Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

Flash fiction

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!

Exhibit A

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Hi all, last week I promised a very short piece of flash fiction. So here it is. I tried writing a poem a few weeks back and it was really hard, so I wrote a shopping list instead. Enjoy!

A shopping list scribbled on a serviette. The items are: 6 bottles of wine; 2 bottles of vodka; 4 bottles of bleach; bin bags; rubber gloves; a steak knfe; a meat hammer; ear plugs; air freshener; cheap offcuts with bones and dry food for the dog; foot powder; toilet paper, and cigarettes
by Morgan Delaney

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Six

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A pile of broken watches
Photo by Heather Zabriskie on Unsplash

Today’s super short piece of flash fiction is all about time. Which is why it’s so short.

On the first day, the sun was a blessing. After a long winter, the sudden heat was welcome.

On the second day, the sun was oppressive. It didn’t used to hang so low in the sky.

On the third day, the sun was hotter still. No one went outside.

On the fourth day, no water came from the taps.

The fourth day became the fourth night, at least according to the clocks. The sun rested on the horizon.

On the fifth day, everyone was silent. Throats were dry, and no one had enough moisture to even sweat.

On the sixth day, the sun swallowed the planet whole.

If you think this story was short, wait until you see next week’s piece. See you then!

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!

Chess

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A traffic light with a red hand for pedestrians
Photo by Matej Sefcik on Unsplash

This week’s flash fiction is a slice of life, inspired by the streets of Berlin…

The Mercedes stuck half out of the parking spot on the road, blocking the cars driving by. By the time the driver came back, his windscreen sported a flapping yellow ticket. He drove off without noticing.

At the next traffic light, he spotted it. He had to interrupt his phone call with his friend to get out and confirm that it was really there.

The traffic light turned green while he stared. Horns rose around him. He didn’t notice. He had never had an accident! At least, he had never caused an accident. With all the lunatics on the roads, it was normal to have had a few bumps and scrapes.

The light turned red again. He gave the finger to the cars behind him, still beeping.

Beeping him for no reason. Idiots!

He crumpled up the ticket and threw it away.

How dare they?

He revved the engine and had to swerve around some idiot who had decided to cross the road right in front of him.

The traffic light turned green and the other cars started to move.

So. Bis nächstes Mal, wa?*

*Translation, Berlin -> English: Fare thee well, yes?

Texture

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Nakagin capsule tower, Chūō-ku, Japan
Photo by Raphael Koh on Unsplash

Another story about a call-centre (you can find the first one here). Enjoy!

The distorted buzzing of the telephone bored into his ear. Around him, the other telephone jockeys were hunched into their cubicles, headphones gripping their heads. He hadn’t made a sale all day, and the boss was watching him.

“Hello?” a granny on the line.

He was only getting grannies today, and they weren’t interested in high-speed ISDN internet, though they’d hum and haw if it kept him on the line. “Good afternoon, ma’am. My name is Ewan. I’m calling to let you know how you can surf even faster—“

“Ewan? My God, how have you been?”

“Fine thanks, ma’am. How are you? Wouldn’t you like to see how fast you can explore the worldwide w—“

“Did your mother tell you to call?”

Senile. Great. Time to hang up and hit redial. “Sorry, ma’am, the line’s not great. I’ll try again later with an amazing deal for y–“

“I’m not going into a home!”

“No, ma’a–“

“I’m sorry, but your mother’s a bitch, Ewan.”

The old woman sounded like his own Grandma. And his mother was a bitch.

“I’m afraid I have to go now.” He needed to make a sale.

“Wait! What’s it like there?”

“It’s fine,” said Ewan. “Nice people, interesting job.” Like Hell. But the supervisor was right behind him, his earphones on, listening in to calls. Best to play it safe and pretended he liked the shitty job.

“I’m glad,” she said. “You were my favourite.”

“Thanks.” Play along and get off the call. “You too.”

“The doctors say it’s inoperable.” She didn’t sound upset, almost proud that her sickness was serious.

“I’m sorry,” said Ewan.

“Not your fault, Ewan. Besides, it’ll be nice to see you again.”

“Sorry?”

“I’m quite looking forward to it. It didn’t hurt when you went, did it? At the very end?”

The sound of the call centre around him had melted into a roar dulled by the faux-leather pads of his headphones. She sounded so much like Grandma.

“No,” he said. “It was fine.”

He wasn’t sure which of them hung up, but the supervisor was staring, so he pressed the redial button and the buzzing in his head started again.

And I’m looking forward to seeing you again next Thursday for another piece of flash fiction!