Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

Fantasy

10 Ways a Leprechaun Will Kill You

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An upside down photo of a woman walking through a very green field
Photo by Matthew Henry on Unsplash

Move with the times, they said. Be more modern, they said. So I did. I am. This week’s post is a list. The internet loves lists!

You’ve messed up the picture, though. Or is that “modern,” too?

It’s upside-down on purpose. To make things seem weird and unsettling.

Do you think I’m going to turn my computer upside down, just so I can look at the picture the right way up?

Well. Just the monitor, perhaps?

Yeah, right!

You could read it on your phone with auto-rotate turned off. But it’s supposed to be upside down.

Read it on my phone? How the hell should I read it on my phone? Do phones have pictures over where you are? Over there in, in, in… in the future? Is it on the telly with the Jetsons you live, is it? Ha!

*Morgan turns to you and winks* Sounds like I’m not the only one who needs to move with the times, eh, reader?

1. Leprechauns are small, but heavy (leprechauns are small because they are heavy). Avoid passing under trees where a leprechaun might be intending to jump onto your back. Leprechauns are really heavy.


2. If you do catch a leprechaun, let him go as quickly as possible. They are radioactive.


3. Do not offer to dance with a leprechaun. Leprechauns love to dance. They will continue to do so, long after you have expired from exhaustion, twirling your battered body until your soul seeps out through the cuts in your skin. The leprechaun will then use it to form a piece of his gold.


4. Never date a leprechaun’s sister, never whistle at a leprechaun’s dog, never cross the road in front of a leprechaun. According to their code of honour, these things are punishable by death. The last thing you see will be a leprechaun sitting on your chest, crushing the life out of you. (Leprechauns are heavy.)


5. Leprechauns are composed of iron. Avoid carrying powerful magnets in densely populated areas.


6. Never use a leprechaun’s gold to bribe a banshee: it’s a con. They are all in it together, and you will only draw attention to yourself.


7. Avoid swimming after a leprechaun has been in the water: they leak and are noxious to humans.


8. Never touch a leprechaun’s hat. Like dogs, leprechauns seldom look up, so he will bite first and ask questions later.


9. Never enter a rainbow. Although they look pretty, you don’t know where it’s been, or who was in it last. Ask the leprechaun to move the pot of gold out of the rainbow before touching it.


10. Do not make love to a leprechaun. Their idea of love differs drastically from yours. (And if it doesn’t: they are very heavy.)

Parable

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The nib of a gold-coloured fountain pen
Photo by MJ S on Unsplash

This week’s piece of flash fiction is a parable about parables! Is that deep and “meta”? Or just plain irritating? You decide!

There were once two parables. One prized honesty, truth and beauty above all things. Her teachings were designed to help those who heard her. The other cared little for principles, much preferring to be comfortable and have the things she wanted. She liked attention and told people what they wanted to hear, so they would listen to her.

One day, while resting in a glade, they saw a handsome young man. The first parable thought his beauty a form of truth and fell in love with him. The second thought that it would be gratifying to have such a handsome creature admire her.

The young man prized truth. He also prized simplicity, which attracted him to lies, which are easier to understand. His friends and colleagues now wondered at the young man, who was suddenly gifted with a silver tongue, able to supply a suitable tale or aphorism for every occasion. And if one tale did not suit his audience, then he had another which would, for both of the parables gifted him with their wisdom to win his admiration. Unfortunately, he was unable to discern which tales came from which parable, and lacked the intelligence to work it out for himself. As a matter of fact, he was not at all aware of the parables’ attention and sometimes found himself wondering what was happening to him, to suddenly know so much.

Nonetheless, he enjoyed how people asked for his opinion, and assumed that he was helping them with his advice, because he was pure of heart. (He was pure of heart, it was just that he was also rather empty of head.) His fame grew to such an extent that he became rich and famous, printing books and t-shirts and posters. And he met a young girl and fell in love with her. She was kind and beautiful, as well as clever. She found it cute that he was so innocent despite his reputation, though sometimes she had to bite her tongue.

The two parables realised they had lost the man for good and hated each other. Each blamed the other for what had happened. The parable which prized beauty believed it was the lies which had sent the young man away on the path to fortune, and the parable which loved comfort and attention believed it was the insistence on truth which caused him to fall in love with the young woman, who was so beautiful and honest.

But, for all they could do for others, the parables were unable to ever decide which of them was which, so they decided to blame the young man and the young girl instead, which was anyway both the truth, as well as being what they wanted to believe.

Did you know I have a brand new book out? And it’s nothing like the story you just read? It’s called The Phoenix and currently (Thursday, the 14th of October 2021. Morning.) the No. 1 download in three separate charts on Amazon? Check it out here!

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.

Not signed up to my newsletter yet? Well, it’s too late to get the next edition, due out this Saturday. But if you’re quick, you can still be among the first to learn about The Phoenix, and take advantage of a very special offer!

