Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

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Reductive Surgery

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Black and white line silhouette
Image: Reductive Surgery by Morgan Delaney

Hi all,

another piece of writing prompt fiction. As befits the topic I had to make a lot of cuts to get this one looking good. The prompts are given below the piece (but can you find where I’ve hidden them in the piece?).

Enjoy!

Pretty comes later.

They come for help but they’re looking in the wrong place.

Beauty is only skin deep, they say.

I nod and tell them what I’m, going to do.

I hate the phrase plastic surgery though it suits the people who come to me. Fake. Disposable. Pathetic. Until I turn them into art.

I give them a number and tell them how much it will hurt and they call.

I tell them it can go wrong and they call.

You can make me pretty, they say.

No. Pretty comes later. First we find your soul. And they think I mean that beauty is only skin deep.

It’s not. Beauty goes all the way through to the bones. Skin covers up beauty. Skin is the enemy.

Fashion comes and goes in waves, art lasts forever. When preserved.

I have them all, beautiful bones, matte organs, spiderwebs of combed tissue.

You’ll be famous. I tell them. You’ll be a work of art.

Will I be pretty?

First we find the message only you can give to the world.

Will I be pretty?

First I take you apart, then I put you back together.

You won’t survive.

Pretty comes later.

The prompts were

number
lace
cover
waves
pat

Puncture

by

Trees at the roadside, dawn
Photo by Branimir Balogović on Unsplash

Hi all,

here’s another piece of writing prompt fiction for you. I’m going to start tagging the genre so the archives are easier to navigate.This one is “Horror”.

You know the rules by now: 20 minutes, no editing apart from changing typos and punctuation and deleting.

Enjoy!

Rain taps on the roof. The headlights pick out a hedge, the trunk of a tree. The light is too yellow, the contrast off.

The car is half on the road, the hedgerow impaled between the bonnet and the tree. The windshield wipers squeak across the glass. The car is warm inside but there’s a draft. From the driver’s side window, which is cracked, a triangle missing. The engine hisses and the bonnet pops as it cools.

There are three people in the car. The driver, the person beside the driver and the person in the back. They wear seat belts. One is breathing jaggedly, lungs avoiding broken ribs.

Look around, blink, look again and the scene comes into focus. It doesn’t make sense. The dark, the yellow lights, the noise of rain, the weird angle of the car. Then: the pub; the drinks; the offer to drive the two girls home.
The sudden movement as the car crested the small hill.
The weightlessness as the car aimed itself at the ditch beside the road.

His neck was sore.
Please, God, not broken.
The girls. Maura beside him, Siobhán in the back. He called, his voice drowsy with shock. He couldn’t see her, couldn’t turn his head, couldn’t get the seat belt off.
“Hey!”
Did she move?
“Hey!” Movement behind him. “Siobhán?”
He could hear breathing. Thank God, they had their seat belts on. And it was only a little bump. Just ran off the road trying to avoid a… what was it?
A flash of white before the car had lifted off the road. Singing. Keening.

Maybe they’d hit… whatever. Or a fox in heat.
Behind him. Keening.

In the mirror. The banshee on Siobhán’s lap. She rocked and wept as she sang.
Life, coming out of Siobhán’s mouth. The old woman sucked it in.
And Siobhán started to sing.


And Maura started to sing.


And the old woman, dressed in white, her tangled hair muddy with blood crawled across the dead girl.


And he was singing, too.

Second chance

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Candles in a row of glass bottles
Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

Hi all,

another piece of 20 minute writing fiction for you. The prompts are below the piece. Enjoy!

The jar cracked before Mel could pull it out of the saucepan.
“Shit!” She dropped it onto the messy counter. Blew on her fingers as she checked the cupboard. Two more jars. “Shit!”
Bryan was slapping the plastic table of his high chair, his head lolling as he followed the movement of his arms. He squealed, looked in her direction and smacked the table again.
Hungry!
She poured cold water into the saucepan, ignored her phone. She couldn’t afford to mess up another jar.


“Ya, yaya, yayayaya!” said Bryan.
Don’t look at it, Mommy, he was saying, look at me drumming.
Bang, bang, bang. He paused and the excitement drained out of his face like warmth into a black hole.
Hungry. That’s all.
The jar. She checked with her finger.
Scooped, tasted.
Disgusting.
Perfect.
His head wobbled as she went to him. Staring like he had no idea who she was.
It’s me, Bryan. You know?Here. Every day. Me. me.
“Here, you go, Bry! Yummy!” She put on her friendly voice but his face crinkled and he started to cry. He didn’t like her.
She breathed, rested her forehead on her left hand, feeling the pressure on her skull.
The stink of sweet carrot and chicken in her nostrils.
Bryan getting louder and louder, his nose dripping snot into his mouth. So when the phone vibrated it was natural to pick it up.
Get away for a moment.


