Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

Flash fiction

Float

by

A girl with her hair floating in front of her face
Photo by Alicia Petresc on Unsplash

Kelly liked to annoy me in the cutest ways.
I wake slowly, I’m not a morning person. Sometimes she’d lean over me, with her eyes crossed and her tongue sticking out, her cheeks sucked in. I could tell from her freckles that it was her.
“Stop it,” I’d say, my heart thumping. “If the wind changes, you’ll stay like that.” She’d bite me and I’d tickle her. Our bodies ironed folds into the bedsheets. Mine were long and thin because I slept on my side. Hers were a swirl as she tossed and turned.

“Turn here,” she’d say, when we went out for a drive. She’d grin as I tried to navigate my way back onto the road we wanted without turning around. She kept her hand on my thigh. When the sun shone, her freckles were russet brown.
When she smiled, I wished the wind would change so she would stay like that.

It was our seventh anniversary, but something was wrong. We ate and wished ourselves another seven—and more—happy years. But it was her tight smile, the one that didn’t make it to her eyes.
She wore a yellow dress. I didn’t notice until we got home that she wasn’t wearing any underwear. I had insisted we sit opposite each other near the front of the restaurant because the view was famously good. You could look across the road to the stained glass entrance of the cathedral.

She was wearing a short nightdress, the black one. One hand up to hold back the hair trying to cover her face. Her other hand holding up the hem of the nightdress to show me what was underneath. I was full of beer and food. I closed my eyes.

In the morning I couldn’t find her. I didn’t have her number on my phone. Clothes. There were no women’s clothes in any of the cupboards, nor in the washing machine, though we’d done a load the day before and hadn’t hung anything up. I had to lie down. When I woke the wind was strong outside.
And there she was.

I think. Her eyes crossed, her tongue out and her cheeks sucked in. Trying to scare me. My Kelly, always trying to annoy me
This was the best prank yet.
I told her to stop in case the wind changed direction. She didn’t, and she didn’t laugh, and she didn’t bite the end of my nose. And I could see that she—it must be a she?—didn’t have any freckles either.

Scrape

by

A man walking out of a large empty concourse
Photo by jet dela cruz on Unsplash

I’ve hated these places since Croke got killed. Stupid. Got caught red-handed and tried to make a run for it in the Station. Cameras and avatars everywhere. He never stood a chance. Now I’m doing the same thing.

The curtains part in the info desk and the avatar looks up. Supposed to make it more human. Like Good Old-Fashioned People who answer questions. And sell you a ticket, if you’re a tourist. They are, without doubt, the creepiest thing ever.

“Good morning, sir,” it says. It waits for me to say what I want. Customers don’t like questions.

“I need to get out of here and I don’t have a ticket.” I need to get away from Rail Security. Actual people. I miss them talking to this piece of rubber. “I’ve dropped my ticket,” I say.

“I can’t let you out without a ticket.”

“I came from Centre. There was a commotion on the train.” Caused by me, I don’t add. “I don’t know where I lost it.”

“I can check the cameras for you.”

“Well, I’ve got this parcel, you see. It’s rather heavy.” It is. I have the jewels well wrapped up inside. “Do I really have to go all the way back?”

“I can’t let you out without a ticket,” it says, and we’re back to square one. Robo—effing—Jobsworth.

I give it an obscene smile. “I’m a foreign tourist,” I say. “This won’t look good when I go to the embassy.” Tourists are an endangered species.

I could swear the avatar leers. “A foreign tourist is someone who arrives from abroad for business and/or recreation, Mr Field.”

Christ. I look around. Talking to me?

“Mr who? My name is Gustav Flederson. Here.” I dig in my pocket. Let my face fall. “I… I’ve lost my passport.”

“I can check the cameras for you, Mr Field.”

“Mr Flederson.”

“Mr Field. Is your parcel heavy? You can leave it with me.” A hatch opens in the kiosk that the avatar occupies.

