Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

Flash fiction

Writing

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Glass walkway between two buildings
Photo by Valerie on Reshot

The editor’s on the third floor. His editor’s on the seventh floor, and the scheduler is on the eighth floor, but in the other wing of the building. I have to see the scheduler to arrange for the editor to read my manuscript, but first I have to visit his editor (that’s the one on the seventh floor) to find out when he has “capacity.” Then the scheduler will contact my editor to work out when he can check my last draft, and when he needs the next one. She can’t contact the editor’s editor because that’s the job of her scheduler, who’s been pinched by the marketing team in order to arrange for the bookmarks to come out in advance of the book. She’s still grouchy about it and HR don’t have time to get a replacement as they’re understaffed. She’s doing me a favour in even seeing me.

“Baskin has time on July the third, 2022”—That’s 18 months away. What am I going to do until then?—“but we need to lock it in with him now.” I keep my voice neutral, there’s no point in getting her back up.

“I don’t have time in July,” she says.

“That’s okay, it’s only me he needs to see. And I’m free.”

She sighs. “As per company memo dated…” She taps at her computer. She ignores the ringing phone. She ignores me. “…17 June 2020: ‘the scheduler may decide that their presence is required at author-editor meetings to ensure scheduled meetings are for the purpose for which they were scheduled.’”

“But what else what I be scheduling it for?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “But what are you going to be doing until then?”

“I don’t know.” I think. “Working,” I say.

She gives me a look. “I can do September,” she says.

“I asked about other dates while I was there. He told me July was the only window. Look, I can record the meeting for you. I just want to get my book out. It’s been—“

“We all want to get your book out, Mr Harlowe. That’s why we need to make sure everything is locked in. You’re hardly earning your advance running from one office to another. F_____ Publishing is carrying you and has been for quite some time. I can assure you we are most keen to see some return on our investment.”

“What if I helped out as an assistant? Between writing.”

“Oh, nice try,” she says. “Don’t think I haven’t heard that before.” Her mood is restored. “Now run back to Mr Baskin and ask again about September. If not 2021, then perhaps 2022.”

“2022?”

“Or 2023. Really, you’re wasting time. Hurry before the window closes.”

I walk back to Mr Baskin to find out if he will have time to see me in two-and-a-half years, so we can start editing my manuscript. The sun is hazy in the walkway between the two wings of F_____ Publishing. It’s cold outside and people scurry past on the street. It must be Christmas soon, and I allow myself to imagine that they’re all rushing back from the bookstore, eager to open the book they just bought. It’s got my name on it. An idle fantasy to cheer myself up. F_____ Publishing is still quite some way away from that. In the meantime, I help edit other manuscripts. Anything to help the editors get through the slush pile. And the scheduler is right. I’m not earning my money back. At least I’m helping out. Since the advance disappeared, I live in one of the dormitories where the authors live. I give myself a shake and keep walking. I’m glad I’m not outside, anyway. It looks cold, though I can’t remember what cold air on skin feels like. My reflection in the glass has grey in its hair.

Vagabond. Part Two

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An old black and white image of a cruise liner
Photo by Fylkesarkivet i Vestland on New Old Stock

Hi all, here’s the second part of my old-time crime serial. In case you missed it, here’s Part One.

The story so far:

“Never mind that,” said Batty. “Who’s died?”

“…the drummer. …”

“Salvatore? God no!”

…The Captain sputtered. “How–“

“Well, it’s not very difficult. Chelmsford? Would you like to explain it to our friend here?”

Now read on!

“I don’t know,” said Chelmsford. “I mean…”

“Everyone’s a suspect?” said the Captain. “Even me?”

Chelmsford fingered his moustache. He was in the most dreadful fix and couldn’t make up his mind what to do.

“Don’t worry Captain,” said Batty. “You were with Chelmsford last night. You’d hardly have committed a murder under his very eyes!”

“That’s right!” The Captain’s jaw dropped with relief. “Salvatore even interrupted us to ask about moving to another cabin. Said he couldn’t sleep with all the flies buzzing around.”

Chelmsford made up his mind. He was going to shave it off. “There’s Lady Watling, of course.” He spoke automatically, his mind far away, reliving happier times, when there weren’t other sleuths with moustaches. “Married to industrialist and philanthropist, Edgar Watling. Quite stonkingly rich in her own right, too.”

“Why should she be a suspect?” Outrage rang in the Captain’s voice.

“Salvatore was popular with the ladies,” said Batty. “And both she and her husband are very particular about their reputation.”

