Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

Flash fiction

Boils

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A book and a person sleeping
Photo by Conscious Design on Unsplash

Hi all, this week some tips on how to magically look better. Tip 1: read instructions carefully. Tip 2: don’t lose your head…

The Book said to lance the boil. But the Book said if he made a blood sacrifice he’d be taller. He was taller, but it had just stretched him, making him skinny, when his shoulders had been one of the things he liked about himself.

Still, he had a date with Shelley Summers tonight. Shelley Summers! He couldn’t turn up with gross spots on his neck.

He read the Book’s instructions carefully, watching for caveats hidden in the disturbing images of people lancing boils with machetes. The images were awful. At least he didn’t have spots there, though. It looked okay. There was no catch to this one. And if things went well, he’d distract Shelley from his weak shoulders by proving he didn’t have spots there.

The needle had lain in holy water, in view of the full moon, with foxglove petals crushed into it. He went over the spell: the words had to be right, and the pronunciation was tricky. He thought about what could go wrong and took his shirt off. It would be just like the Book to get rid of his boil, but have him greet Shelley – Shelley Summers! – In a pus- and blood-covered shirt. The tome contained powerful magic, but had a simple sense of humour.

He double checked everything again, took up the needle, and eyed it. When he touched the boil with it, the boil would disappear.

Simple, but after the last few spells he was nervous. If something could go wrong, it would. He put the needle down and wrote out the spell in large clear writing and stuck it up over the bathroom mirror. He hung his Tommy Hilfiger shirt back in the cupboard, where it couldn’t get splattered.

Everything was prepared. He picked up the needle, and took a deep breath, inched it slowly towards the boil.

He was nervous. Shelley would be here any minute. The needle moved closer.

The doorbell rang, and his hand slipped. He lanced his head.

Produce

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Children's beach tools, including a mould shaped like a foot
Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

Hi all, I’m back with another piece of slightly weirder fiction. I think this might be what the experts refer to as a “mood piece.” (They’re wrong, of course. This is exactly what happened, exactly the way I remember it.) Enjoy!

Ma hated it when Da went to the allotment. It meant she had no one to fight with. He’d sneak in, swap flat-caps at the hall stand and, with a soft click of the front door, he’d be gone again.

Me and Ma would have tea together, with the radio filling in for Da’s silent place. Her head twitched every time someone walked past the front door.

I wanted to have my own allotment when I left school. A patch of land, the cosy, tobacco-ey shed, a kettle, and glossy magazines of ladies in their knickers. Then Ma said she wanted a baby, and they’d disappear up to the bedroom, creaking the old bedsprings for hours.

Ma would come down to potter around for a while, angry in a happy way, which is as happy as she ever got, poor thing. I started going to the allotment. Took my homework with me, but mostly I just sat in the shed, smoking cigarettes. Eventually, I took to looking after Da’s vegetables. I’d bring them back in a crate and leave them in the hall. Ma would keep the vegetables with tattered leaves, or bruised or soft spots for us, and sell, or swap the rest.

It stayed like that even after Ma got pregnant. I’d thought Da would want to get back to his vegetables as soon as he’d done the business, but he stayed in the bedroom. The springs creaked all day and all night, even when Ma was downstairs. I got his old job at the factory and went to the allotment in the evenings.

It was a baby girl, plump as a potato. Me and Ma buried Da in the allotment one night. I buried his magazines with him, and a packet of cigarettes. Ma thought I should be around the house again for the young one. But I worried Da would get back up if I didn’t keep an eye on him.

My newest newsletter is released this Saturday. If you’re not signed up, then you’re missing out on: a short story; a fantastic live-stream recommendation; two very special offers, and more! This way to sign up, folks!

Thinker

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Red goldfish against a black background
Photo by Hanxiao on Unsplash

Hi all, here’s a super short piece of crime fiction for you. Enjoy!

The little pond out back kept him going, when things got him down. The goldfish needed him, pushing their way through the covering of lily pads which hid them from the birds and the midday sun. He kept the grass around it as short as a military haircut, so he could see any cats sneaking up on them.

The clear brown-tinged water was how he felt, the darting goldfish resembled his thoughts. Winters were hard. The fish were trapped – but safe – under the layer of ice on the pond. Cats and birds couldn’t get them, and they’d swim back up to him in spring. It was still company when he looked out the kitchen window; the pond thinking its own thoughts under the placid surface. He sat outside on those winter days that the weather permitted it. Staring at the hole in the ground, a permanent shout of surprise filled with water.

The fish were big in spring; they had found plenty to eat under the ice. In fact, they had nibbled away at the sheeting that kept the water in.

The water looked dirtier than usual. Something white shone through from beneath.

He set poison at the edge of his property until he could fix it. As well as the birds and the cats, he’d need to keep the dogs out now, too.

Außerdem: Herzlichen Glückwunsch und alles Gute wünsche ich Superfan Siggi! Prost!

Passionate

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A rusty keep out sign
Photo by Alex Pudov on Unsplash

Hi all, possibly inspired by the (unsuccessful) attempt to unionise workers at a US-based Amazon warehouse, we’re going to dive right in and tackle the complexities of industrial relations. Don’t worry, it’ll be fun.