He’d swiped back! She could contact him, take it further.
Why not? Next time would be better.


The jar was cold when they finished chatting. She got off the couch. Confused. Holding a small jar of crap.
There was noise in the kitchen. But she didn’t want to think about that.
Something she didn’t want to think about?
She had to get ready.
Big date. The start of a new life.

I think I might have overdone it with the exclamation marks and italics, etc. but…I think it works. Let me know what you think.

The prompts were:

hole
friendly
jar
disgusting
finger

Hot Air

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Yellow flowers. No, I don't know what they are.
Photo by Sergey Shmidt on Unsplash

Hi all,

another piece of writing prompt fiction for you. This one is slightly different. I took a random plot generated by https://www.plot-generator.org.uk/story-ideas/https://www.plot-generator.org.uk/story-ideas/ and gave myself 20 minutes to fill out a Save The Cat style beat sheet.

I think I got everything, let me know what you think.

You can find the original randomly generated plot prompt below the piece. But first, sit back and enjoy a story that probably won’t be coming to Disney Plus any time soon.

Reis is the fastest fairy in Turkey. And the smallest. His metabolism means he can’t eat much nectar without farting – an unforgivable insult among fairies. He prefers eating petals anyway. Weird!

In the opening scene he is excited about the upcoming school Sports Day and zips around performing stunts. At snack time he mumbles that he is full already and needs to practice more loop-the-loops. He flies into the forest to watch his friends laugh and play while he chews on a petal. Hasim, the school bully arrives. His friends laugh at Hasim’s jokes about “pipsqueak” Reis.

Reis has to get inventive about why he doesn’t eat so much. At school he pretends he has forgotten homework and has to miss lunch so people can’t see how little he eats. At home he dumps his nectar into the beak of Alekzummder, his pet hummingbird. During his big date with Selma he is so smitten that he actually eats nectar. Luckily Alekzummder is on hand to help cover up the ensuing commotion!

On Sports Day Reis slows down to give his friends a sporting chance. His coach is furious and says, “I see what you’re doing, Reis. You won’t get away with it forever.”

The nectar crop fails. Reis is as quick as ever but the others need the nectar for energy. Even Hasim is so slow that Reis dares to answer back to the bully. He is shocked when Hasim almost manages to catch him afterwards.

Reis feels bad about his friends suffering while he is okay. But as a “pipsqueak”, what can he do? When he sees Hasim speeding home when he thinks no-one is watching, he decides to follow him.

Hasim has found a field where the flowers are not affected and there is plenty of nectar. He is gorging himself. Reis tries some to make sure that it really is nectar, then stuffs his pockets and satchel to take it back to the others. He plans to dump it outside the school as he is still embarrassed about not needing nectar himself.

Hasim discovers nectar is missing and has no difficulty following Reis, who is farting from the nectar he tested. Hasim gets close enough to taunt Reis and a high-speed chase ensues. When Reis takes a shortcut through a tree trunk that Hasim is too big to fit through he thinks he has gotten away.

But Hasim has not given up. He catches up while Reis is waiting in the treeline for a chance to drop off the nectar, unseen. Hasim tells Reis there is a mistake, they shouldn’t be enemies. The two of them are very similar: they do not eat like the other fairies. Reis farts and rather than being offended Hasim promises to keep it a secret in return for Reis keeping his secret.

Reis is ashamed at the unintended insult and is even grateful to Hasim for promising not to mention it. He follows Hasim back to the field to return the nectar he “stole”.

On the way Hasim tells Reis that his friends think he is a “pipsqueak” anyway. Reis recognises the moment he witnessed and realises that his friends were being manipulated: like he is being manipulated now. He determines to bring the nectar to his friends after all.

He throws some nectar and Hasim dives after it. Reis is off, faster than ever. But Hasim is fast too, supercharged by years of nectar, despite his lazy attitude. To prevent his secret stash being discovered Hasim gives it everything he has and he might even be faster than Reis! But Reis is the better navigator and manages to burst into the clearing where his friends are barely alive. Reis tosses the nectar into the air and it floats down into their open mouths. Success!

