Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

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A step back

by

Photo by Julian Hochgesang on Unsplash

Hi,

here’s another piece of 20-minute fiction. Unedited apart from typos, punctuation and deletions. The writing prompts follow after the piece, enjoy!

She dropped the glossy magazine on the table. Her breath tasted of coffee as she sighed. It was over.
She’d tried everything to get back on the cover. Then just to get into the pages of the gossip magazine.

Nothing.

Her life was over. No one wanted to know. She wasn’t famous any more. Just a person. Cherry cried, pressing her phone to take a photo, then let it drop. It didn’t matter. She had followers but they weren’t watching her any more. If she killed herself they might glance at the photo. No more likes though.

She let the sobs judder up from her belly, shaking her, alone without anyone watching. No >HUGS< or >Luv U< to make it better.


He’d told her he’d finish her off if she left him. And he had.


She couldn’t resist checking his feed, knowing that it was another hit for his traffic. Bastard.


He looked happy. Wearing BanderaS. They’d worked on that deal together. Now he was getting the goodies, lying around in BanderaS ShortS and TeeS. Pouting at the poolside with BanderaS ShadeS. At least she didn’t have to deal with the ridiculous capitalisation. Hopefully he got arthritis from enforced use of the shift key.

He looked vulgar but pretty, like all famous people.
Like she used to. Cherry Kosimo.

Or Sarah, really. Just Sarah. She washed her face, her eyes puffy.

She still had to eat. No one looked at her on her way to the shop. Not like they should. She felt like an imposter, being herself. Her mind kept looking for ‘grammable moments but… there weren’t any. Just real life. Boring old nobody-cares reality. The air smelled of hot concrete, warm on her face. A bee buzzed around her, padding fuzzily against her fingers when she waved it away. The bakery was open. She bought a coffee, the cup warm in her hands, ate a bagel.
Cherry K, what are you doing? Carbs?!? LOL
But she was Sarah. She could do what she wanted.

A woman, lined cheeks, fawn-coloured hat and jacket was pushing at the shop door. It was too heavy and Sarah pushed it for her, holding it.
The old lady turned to Sarah. “You’re an angel, pet.”
I am, thought Sarah. I’m an angel in real life.
She lifted her sunglasses, rested them on her head. From behind their screen the supermarket, staff and customers sharpened into focus. Boring old real life. But real.

The prompts were:

famous
effect
sigh
vulgar
cherry

Dear Famous People,

I apologise. I needed to use the word “vulgar” and that’s just what came out. Sorry!

Regards,

Morgan

For better, for worse, for whom?

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Photo by Debby Hudson on Unsplash

Here’s a piece of writing prompt fiction. This is a 10-minute “deadman’s switch” letter prompt. This is from one of Tim Clare’s weekly writing prompts, which you can sign up for here – you can never have too many writing prompts.

Dear James,

it’s about time we talked. Please forgive the nature of our “discussion” but some things I could never have said to your face. I hate questions. Always have, as you know.


I was sick for a long time. You know that too. I apologise for wasting your time with things you know. I’m working my way to the core of the matter.
When I started losing my hair. That’s when it started. I was sick and losing my hair, feeling terrible. Shortly after you started coming home late, working at weekends. Sleeping at the office so as “not to wake you.”
I was sick, James, not stupid. I knew what was happening.


When you lost your job I didn’t go looking for someone who could spend money, get me the things I wanted. So it hurt. When I got sick you went and found someone healthy. And then she died and you came back for a while.
You never realised I was getting better. I wasn’t physically sick, just sick at the sight of you, at the feel of your skin, your hangdog look when you accompanied me to the doctor.


Well. I’m fine now, James. And I’m so sorry you feel bad. Hurts, doesn’t it? And the gnawing worry of the last day.
I look forward to when your pain is over. That life insurance policy should make up for a lot.
There’s no point worrying about it, God has a plan. That’s what you used to tell me.

So lie there and close your eyes. Once I’ve finished reading this to you I’m going to burn it. No don’t get up,


Goodbye.