The witch listened to the villagers murmuring outside until it started to bother her. “Come in, if you’re coming!” she called. And then, because it was her job – and being a witch was a union gig, she could get in trouble – she cackled.

There was a long pause before they filed into her office in the woods. “Close the door behind you, you’re letting the magic out.” The green twisting smoke pushed past people’s faces as they came in, as if it had its own plans for the day. The witch tried a smile to put them at their ease. It turned into another cackle.

“It’s about the frog’s legs,” said the delegation’s spokesperson, a large fellow with dainty moustachios. He pointed around the office walls, which held countless small bags of supplies, each with a cardboard backing which had instructions printed on the reverse side. Frog’s legs filled a large majority of the bags: they were extremely popular. “It’s got to stop,” said the man, who she recognised from earlier union disputes. He was the leader of the French chef’s union. “There aren’t enough to go round, we need those legs, too.”

“Sorry,” said the witch. “I’m required to sell ‘em. Union rules.”

“What about us? Some of our newer members have barely seen frogs’ legs.” A number of fresh faced chefs, barely old enough for moustachios, nodded nervously but with passionately flushed cheeks.

“Maybe you can tell us where you get your frogs from,” said the man.

She leaned closer. “I make ‘em,” she cackled.

“You wouldn’t dare,” said the large man. “We’re all union members!”

“Course not” she said. “Just… pulling your legs.” And she laughed a proper laugh and her eyes twinkled.

The representative of the French chef’s union counted his members when they got back to the village. But he hadn’t counted before they left, so he wasn’t quite sure if someone was missing. “Right,” he said. “How about we concentrate on snails, no one is using them?”

See you next week!

Morgan

Someone

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Hopscotch squares chalked on the pavement
Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

Hi all, it’s back to school for this week’s piece of crime flash fiction. Surely someone must have learned something…

Enjoy!

The jerry can of petrol, half charred at the edge of the football field, was the first clue. The remains of the school – and the headmaster, bound to his chair in the office – was the next. A tragedy (but everyone was relieved their children hadn’t been there when the fire started).

When the police couldn’t identify a motive or a suspect, the relief was leavened with a black forbidden feeling. It wasn’t one of the children? Not their child, obviously, but perhaps someone he knew, or his friends knew. There had plenty of troublemakers at the school, and the principal had been strict. There was seldom a day without detention. Had he been too strict? Had he perhaps been cruel? Had he, whisper it, been … bad?

Troublemakers were brought in to answer questions about detention. Investigators spoke to students and colleagues at schools he’d previously worked at, but there was no hint that anything untoward might have happened. No hint of why or who had burned the school down.

The school was rebuilt. Detentions were rare under the new headmistress. And the troublemakers returned, uninterested in careers, happy to get a job at the local garage or working on one of the building sites. Or for the fire brigade.

See you next week. Don’t be tardy!

Ginger

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An overripe rosehip berry
Photo by Mihai Moisa on Unsplash

Hi all, I’m back (one day late, sorry!) with a brand new piece of flash fiction for you. Enjoy!

Anything could happen. That was the fun. Alex put the itching powder into the spice rack. Maybe people would make funny faces as their mouths itched, maybe they wouldn’t notice. Or maybe it would taste great, and he could go on TV! One of those cooking shows that his mother liked.

The butterflies in his stomach, which had been fluttering all day, panicked as they sat down to dinner. He’d been in and out of the kitchen “getting underfoot” as mother called it, to see what she’d put the itching powder into, and it only occurred to him now, that if “anything” could happen, something bad might happen. His teachers often pointed that out on his report cards. “Needs to concentrate more,” “unable to think of the consequences of his actions,” “… lucky things didn’t turn out a lot worse.”

What if someone got sick? What if they got hurt? (These were two distinct things.)

It was bell peppers stuffed with minced meat, beans and feta cheese. And plenty of chili. They all liked spicy food, and the itching powder looked like chili flakes. So that’s where he’d dumped it all. And it was only now that he realised that he’d be eating it too. “Unable to think of the consequences of his actions.” Now he knew what that meant!

“I don’t feel well,” he said. It was a shame. If he got sent to his room, he’d miss all the fun.

“Well, eat half and you can be excused,” said his mum.

“I feel bad.” Was that his imagination, or could he smell the bitter itching powder mingled with roasted paprika and gravy? He pushed the red (potential) bomb around on his plate. His mom sighed. She didn’t want to say anything. The psychologist had suggested that he acted up to justify the bad reputation, a perfectly natural defence mechanism which he would grow out of. But still…

“Alex, did you…?”

He pinched his lips together and his cheeks flushed.

#

The itching powder didn’t work, maybe the cheese had gummed up the hairs (the powder looked like the seeds of rosehips). But she had blamed him. For nothing!

One day he’d be on TV. Maybe not a cooking show, but for something. She’d be sorry then. He jabbed at the bell pepper again, so hard that the plate cracked.

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