Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

Flash fiction

Material

by

A canopy of yellow lights
Photo by Steven Aguilar on Unsplash

Hi all,

hope you enjoy this week’s story. Please get in touch if you were able to guess the ending in advance: I’ll start ’em, you finish ’em!

I lit a cigarette, let the smoke curl around my face, like demonic breath. Gary had a vape. His hair was short and sandy and he sucked on his vape like he needed it. That was what made me think of him as fat. I smoked when I was bored.
We were best friends. No one else could stomach us.

He was filming, and I flicked cigarette ash out the window. We had parked near the sports track at school. Bad idea. We were both in our twenties. Two older guys hanging around the track, where sometimes girls went running or jogging in shorts. But Gary wasn’t interested in that. Parents and boyfriends and teachers came and said hello in a way that made clear that, as soon as they had figured out what we were doing, there was going to be police involved. There was no one on the track now. The mist had come in early like it does here in September. It was only starting to get dark, the edge of the trees murky, but the field was clear as anything.
‘Watch the smoke, man,’ said Gary.
I flicked the butt out the window rather than argue with him. I didn’t have the stomach for it. The track was empty now but Rosie had been running earlier and I felt sad. She was in her final year and she looked so good. Lovely and kind and those jogging pants were tight but I would have liked to take her home, look after her. I’d say: look after her like a cat or something. But that sounds weird. I just would have liked to be around her, is what I mean. It was a dull ache in my stomach. Me and Gary in my van while he tried to film ghosts for our YouTube channel.
I stared out the window, imagining I was back at my flat with Rosie. We were talking about moving somewhere nicer and she smiled at me, her hair in a ponytail because she was going out jogging. In pretty much all my daydreams she’s either going jogging or coming back from jogging. Gary sucked on his vape and the smile evaporated in the gurgle it made. He really sucked, you know?

It was dark now, so I switched on the headlights, turned the car around. I drove through town, down Main Street, past Church Street and around to Willow Lane. Pulled in. Gary started talking as I put the key in the door. Excited about his footage. He darted inside, straight to the computer. I made us toasted sandwiches. He came out when it was ready.
‘Thanks, man,’ he said. He lifted one slice of bread. Squirted ketchup onto the coagulating cheese, then went back to munching. I put on music. No TV till we’d eaten. I was sick of cleaning the crumbs out of the sofa and Gary never noticed them. He was waiting with the remote control when I joined him.
I suppose I’m more of a dog person, really.

My usual writing prompt rules applied and the prompts were the featured picture and the below six words.

Yes, I missed one.

No. You tell me which!

material
demonic
murky
stomach
lovely
tendency

Soup

by

A toy monkey, facing away from the viewer
Photo by insung yoon on Unsplash

‘Delicious!’ I said. Everyone smiled and nodded.
Next was the green soup. Green: health and children. It tasted like grass with seaweed. Which is probably what it was. ‘Mmmh! I like this one, too.’ More smiling and nodding. And a pain in my stomach.
Another soup. There were ‘bits’ in it. Sesame seeds, perhaps, or slivers of snail shell. Five pieces, I counted them. The soup was orange. Was that long life or good hearing? I couldn’t remember. I got another round of smiles when I smacked my lips. The taste was harsh, there was a lot of spice in it. Too much turmeric. Cauliflower and turmeric.
The soups kept coming. I had a blue one. Interesting, but without any detectable taste. Perhaps a shot of cuttlefish ink? Then there was a red one and a purple one. There was no mistaking the meaning of the purple soup. Even if I had been too dense to get it, I would not have been able to ignore the grins of my hosts. It tasted meaty. Mushroom, I decided. Mushroom with beetroot colouring. There was one which was white with a swirl of pink: milk with rose petal. It eased hardship in old age. Brown soup with sparkles: Obedient grandchildren. Another orange. Strength. Carrots and lentils and enough chilli to burn my mouth. I couldn’t taste the next four, the yellow, the pink, the light blue. And the taupe: Thick, full hair or distinguished baldness, depending on gender.
The soups were getting thicker, and though the bowls were tiny, there had been a lot of them. By the time the black one arrived, I was mute in a food coma. I could move my spoon, but that was it. I had to dig into the black one with my spoon. It wobbled. I looked at it uncertainly. Some people like black food. I never have. Not since I saw The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover. I sniffed. It smelled sweet, slightly fruity. Like an unripe orange, but without the acidity. I goggled at it. What did black mean? I was too full to fit the whole spoon into my mouth.
I nodded. Carefully so I wouldn’t spill. My hosts smiled at me. What a terrible job. They must be starving. I chewed my ‘soup’ and tried to think. Black. What could it be? It seemed like I’d eaten soups for everything from health to wealth to ingrowing toenails.
I swallowed and my hosts took out their spoons.
Black.
Of course. Payment.