King of the Hill

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Photo by Stefan Stefancik from Pexels

20 minute writing prompt fiction.

As well as the usual deletions and typo and punctuation corrections I had to re-type one of the sentences. I had deleted an entire final clause as unnecessary and slowing the pace then realised that it included one of the prompts. I tried to put it back from memory as best I could.

The prompts are below the piece. Can you work out which clause was deleted and had to be re-inserted again? What would YOU have done?

He kept the needle pointing to 60. Time to get out. His lights were off, only the faintest grey light near the horizon. There was the sound of a shotgun behind him. A howl. He’d been missed.
The village was one street, barely large enough for the lorries that thundered through it. He prayed he wouldn’t meet one coming the opposite way. There was a slope, every time he went around a bend the air felt fresher. The motor was straining. Jeff’s hatchback was the only vehicle he could get at such short notice. Another hum. More vehicles. He navigated the hairpin bend – called the Scissors locally – and looked back. No lights. They wouldn’t need them, they knew the area. Probably knew where he was going too. Would there be someone there already? Villagers with pitchforks now had mobile phones too. He had no choice but to move. While he could.
Another twist and he couldn’t see anything, the hill had risen up to blot out the sky. Almost there.
His heart thumping fast, his breath shallow. His body urged him to hurry but he needed to ditch the car. It would buy time later. There. He’d left a white painted signpost opposite it. He pulled in, branches snicked and whipped at the car, scrabbled at the metal,scraped along the windows. The car bounced into the gully and he grabbed the signpost, threw it under the car so no one else could use it.

The whine of the other engines was getting closer. He kept his arms in front as he looked for a way around the trees. If he could get past them into the field he’d have a clear run almost up to the cairn. Just had to make sure he didn’t take a tumble on the rough damp ground or get his eyes poked out by one of these branches.
He found the dry stone wall, flopped over and ran to the next, the slope the only indication of direction.
He heard the cars go past. The road got worse and they’d slow down more and more. He could still outpace them. If they caught him it was over.
He paused, the moon was returning. He could see the ground better but it made him more visible. No matter, they were coming anyway. Would they kill him or just blow a hole in his leg? Nobody was innocent in this game but things had gotten out of hand. He ran, expecting to feel the blow of a bullet. He cracked a twig underfoot and almost fell.
Just meters away and he could taste victory. There was the old Celtic cross where it was buried.
Extreme geocaching, best sport in the world.

The prompts are:

move
twist
innocent
use
tumble

Conspiracy theory

by

Photo by Pixabay from Pexels

Here’s another piece of 20 minute writing prompt fiction. No changes except for typos, deletions and punctuation. The prompts are below the piece.

I picked her pocket. A phone in a leather case with a monogram. A packet of tissues, moulded to the shape of her thigh. No money. You can get lucky with guys, a nice wallet and a phone in one go, with women it’s either a phone or a wallet. Let’s face it, their wallets (or purses if you want to discriminate) are massive slabs of plastic and paper. A friend of mine, another pickpocket, applied for disability benefits. Did his shoulder in lifting women’s wallets. Boom, boom.
I stared at a window display, an oversized bottle of vitamins, until she had disappeared from view. I pulled the phone out of its handsome black leather case. Android. Unlocked. Yes!

I scrolled around, read the last text she had received then turned off the power so she couldn’t track it.

Hav U Got IT??

Could have been anything, probably some book she needed to return to her friend. The streets were emptying, everyone scurrying into their office for the day. I bought myself a paper cup of coffee. 60p from a newsagents. Christ, how do they make it that bitter and that weak at the same time? But it was hot and sitting on the bench near the bus stop with a cup of coffee is as good an alibi as anything. I played with the packet of tissues, scrunching it up in my hand. It released a faint flowery perfume.


