Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

Flash fiction

Perpetual longing

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Man on a couch sharing food with two dogs
Photo by Sacha Verheij on Unsplash

Hi all,

here’s a new piece of writing prompt fiction for you and it’s topical. Who knew I could write topical fiction, eh? You can find the prompts below the piece. Enjoy!

Rex growled and Tom put the plate on the ground. Rex inspected it. He said, ‘There’s only one piece left.’ He ate it.
‘That was a big piece,’ said Bono.
Rex flicked his pink tongue around his snout, then lay down and closed his eyes. Bono gave a half-hearted whine and let his brown and white body fall, spine against the base of the couch.
The food was just this side of rotten, Tom complained but Bono and Rex liked it. Flavoursome. Tom’s food had used to always be bland. Any smell it might have dulled further by the refrigerator. But since the lockdown he’d been eating with them. Sharing the scraps they’d normally get for themselves. Rex didn’t like it.
Bono flicked an eye to Rex, gave a timid shake of his tail to show he wasn’t thinking about becoming top dog. That was Rex. Bono stood and shook himself at the patio door until Tom roused himself to let the dog out. Tom was thinner. His polo shirt hung from his shoulders instead of stretching over his belly. In the garden Bono found a spot that was relatively free from crap and did his business. From everywhere came the scent of Rex’s business. Reminders of who was boss. Bono sniffed around for a while but there was nothing to do. No cars, no people. Just a gusty wind that told him things weren’t better anywhere else. This was the new normal. They were in deep trouble. Bad time to be the lowest dog on the totem pole.
He came back in and sat listening to Rex’s breathing. Rex was getting angry. He was bored and hungry and that made him hateful. The room slowly darkened. Tom’s belly growled. Rex growled back.
Tom stood. This was Bono’s chance. The couch had been gifted to him: he sprang onto it. His muscles quivered in excitement. When Tom came back he could sit on the floor. Rex was watching carefully. Rex is a Good Boy, he thought and wagged his tail. He didn’t want to be top dog, he just didn’t want to be bottom dog. Tom came back. Started eating little flakes of pulped corn that he usually ate with milk. He hadn’t noticed that Bono was on the couch. Bono pushed his snout towards the plate. Tom pushed it away. Bono had to tell himself that that wasn’t the way things were going down any more. He managed to lick a few of the sweetish flakes off the plate. Tom pushed him away. ‘Hey!’ Habit told Bono not to do it again. But he had to. He darted forward, managed to knock the plate over. Tom went down on his knees after them, scrabbling to get as many as he could before the dogs ate them.
Rex was making his own calculations. Bono was happy. He’d gotten the couch and had Tom eating off the floor. It was pretty obvious who the bottom dog was. Rex didn’t care about the tasteless flakes. He was looking at Tom, his behind in the air. Thinner than it had been but still…. A long pink tongue rolled slowly out of his mouth. Bono waited. Rex gave him a look. They would have to do this together. Hunting. Real dog stuff. Bad time to be the lowest dog on the totem pole. Rex pounced. When Tom tried to get away so did Bono.
Afterwards he slept on the floor. He was back to being the lowest dog on the totem pole. He looked over. Saw Rex watching him.

The prompts were the random title ‘Perpetual Longing’ and the following five words together with the picture of a man and his two best friends at the top of this page.

gifted
rotten
deep
gusty
hateful

Icicle

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Avalanche warning sign
Photo by Nicolas Cool on Unsplash

Hi all,

here’s another piece of writing prompt flash fiction for you. I’m trying out something a little different so keep reading and let me know if you prefer these ‘new’ stories or the ‘old’ ones Enjoy!

He should have turned back when the others had. Now he lay crushed under the weight of snow. It was so cold his eyes had frozen shut. His chest heaved as he screamed at himself to dig his way out. A wolf howled.

He needed to get out from under the snow. He’d never be found under all this ice. Especially if he waited until morning. The wolf howled again.

He tried. His head didn’t move. The ache of the cold localised around his chest. Pierced by an icicle. He was leaking blood, leaking heat. Or his heart was panicking, telling him it wanted to stop. His breath, already shallow and shaky, stopped. In panic he flailed, tried to. He passed out from exertion and fear.

He woke, terrified out of dreams by the lack of oxygen. The ice was heavier on his chest. Settling on him, burying him. He screamed, knowing there was no way his friends would hear him. The wolf howled again. It sounded close. He couldn’t be far from the surface if the sound came through so clearly. He forced his breathing to calm, concentrated his attention on his right arm. Use the strength of his shoulder to drag it a centimetre closer. Make that first bit of space he could use to dig himself out.
It moved! He started to cry with relief, thinking he was laughing.

Twisting and pulling, shoving and worming under the snow he was going to make it. He was groaning, swearing and shouting for help, not hearing what he was saying. Talking and shouting for company, to prove he was alive. His eyes were frozen shut, the tears had turned to ice, even under his lids. The breeze was what told him he had made it. Warm. Soft repetitive breezes.
Breath. He’d been found, thank God, thank God!

The wolf howled.