Form

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An aging model of earth
Photo by Mohamed Ali Saidane on Unsplash

In this week’s piece of flash fiction, I attempt to explain things. What things? Well, how about everything? Enjoy!

“I can’t let you onto the site. Sundays are double-time, and the boss won’t like that.”

“Come on, man!” God didn’t need this right now, still hung over from the night before, and tomorrow was the deadline to get the job done. “I just need a couple hours to finish things off. You won’t even notice I’m there. Nobody complained about yesterday.”

“You were here yesterday?”

“No, just… just messing around with a couple of the monkeys.”

The supervisor sucked in a deep breath, shaking his head. “More than my job’s worth,” he said.

“What happens when the whole thing falls apart in a couple thousand years?” asked God. “‘Cause you wouldn’t let me on site?”

“That’s your problem, buddy. I’ll be in some other dimension by then.”

“What about ‘taking pride in your work?’”

The supervisor laughed.

“Look, this job has been a tough gig from the start, there are some major flaws that need to be corrected.”

“And yet you spent yesterday playing with monkeys?”

“Man, they’re the next big thing, I’m telling you. Some of those guys are almost intelligent.”

“Well, explain that to the boss when he turns up, maybe he’ll give one of them your job.”

Gravel crunched outside. The powerful thrum of the boss’s engine reached them.

“Here we go, Lucy’s here.”

The door opened, and the owner of Lucy’s Fair Construction Company walked in, all smiles. “We looking good?” he asked. He was a big man, and charming. It was hard not to tell him what he wanted to hear. God and the supervisor just nodded.

There we go, that explains everything, I think? See you next week!

Forces

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Painting of two ladies whispering beside a sleeping man
Photo by Birmingham Museums Trust on Unsplash

To introduce this week’s flash fiction, I’m going to paraphrase the beloved English poet, Mick Jagger:

You can’t always get what you want, but sometimes you get what you deserve.

What (the hell) am I talking about?

Read on!

It came from the girl. The pull was irresistible. She shifted position in her cage, and the chains she wore for market auction clinked.

Kat pressed up to the cage’s bars and stared, drinking in the lank hair, the dusty face and worn clothing of a labourer. The girl’s mouth moved, as if reciting something.

This was the first time Kat would buy servants for her family’s household. It was her present on her 16th birthday, she could by whoever she wanted.

More than anything, she wanted this girl. The handler opened the bidding at 100, half what Kat had, and she needed to buy half a dozen servants. Then the handler, with a quick look over his shoulder, corrected himself: 20. She waited, made herself wait, for the handler to start cajoling. When he was almost pleading, she lifted her purse. He pointed, confirming the offer. The girl’s eyes were on her, her mouth moved. The need pouring off the girl was magnetic. She’d likely not last long. She was barely 10 or maybe 12 under the dirt, but she was her present. Sweat coated her nervous hands when the handler released the girl. Kat took her with her as she bid on the other servants they needed: a man for outside, two girls for the kitchen, a woman for laundry, and a boy to serve her father, who hated that women so outnumbered him in his own home. The girl would be Kat’s servant once she’d find out how to stop the girl’s move mouth moving. The girl stood respectfully behind Kat. The breath from her mouth made Kat uncomfortable.

Her family remarked on the similarity between the servants Kat had bought, and congratulated her, like she had displayed great judgement in purchasing a matching set. And there was something forceful about them. They would last a long time.

If only they’d stop whispering.

See you next wee—

You’e back to the weird stories again, are you?

You found it weird?

We found you weird!

Thank you! That’s probably because you’re normal.

That wasn’t a compliment.

Correct! See you next week.

(Both parties exit the stage, muttering under their breath)

Set

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A dark bar with two upholstered benches
Photo by Carson Masterson on Unsplash

Welcome back! This week’s story is about a mysterious group of men who seem to have figured things out…

They called themselves The Gentleman. The name, I feel, was aspirational. Three large men who played dice at the back of Hoagie’s bar each Thursday.

“Another round for The Gentleman” called one and the waitresses would play their own games of chance to see which of them had to deliver it. Not bad men, not cruel. Just wrong.

Hoagie had tried closing on Thursdays. But The Gentleman came, whether the bar was open or not, and he felt it would be dangerous to leave them unattended, unwatched.

We all assumed they were dead. Ghosts, or some such, and there were legends about how they had been regulars and kept showing up, even after death. No one believed it. They had never been here before they started showing up. If you know what I mean?

But maybe there were some secret to the game they played. Their dice rattled like bones. It put one into a certain style of thinking.

I don’t think many men would mind “living on” drinking and gambling, so Hoagie took notes. A big notebook full of numbers: dice throws and the eyes that landed face up. Even got an overweight kid from the University to look at them, but there was no sense that anyone could see.

Holly started rolling his own dice. I just picked out dice and laid them face up on my table. The kid from University had some formula how many dice he needed each throw to copy the numbers the Gentleman had thrown.

After a while we started doing it at the same table, sharing our results like gentlemen.

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