The prompts were:

Soup
harsh
ignore
detect
mute
payment

The two worst sentences in this piece (in my opinion) are, in order:

  1. Even if I had been too dense to get it, I would not have been able to ignore the grins of my hosts.
  2. By the time the black one arrived, I was mute in a food coma.

I can’t see any way to save Sentence 1 in accordance with my writing prompt rules. Ideally it should be cut completely but then I’d lose my writing prompt word. I was able to perform some cosmetic surgery on Sentence 2 but in an ideal world the sentence would just read ‘…arrived, I was in a food coma.’

What do you think? Can you think of anything I could have done to improve these sentences, without losing the prompt words and in accordance with my writing prompt rules (no changes except for typos, punctuation and deleting)?

Oddjob

by

Orange van with a white roof
Photo by Oleksii S on Unsplash

Hi all,

this week’s flash fiction is based on a news article. Read on after the piece for a link to the article and to find out why I needed to write a story about it.

He couldn’t choose. The machete or the brush? 
Steve kept smacking his lips after every sip of coffee. It sounded like the machete slicing into skin. He chose the brush. ‘Mate!’ said Steve. ‘Not nervous, are you?’ They were in Steve’s rust-orange van. The light went off in the house they were watching. ‘This is it,’ said Steve. 
They got out quietly. Walked around the back of the house. Birds were singing, drowning out the rasp of Bill’s breath. He didn’t like this. But he needed the money. They crouched at the back door and pulled stockings over their heads. The material was cool for one second, then warm. Bill was already sweating.
Steve pulled at the back door handle. It opened, and he slipped inside. Bill followed. The house smelled of air freshener and deodorant. He could hear a shower running upstairs. Steve motioned him to the living room. They sat on the leather couch. 
‘You know what to say?’
Bill nodded.
‘Mate?’ Steve sounded tense. 
‘I know: “You’ve been asking for this for a long time. I saw—”’
‘Seen’
‘”—seen the way you’ve been looking at me.” Et cetera.’
‘Good. Here.’ Steve went over to Bill. Tugged his stocking. ‘There was a bit sticking up, mate. Made you look like a condom.’
Bill smiled, then a laugh escaped him. ‘Well, I wanna be safe, don’t I?’
‘Yeah.’ Steve was laughing, too. ‘You don’t know where this dirty bugger’s been!’
The water stopped running and they stifled their laughter. Bill leaned back. They were being paid $1000 for a Tickle Home Invasion. Steve was to threaten the guy with the machete until he stripped. Then Bill would tie him up and tickle him with the bristles of the broom. Brand new from Bunnings. 
‘He doesn’t half take his time, does he?’ said Bill.
‘He wants to look good for you.’
The bathroom door opened. Footsteps creaked across the floorboards of the Victorian building to the bedroom. 
’10 minutes,’ said Steve. ‘Let him get his money’s worth of anticipation.’
‘I’d love a ciggie,’ said Bill.
‘Have one after,’ said Steve and they started giggling again.
‘Hello?’ The voice came from upstairs. ‘Is there someone there?’
They stopped laughing. Birds outside. The guy worked night-shift, was getting read for bed. Just wanted a little something to give himself sweet dreams.
Steve’s phone vibrated. The noise was immense in the strange room. ‘Mate,’ said Steve, showing Bill his phone. ‘We got you.’
Bill looked at the text: ‘Happy Birthday, Darling!’
Steve tugged the brush. Bill let it go. Over his shoulder Bill saw a figure on the stairs with another brush. 
‘Strip, mate!’ said Steve.
‘No, please!’ said Bill, but he was already tugging his shirt over his head.

