Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

Flash fiction

Fair

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Two coconuts
Photo by Chris Liverani on Unsplash

In this piece of sneaky flash fiction we learn that our mothers – who told us to make sure we always had clean underwear on – were right. Enjoy!

“Roll up, roll up!” said the barker at the fair. And people did.

The governor sat in the bucket seat under the July sun, ready to be dumped into the tub of water for charity.

“Just a dollar,” said the barker. The line snaked around the rest of the stalls past the tea tent, the fortuneteller’s purple-curtained tent, all the way to the entrance.

Mrs Crenshaw dumped him into the water on her first shot. He struggled out, puffing and laughing insincerely. Mr Baker dumped him in again. There was no laughter as he climbed back into the chair.

“It’s for charity,” the barker reassured him. The Barker would hand people the balls used to hit the target, which sent the governor into the tub. And Miss Blakely, who was taking the money, would discreetly hand him a small stack of bills to tuck away.

The governor lived in a nice house, with servants, and twice as many cars as he needed. If he got dumped in the water a few times, it was just payback.

When he wasn’t able to climb out any more, they left the body to float in the tub.

“I think Mrs Crenshaw caught by surprise with that first shot,” said the barker. The people left in line, who hadn’t had a go, nodded angrily. They’d been looking forward to dumping the governor.

“Well – and remember it’s for charity – if Mrs Crenshaw would get in that bucket seat, then we could keep the fun going. What do you say, folks?” The people roared their approval, and Mrs Crenshaw was forced into the bucket seat in her underwear.

After an hour or so, it was Mr Baker’s turn.

There wasn’t much of a line left, so the barker called young Timmy Alan from the line, to make sure people kept paying their dollar – it was for charity – and he disappeared around the back with Miss Blakely.

They commandeered the governor’s silver Mercedes. The barker packed his and Miss Blakely’s belongings into the trunk.

The dunk tank was doing fine as they drove out of town.

Art

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Red paint on yellow background
Photo by Allec Gomes on Unsplash

Hi everyone, I’ve been to a few galleries in my time. There were several near where I used to work, so it was a good way to get a drink. But I never saw anything like this…

You had to show your cock to get into one of Breckham’s “things.” It was lewd or life changing, depending on who you asked, and just one of the reasons the critics hated him. I can assure you he paid more attention to the flash of a Patek Philippe or Rado on the wrist than what was being fished from between the steel teeth of the zipper.

The starkly white walls of the space were hung with kitschy gold framed canvases, all blank. The walls around them were daubed with neon paint. I was admiring the one closest to me: the blank square canvas the focus of a swirl of purple green and yellow that made me think irresistibly of water leaving a sink after a hippy had tie-dyed a T-shirt there, when Lena walked in.

I knocked back my wine and grabbed another one before the fireworks started. As always, Lena had taken the thing too far. She strolled around with not one, but two joke shop penises hanging over the elastic of her waistband. Breckham wouldn’t like that, but that was the point. When he saw her, he grabbed for the penises. She managed to hold on to one of them, and the thing turned into a bendy latex sword fight.

It looked good, but was clearly choreographed, at least to my eyes. But then, as his agent, I knew Lena was not just his most vocal critic, but also his business partner and lover. They fought their way around the room, crashing into guests now and again, until Lena had worked her way around to the table at the back where Breckham’s ink-filled phalluses stood. She grabbed a handful of the dicks and, slapping Breckham on the side of the head, knocking his glasses off, she raced around the walls squirting a glob of colour right into the centre of each of the blank canvases.

We made it into all the newspapers the next day. Not just the art sections, but the actual “news” parts. We didn’t sell any of the art. Breckham gave some interviews, magnanimous in agreeing that perhaps his art had become too phallocentric. We let that settle in, while I wondered how many zeros to add to the “defaced” canvases when they finally did go on sale.

If you’re signed up to my newsletter, keep an eye on your mailboxes this Saturday for a special Choose Your Own Adventure style short story. If not, sign up here to avoid missing any more!

Form

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An aging model of earth
Photo by Mohamed Ali Saidane on Unsplash

In this week’s piece of flash fiction, I attempt to explain things. What things? Well, how about everything? Enjoy!

“I can’t let you onto the site. Sundays are double-time, and the boss won’t like that.”

“Come on, man!” God didn’t need this right now, still hung over from the night before, and tomorrow was the deadline to get the job done. “I just need a couple hours to finish things off. You won’t even notice I’m there. Nobody complained about yesterday.”

“You were here yesterday?”

“No, just… just messing around with a couple of the monkeys.”

The supervisor sucked in a deep breath, shaking his head. “More than my job’s worth,” he said.

“What happens when the whole thing falls apart in a couple thousand years?” asked God. “‘Cause you wouldn’t let me on site?”

“That’s your problem, buddy. I’ll be in some other dimension by then.”

“What about ‘taking pride in your work?’”

The supervisor laughed.

“Look, this job has been a tough gig from the start, there are some major flaws that need to be corrected.”

“And yet you spent yesterday playing with monkeys?”

“Man, they’re the next big thing, I’m telling you. Some of those guys are almost intelligent.”

“Well, explain that to the boss when he turns up, maybe he’ll give one of them your job.”

Gravel crunched outside. The powerful thrum of the boss’s engine reached them.

“Here we go, Lucy’s here.”

