Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

Flash fiction

Basket

by

A frog's eye
Photo by Drew Brown on Unsplash

I bet there’s something you would change if you could go back in time, isn’t there? Even if it’s just your shirt (seriously, that shirt with those shoes? Really?)

Wouldn’t it be great? Read on…

That’s the advantage of time travel: the goods never go off. I’ve got fruit, I’ve got vegetables. Always fresh. And they don’t hardly cost me a penny. I bought them once wholesale, now I sell them, put on my time travelling hat, and go back. There are some things I don’t quite get about time travel, but I know how to make money. The only disadvantage is that the view is pretty awful. What with the people screaming and the skeletons and the Eyeball.
‘There you go, darlin’.’ She’s brought her own bag, which I appreciate. I stuff it right up to the top with juicy Jaffas. Send her on her way.

I sell my stuff nice and early, and then knock off for the afternoon. The market smells best in the morning. Aromatic oranges, leafy cabbages and washed pavements. It gets a bit niffy later on.
I have lunch in the pub and then I put on my hat. Twist it around, three times, tilt it back. And you’re there.

See? I leave my van near the market, tilt my hat and I’m back at it again.
It’s this morning again. All my lovely Jaffas, my crispy lettuces. The cherries are a bit hard, need an hour in the sun. The same lot I’ve been selling for years. I start unloading.
This is the bad bit. Because it’s not just me. There are corpses. They start screaming, clutching at me. The sky is red. And between me and the sky, towering over the houses is a skeleton herding the corpses. At the end of the street is an Eyeball. It takes up the whole street. The iris is green, and the pupil moves, watching me. It’s bloodshot, probably because it’s lying out in the street. I stack my stall and take my hat off and all the scary stuff disappears.
Here comes the first old love. She’s got her basket ready and I know what she wants. I’ve been selling it to her for years.

I don’t understand how I keep making money. I go back selling the same fruit and veg to the same people so it should be the same money. But my pockets fill up. I suppose anything I have on me, stays with me? It makes me wish I was selling something a little more upmarket. Electronics. I’d be able to retire a lot quicker. Move somewhere sunny. Somewhere far away. Saw myself in the mirror the other day. I looked old.
Maybe Fiji. I fancy somewhere with a volcano.

Today I bottled it. I couldn’t face going back again. Sat in the pub instead. The face looking out of the mirror was worse than the Eyeball. I’d be lying if I said I knew what was going on, but I can’t keep going. So I made a promise, One more time. Tomorrow and that’s it.
It’s an easy promise to make.
Sounds familiar, too.

Could you not write something with a bit of action in it? A couple of lads after some other lad, and they all have guns. You know the sort of thing.

Yes.

People like that sort of thing. You’d have loads more readers.

Yes.

So you will?

…

Hello?

Yellow

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A yellow banana
Photo by BRUNO EMMANUELLE on Unsplash

This is Captain >khrrrrrkh!<speaking. I’d like to welcome you on board flight >khrrrrkh!< today. Please make sure your seats are in the upright position and your tables stowed away as we will shortly departing for >khrrrrrrkh! <

Stars shot past on the screens. The captain was sure it was a looped image rather than footage from the cams. The cockpit was silent. “Time ’til destination?”
“Unknown sir,” a young woman answered. He stared at the screens. There! Was that the cut? The smooth scrolling had juddered for a split second.
He needed to do something, find out what they knew about the mission. The secrecy was idiotic, but it would be worse if they knew the truth…. “Bring up the destination on the screens,” he said. There was a pause.
“What is our destination, sir?” The young woman again. Her face impassive as she tapped at controls. The other crew members stared openly. They didn’t know.

“How far from the nearest friendly planet?” The crew members looked at each other. He’d said the wrong thing. He decided to brazen it out. “Where do you think we’re going, eh…?” He had no idea what her name was. “All of you! I want you to tell me where you think we’re going. And why.” They murmured. He noticed a tattoo crawling out of the sleeve of his uniform. The black of the design—concentric circles and spheres, a solar system, but which one?—was faded to a dusty blue-grey.
“Someone tell me what they think this mission is!” In the silence that followed, the electrical buzz of the controls and the rasp of tense breathing could be heard.
The woman stood up. “Sir, I have no idea where we’re going.” A red-headed man stood and said the same. Others nodded. The speakers spoke for them too.