The paper cup was getting soggy and I spilled some of the coffee down my chin. I balanced it on the rounded seat of the bench and pulled out one of the tissues, mopped myself up. No stain on my t-shirt. Good, Nike shirts aren’t cheap. There was something else in the tissue packet. A little folded up piece of tinfoil. So she’s a party girl, is she? Checking there was no one watching I unfolded the silver. It wasn’t drugs inside though, it was a small… like a circuit board I suppose. I wrapped it up again. Tinfoil and circuit boards don’t go well together. What was she thinking?

Nobody else passed by so I made my way to a friend (another one) and dropped off the phone. Got a measly fifty quid for it. Minus business expenses of 60 p, that’s a profit of £49.40. And that’s a good day. I’m not in the high-tax bracket, I can tell you. I didn’t give him the little circuit board. No reason, except that he wouldn’t have given me any real money for it and I wanted to have another look at it.

I checked it that night after a late shift: a gent’s wallet. Only thirty quid but a clean transaction. No messing about with middle men, etc. I had a deep frozen margarita pizza, one of the ones that comes on a piece of extra cardboard so it really rises. Like fuck it does.

I turned the little circuit board over. There was …well, not writing exactly, but some kind of ink on the back. I thought it was Chinese but it wasn’t any kind of writing. I used my own phone to take a picture then zoomed in. It looked more like a design. Not decoration though. I had this pain in my stomach. I normally get it when I’m stressed, like I was missing something. If I could work out what it was then I was sure I could learn something useful. (Like don’t pick women’s pockets in future, right?)
I couldn’t sleep that night, my brain kept twisting the little board around, like it was a Tetris block. I could almost understand it. I got so into it that I actually answered the door when it rang at about 2 am. The woman. She went through the house and straight to the bedroom. I stood in the hallway, face to face with two other women. When she came out she had the little circuit board in her hand. She pressed the side of my neck gently. Almost fondly. And then I don’t remember what happened ne…

I picked the guy’s pocket. Cash and a vaper. Not bad. A woman strolled down the street. I had the oddest sensation that I recognised her, but then it was gone. She was busy, I could…

I let her go. More trouble than they’re worth, women’s pockets.

The prompts were:

handsome
reason
measly
learn
ink

Mr. Duncan will see you now

by

Photo by Steinar Engeland on Unsplash

Here’s another piece of writing prompt fiction. I wanted to write a longer piece so this is 3 x 20 minute pieces. I’ve added “—” to separate the three pieces, the prompts are below the piece. As usual I haven’t edited except to correct typos, punctuation and delete.

The bell clicked. The white plastic button popped out of its black casing.

I wiped my finger on my trouser leg and waited. That was as good an excuse as any. If he doesn’t answer the door there’s not much I can do. The door was as plain as the house, as plain as all the houses in the street. There were no curtains, not even net curtains. The windows lurked around me. It kept me at the door. In front of the door I was safe, I stood so the windows couldn’t see me. As soon as I moved away I would become visible to the square eyes of Duncan’s house. I could hear breathing. Slow and quiet and deliberate. I realised it wasn’t mine when I held my breath to hear it better. The house was breathing.

That was silly. I leaned in closer, my forehead almost on the matte brown paint. Then I knelt down, my face in front of the letterbox.

“Mr. Duncan?” I said. The breathing continued and the hairs on the back of my neck rose. I looked behind myself, expecting to see the neighbours rowed up behind the sparse railings of the property, grinning.

I lifted up the yellow flap of the letterbox. Two eyes, pale, watery blue, very large staring at me.

“Mr Duncan?” The shadows in the hallway resolved, he was grinning at me, though it didn’t crinkle his eyes up.

He stood, for an awful moment I expected him to be naked, exposing himself through the letterbox, hiding his grin behind the door.

There was a rasp and a click and then a quick squeak as he drew the door back. That’s what it looked like. He didn’t open the door, he drew it back.

I didn’t want to go in though he was – thank God – dressed in clean jeans and a red and grey patterned knitted jumper. His hair, lay flat on his head and he still had that grin.

“Well, come in,” he said. His eyes stayed large and cold.

“Mr. Duncan?” I put my hand out.