The door opened, and the owner of Lucy’s Fair Construction Company walked in, all smiles. “We looking good?” he asked. He was a big man, and charming. It was hard not to tell him what he wanted to hear. God and the supervisor just nodded.

There we go, that explains everything, I think? See you next week!

Blackmail

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My short story collection, People Skins, Volume I is out now. To celebrate, I’ve teamed up with 23 other writers to bring you the Flashes of Fear book bundle. Get TWO DOZEN free books, including People Skins by clicking on the picture above or here!

If that sounds like it’s just too many books, then stick around for this week’s piece of thrilling flash fiction, instead. Enjoy!

He didn’t want me to kill the main character, a rising criminal lawyer called Kate Field, who was clearly an idealised version of myself.

“There’s been too much killing already,” he said. “And no one seems to have profited from it.”

There it was. He knew how much of the story was real, and how much was fictional. And how much I’d have to pay to keep him quiet. His own story for the creative writing class featured a superficially charming Talented Mr Ripley type who knew how to get away with anything.

The rest of the class liked my story, however: Kate kills her abusive spouse, and hangs the murder on the suspect of another crime. He accepts the punishment as there isn’t enough proof to convict him for the crime he did commit, which he regrets.

“Let’s move on to your piece, Brian,” said the teacher. “Have you made any changes since the last feedback round?”

“I’ve polished the language, and considered the rest of the points,” said Brian, which meant *no.*

He’d been bringing the same story to class for months: a man blackmails another writer with a story about what that writer has done with her husband’s body.

“He still gets away with it, at the end?” asked the teacher.

“Oh, yes,” said Brian. “It’s the perfect crime.”

“Famous last words,” I murmured.

“Brian has dropped out of class,” said the teacher the following week. There was a half-hearted mumble from the students. I joined in, then pulled out a brand-new story to be critiqued.

Forces

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Painting of two ladies whispering beside a sleeping man
Photo by Birmingham Museums Trust on Unsplash

To introduce this week’s flash fiction, I’m going to paraphrase the beloved English poet, Mick Jagger:

You can’t always get what you want, but sometimes you get what you deserve.

What (the hell) am I talking about?

Read on!

It came from the girl. The pull was irresistible. She shifted position in her cage, and the chains she wore for market auction clinked.

Kat pressed up to the cage’s bars and stared, drinking in the lank hair, the dusty face and worn clothing of a labourer. The girl’s mouth moved, as if reciting something.

This was the first time Kat would buy servants for her family’s household. It was her present on her 16th birthday, she could by whoever she wanted.

More than anything, she wanted this girl. The handler opened the bidding at 100, half what Kat had, and she needed to buy half a dozen servants. Then the handler, with a quick look over his shoulder, corrected himself: 20. She waited, made herself wait, for the handler to start cajoling. When he was almost pleading, she lifted her purse. He pointed, confirming the offer. The girl’s eyes were on her, her mouth moved. The need pouring off the girl was magnetic. She’d likely not last long. She was barely 10 or maybe 12 under the dirt, but she was her present. Sweat coated her nervous hands when the handler released the girl. Kat took her with her as she bid on the other servants they needed: a man for outside, two girls for the kitchen, a woman for laundry, and a boy to serve her father, who hated that women so outnumbered him in his own home. The girl would be Kat’s servant once she’d find out how to stop the girl’s move mouth moving. The girl stood respectfully behind Kat. The breath from her mouth made Kat uncomfortable.

Her family remarked on the similarity between the servants Kat had bought, and congratulated her, like she had displayed great judgement in purchasing a matching set. And there was something forceful about them. They would last a long time.

If only they’d stop whispering.

See you next wee—

You’e back to the weird stories again, are you?

You found it weird?

We found you weird!

Thank you! That’s probably because you’re normal.

That wasn’t a compliment.

Correct! See you next week.

(Both parties exit the stage, muttering under their breath)

Airborne

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An empty toilet roll
Photo by Jasmin Sessler on Unsplash

As the world slowly comes out of lockdown, we’re all going to have to get used to flying again. I hate flying!

It wasn’t that if even the slightest thing went wrong, he’d plunge to his death after an interminable and exhilarating dive from above the clouds. It was the tiny bathrooms he hated most about flying. He managed to finish and wash his hands without brushing up against any of the puddled surfaces.

When he tried to slide its silver bolt, the door wouldn’t open, though the bolt moved easily. All he’d managed to do was turn off the light in the cubicle-ette.

“Hello?” He called. People were gasping and shouting outside as the plane tilted again. This time the right wing went up and something – somebody – hit the door hard, even as Miles threw out his arms against the walls, catching both elbows nasty jars in the cramped box, to avoid being tossed against the toilet.

The Intercom crackled and spat white noise before, very clearly, he heard a gunshot. The screams outside increased in volume and pitch, and the plane veered sharply down, nosediving as if to get away. Miles listened furiously in the dark toilet cubicle. This was the worst thing about flying: plunging to his death, while stuck in the toilet. Outside, gunshots, screams, and wind whistled, papers snapped as bullet pierced the Perspex windows.

After they landed, Miles was bundled out of the plane with the other passengers, his hands held high. Watched with, he thought, a touch more suspicion than the passengers who’d been seated. They were subjected to searches. Ugh, thought Miles, security checks. This is the part he hated most about flying.

I prefer trains. See you next week!