“I want to speak to your supervisor,” I say.

The avatar’s eyes dim. It spins on its chair, and I face the back of its head. Which looks the same as the front, but softened to make it look female. She has a yellow chip on her uniform to show she’s the boss.

“How can I help you, Mr Fie—”

“Mr Flederson. The other fellow was most rude, and he tried to take my parcel. Is this the way you treat tourists?”

“Mr Fiel—”

“Mr Flederson. I won’t say it again.”

“Let me apologise if you are unhappy with the service provided by English Rail, Mr Field. However, you need a ticket to leave the station as my colleague informed you.”

I say nothing. I am Mr Flederson and I will not say it again.

“Mr Field. If there is nothing else perhaps you can either show me your ticket, or else make room for other passengers.”

There are no other passengers.

She tries again. I stay quiet.

After 30 minutes, the curtains close and they are gone. Automatic timeout. I stroll through the gates, where the mechanism has been paused. The avatars have registered an anomaly in the system.

The City and Security people looking for me. They won’t catch me here. They have it all on camera and will try to work it out and close that loophole. But it’s not really a loophole, it’s the truth.

I live in the country, that’s where I got the name Mr Field from. I really am Mr Flederson.

Here on business and business is good.

Wide

by

Woman looking into the distance
Photo by LOGAN WEAVER on Unsplash

There aren’t many places you can go when you’re famous. Dalton booked this cabin. He says it’s perfect.
The landscape is naturally beautiful. Mountains in the distance, a lake out front. He says I can relax and do whatever I want. But I don’t want to be here. This is not my idea of a good time. The cabin is cosy, has all the modern conveniences. Almost as good as Hollywood. But there are no photographers. No fans. Nothing to do.
Tony got custody of our friends after the breakup. I got custody of the blame.
He knew what I was like when he married me. He told me it was what he loved. Someone to have fun with, who wasn’t just out for their career.
At some point he did want a career, and I was out of favour. Out of favour with him: my career took off. He couldn’t keep up. Dalton says I should clear my head. He has a few roles for me when I fly back.
I don’t know if I’ll survive a few weeks here.
I have two bodyguards and the driver who goes shopping. Dalton has made sure they’re all homosexual, so I hope they’re having fun in the guardhouse. I sit on the deck in the evenings and drink wine—nothing stronger—and wait for the sun to set.
It never does. We’re somewhere Scandinavian and the staring white ball never leaves the sky. Perhaps I could have done a better job juggling my career and private life. But this feels too much like prison. A panopticon.
I arrange with the driver that we’ll go to a restaurant at the weekend. He says there’s a nice place in town, which is just what I need. He sounds like Dalton. He looks quite a lot like Dalton too.
On Saturday, I get dressed. We drive off and I nod to the bodyguards. There’s another guy, too, that I “don’t know about.” He’s more Dalton’s spy than my bodyguard. The restaurant is fine. It’s nice to get out. I eat slowly. I have two desserts. I drink. More than I should, but not enough to get me in trouble with Dalton’s spy. Yet when we leave, the sun is still there. The driver takes me back to the cabin. I sit on the deck.
I met Dalton when I started in Hollywood. He said he would take a chance on me and he did. He still does. But now he owns me. Or treats me like he does.
I miss Tony. As he got older his adenoids became worse. The sound of his breathing when we sat together was infuriating.
I have a glass of wine.
The sun is still there.
It occurs to me that I should be glad I’m not here when it would be the night sky always. Stars sparkling. Northern winds. That might suit my mood.
I read scripts for want of something better to do. Dalton has his own plans for my career, and it doesn’t really matter which roles I would like. I’m a star, he says. But I’m not yet eternal.
I don’t think I want to be.
The sun out here is eternal.
It’s awful.

