Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

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Question

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A burning glove
Photo by Tengyart on Unsplash

Here’s a little something to give the Work Health and Safety people nightmares! Please enjoy safely!

You only needed one finger to work the furnace that burned the bodies. Of course, you didn’t want people thinking you were clumsy. Seth sat in the machine room behind the oven on his break. The funeral home had kept him on out of a sense of duty after he lost the first finger. Seth loved the crackle and roar of the flames. When he died, he wanted to be cremated. Obviously: he’d already started cremating himself. He’d expected to feel it, though he’d lopped the finger off first: a “phantom pain,” but there had been nothing. He’d told Mr Sims the furnace door had done it.

He’d almost managed to keep the second missing finger quiet, until Mrs Sims said, “Oh, I thought it was the left hand it happened to?”

He told everyone he’d been too embarrassed to admit he’d lost another one, insisted the best thing to do was to get straight back to the furnace. Like riding a horse again as soon as you’ve been thrown. Seth reckoned it must have been when he threw in the third finger, and they kept him on, that they had become complicit. As long as he had a finger he do his job, nobody would say anything.

The flames were so bright. He was sure it must hurt, but it must be wonderful, too. To be dissolved by so much power. He’d have to keep his finger, but there were other bits he didn’t need.

This Saturday is Newsletter Saturday. This month my newsletter features the exclusive short story, “The Ladybird Queen”. Don’t miss any more!

Nimble

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A ship's mast against a red sunset sky
Photo by Sam Moqadam on Unsplash

Ahoy there! For this week’s flash fiction, we’re heading down to the docks to see what sort of creepy characters have been washed ashore. Enjoy.

The Crooked Boy climbed off the boat last, once the others had disbursed to seek fun in this new town they had discovered. The Crooked Boy was the navigator of the 50-foot sailboat, and was called “crooked,” because he could turn – crook – his neck all the way around, like an owl. (And because his idea of fun differed from that of the other boys too, perhaps).

He walked purposefully down a narrow alley he’d never been before. It stank of blood from the back of a butcher’s, and of piss from the back of an inn. He was soon among low houses, and when he saw an old grey-haired woman turn from an open window, where she had been stitching in the last of the day’s light, to disappear into her darkened home, he sprang onto her sill. He crooked his head around to check no one in the alley or other houses had seen him, then jumped inside, leaving his head twisted on backwards, so she couldn’t see his face.

Clothing hung everywhere, and the air was damp on his skin from all the washing, but she was quite alone. He followed the sound of her rummaging among pots in the kitchen. He waited in the kitchen doorway for her to turn around to him. His eyes, pointing back the way he had come, took in the clothing, and towels and cloths, with ornate crosses stitched onto them.

If she was religious, it would make it even better when she saw him and screamed. He waited.

“There you are,” she said. A warm hand took his arm and led him to the table, pushed him into a hard wooden chair. “They’ve been out looking for you. Here.”

Food slopped onto his plate. With his head on crooked, he could see potatoes in one pot and stew in the other behind him on the stove.

“If the wind changes, you’ll stay like that,” said the old woman, and the crooked boy uncrooked his head to face her. She pushed a heaped spoon of salty stew into his mouth.

“My boat?”

“All gone,” she said. “All gone, it was just a dream now.”

The crooked boy looked into the other room filled with wet clothes and funerary cloth with ornate crosses stitched onto them. He couldn’t read, but the letters under the crosses looked familiar, like the names of friends, and the smell wasn’t soap, but brine from the sea.

She had drowned all of them, so he could come home.

This week I discovered the 41256 podcast, each episode of which consists of various bits of radio shows stitched together. Relaxing, enjoyable, creepy, and very more-ish. Here’s episode 50: https://www.listennotes.com/podcasts/41256/episode-50-telling-them-HM4BteY3J52/

Party

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Bad make-up
Photo by Gregory Buzdyk on Unsplash

In this week’s piece of flash fiction a young girl dealy with love and peer pressure. Enjoy!