The captain’s uniform was red with gold piping along the shoulders. “Anyone?” he asked. They waited. “I am the captain of this vessel. I think. Staring at the screens just a couple of minutes ago is the earliest memory I have. I have no idea where we’re going.” The woman started to laugh. Others joined in. Relief. The captain stood and went to the screen. “So why not just go…there!” He pointed.
“Yes sir,” said the woman. “As soon as I figure out how these controls work!” The crew hooted with laughter.
Outside the test ship, the scientists shook their heads. Man was not yet ready for warp drive.
But at least now they knew why it was called that.

Used

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Black and blue image. Ice that looks like the night sky
Photo by Paweł Czerwiński on Unsplash

I hear them snapping. Sometimes there’s a rustle as they brush against the grass. They snap more when the wind is strong. I don’t think they can smell. Maybe the wind, blowing through their skin, tickles the muscles in their jaws. They catch birds. A flock will come down. If they step too near the zombies’ mouths then snap! When the wind is strong, it’s like a sea of weeds and denim. 
Very few come to get gas, but I keep the shop open. You never know. I’ve got a nice collection of drivers’ licenses, too. Not everyone can pay for the stuff anymore. In money. It’s all about meat these days. Everybody wants it. 
Daisies grow around the side of the building. The plants get really tall. Some days you can’t see the zombies at all. Just a snapping and a rustling. 
They go quiet when it rains. Who’d have thought zombies were afraid of drowning? 
I’ve got a blue sky above me. As wide as the eye can see. Some days there’re clouds. One day I saw a Chevy. Just like one I used to own, too. On days when I get really bored, I go up to the roof. Take pot shots at the zombies. Only out the back of the building, of course. You don’t go shooting near a pump. 
There’s a trail of dust to my left. Someone coming. Customers. I make sure the gun is loaded. 
There are four of them squashed into a small Japanese car. Which means they let two out, half a mile up the road. Even if I hadn’t seen them through my binoculars, the snapping of zombie teeth would have given them away. I keep my zombie garden full.
‘Hey, mister!’ One of them shout through the window, the driver. He’s wearing a black leather jacket. It goes well with his curly orange hair. He’ll brighten up my garden. ‘Mister! You got any gas?’
I say nothing. Just because I live in Bumfuck, Nowhere, USA, doesn’t mean he can waste my time. They need me to open up. Then they rush me.
‘Looks like it’s gonna rain, guys’ I said.
Ginger looked up at the sky.
‘I need an umbrella. Wait right there.’ I climbed onto the roof. Took out the two guys behind the garage before they knew what was happening. Two shots. They dropped. Their buddies drove off. I watched the trail of dust. It rose into the sky. It looked like a face. As it rose, it turned towards me. But as it grew, it got fainter. 
Then it was just me on the roof by myself.

The full title of this one is Used, or Elevated Horror is Ruining It For Those Of Us Who Just Want To Read A Good Zombie Story and It’s Not Even Elevated Horror, You Just Don’t Know How It Ends.

To which I reply: Not elevated horror? No proper ending? Voilà!

*Tosses perfumed curls, points to page*

It’s got a rooftop climax, doesn’t it?

The Tell

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Bark peeling from a tree
Photo by David Clode on Unsplash

Hi all! Last week we went to the zoo, this week we’re off to the museum for our flash fiction journey. Enjoy!

“Late sixteenth century. Maybe early seventeenth.”
I kept my head down and continued brushing. It was weird. The plaster was old, but the mould was new. I’d seen it before: an old treasure stored in poor conditions. Stolen. The saint, his finger on the open Bible, his gaze towards the heavens, life-size, gave me the creeps. Almost as much as Steve.

I knew him from College. He’d done well, financially. He never had many friends, which is probably why he contacted me for this restoration job. Working his way through his contacts. I’d change my number as soon as I’d finished. Steve was just off. It didn’t surprise me at all that he’d “found” this statue. I was doing internet research in the evenings. If I could find out where it was stolen from I was going to call the police. It didn’t make sense to pretend I didn’t know what was going on. Once it came out it would make me look as corrupt or as clueless as Steve.