The BBC featured an article on two guys hired for a home invasion, which went wrong. After reading it I knew I would have to write about it. It’s not the titillating nature of the home invasion which grabbed my attention but the questions the article raised:

“He was willing to pay A$5,000 if it was ‘really good’,”  – How does this work? Is there a baseline minimum for the callout and then a bonus depending on how good it is? Who decides (and what are the criteria) to fairly determine how good is good enough to get the $5K? What if the client decides it was bad and the contractor (who has a machete…) decides it was good?

“the client moved to another address 50km (30 miles) away without updating the two men” – How do you forget an appointment with a man with a machete? Which is costing you up to $5,000? How long in advance do you need to arrange this sort of thing? (#AskingForAFriend)

The 2 men therefore go into the wrong house where ” the resident … assumed it was a friend who came by daily to make morning coffee.” – At 6:15 in the morning. We lived in Australia for four years so I know that people there get up disgracefully early but still. A friend who comes by to make coffee at 6:15 every morning? Okay. Hands up everyone who has a friend who pops by to make coffee while you’re still in bed? Exactly.

“one of the pair said, “Sorry, mate”, and …[t]he two men then drove to the correct address,” – How come they now have the correct address? What’s going on?

“the client noticed one man had a “great big knife” in his trousers” – you’re expecting me to make a joke about this. No. Shame on you.

“The client then cooked bacon, eggs and noodles, and a short time later, the police arrived at the property” – ignore the second bit for now. Never mind who called the police and how they knew where to find the two men. We’re concentrating on the first part of this sentence.

Picture the scene: you’re in bed. The doorbell rings. You get up. Could it be…? Oh, shit! No, it can’t be them because you forget to tell them you’ve moved house. But it is them. They look a bit worried.

‘What’s up, guys?’ you ask.

‘We broke into the wrong house. I shook the guy’s hand but he got a bit of a fright.’

‘Right, yeah, I forgot to text you.’

‘Don’t worry about it. It is what it is.’

‘You’re probably not in the mood to tie me up and tickle me right now though?’

‘Nah, mate. Sorry. I just thought we’d sit here for a bit in case the police happen by to arrest us.’

‘Hey! How, actually, did you know where to find–‘

‘Sorry, mate. I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Fair enough.’ The three men sit in silence. It’s hard to say who is most embarrassed by the mix-up. ‘Would you like some breakfast then?’

‘Oooh! Yes, please!’

So my completely fictional version of events, which contains imaginary characters (any resemblance to actual persons, whether, living, dead, tickled or otherwise is purely coincidental) was an attempt to work out a version of events which might actually make sense to me.

Actually, that’s what all my writing is about.

Bitter

by

Concrete doorway with a flash of orange
Photo by Francisco Andreotti on Unsplash

Hi all, here’s this week’s new piece of flash fiction, inspired by six random words (one for the title, five in the text), the above picture and actual real life experiences! Read on to find out more…

