Alex Richardson
Stories (4)
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Left After Freedom Street
Cream-coloured paint covered peeling walls, walls that hadn't been cleaned in decades and walls that wouldn't be cleaned for decades more. At twenty-metre intervals, small windows rested below a lofty ceiling, windows that were barred and unable to be opened, their only purpose being to let a minimal amount of light in to save using electricity during the day. The floor was grey and industrial, and sported abhorrent, plastic panels that contributed to the shivering temperatures experienced in the corridor; it also needed to be cleaned.
By Alex Richardson3 years ago in Fiction
A Work of Art
His eyes flickered, and with a swift scan of the room he realised he wasn’t at home. He was comfortable though, and under no illusion that he wasn’t exactly where he was supposed to be. His eyelids twitched as they became accustomed to morning and the slim ray of sunshine that was peeking around the corner of a crack in the curtain. The room was hot and stuffy; he could feel the perspiration that swamped his legs beneath the duvet as though it had welded them together, the thick cover a futile and unnecessary overnight companion.
By Alex Richardson5 years ago in Humans
A Work of Art
His eyes flickered, and with a swift scan of the room he realised he wasn’t at home. He was comfortable though, and under no illusion that he wasn’t exactly where he was supposed to be. His eyelids twitched as they became accustomed to morning and the slim ray of sunshine that was peeking around the corner of a crack in the curtain. The room was hot and stuffy; he could feel the perspiration that swamped his legs beneath the duvet as though it had welded them together, the thick cover a futile and unnecessary overnight companion.
By Alex Richardson5 years ago in Humans