I felt his eyes on me. “How are you coming along, Penny?” He always stood too close. “What do you think? Isn’t she a beauty?”
“Surprisingly complete,” I said.
“Right.” He walked around the statue. “I nearly got Richard for this job, you know? Good man.”
“How is he?”
“Oh, he’s good, I suppose. He couldn’t make it, said to give you a call. But what I’m saying is: it’s easy enough to restore these old things. Finding them is the tricky part.”
“Where did you…?”
“That’d be telling! I told Richard….” He leaned in, his breath oniony. “So I had to kill him!” He laughed.

I couldn’t find anything about the statue. So that left one option. Steve had knocked out a forgery, aged it, then stuck it in damp storage to make it hard to tell “real” mould from fake mould. I came in early next morning to take photos and a scrape from the pedestal.
“You’re keen.” Steve was behind me.
“Steve! Hey…I’m just documenting the progress. Thought I might put it on my blog. You know: drum up trade.”
“You don’t have a blog.”
“I wanted to start one, this is just what I…”
“Don’t think so,” said Steve. He came closer. Onion breath. I backed away, bumped into the statue. It rocked, which meant it was definitely fake. An original life-size would be too heavy. Sketchy Steve had skimped on the filling, too.
“Wait, Steve!” He was big. And between me and the door. He lunged. I pushed the statue. I just wanted to put him off, make him dive at the statue instead of me. It toppled over and crashed. We both stared at the mess. Plaster had shattered across the museum’s floor.
And still half encased in it: Richard.
“Oh dear,” said Steve. “Looks like you’re going to have to fill in for Richard again!”

“Yeah,” said Steve. “I had to let her go. Caught her trying to move the statue. Cracked it and all. I had to take it away. Give it a full integrity test. You never know, these old statues can fall right apart.” He was interviewing restorers. “Yeah, it’s pretty old. Late sixteenth, early seventeenth century. I’ll be bringing it back next week.”
The other voice asked a question.
“Ha! That’d be telling. I told the last lady. Then I had to kill her!”

Have YOU ever been sealed in concrete? Or are YOU a restorer? Is YOUR name Steve?

Then get in touch, I just found something. Needs a bit of work but I’m sure it must be valuable…

Snakes Everywhere

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Stone oriental snake-like dragon
Photo by Max Letek on Unsplash

Hi all, we’re off to the zoo today, lockdown be damned! Enjoy!

He hitched his belt up as far as it would go. Not much, as his belly pushed it down. Big Teddy Malone, 32 years in office and never had he had to come to a zoo before. It was going to be a tight race.

He hacked at the ribbon opening the snake enclosure. The smile on his face was painful as the cameras snapped photos. The thin glass didn’t feel like much protection.
He’d been voted in on a wave of anti-corruption sentiment. Said the right things. Hell, he’d even sent someone to jail! And he spoke like regular folks, so no one noticed he wasn’t as tough on crime as they’d been expecting. But he was Godfather to dozens of children around the parish and could have gone on for years. If that uptight lawyer hadn’t decided he could do better. There was a fine line between corruption and greasing business so it rolled better. Young people didn’t get it. Thought everything was black and white.

The knife was goddamn blunt, was what it was. He was still hacking at the stupid ribbon and the snakes had come over to see what was taking so long. They hissed not half a meter from his feet.