There was a queue. There was always a queue.
He grew up in the rural Midwest. Sometimes there was a line, like when a new film came out and not everybody could pass through the doors at the same time. But nothing like these queues. He counted how many people were waiting by their shoes. He wouldn’t have to worry about the guys with the busted shoes, no way they were going to get the job. It was the younger guys he worried about. They still had energy. It was a job to them. It wasn’t a comedown, a kick in the face to stand on the street passing out slivers of sticky-shiny paper. More people came in after him. The door to the hallway was open, a soft-eyed Indian-looking guy in the doorway.
The office opened and the next guy went in. Orange tracksuit and spiky hair cut too short, showing his scalp through the bristles. But he bounced in confidently. He could get the job. The office door opened again and the next guy went in, an older man. One of the busted shoe brigade. Shouldn’t take long: they were allowed to sit before being told they ‘weren’t what we’re looking for.’ He’d sat beside a philosophy professor, who’d blinked thoughtfully as he was told he wasn’t suitable. Ryan could smell his socks. The door opened. A young woman went in, muffled in an anorak and hood.
Someone was going to get the job before he even reached the door. The next applicant went in. There must be a second door. That’s why nobody was coming out.
The door opened. And again. And again. And again. Ryan was getting close. If he could make it into the office that would be something. A superficial win. He could at least say he’d had an interview.
Despite himself, he couldn’t stop the agonising stab of hope in his gut. Nerves. The door opened. As he went in he saw the queue snake around the room and into the hall behind him. There was a flash of orange tracksuit in the hallway as the door closed.
‘Hi,’ said the woman. ‘Sit down.’
Ryan sat. He glanced around the room. There was the other door.
‘You applied for the leaflet job?’
He nodded. ‘Yes.’ Cleared his throat. ‘That’s right.’
‘That’s gone,’ she said.
A muscle throbbed in Ryan’s neck. A twitch he couldn’t hide.
‘But we have something else.’
‘Yes?’
‘You’ve been waiting all morning, right?’
There was a monitor behind her. The waiting room. He nodded.
‘We like your work. You know what you’re doing.’
Ryan had never been made fun of in an interview before.
‘Are you interested?’
He nodded.
‘Great. We’re a new company. Just getting started, but our CEO has big ideas. This is your chance to get in on the ground floor.’
Ryan glanced at the monitor. It was black and white, but one of the heads…. He was sure the man was wearing an orange tracksuit. That his scalp showed through the bristles of his haircut.
‘It’s all about demand. And appearance. For now, we’re creating that demand, creating that appearance. It’s $6 an hour to start, but we hope to offer more in the future.’
Ryan nodded. ‘Sounds good.’ $6 was nothing. But a foot in the door.
‘Great.’ She stood and held out her hand. ‘Well. Go through and I’ll see you in an hour.’
Ryan walked through the other door. It was dark. A disused corridor, musty. He walked to the end. There was a fire door with a push bar across it. A sign said, ‘Please turn left. Do not talk to other employees.’
Ryan went through the door and turned left. There was a queue in front of him. A man in an orange tracksuit disappeared through the doorway as Ryan joined it.

I went for a number of these ‘interviews’ when I was unemployed, back in the day. An ad in the paper (often announcing positions for 50 waiters or 35 painters, etc. in one go). An ‘interview’ that basically consisted of handing over your CV and the ‘interviewer’ sniffing to confirm you weren’t drunk or high and that was it. The idea, as far as I can tell, being to collect as many CVs as possible so the agency can tell prospective clients about how many potential candidates they have ‘on file.’ People, eh?

The random prompts were:

Bitter
rural
agonizing
thoughtful
soft
superficial

Godly

by

Coffee shop window
Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

Hi all,

another piece of writing prompt fiction for you. The prompts are the above picture and the six words below the story (one as the title, the other five to be used in the piece. I’ve gone off two-word titles.). Enjoy!

‘What’ll it be?’ The Chicken had a beard and a mild London accent, glasses.
‘Flat white. Skinny.’ Joe flicked him a glance, then looked back at his phone. A guy in a chicken suit, his feathers wobbling as he bashed out used grounds on the edge of the counter. There was a Zebra behind him and what looked like a Scooby Doo dog near the door. Two girls in black cat suits sitting at the counter. He looked around, nodding his head to the electro-jazz on the sound system. Chill place. Except for all the animal costumes. He scanned the walls for a clue. Dress Up For Free Coffee Day? Tuesday morning, so not some party. He tried not to stare, turned around and leaned on the counter. The machine thrummed. The guy in the chicken suit gave him a wink. ‘Won’t be a minute, bro.’


The Zebra wasn’t moving. Nor was Scooby. They were all hunched over their cups, unmoving. He saw one Cat girl blink once, but that was it.
‘You scared ’em, bro.’
Joe turned back, frowned at the Chicken over the jar of cookies. He had pulled out a slice of baked New York cheesecake, crumbled a few pieces on the Cats’ saucers, waddled out from behind the counter. Put some on the Zebra’s plate. On Scooby’s.
‘What’s going on? Like Instagram day, or…?’
‘No, same old, same old. But you scared ’em. They’ll be alright. Just waiting for you to leave.’
‘I didn’t realise…’
‘Don’t worry ‘bout it. Scared of humans is all.’ He scratched a Cat on the top of the head. She leaned into his hand.
‘I’ve got a spare. If you want to stay?’