I head out to the guardhouse, look in the windows to watch the three men who look like Dalton. It’s not the scene of drunken orgies, which I had sometimes imagined. One Dalton likes to read a book. There’s either a film on the television, or sports. The other two watch it.
They nearly caught me last night. Branches lay on the ground. I crackled a couple as I moved from one window to the next. My plan is to sneak in when they’re in bed.
They have guns, which I don’t think is legal.
It’s exciting, though.
The driver said the seasons change soon, which means the sun will disappear.
That’s what I’m waiting for.
I’ve been to visit them a few times. They were surprised. I know the guardhouse inside out, I’ve picked my favourite Dalton. As soon as the sun is gone, I’m going to pay him a visit. I’ve unlatched his window from the inside.
I’m going to creep in and give him a surprise.
Liven things up around here.
As soon as the sun has gone.

Button

by

A swirl of green material floating against a black background
Photo by Max Kleinen on Unsplash

Imagine a lava lamp that had the power to kill the world. The green blob folded over itself, like the glass prison was too small. It had an entire glass-walled room to itself. An ink black eye in the centre. Occasionally the ribbons of its—brain matter, as far as we could tell—opened enough to show the eye. Then it disappeared again.
Sleeping, my boss said.
Thinking, said his boss.
Planning, said the military bosses, begging to try out their new weapons on it.
Dreaming.
The Growth had been the only survivor of the Hercules 12 launch. The bodies of the crew had been on board, but their minds had been left in the vast black distance between Earth and Neptune. Footage and computer readings are clear. The Growth was not on the space station, and not on the spaceship when it left for a routine supply run home.
When the ship landed it had been inside, a ball of muscle collapsed on the floor of the cockpit. Unused to gravity. We had found life, and it had destroyed a space mission, before returning to hibernation.
Dreaming.
The news was kept from the population to prevent panic. I stared at the Growth. Seaweed, swirling in its prison. Was it waking? It was moving faster.
What I really want to do is get into the liquid with it. It’s literally a space creature, unable to cope with gravity. It’s in a syrup, thick enough to counteract the pull of gravity.
I’m not allowed into the specimen jar, of course.
The eye is unreadable.
How did it kill the people on board the ship? The theory is that they saw the thing, opened the door to get it and then forgot to close the door properly. And the computer systems failed which is why there was no alarm.
Are there more of them? I think there is only one. This is part of it.
It’s been named already, but I have my own name for it.
Cthulhu.
He’s Dreaming.

Vagabond. Part One

by

Black and white drum kit
Photo by Martin May on Unsplash

Hi all, I hope you’re in the mood for something a little different? I decided I wanted to write a serialized story. So here we go. Part 1.

I don’t yet know how to write a serialized story, but I’m sure I’ll work it out…

Enjoy!

Chelmsford needed to get his trousers, but it was difficult with all these lovely people around. The cruise liner had passed through Panama yesterday. Chelmsford had blinked when the Captain had told him last night. But they must have gotten through without any damage. Perhaps Panama was a river, and not a country? It was definitely a hat, but they had hardly gone through a hat last night. Unless that was what the Captain had been talking through.

Chelmsford felt a flash of anger: the man had been testing him. Rude!

He wasn’t quite sure where they were now, there were only blue skies and sea around them. It was early in the year, though, and it was getting nippy. The evening breeze stroked his naked arms and shoulders. He was relaxing in front of the swimming pool on the liner’s deck, wearing only his bathing costume. They all knew who he was and wanted to hear about his exploits. Chelmsford loved attention, but his admirers were fickle. He was a martyr to it, really. It wasn’t like he was the only celebrity on board. There was even a rather amusing chap with a shocker of a moustache, who was also in the sleuthing business. Not that he’d stand a chance, if you stacked them up side by side in their bathing costumes! Chelmsford believed most strongly in mens sana in corpore sano, unlike many of his egg-head competitors.

One more story, and then he’d go. One more story, and then he’d hang around for a few minutes. Make sure these ladies weren’t in danger when they went back in the pool water. Then he’d go. Poor old Batty was in the cabin with a case of the tummies, and might need him.

