Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

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Six

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A pile of broken watches
Photo by Heather Zabriskie on Unsplash

Today’s super short piece of flash fiction is all about time. Which is why it’s so short.

On the first day, the sun was a blessing. After a long winter, the sudden heat was welcome.

On the second day, the sun was oppressive. It didn’t used to hang so low in the sky.

On the third day, the sun was hotter still. No one went outside.

On the fourth day, no water came from the taps.

The fourth day became the fourth night, at least according to the clocks. The sun rested on the horizon.

On the fifth day, everyone was silent. Throats were dry, and no one had enough moisture to even sweat.

On the sixth day, the sun swallowed the planet whole.

If you think this story was short, wait until you see next week’s piece. See you then!

Work

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A deflated yellow balloon on the ground
Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

This week’s piece of fantastic flash fiction is all about ice-cream, because everyone likes ice-cream. Enjoy!

“Float, please!”

The kid looks young to be making that decision himself, so I look at the mom over the cold metal counter of my ice-cream fridge.

She’s done herself up: make-up; nice jacket, but her face is rigid, lips compressed.

She nods, trying not to cry. I give them both a scoop of ice cream. She says “keep the change,” and they’re off.

The queue stretches around the block, and there’s an eerie sigh as they lift into the air to join the people already up there. Some of my first customers show which way the wind is blowing. There’s a wedge of them heading out towards Blankenfelde.

“Float please,” says the next kid. Another one with a pretty, heartbroken mom. This job can be a downer sometimes, but I’m helping people out for €3 a scoop. It’s usually a death in the family, or the dad has run off. Or the kid has something terminal. Sometimes I get dads, too, but they’re usually by themselves. Literally: that’s why they’ve come for a scoop. Cheering you… up! That’s the slogan. There’s a look on their faces when their feet leave the ground that makes it all worthwhile.

From the sky, there’s a delighted laugh, as two people collide. I hate that. I prefer to think of them as already gone once they lift out of sight. But they’re happy, that’s the main thing. I try to forget about the laugh, the collision, the headlines in the paper. They’re calling it “The Killing Field” outside Blamkenfelde, where the bodies come down again. What do they expect for €3? Nobody floats forever.

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Chess

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A traffic light with a red hand for pedestrians
Photo by Matej Sefcik on Unsplash

This week’s flash fiction is a slice of life, inspired by the streets of Berlin…

The Mercedes stuck half out of the parking spot on the road, blocking the cars driving by. By the time the driver came back, his windscreen sported a flapping yellow ticket. He drove off without noticing.

At the next traffic light, he spotted it. He had to interrupt his phone call with his friend to get out and confirm that it was really there.

The traffic light turned green while he stared. Horns rose around him. He didn’t notice. He had never had an accident! At least, he had never caused an accident. With all the lunatics on the roads, it was normal to have had a few bumps and scrapes.

The light turned red again. He gave the finger to the cars behind him, still beeping.

Beeping him for no reason. Idiots!

He crumpled up the ticket and threw it away.

How dare they?

He revved the engine and had to swerve around some idiot who had decided to cross the road right in front of him.

The traffic light turned green and the other cars started to move.

So. Bis nächstes Mal, wa?*

*Translation, Berlin -> English: Fare thee well, yes?

Texture

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Nakagin capsule tower, Chūō-ku, Japan
Photo by Raphael Koh on Unsplash

Another story about a call-centre (you can find the first one here). Enjoy!

The distorted buzzing of the telephone bored into his ear. Around him, the other telephone jockeys were hunched into their cubicles, headphones gripping their heads. He hadn’t made a sale all day, and the boss was watching him.

“Hello?” a granny on the line.

He was only getting grannies today, and they weren’t interested in high-speed ISDN internet, though they’d hum and haw if it kept him on the line. “Good afternoon, ma’am. My name is Ewan. I’m calling to let you know how you can surf even faster—“

“Ewan? My God, how have you been?”

“Fine thanks, ma’am. How are you? Wouldn’t you like to see how fast you can explore the worldwide w—“

“Did your mother tell you to call?”

Senile. Great. Time to hang up and hit redial. “Sorry, ma’am, the line’s not great. I’ll try again later with an amazing deal for y–“

“I’m not going into a home!”

“No, ma’a–“

“I’m sorry, but your mother’s a bitch, Ewan.”

The old woman sounded like his own Grandma. And his mother was a bitch.

“I’m afraid I have to go now.” He needed to make a sale.

“Wait! What’s it like there?”

“It’s fine,” said Ewan. “Nice people, interesting job.” Like Hell. But the supervisor was right behind him, his earphones on, listening in to calls. Best to play it safe and pretended he liked the shitty job.

“I’m glad,” she said. “You were my favourite.”

“Thanks.” Play along and get off the call. “You too.”