Rachel pushed the boy towards me. “This is Caleb,” she said.

I knew that. I’d had a crush on Caleb for a long time, the way he brushed his brown, messy hair off his forehead to reveal mischievous blue eyes.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” said Rachel, and left the bedroom.

I’d never done it before, but I was sure Caleb had. This was the last party of the year. Next year I’d be a Senior, and it’d be pathetic if I was the only Senior who hadn’t done it.

“I like your dress, is that… Zara?” I kissed him to shut him up. Would it hurt? I hoped it wouldn’t, but all the girls said it hurt first time. Mom said to wait, but the girls said it was better to get it over with.

Caleb sat next to me on the bed. His Adam’s apple stuck out, looking manly and vulnerable all at once. He was already a Senior, he’d be off to college next year.

“We can just talk, if you like,” said Caleb. I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down and decided to go for it.

“Let’s do it,” I said. “But…”

He leaned in close.

“Can we lock the door?”

“Sure.” He bounded over and twisted the key to the door of Rachel’s bedroom, dampening the make out music. Everyone was downstairs, listening to hear if I’d cry out. I blushed at the thought of going downstairs with Caleb afterwards. Would he hold my hand? The thought of it almost made me puke, and my cheeks burned red. He took his shirt off as he came back to the bed.

“Should I?” My voice shook as I shrugged my shoulders, asking if he wanted me to undo the buttons of my dress. God, I knew nothing!

“Up to you,” said Caleb. “I promise not to get blood on you.”

I felt his teeth on my neck and it hurt. I gasped, but didn’t cry out. He drank some blood. It felt like a lot, but I don’t know, maybe it was only a little?

Afterwards, I felt cold and mature. Rachel and the others gave us a round of applause when we came downstairs. I felt at my teeth with my tongue, but they didn’t seem different.

“It’ll take a little while for them to grow.” Caleb held my hand and brushed the hair off his forehead. I watched the Adam’s apple dance in his neck, licking my lips.

If you enjoyed that, you’ll love the exclusive short story planned for this month’s newsletter. There’s still time to sign up for that right here!

Must

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Eucharist: Wine chalice and wafers
Photo by Josh Applegate on Unsplash

In this week’s flash fiction we look at when “til death do us part” isn’t such a long time as one might think…

Getting married in the middle of nowhere was almost like a small wedding, in that none of my friends and family were there. Still I hadn’t wanted to get married at all. But Shelley wanted it so badly, and she was so sick that she could barely get to the church on her family’s Scottish estate.

It must be a Scottish thing that the groom is presented to the bride. Shelley stood at the altar, smiling – perhaps – under her veil. Definitely showing teeth, while her father held my arms and marched me up the aisle. I hadn’t realised how sick her family looked. Some of them look practically dead, their necks creaking as their eyes followed my progress to stand before the priest.
“Do you take this man?” he asked.
“We do,” replied the congregation. They advanced on me with knives and forks.

Shelley’s father was strong but a kick in the balls is a kick in the balls, and I twisted out of his grasp, avoiding Shelley’s teeth as she lunged at my neck. The church was small, I couldn’t avoid them, there were so many. I slapped away grasping hands and grabbed a knife, putting out its owner’s eye, ripping Shelley’s veil. The priest was trying to sneak up on me, but I pulled his stole around his neck and tightened it. His belly took the brunt of the cutlery jabbing towards me and I manoeuvred my way to the door. The wedding guests were sidetracked by the intestine’s – bishop’s purple – spilling from him, and I tossed him into their midst.

I drove as fast as I could, not stopping until, my body shaking with used adrenaline, the tins tied to the back of the car finally quietened.

In other news this week, I’m really enjoying Molybaron’s new album. Here’s a taster: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2NhjrElHZrI

Fair

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Two coconuts
Photo by Chris Liverani on Unsplash

In this piece of sneaky flash fiction we learn that our mothers – who told us to make sure we always had clean underwear on – were right. Enjoy!