“You can call me Terry.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me inside, slapped me on the back and led me to a wooden chair in the kitchen. There was only the one chair but he insisted I take it. He leaned over the sink. There was the inner tube of a bicycle tire and a pedal with the reflective strip missing on the table. Not on newspapers but right on the wood, specks of grease and dirt everywhere. Somehow it made him likable. He wasn’t the weirdo I was worried about. Just a bit idiosyncratic from living alone so long. He did what he wanted. A lot of guys—married guys—have it worse, right?

There was still that smile on his face. That smile began to get to me.

“So Mr. Duncan-“

“Quit that,” he said. “It’s Terry.”

I started over. “Terry, I’m here to-“

“You want to see it?” He came over to the table and put an arm around my shoulder. He was too close.

“See what, Mr…Terry?”

—

“It’s in the basement.” He started to move to the kitchen’s back door. He twisted in the doorway preventing me from seeing anything behind him. “Ah, ah!” He held up a warning finger. “You wait here.”

I looked out the kitchen window. The square of garden was neat and tidy but plain. There was a carpet of grass, on the longs side but not unkempt. A tree in the corner where two lengths of the gray brick wall met. That was it. Duncan had lived here for over thirty years, there wasn’t any sign of character. A milk bottle stood on the metal sink, rinsed. There were still milk bottles? I hadn’t seen one in a long time. I moved to the door Duncan had disappeared through and leant. There wasn’t a sound.

And then there was. A muffled tapping. I pushed my head against the door to hear better. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. What was he doing? I waited like that a moment and then went back to the window. I wasn’t going to be caught spying on him. I sat down and looked at the pieces of bicycle. Now I couldn’t avoid the irritating noise. I started to tap my foot to drown the sound out. The rhythm changed and I got the same feeling I had as when I was at the front door. I was being watched. I found my eye drawn to the keyhole of the back door. Surely not?

The feeling intensified. This was hellish. I just wanted to do my job and get out. Where was he?

The keyhole was big and there was still plenty of daylight, should the keyhole be quite so black? I couldn’t ignore it any longer. I knelt in front of the door and whispered. “Mr. Duncan?”

There was a chuckle on the other side.

“Can you come out now, Mr. Duncan?” I said, my armpits sweating from discomfort at the situation. So he was non compos after all.

“Mr. Duncan?” I put my ear to the keyhole.

“You have to open the door,” he said, his voice low.

“But I’m not allowed to look. You said.” I didn’t want to play.

“So close your eyes and open the door.”

I did it. For a moment I imagined all sorts of horrible things. A naked, aroused Mr. Duncan. Mr. Duncan with a sword. Mr. Duncan with the head of his dead wife. But mostly I just felt stupid and demeaned, as if I was a slow child he was condescending to play with.

—

When I opened my eyes Duncan was holding open a bag of sweets. He had stopped grinning. I put my hand in the bag which was cold and sticky from dust. Individually wrapped sweets: liquorice, apple, caramel, too-sweet strawberry. Damp through their wrapping. He turned and led me down the hallway to the cellar door. I didn’t recall that there was cellar for the property but there was the door, a naked incandescent light bulb glowing against bare concrete walls.

He stood aside and motioned me in. No way. I shook my head and his grin came back.

He walked in and down the wooden steps, fumbling in his bag of sweets. After a pause I followed him. His teeth squelched on his sweet as we went down. He turned once and I caught a delicious whiff of fruit salad as he spoke.

“Nearly there. Shame you didn’t bring a camera.”

“I have this.” I showed him my mobile phone, which was getting sweaty in my grip despite the underground chill seeping from the walls around us. He nodded vaguely.

Then he disappeared into the black in front of us. I could hear him giggle as he ran away, giddy with delight. My stomach churned and I glanced behind myself to make sure the stairs were there, the light still on.

That was it. As much as I needed him to sign the paperwork there was no way I was going through this any more. The last two times he had been behind a door. Now there was no door. It was pitch dark in the basement and he could be anywhere, sneaking around and behind me to scamper up the stairs while I tried to find him.