The final image is Reis flying around his friends as they head off for a snack. The fairies eat their nectar, while Reis proudly munches on a petal. They finish and all of them fly straight up into the air afterwards: propelled by farts and giggles.

The prompt was: “The hero is a fairy from Turkey who is destined to save the world. The nemesis is a fairy who eats too much. The hero gets the upper hand using brains and brilliance.”

Finicky

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Photo by Dovile Ramoskaite on Unsplash

Hi all,

another piece of writing prompt fiction for you to enjoy. The prompt this time was the above picture to be used in conjunction with a random word as the title. Finicky.

The usual rules apply for my writing prompt fiction. I get 20 minutes to write it. When it comes to cleaning it up and editing I’m allowed to change typos and punctuation and delete stuff. That’s it.

I’ve included one example of a change below the piece, it would have given it a very different tone!

‘Dirty!’ Ken slapped the counter top. He was almost retiring age. His fingers were thin.
Behind the counter the young man bowed in apology and took the bowl, moved to the kitchen.
Bill could feel the weight of people’s eyes. Ken had always been fussy and was growing into the stereotype of himself.
Mr Clean.
Ken Clean.
The spotless CEO.
Bill could see a speck of dandruff on Ken’s collar.
‘Can you believe this place? Dirty bowls!’ He wiped his finger along the counter, peered for a smear of grease. Nothing. He scowled at the server, returning with his noodles.
The grumpy man, a regular for the last thirty years, had started coming when he was driving the trucks. He’d bought the company after a decade and his empire had been expanding since. Rubbish, recycling, painting. Crematories. Anything that made the place cleaner.
He was looking to get into renewables. Clean energy.
A drop of soup hung from his lower lip. Ken dabbed it.
‘Where’s your old man?’ he asked when the bowl was empty.
‘Sick.’
It had taken him a while to recognise Sinshu’s youngest: ‘The air here is bad,’ said Ken. ‘You tell him I said he needs to get better soon.’
Ken stood and put his hands in his pocket. Bill quickly reached to pay instead. It was expected.

They strolled back to the office. There was still work to do. Always more work to keep the place clean.
‘What did you think?’ Bill asked.
‘Let’s do it. Organic is the future. Cleaner.’
‘And if they won’t sell?’
‘You take care of it, Bill. No need for both of us to get our hands dirty.’

The original version said

“…Ken, who stood up and put his hands in his pocket. Bill quickly reached in to pay instead.”

I changed the second sentence to

” Bill quickly reached to pay instead. “

Why? Read it again.

See? The word “in” makes it sound like they were both reaching into the same pocket. Mr Clean would not have liked that!

Hate

by

Photo from barnimages.com

Here’s another piece of 20-minunte writing fiction (20 minutes, no changes allowed during editing except fixing typos, puntuation and deleting). The prompt was the above photo and the title (Hate), courtesy of my usual random word generator.

Enjoy!

…hate.”

Marthe stood behind the curtain.

The men were in the dining room; her husband; the General; his aide and soldiers.

A wisp of hair tickled her cheek. She pushed through the curtain into the dining room.

They sat with glasses of aperitif. The General was pulled up right in front of the flames, his face rosy, his neck sweating around the stubble of his shaved neck. His men, twenty years younger—this would be their first war—were all handsome. Strong limbs, tidy uniforms and open faces. The General’s aide jumped up and helped move plates aside for her to put the casserole dish down.

The casserole was full of meat. A present from the Germans, as was the aperitif they were drinking. The dining room, which had been their youngest’s bedroom until he had been taken prisoner, was crowded with the table, the chairs and the men around the fire.

“It smells delicious,” said the General.

Marthe nodded acknowledgement.

“We are lucky to be here in such a comfortable home, with such a fine cook.” His men slapped their thighs in agreement. The silver ladle clattered against the casserole dish.

After they had eaten the first few bites, the General piped up again. He drank too much. But the last lot had pissed in the garden and eaten everything in the house without buying back.

“We were talking about the hostility in the town. The General spoke directly to Marthe.

“It’s understandable,” said Marthe. All eyes were on her. “A lot of people have suffered. Things are not easy.”

“But we sit here together – all friends! I don’t see why people are hostile. There’s a war in Germany, too. Throughout Europe, in fact. You French have come out rather well!”

“The thing about hate…” Marthe speared a piece of ham and held it up as she thought. “…it’s not rational. People hate what they hate. Or what they are afraid of.”

“Surely you are not afraid of us?” said the General.

Her son, her neighbours who had been rounded up as Communists and Jews, the shortages that made her accept his food. “Not afraid, no.”