“Roll up, roll up!” said the barker at the fair. And people did.

The governor sat in the bucket seat under the July sun, ready to be dumped into the tub of water for charity.

“Just a dollar,” said the barker. The line snaked around the rest of the stalls past the tea tent, the fortuneteller’s purple-curtained tent, all the way to the entrance.

Mrs Crenshaw dumped him into the water on her first shot. He struggled out, puffing and laughing insincerely. Mr Baker dumped him in again. There was no laughter as he climbed back into the chair.

“It’s for charity,” the barker reassured him. The Barker would hand people the balls used to hit the target, which sent the governor into the tub. And Miss Blakely, who was taking the money, would discreetly hand him a small stack of bills to tuck away.

The governor lived in a nice house, with servants, and twice as many cars as he needed. If he got dumped in the water a few times, it was just payback.

When he wasn’t able to climb out any more, they left the body to float in the tub.

“I think Mrs Crenshaw caught by surprise with that first shot,” said the barker. The people left in line, who hadn’t had a go, nodded angrily. They’d been looking forward to dumping the governor.

“Well – and remember it’s for charity – if Mrs Crenshaw would get in that bucket seat, then we could keep the fun going. What do you say, folks?” The people roared their approval, and Mrs Crenshaw was forced into the bucket seat in her underwear.

After an hour or so, it was Mr Baker’s turn.

There wasn’t much of a line left, so the barker called young Timmy Alan from the line, to make sure people kept paying their dollar – it was for charity – and he disappeared around the back with Miss Blakely.

They commandeered the governor’s silver Mercedes. The barker packed his and Miss Blakely’s belongings into the trunk.

The dunk tank was doing fine as they drove out of town.

Art

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Red paint on yellow background
Photo by Allec Gomes on Unsplash

Hi everyone, I’ve been to a few galleries in my time. There were several near where I used to work, so it was a good way to get a drink. But I never saw anything like this…

You had to show your cock to get into one of Breckham’s “things.” It was lewd or life changing, depending on who you asked, and just one of the reasons the critics hated him. I can assure you he paid more attention to the flash of a Patek Philippe or Rado on the wrist than what was being fished from between the steel teeth of the zipper.

The starkly white walls of the space were hung with kitschy gold framed canvases, all blank. The walls around them were daubed with neon paint. I was admiring the one closest to me: the blank square canvas the focus of a swirl of purple green and yellow that made me think irresistibly of water leaving a sink after a hippy had tie-dyed a T-shirt there, when Lena walked in.

I knocked back my wine and grabbed another one before the fireworks started. As always, Lena had taken the thing too far. She strolled around with not one, but two joke shop penises hanging over the elastic of her waistband. Breckham wouldn’t like that, but that was the point. When he saw her, he grabbed for the penises. She managed to hold on to one of them, and the thing turned into a bendy latex sword fight.

It looked good, but was clearly choreographed, at least to my eyes. But then, as his agent, I knew Lena was not just his most vocal critic, but also his business partner and lover. They fought their way around the room, crashing into guests now and again, until Lena had worked her way around to the table at the back where Breckham’s ink-filled phalluses stood. She grabbed a handful of the dicks and, slapping Breckham on the side of the head, knocking his glasses off, she raced around the walls squirting a glob of colour right into the centre of each of the blank canvases.

We made it into all the newspapers the next day. Not just the art sections, but the actual “news” parts. We didn’t sell any of the art. Breckham gave some interviews, magnanimous in agreeing that perhaps his art had become too phallocentric. We let that settle in, while I wondered how many zeros to add to the “defaced” canvases when they finally did go on sale.

If you’re signed up to my newsletter, keep an eye on your mailboxes this Saturday for a special Choose Your Own Adventure style short story. If not, sign up here to avoid missing any more!