Short and sweet, no?

Quick Sand

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Person head down in water, legs in the air
Photo by anouar olh from Pexels

Hi all,

another piece of writing prompt fiction. Enjoy!

‘It’s just a game,’ she said. It didn’t feel like one. I waded deeper into the water, the sand melting away under my toes.
I was only about 2 metres from the buoy at this stage.
The thing about the buoy was that it was just a pocked white ball, more teeth-white than milk-white. Seaweed grew the length of the rope that kept it anchored. Strands floated over the buoy, the mass of it dark under the water.
It looked like a dead body. Face down until the sound of splashing woke it.
The water was shallow then dipped suddenly. So you needed to swim to reach it. I’d told Rebecca that it looked like a dead body. She insisted I go and touch it. She was going to toughen me up, she said. Make a man of me. Which was what I wanted to be. Especially if it meant spending time with Rebecca.
I leaned into the deeper water and pushed off the seabed. The seaweed waved from the rope. The thought of the cold slimy weed made me feel sick.
‘Come on, Pete!’ Rebecca was getting bored. I reached out and tapped the buoy.
‘Knock, knock,’ I said, turning to get back to the shore.
I was fast on the way back. The thought of the bleached white skull with its robe of weed pushed me, Rebecca on the beach, in her swimsuit, pulled me.
I splashed towards her, grinning. She was looking behind me in horror. I wasn’t going to fall for that.
Sometimes the waves slap against the rope. It just sounds like something splashing around.

The prompts were the photo and the random title prompt ‘joke quicksand,’ which I changed to Quick Sand for this post. The idea of the dead body/buoy came from a recent holiday*. Walking on the beach I saw a ball-shaped buoy covered in seaweed and it really did look like the skull of a dead body. I had to watch it until we went past to make sure it didn’t start moving…

*the same holiday that inspired Toe Suit

Rapid Yawn

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Woman standing on stairs
Photo by Ansel Lee from Pexels

Hi all, here’s this week’s piece of writing prompt flash fiction. You can always tell what time of day I write a piece of fiction. The earlier I write the more depressing it is. Enjoy!

There was no sign of her husband. She had wasted too much time with him. With all her belongings packed she could see the cracks in the plaster. The mildew. The flaky plaster behind the door where the handle smashed into the wall when he opened it too quickly. The net curtains smelled of the damp that seeped in through the wooden window frame.

She went and sat on the stairs, the sounds of the house surrounded her. The couple underneath spent every waking minute watching chat shows, game shows. The families on either side. They’d never gotten on. Her children would spend occasional days playing with them, interspersed with weeks of sulking and name-calling. She’d never listened to it before, always rushing up the stairs to do the next thing: clean; cook; get the kids ready for the shower, for bed, for school. The litany of constant niggling responsibility. A yawn slipped out and she bit it off. Michael didn’t like it. Said it made her look ugly. She knew her teeth weren’t good. Knew that was why he said it.
She was leaving him.
10 minutes. She shouldn’t even give him that long but she owed it…not to him, to their marriage. Another tiny yawn. The television downstairs tricked her into closing her eyes for a moment.

It was dark when she opened them. No sign of him. She stood and simply walked out the door. She left the apartment door open so he could get home. She wouldn’t be there to let him in. Her mother would be furious. She’d missed dinner and there would be nothing left over. She only had enough money for the bus. She climbed aboard, sank down in her seat. Back home. To Mother. Mother’s dry sour face. Mrs Lemon, the children had called her.

It was just to earn some money so she could get her own place. She rested her head against the bus window. She bit back another yawn. Just for a little while. Just until…

Four years ago she had ridden the same bus in the other direction to meet Michael. Her mother had never liked him. Mrs Lemon. And she was Mrs Lemon’s daughter: the girl who never knew what she wanted. The bus was almost empty. She felt at her teeth. A habit she had never been able to shake. Her mother would go crazy if she saw her still doing it.

This is clearly a pre-morning coffee piece, while Hot Air was written after a lovely late afternoon lunch. Beans, I think.

Certain Idea

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Brick wall
Photo by JØNΛS. on Unsplash

Hi all,

here’s my latest piece of writing prompt flash fiction. No need for me to introduce this one, it’s pretty self-explanatory. Enjoy!

Everyone needs a hobby. I’m a collector. This is my hobby room. I’d love a room with a window but the light would be bad for these first editions. It’s nice down here anyway. My family isn’t interested in what I do. That’s fine, I’m not interested in what they do, either.

Well, this is something special, I’m building a model. Pop in. See what you… it’s okay. Look, take my phone, the flash-light. There you go.

What do you think? No, it doesn’t look like much, just a wall right? See, I’m going to put something in there and then seal it up, like a… time capsule? Yeah. It’ll be in there and nobody will know but me. Fun. Add to the value of the collection, too.

You’ll have to help me with this bit. So… mind that, that’s The Murders in the Rue Morgue! Sorry, but that’s valuable. The raven? Yeah, that’s not a collectable, just keeps me company.