“Her husband Edgar is famously hot-blooded.” Chelmsford remembered the first time a lady had complimented his moustache. He’d still been in his short trousers at the time and had blushed from chin to hairline.

“There’s the Oscar-nominated actress, Estefania Harmilland,” said Chelmsford. He blanched at the thought that had just occurred to him. If he shaved it off now, his upper lip would look pale and odd.

“Salvatore and Miss Harmilland are business partners. In financial distress,” said Batty.

“There’s the Viscount Pearlbus.” Chelmsford hoped the Captain didn’t see how his hands shook. “Where’s the next lay over?” he asked.

“I rather like Pearlbus,” said Batty. “He’s a nice man but a terrible—in every sense of the word—gambler. Good point, Chelmsford. The next stop being San Francisco, this would be a crucial time for the Viscount to act, if he thought Salvatore were going ashore.”

San Francisco. Good. He could shave and get some tanning solution, book into the Palace Hotel with Batty until he was fit for society again.

“There’s Reginald Bluford, who’s been vying with Salvatore for years.” Chelmsford was enjoying himself. It would be a jolt, but he imagined returning to the pool, with a fine smooth upper lip. Checkmate! He’d be very interested to see how the other sleuthy-man reacted to that.

“Both Reginald and Salvatore have been competing for Maria’s attention,” explained Batty to the Captain.

Chelmsford could hardly wait to get rid of the moustache now. The other man would look positively shaggy with all that fur on his face! “Well, now, Bretand!” he said.

“The great detec… the other detective?” said the Captain. Even Batty appeared surprised.

“Why not? Everyone is a suspect, isn’t they?”

“’Aren’t they’?” corrected Batty.

“Aren’t they?” said Chelmsford. “He looks damned shifty to my mind.”

“I suppose so. The Queen did knight him, you know.”

“And there’s our Captain,” said Chelmsford.

“We said him already,” said Batty.

“True, but I don’t like how he’s sticking up for this other chap. Suspicious.” The Captain had been pacing the room up to now. At this, he slumped in the room’s other free chair, at the desk where he played with an unopened bottle of wine in its ice bucket. Chelmsford recognised the tune.

“Well, and there are the 400 or so other guests,” Batty said, waving his hand to dismiss the matter.

“But the case is in expert hands, Captain. You just let the authorities know that we’ll have a murderer ready for collection as soon as we pull into port.”

Time

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Woman in a blanket looking at evening sky
Photo by on Reshot Photo by Karly V from Reshot

Hi all, this is probably my shortest (flashiest?) fiction ever. Enjoy!

There was no mirror in the capsule. She saw a dark blur in the metallic surfaces but relied on memory to know what she looked like. Her hands told her she probably looked older than she thought.

The Terraformer loved to sit in the wakening landscape, and dream of all that would one day grow, but was glad that, for now, it was just her. Was glad it held no message. No faces in the clouds. No metaphor of winter death and spring rebirth.

The first rain was a sign. The second rain was confirmation. The atmosphere was turning. It would be habitable soon. There were several more years—at least—before the transformation was complete, but after this everything speeded up. There was vegetation within a year, animals after another.

They had been bred to be scared of humans, so the first settlers couldn’t hunt them into immediate extinction. She saw their faces in the clouds.

The hole to hide the capsule in was ready when lights flashed across the sky.

She locked herself in and drove into the abyss. The capsule would lie there, in the burning centre of the world, until the surface had been exhausted. Sensors measured surface conditions, and she would wake when the settlers had moved on. Re-birth the planet anew.

Tail

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Rusty sawblade against an apricot coloured wall
Photo by Joanna Malinowska on Freestocks.Org

This must be Hell. Sun smothered him through the grimy bus windows, as the driver rattled them over potholes and rubbish on shot suspension.

The woman turned to him, releasing the meaty smell of her dehydrated mouth. “You must be having a lovely time, Father,” she said. The question mark got lost in the clatter of the bus. His forehead was damp. “You don’t get to go out much.”

Again, it was not a question. He smiled a response, unwilling to open his mouth in case the smell of her breath seeped into it, God forgive him.

“You’re not making the most of things, you eat hardly anything. Not worried about gluttony, are you?” She laughed, her smell sprayed all over his face. He’d have to wash before he could eat. Of all his parishioners, why did she have to sit close to him, carve out these little moments to chat?

He wanted to enjoy the sun. Visiting the Vatican City had been special, returning the long way to England had been the wrong decision. His parishioners were getting rowdy as they sampled wine and food.

