Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

Flash fiction

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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Problems

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Tree huggers
Photo by Simon Wijers on Unsplash

Hi all,

this week we’re off to the hospital for a check up. I hope everything’s okay…

If only there was an on/off switch for life. Reset the system when there’s a problem, or switch off until the bad is over.
A life-support system or something is beeping from one of the other rooms, nurses’ chatter, footsteps. Otherwise the hospital is as silent as the grave.
That’s not an appropriate metaphor.

I’d love to pull some of these tubes out of Henry, without the staff interfering, or Beth and Kyle noticing.

They’re both asleep, one in each arm. Kyle’s foot twitches as he dreams. I like to think he’s dreaming about soccer, but who knows? It would scare them if mummy unplugged daddy’s life support machine. They’re scarred enough already, and I can’t get near any of those buttons without waking them. There should be an app for my phone, that’s what I need.

“He’ll be fine, don’t worry,” says a nurse behind me. I didn’t hear her coming, although her shoes squeak when she walks out again. I must’ve fallen asleep. Beth and Kyle are awake now, too and look terrified.
“She was just trying to be nice,” I say. “The nurse is wrong.”

I need to do it before the next nurse checks.
“Go on,” I tell the children. “Hug daddy goodbye.” His breath is laboured as I put my four-year-old and six-year-old on his chest. They automatically put their hands around his neck, like he likes to be hugged. “That’s it. Harder, so he can feel it before he slips away.”
The machine starts to beep and flash.
“Harder.”

This one was supposed to be funny when I started writing it. Weird.

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.

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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