Whoa! You’re not going in behind the wall, I am! This is my collection. No offence, but why would I want you in my collection? Sorry, but there it is. Now just pass me up those last few bricks. Thanks. No hard feelings, right? Plaster and paint it and then slip out the garage the way I let you in. Nobody will know you were ever here, OK? That’s not bad money for a bit of plastering, right? You keep quiet and nobody will be the wiser. I’ll be in my basement with my collectables and banging on the wall and scaring the bejesus out of my family. Well, sure I’ll be dead, that’s the point. Okay, last brick. Remember, go out the garage and you’re going home a rich man. I’m staying.

This could be the shortest piece of fiction I’ve ever posted. Well over half of the original ended up on the cutting room floor. That’s the problem with a ‘chatty’ style: it involves a lot of fluff. I wonder if I could make a story out of the left over half?

Ol’ Danny

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Ol' Danny feedin coal into a furnace
Photo by Kateryna Babaieva from Pexels

Another piece of writing prompt fiction. This one was based on the photo and five random words to be used in the story. Who is Ol’ Danny? Read the story and the notes afterwards to find out! Enjoy!

‘Come rain or shine,’ they said. ‘Ol’ Danny’ll be feeding the flames.’

It was like a promise. You went to work and Ol’ Danny was there, shovellin’ coal into the tiny mouth of the furnace. The ass, some people said. That was the closest thing to annoyin’ Danny you could do. He liked to be treated with respect, it was a dangerous job. The last guy? It belched. One minute he was tossin’ in lignite, the next there was nothin’ left but the shovel. Bullshit. Anyone can see Danny has a new shovel. Hard to imagine Danny without the shovel actually. If I picture him out of work hours he still has it. Leanin’ against the bar, a cool beer in one hand, his shovel in the other. Down at the store, his shovel over his shoulder as he grabs a milk…

He’s been here 20 years, staring into the glowing orange mouth. I couldn’t do it. Not strong enough, anyways.

But there’s no premium on bein’ fearless, I guess. The guys up top have said they don’t need anyone doin’ Danny’s role.

‘What if somethin’ went wrong. How would that look?’ they asked.

‘How’s it goin’ to look when we fire him?’ I asked back but they didn’t see it. People get fired all the time, but a guy bein’ roasted to a cinder makes good television, I guess..

‘Danny.’ I know he can hear me. I call again. ‘Danny!’ He turns around. He’s got his visor on, a little strip of smoked glass. Makes him look like he’s got a superhero mask on. He stops. Places the blade of the shovel on the ground, waits. ‘Can we go talk?’ I swear he’s communin’ with the furnace in his head before he gives me a nod. He pulls on thick gloves, closes the door of the furnace. Looks at his watch. We head to my office and he still has his visor on. It feels like he’s in charge, showing me where to go. Sit in here and stay out of my way. That’s what it feels like and I’m gettin’ annoyed. He stands all day shovellin’ coal, so I get it that his people skills might be a little rusty, but shit…

I let him sit down. I give him the news. Redundant. He stares at me, still wearin’ that visor. I don’t ask him to take it off ‘cause he’s not the only guy I’ve let go. Guys like Danny, who’ve stayed in this shithole because they had a job here and they’re loyal. Didn’t up sticks and move somewhere where they might could have had a job and a family. They tear up and some of them bawl their eyes out. If Danny’s cryin’ I don’t want to see it. But I tell him that things have changed and it’s no longer workable to have a guy doin’ what he does. Health and Safety, its just not possible any more. And I offer him another job. Somethin’ I know he’ll be too insulted to want to do. He’ll turn me down and that’s it. If he gets angry, even better. Then I know he’s an asshole and I’m glad we’re rid of him. ‘How would you like,’ I ask Danny. ‘To drive a forklift? We can always use another driver in the warehouse.’

Danny pulls his visor off and his eyes! They glow orange and there’s heat pouring out. My eyeballs dry up and I can feel my skin gettin’ crisp.

He walks out and I know he’s gone back to the furnace and I don’t dare follow him. He’s a demon. Or he’s turned into the flames he’s been feedin’ all these years. When it’s time to go home I wait a little longer. Then, when I have to go, the place is almost empty but I can hear the skritch of Danny’s shovel on the floor, still feedin’ the machine. I go over ‘cause I have to but there’s nobody there. The flames have died down a bit. Restin’ until they get fed again. There’s no sign of Danny, but I know he was there. I think of his burnin’ eyes and I’m dreadin’ when he comes back. He doesn’t. And when we look nobody knows where he is.

I have to set up the new system to feed the flames, but the fire has been burnin’ just fine since Danny quit. And I don’t want to be the one to open the door to the furnace. Open up the mouth. Nobody else wants to either. The guys call the furnace Ol’ Danny and I know that’s exactly right.

The random words were

promise
premium
strong
picture
workable

And the name? I hate coming up with names. But I’d been re-listening to Throw Rag‘s ’13 Foot and Rising’ album the night before and the song Lil’ Danny was still tuck in my head. Luckily it fit. (In a way that, e.g. Lil’ Montgomery would not have.)