The bus pulled up outside a rundown white cottage. The windows were narrow and dark, rusted equipment guarded the open door. A horse nodded its head, its skin shivered on its flanks. Father Michael took a breath of air when he got off the bus. Manure from the farm, hot diesel. It was better than the decay on Mrs Hellingway’s breath.

A man came out of the house and surveyed them. They filed in, the last stop before the boat. The tiny cottage had a large kitchen with a single table taking up most of the room. Two benches, one on either side, used up the remaining space. The cottage floor was packed earth. Father Michael wanted to make sure he was near the door. The man came in and left with an extension cable, one end plugged in.

He should have been paying attention to the seating order. He was with Mrs Hellingway again.

“Father! Jeanie tells me you’re a vegetarian.” She pronounced it “veget-hair-ian.” Was she sick? Father Michael held his breath and nodded. His secret was out. Everyone turned towards him.

“Ah no, Father!” said Mrs Joyce.

“My grandson is one of those,” said Mrs Bently.

“He sure is,” said Mr Joyce, to a slap on the arm from his wife.

“But Father, no wonder you look so pale,” said Mrs Hellingway.

Outside, the shadow of the horse was getting jittery. It kicked at the ground. The man said something. It sounded like a threat, but Father Michael didn’t understand Italian. The language sounded vicious at the best of times. Could no one else smell Mrs Hellingway?

“What about the Eucharist?” said Mary Fellowes, one of the younger parishioners. She looked worried. Father Michael leaned towards her to put himself outside the miasma surrounding Mrs Hellingway. “It’s not literally the body of Christ,“ he said. “Only symbolic.” She looked worried still. Perhaps she had missed the last part; outside, a saw was screeching.

“Surely the Good Lord put the animals here for us to use?” said Mrs Hellingway. “You’re the expert, of course!”

“That doesn’t mean we have to eat them.”

The Italian woman who was to cook for them stood listening.

Her husband came in with a metal tub. Father Michael smelled the blood and his stomach flipped. He stopped talking.

“They are tasty, though,” said Mrs Hellingway. Her breath wrapped itself around him, mixed with the smell of blood. He blacked out.

When he woke only the Italian couple and Mrs Hellingway were still there.

“The others have gone on,” she said. “You feel better.” It wasn’t a question.

He did. On the oven, pots bubbled, but Father Michael wasn’t hungry. He must have been out for some time, if everyone else had eaten and left. There was blood everywhere. Sun warmed him through the cosy windows. Flies buzzed. The earthen floor was soft, though he should get up soon. He stood, patting dust off his clothes. There was blood spattered all over him too. Perhaps the man had spilled the tub on seeing the priest fall over? Outside, the air was fresh. There was a puddle of blood where the horse had been, a belt floating in the middle of it. He looked closer. Not a belt, a tail.

“You didn’t have to eat them, you know,” said Mrs Hellingway.

“They were so tasty,” said Father Michael, without thinking. In the deep end of the puddle were rings, earrings, bracelets and necklaces.

Veil

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Photo by Shane Rooney on Reshot

Elgin brought the plane to cruising altitude. The hard part is over until she has to nurse it back down. The co-pilot is bent over his meal to keep crumbs off his uniform trousers. They are already shiny with grease from his hands and age. Her own trousers are sharply pressed. She bought them two months ago, though the old ones would have done until retirement.

The co-pilot is one of the boys and doesn’t care what anyone thinks. He thinks he’s casual, easygoing. A good laugh.

His belly sits on top of his belt buckle. He’s retiring too, but he’s not looking forward to it. No more trips out East where company can be had cheaply. He has a flat in the centre of London. Elgin has seen it in photos of parties with other pilots. All men. Elgin has a house in the country. Small, but there’s some garden around it. She was glad to get it. Every time she went on maternity leave, a huge bite was taken out of her pay, out of her bonus hours. She had to fight to get as high as First Officer. By the time she had paid back the training fees, the youngest had finished college. Free as a bird at last.

“What’ll you do?” The co-pilot means: when we land in Peking. He’s just making conversation, he has no intention of inviting her along to whatever it is he has planned. He wants her to answer quickly so he can tell her about it.

She knows already. Not the details, but it’s “off to a club, then a massage, then an old girlfriend or two.” The word girlfriend stressed to put quotes around it. Girlfriend, you know what I mean?

She has an image of one of his abandoned “girlfriends” and feels depressed.

“Read,” she says.

He scoffs. “Well.…” He tells her everything. She’s not listening but can tick the keywords off on her fingers.

His name is Horn. His surname. He’s an easy-going bloke, but don’t make the obvious joke about his name. He doesn’t like that.