“The doctors say it’s inoperable.” She didn’t sound upset, almost proud that her sickness was serious.

“I’m sorry,” said Ewan.

“Not your fault, Ewan. Besides, it’ll be nice to see you again.”

“Sorry?”

“I’m quite looking forward to it. It didn’t hurt when you went, did it? At the very end?”

The sound of the call centre around him had melted into a roar dulled by the faux-leather pads of his headphones. She sounded so much like Grandma.

“No,” he said. “It was fine.”

He wasn’t sure which of them hung up, but the supervisor was staring, so he pressed the redial button and the buzzing in his head started again.

And I’m looking forward to seeing you again next Thursday for another piece of flash fiction!

High-pitched

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Photo by NASA on Unsplash

Hi all! For this week’s flash fiction story we’re going into space. Please fasten your seat belts and refrain from screaming. No one can hear you anyway!

The alien leaned over to offer me a drink. It didn’t taste good, but was better than a probe up the rectum. Business class!

“How long will it take to get there?”

The alien answered, but as I had my earphones in (they had Bad Boys II on the TV, and I watch that whenever I get the chance!) I didn’t hear what it said. It smiled though, so I assumed everything must be fine. I went back to my film. How jealous would Will Smith be right now?

If I seem chill, it’s because I get abducted all the time. Ever since I was a kid, I’m used to floating out my bedroom window and being sucked up into intergalactic hoovers. Never had a trip this comfortable, though. I think it’s because I have a photographic memory. I remember everything, so they don’t have to start from scratch every time.

Like I say though, this was the most comfortable trip I’ve taken. Normally I’m on a table lying on my stomach, trying to explain that humans don’t communicate that way. Please remove that probe!

Maybe I’ve been promoted. Perhaps I’ll meet the guy in charge. Or girl, of course. Or… whatever. I hope I get to see the whole film before we get there. There’s no point looking outside, it’s all just black universe out there. What, am I going to try to remember the way? Don’t think so.

Nobody believes me anyway.

Well, that was weird. I suppose it was like a thank-you trip, or something. They took me to their planet, showed me around. We visited schools, and they showed me their textbooks. In Biology, all humans have my face. You know those drawings? With, like, cross sections, and organs and everything? Male and female? They all looked like me.

And they gave me a silverish ornamental probe with a plaque, then flew me home.

I got the feeling it’s all over. Don’t know if I’m relieved or worried.

View

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Woman having a picnic at the top of a hill
Photo by Willian Justen de Vasconcellos on Unsplash

This week we’ve got a piece of crime flash fiction, with a nice bottle of wine, some chicken… and murder. Enjoy!

“The way I see it,” James tossed his apple core over the hedge into the next field, “it’s not murder if no one notices.”

I watched the town in the distance, all red roofs and sleepy chimney smoke from here. James would be a dangerous man to let loose on a town like that.

“I’m sure murder is always murder,” I said. He was trying to shock me. He loved to flaunt his big city cynicism when he came to visit.

“Not at all,” he swigged at the wine bottle, although I had brought glasses. “If you die in the middle of the night of a heart attack, but the doctor doesn’t check, then you’ve died in your sleep. Isn’t that the way everyone wants to go?”

“I’d rather go to France,” I said, but he ignored the hint.

“If you see a bird lying on the ground with a broken neck near a window, you think the poor thing killed itself, not that someone came around and killed it.”

“It would still be murder. Or cruelty to animals, or whatever.”

“In theory, yes, but it would be chalked up as an accident.”

“Do you think we could change the subject?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m sorry, of course,” said James. “I didn’t mean to go on. You know what I’m like.”

I did. At least, I felt I did now.

I knew he liked to talk and had all sorts of opinions, but usually I liked to listen. The village was boring, and I was flattered that he would come and talk to me – he was so intelligent – and then bed me – he was so handsome – but it only occurred to me now that he barely noticed me. He talked to me and bedded me for his own amusement.

Otherwise, he’d have known that I can’t stand any talk of animal cruelty. I could probably have stood the wine bottle up and he’d have talked to that.

I could have saved myself washing the glasses. I could have spent the day watching telly with Charles, my poor dumb husband, who I had killed in order to be with this arrogant fool.

Still, if he didn’t listen to me, I listened to him. It wouldn’t be murder if no one thought it so.

At least, I wouldn’t be the murderer.

“Shall we?” asked James, ready for the second part of our tryst, now that the talking was over.

“In a minute,” I said. “I don’t suppose you’d run back to mine to get me a jumper, would you? Don’t worry, Charles won’t see you. Oh, and a proper knife to deal with the chicken. The big one on the draining board. You might need to wash it first.”

“Sure.”

I watched him disappear down the hill to the village and tidied away all the evidence of our picnic, including the apple core in the next field. I thought about poor birds breaking their necks on windows, so I’d sound upset when I put the call through to the police.