There was nothing mysterious about money disappearing. It was like the fees a bank charged. Everybody got a little bit, and they were all richer. And the town had a zoo with a new snake enclosure. Only one in this or any neighboring state. Good for the economy.
Goddamn it! He bent and bit the tape with his teeth, grinned at the cameras which had started snapping again: Big Ted in action! That’d be worth a few votes in September.
The brass band started playing, and he moved away from the enclosure, right into… Goddammit!
“Mr Malone, how are you doing?” Updike, the tight-ass, trying to muscle in on Malone’s photo session. Had his whole team with him. Someone from the sheriff’s office, too.
“Good, Bill. Glad to see you here for my opening. This is gonna mean a lot of tourist dollars for our community. Only enclosure in the nearest dozen states. That’s good business.”
“It’s a good idea, Ted, but we have to delay the opening. I’ve been looking—”
“Are you crazy? The folks around here need this. The economy’s been busted one with the recent crisis. Lot of people are out of work.” The crowd shouted agreement. Big Ted’s people. They’d come out to see him, they wouldn’t take this from the college guy.
“I agree, but money’s gone missing and—”
“Money’s gone missing! Well, isn’t that just your catchphrase? Seems like every time you turn up money’s gone missing, maybe you should stay home!”
That got a laugh from his followers. The sheriff wasn’t laughing, though.
“—safety features,” the pipsqueak continued.
“What’s that?” Big Ted put a hand around his ear as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re worried about safety features? You’re not scared of a few little snakes, are you?” Guffaws and catcalls. Someone shouted, “Snowflake!” Big Ted gritted his teeth and moved to the snake enclosure, tapping on the glass. “You guys okay in there? My friend is worried you aren’t safe.” His fans were whooping. One man had to wipe tears out of his eyes. The laughter was almost loud enough to drown out the brass band. No one could hear the snakes. Big Ted continued to playact in front of the glass. His skin crawled, but he knew they’d skimped on the air conditioning. And the cage. It was smaller than regulations, too, but the snakes weren’t complaining, were they? It was just the noise and the people that were agitating the snakes now.
“No way in hell can we open this to the public.”
“Too late, Billy. I already opened it. Ripped it open with my teeth!” That got a round of cheers.
“Come outside and let’s talk, Ted.” Bill was shouting now. He looked worried. Yeah, worried he was gonna get lynched. Ted smelled blood. Nothing easier than kicking a man when he was down. Eager to press home his advantage, he did something he wouldn’t have dared otherwise.
“I’d rather stay here with—”. He looked at his fans, a Big Ted zinger was coming, “These snakes.” He hit the glass. It shattered. Snakes spilled over him, biting and slithering. Riled from the noise and the heat and the crowds. There was panic as people tried to escape.

Bill was voted in in a landslide. If they hadn’t skimped on that snake enclosure. On the climate control. On the holding areas. On the size, none of this would have happened. If they’d at least put in real shatterproof safety glass instead of normal window glass….

Tiger

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Church under the stars
Photo by Evgeni Tcherkasski on Unsplash

Hi all,

here’s this week’s fix for all you flash fiction junkies. This week I challenged myself to write a cosmic horror story about an astronomer at home (that’s it in the picture, above). Enjoy!

‘Into bed now.’ He tucked my blankets too tight around me. His eyes were unfocussed. He lived on the stars he observed. It was hard for him to come back home. 
‘Goodnight, Grandfather,’ I said. He looked quite mad.
That’s what everyone said when we drove into Noerdelstett in his ancient car. 
He had discovered comets and suns. Had planets named after him in the past. Now he smiled when people asked him what was out there.
It was the music that turned everyone against him. I could hear it now. Strange, but I could hear the melody in it. Different, otherworldly. I had heard whale-song. This was like that. But the sounds were high and bright, like shards of comet ice breaking off. Beautiful. It scared me: I knew he had no radio, no record player. It took all my resolve to get out of bed. 
They said he danced around naked at night, like a witch. The great man gone insane. I would show them his notebooks and re-claim his name. I wanted to be like him one day. He explored the depths of space where no man could go, where most men couldn’t understand the distances involved and they dared to call him mad? His mind was on higher things. 
The carpet felt sharp under my feet as I crept towards the staircase: The music heightened my senses. The draught from under his room sighed. The warm hallway felt claustrophobic, thick air resting on me, pushing me down where I stood. 
The music made my ears ring and I almost fell. Gravity shifted, and I clung to the bannisters, moved slowly. The second step from the bottom creaked. The music was louder even as it seemed the ground was upside down, the laws of physics being sucked out through my Grandfather’s telescope, spewed into the sun of a distant galaxy. I made it to his study and pushed the door open. 
He stood naked, holding his telescope in front of him. Plugging the small end with himself. Through the top, a stream of viscous juice flowed into the heavens and… he sang. My Grandfather, making love to his telescope and the stars leaning in close. The atmosphere was thin here and galloping along his sputtering rope of seed… something. A tiger? Its head was huge and tentacled. Its stripes were the suns and the vast wastes between them. It could see him. See us. My grandfather sang to it, called it, his buttocks quivering as he poured a path into the cosmos to guide it. He was quite mad. And as I watched it approach, tearing holes in space, so was I.