“Mr. Duncan, I’m going.” I spoke decisively, raising my voice against the oppressive hush, the smell of earth that was drowning out the smell of concrete. “If there is someone who looks after you, please make another appointment for a time when they are also here.” I shouldn’t have said that, but the darkness was getting to me. The darkness with those large pale blue eyes in it somewhere.

I took a step backwards. I could hear my father’s voice as he looked at my school report.

“You’ll never be an achiever,” he said. Mam swiped him on the arm with the dishcloth. “Like me.” I wasn’t expecting good results but thought we’d head out together for a pint to celebrate the end of school. As far as I remember he went out and I stayed home, re-reading some comics, old enough that they no longer left print on my fingers as Mam clattered around in the kitchen.

“This is it,” said Duncan. From behind me. Behind the stairs. He weaved his arms through the gaps in the wooden stairs. “Now you can see…which of us is faster!” At the top of the stairs I recognised the little bag of sweets. The light bulb dimmed.

“Run!” He waved his arms through the slats, his fingers bony and strong. The light went off.

The writing prompts are:

slow
plain
likeable
immense
pedal

—

skillful
hellish
ignore
committee
milk

—

achiever
delicious
pause
decisive
giddy

There are too many passive and long-winded constructions (” I could hear him giggle as he ran away, giddy with delight.” instead of “He giggled giddily as he ran away.”) But that’s what editing is for.

I like the use of the senses (smell, touch, etc.). This was something I wanted to improve in my writing so instead of wondering “what happens next?” I now ask “what is that smell/sound, etc?”

Growth

by

Two green tomatoes
Photo by Sophie Dale on Unsplash

Here’s a 20 minute prompt exercise. I didn’t edit it apart from fixing typos and punctuation and deleting a few words. I put a bit more effort into trying to add specific details to appeal to the senses as I mentioned in a previous story post. At least in the first paragraph, then I got into the story.

The prompts I used are below the piece. Enjoy!

The scalpel slid into its pocket in the cloth roll.
“He’s adamant.” The doctor shrugged as he spoke.
Georgia’s hands left damp traces on the creased black leather of her wallet.
The doctor counted with her as she pulled out ten pounds. A two pound note, five single pounds. The rest in change. The wallet released lavender as she scraped through the coins. The jingling turned to clinking as she emptied them out.

Payment per visit, not per cure. That was the rule.

“Will he..?” She watched him tuck the coins away into his richly patterned frock coat. A deep inside pocket, three ivory buttons to close it.
“He’s as comfortable as I can make him. Without operating.” He rolled up the velvet lined roll of instruments and tucked them into another pocket.
“He probably shouldn’t scratch it but if it asks him to, well…who knows?”
Georgia followed him to the door, feeling oafish in her starched white linens, muddy from housework, muddy from farmwork too. The doctor stuck the toe of one riding boot, scarlet leather with the high heels that were so fashionable and swung his other leg gracefully over the horse’s back. There was a green and black patterned rug tied onto the saddle for him to rest on. The horse was new, too. He’d had an old white one. This was a gleaming black creature with bands around its thighs. He raised a hand in dismissive farewell.

In the bed Hannie waited for her. He was in trouble, he knew that. But the oil the doctor had given him had had a relaxing, therapeutic effect and he looked forward to have her scold him. Once it was fully grown he’d have an extra pair of hands to help him around the farm.
“Another mouth to feed,” said Georgia.
The growth on Hannie’s neck moved its eyes to follow her around the room, opening the curtains, tidying away the basin and towels the doctor had used to wash himself after examining her husband. It couldn’t see her she was pretty sure, its eyes weren’t yet ready, they glistened like wet raisins.
“How could you?” said Georgia.
“It was an accident,” said Hannie.
“But why won’t you let the doctor take it?” She sat on the edge of the bed. The far side from the lump that was already recognisable as a head.
“He has enough of them already.”
“I was happiest when it was just the two of us.” Georgia took his hand.
“You’ll learn to love it.” Hannie smiled down at the lump on his neck.

The prompts are:

adamant
rich
scratch
oafish
therapeutic