiago de Compostela we know today - and the site was given the Latin name, “Campus Stellae” or “The Field of the Stars”…’
By Matt Pointon2 years ago in Fiction
The Artist
Part 1 – 2000 I stand on the precipice, the wind lashing my face. Down below the welcoming rocks appear like the teeth of a saw begging to slice through my misery. In a couple of seconds all will change. They will find my transfigured corpse washed up on the shingle and they will weep over it.
By Matt Pointon2 years ago in Fiction
The Immigrant
On a Sunday afternoon, when she wasn’t studying or working, Atidje liked to walk from her flat in Belgrave Road into the city centre and take a stroll around the Castle Gardens. She did it because it reminded her of why she had come to this country in the first place. The old black and white houses in Castle Yard, the ruined stone gateway, the cobbled streets and the beautiful flower displays in the gardens themselves reminded her of the England that she’d dreamt about, a genteel and polite country with long summer days immersed in history. It was a world away from the saris and samosas of Belgrave Road with its loud bhangra beats, multicoloured Sikh gurus and pick-pocketing Kosovans. In Castle Gardens she could sit on a bench and imagine that it was no park she was in, but the gardens of a stately home with afternoon tea on the lawn, just like Jane Austen and E. M. Forster described in their novels.
By Matt Pointon2 years ago in Fiction
The Exile
1202 AD, The Sea of the Hebrides Like the glass in the windows of the cathedral. So smooth, not a ripple. After the fierce seas of recent days, this was unreal. Fishes could be seen swimming below. Above the mists hovered, clouding out the islands on either side, turning the scene from one of this world, into something unreal. It was as if this life had ended, and I was sailing across the River Styx which the ancient philosophers believed would take you to the land of the dead. My life now over, only the abyss remained. I glanced at the boatman, my modern-day Charon. He was an unremarkable chap, not suited for such an awesome task. Yet his task was awesome, for real world or other, truly he was piloting me to my death.
By Matt Pointon2 years ago in Fiction
Mymble Cottage
I awoke, my heart pounding and sweat on my brow. Darkness enveloped me. Fear. The windows rattled and shook, and I heard a smash. Was it the storm or was it an intruder? If an intruder, then could I defend myself if I needed to? It was most unlikely to be an intruder of course. Deep down, rationally, I knew that. But it could be, and of late the coulds had started to become probables in my mind. And even though it was most probably not, that crash had been real, as too was the storm beyond those fragile panes. What untold damage would it cause? The cost. The hassle. What if those windows did not hold? What if the cliff did not hold? What if a chunk slipped down into the waves in the night?
By Matt Pointon2 years ago in Fiction
Sev
I’m going to be totally honest here. When you came into our class none of us were particularly impressed. M, my long-time assistant came over to me. “Boss,” he said, “I think this one’s going to be a bit of trouble.” He was right. You were not a happy man; you had a vendetta with the world… and yourself.
By Matt Pointon2 years ago in Humans
Galina
We’ve met, you and I. I remember it. Not vividly, but well enough. I was coming out of my room and you passed by, a towel wrapped around you. You’d obviously just visited the same shower that I was headed for. You smiled, a nice smile, and I smiled back. And that was it, the only interaction we were ever to have in life.
By Matt Pointon2 years ago in Criminal