He was woken by the Captain. The Captain looked worried and wanted a word.

Chelmsford nodded. He didn’t want to say anything in case his teeth chattered. The late evening was chilly.

“In private, if you don’t mind, said the Captain.

Chelmsford didn’t mind. “This way to my cabin,” he managed to say. Eyes followed the pair as they left the pool.

Batty was still greenish when they reached the cabin the two of them shared. He was sitting in the writing chair, which he had dragged from the desk to be nearer the ensuite bathroom.

“My dear fellow,” said Chelmsford. “I’d hoped you’d be sleeping. How are you feeling?” He pulled on trousers, shirt and sweater, and immediately felt more in control.

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

The Captain turned to look behind him. The cabin door was closed.

“We couldn’t find the drummer. The house band: Ferdie and his Utopian Tunesters… “

“Salvatore? God no!” Batty’s voice grew stronger in concern. Chelmsford noted with pleasure that it put some pink back into this friend’s cheeks.

“He’s dead. I’m sorry. We found him… his body… in the storeroom beside the gift shop this about half an hour ago.”

“The small gift shop on the third deck? Where the newspapers are distributed from?”

“Correct!”

“Where else? They won’t get away with this!”

“What?” The Captain sputtered. “How—“

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

I have abandoned my writing prompt rules for this, as I’m in enough trouble already. Let’s see what happens. If you think you’ve worked it out, please write in and let me know. Otherwise, tune in next time to find out how Batty solved the murder.

I mean, of course, how ace sleuth and handsome chap Chelmsford solved the murder.

Poor old Batty.

Locket

by

Stone sculpture of a figure
Photo by Christopher Ott on Unsplash

He lives in the cupboard. He comes out when mother cooks on the gas stove. My mother is always fully engaged in conversation with whatever she is cooking. A stranger might think she is talking to me, as she is using my name. But she never looks at me, and she doesn’t wait for me to respond.
“Nobody could have known, could they, Grace?” she says. “As long as it doesn’t happen again, Grace.”
“Your father will be upset if you let him down, Grace.”
She looks at the fried eggs the whole time. Her voice flows over me, as the little figure climbs up the tea-towel, and runs along the countertop. He somersaults into the sink full of water. Makes faces at my mother. Imitates her cooking eggs. He knows he went too far.


The kitchen is painted what my mother calls a “cheerful yellow.” I think it’s like being trapped inside the yolk of an egg. Flypaper with black fly corpses, like sprinkles of pepper. The little figure is made out of matchsticks, if you’re wondering. A red head and a skinny body. One snapped stick for arms, one for legs. He doesn’t have a name (he’s not the sort of friend you call. More the sort that turns up and then something goes wrong).
I smell smoke. I’ll have a bath. Matchstick man won’t follow me. He doesn’t like water. He’s climbing up my mother’s back and I wonder if he’s doing it to cheer me up, or if he just likes having an audience. He might not be my friend at all.


If it hadn’t been for him, I wouldn’t have set the church on fire.I wasn’t trying to burn it down, I was playing with matchstick man. I’d never heard him so happy as he stood on my shoulder, watching the flames.
There have been lots of fires.
“A vessel for evil,” is what the priest called me. Mother gave out to him. I’d done wrong, but she stood up for me.
Matchstick man is making fun of her. I don’t like it.
Where did he go? Take your eyes off him for a minute…. Everything looks okay. Ma had turned off the cooker, and the toaster is unplugged. I get up to lay the table and check in his cupboard. He’s not there. I feel a tiny movement on my back. I turn to look around at Da, who doesn’t do much except sit and stare since the accident. Too much smoke. The doctors said his brain is damaged. He’s staring at me. Or rather, he’s staring at a spot just over my shoulder. When Ma has sat down and the clatter of plates has finished, I can hear heavy breathing from my shoulder.
A lot of fires we’ve had around here.
Da’s eyes are bright.