Joe’s coffee was in a disposable cup. To be drunk outside.
He’d never had anyone scared of him before. It was a weird feeling. Upsetting. Scooby was a big guy, too. Six foot easy.
It looked rainy.
‘I’m not going to hurt them.’
‘Tarred with the same brush, man. You’re human, right?’ He had pulled out a folded up wad of material, which he now unrolled with a jerk of his arm. The contours of a penguin suit tumbled to the ground. ‘But everyone loves a penguin. Am I right?’
Not the one he would have chosen, but it had the cat girl’s attention. And black with a yellow crest on top. His colours.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Can I…?’ ‘He indicated the counter.
‘No problem, bro.’ The Chicken moved back and Jo stepped in behind the counter, took off his trousers and jumper. Pulled on the penguin suit.
‘Suits you, bro,’ said Chicken.


Joe was about to answer—the suit felt good—when he saw a shadow at the door. Someone coming in. A guy with a backpack and big red headphones on his ears. Joe realised that—for some weird reason—he was wearing a penguin suit. The door opened.
He froze.

The prompts were:

godly
tumble
wink
machine
bake
rainy

The usual writing prompt fiction rules apply.

Kinky Design Crimes

by

Architectural plans and buildier's tools. Someone means business!
Photo by JESHOOTS.com from Pexels

Hi all,

aaaaand I’m back! Here’s a light-hearted piece this week. I’m obviously refreshed after that break. Hope you–

Hang on!

oh god. Yes?

It says ‘Kinky’ up there at the top of the page.

Well? I will not be censored, I am an arti–

So is it durty?

Is it… what?

Durty! Durty! Is it a durty story?

Dirty?

Durty!

Well. A tad suggestive, perhaps.

Lads? Come on, it is durty!

Well, no. What I was attempting to capture was–

Shh! Reading.

Emil fingered the stubble on his jaw as the lady of the house continued to witter on. She was nervous. Was hoping they’d finish before her husband came back. He wasn’t listening, he never listened to his clients. He knew what they wanted. What they needed.  Something nagged at his subconscious. She was too nervous.

He let the strap of his bag slide through his fingers until his knapsack of tools thumped on the floor. He looked at her, shook his head. No more talking. He pulled out his spirit level, sighting along it from where he stood. Getting a feel for the room.
‘But…’ she started.
Emil shook his head again, twitched aside his jacket so she could see the badge on his belt. He was an Interior Decorator, and this was a crime scene. 

It wasn’t working, he couldn’t feel the room. He stood in front of the window, looked out and suddenly turned back again. To surprise the room. Instead, he surprised Mrs Whats-er-name, whose eyes jumped from his backside, encased in tight jeans. Emil pretended to ignore her, stalking through the room. Trying to get a fix on the starting angle, the genius locus of the room. The clue that would tell him what the room wanted to be. He brushed past her a few times, peeled off his shirt. The room wanted to play hard to get? No problem. He felt the wife’s eyes on his biceps, on his shoulders, but the room wouldn’t talk to him. Time was running out. He had no desire to be caught in flagrante by her husband, any more than she did. Get in, decorate, get out. That was his motto.

‘I think you’d better go,’ she said.
Emil turned in shock. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘This has never happened to me before.’ He knelt over his bag. Her eyes travelled up and down his body. He didn’t understand what was wrong. She wanted him to renovate, but he couldn’t…
He noticed the dust on the floor. This room had been empty for a while. How many other decorators had she lured here? There were his footprints tracing back and forth. Then he saw it. Another line of footprints. Obliterated in the middle of the room where he had crossed and re-crossed. They came from the door and went in a straight line to the wall beside the fireplace. Then disappeared. He straightened up. 
‘My husband will be back any minute,’ she said.
But Emil’s trained eye saw the telltale cracks in the wall. With an easy blow, he opened the secret compartment.
‘The husband, I presume?’ he said.
The man nodded, scared. ‘We didn’t mean any harm,’ he said. ‘We just…’
‘You like to watch,’ said Emil. He tutted. But the secret compartment was what he had needed. He had his inspiration.
He went to the woman. ‘Key,’ he said. 
She handed it to him. He tucked it into his pocket.
‘I’ll be back tomorrow. Same time. I will let myself in.’ He nodded to the secret compartment. ‘I don’t want to see either of you,’ he said and winked.

Oof! Is it me or is it suddenly hot in here?

This blog post was sponsored by Morgan’s Interior Decorating Services. Contact morgan@morgandelaney.info today for a quote!