The stewardesses call him Captain By. As in “Horn by name, horn by nature.” As far as Elgin can tell he doesn’t mind, because he thinks that’s the Captain in Mutiny on the Bounty.

“What’s the last book you read?” she asks, when he finally shuts up.

“Don’t have time.”

A Mr Men book? That’s unfair. He had to read in school. Lord of the Flies, perhaps.

She can’t help a glance at his lap. The bulge of the zip pokes up—barely—between belt buckle and thighs, dusted by the crumbs of his meal.

Of course he notices that.

And of course he misunderstands it.

But he doesn’t say anything. He’s not going to risk his pension for her in these hysterical #MeToo times. But she can feel satisfaction emanating from his overfed body.

***

They stand at the door of the cabin to say goodbye to the passengers. As far away from each other as they can in the small cramped space. The humidity of Peking, leaking into the disembarkation bridge, is shocking.

Then the plane is empty, and it’s time to leave.

“Bye,” she says. A question.

“Bye,” he confirms.

Lying

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Yellow corn stalks against the sky
Photo by Kristen Colada Adams on Unsplash

I mentioned The Yellow Wallpaper in my latest newsletter. It’s easy to see the influence of it on this story. Still, at least we’re out in the fresh air. Enjoy!

No roads, just yellow stalks waving around me. The trail peters out after a few meters. The field closes up around me. Crickets rub their legs at the base of the corn.


I follow the sun because there are no other features. The field goes on and on, nothing to aim for. Then I realise the sun moves. I think I’m heading north. North is cooler than South, and the sun has baked the sweat out of my skin, and made my clothes itchy. I duck down and tunnel through the corn to get away from it. Crickets rub their legs around me.
I know I’m hallucinating when a chicken darts in front of me. Getting hungry, I suppose. I want to chase it but I need to keep to my path. There’s a system in the field. It’s not obvious, but I need to go left around this next corn and right around the one after that. I need to stay on my path. I wonder if the chicken is doing the same. The thought blows my mind. I get back on my knees and crawl. Right around the next stalk, twice anti-clockwise around the next, and left around the one after that. Got to stay on course.


I love it down here. I can barely see the sky. Crickets rub their legs above me.


The way. Is the goal.
That keeps going around my head. The field goes on forever.
I’ve seen more chickens. I saw a rabbit. There are mice, too. I ate one. Ha ha! I’m not chasing mice, I’m not crazy! It was dead already.


The crickets rub their legs. Night is drawing in. Cold. I keep going. Forward. And down. I pull up the dry earth. It’s soft and warm. The field goes on forever in front and behind. But if I go straight down? It’s hard. The roots are thick and it’s hard to tell if I’m on course. But the way is the goal.
I can’t hear the crickets, just the patter of loose soil spilling over me as I head into the ground. Away from the sun, away from the field. It’s nighttime and I’m ready to rest.


Violet is a mile from town when she finally gets reception on her phone. She calls the garage. She calls the police, David has been gone so long. Their car broke down near a cornfield. He said there was someone in it. He got out of the car. The figure ducked down. Then David ducked down.
They find the field with their car beside it. The farmer gives permission to search, but there’s no sign of David. No sign of anyone. She stands at the roadside.


The car has been repaired, and the crickets rub their legs. She hopes against hope that David will come back. She gets in the car.
Wait.
There!
Someone is in the field, waving. She gets out of the car.

That wasn’t too bad, actually.

Oh, thanks!

Yes, we were surprised.

Hrmph. Thanks.

Just one thing, though. What was wrong with the car?

I don’t know…the carburettor?

What was wrong with it?

It was…empty?

You haven’t a clue, do you?

It’s not about the car!

If you respected your readers you’d have researched that, though.

I did. A little yellow light came on and they kept going instead of taking it to the garage, which they should have done.

Was it the oil light?

No, it was the engine check light. And if they’d taken it to the garage they’d have found out it was error code P0217 signalling an Engine Over Temperature fault.

So they were driving a Suzuki, were they?

That’s right. And I’ve established that it was a hot day in the story so they really shouldn’t have been driving with a fault like that.

Well, they didn’t know, did they?

No.

A lot of people don’t understand enough about cars. They’ll drive them, of course!

Yes.

And this mechanic in the middle of nowhere just happened to have the spare parts for a Suzuki handy, did he?

No. But it was only a small coolant leak. He patched that up, topped it up and that did the trick. Violet will have to take it to an authorised Suzuki dealer when she gets home, of course.

Of course. Good story!

Thanks!