Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

Flash fiction

Building

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A skyscraper building
Photo by Simone Hutsch on Unsplash

I recently had a conversation with someone who insisted on telling me something that WE BOTH KNEW FOR A FACT was not true. So that’s where this story comes from. Enjoy!

They kept referring to it as Central City’s tallest building, even as the spire and top ten stories had to come off, because the weight was cracking the foundations.

It was still pretty big.

Then, one morning, it looked shorter. It was sinking into the ground.

By the time everyone assembled, it was midnight. The Great and Gracious Sultan of the country did not like to be summoned. But he was willing to be present when the architect and the construction manager insisted that, only he, the Great and Gracious Sultan could help them figure out what to do. If the ground was as solid as the Sultan’s Grand Engineer (and son-in-law) had told them, then it was inexplicable that the building should sink. The Great and Gracious Sultan clapped the Grand Engineer around the ear-hole, then went to see what he could do.

The answer, of course, was simple. No mistake had been made. The building was too beautiful to be seen by common people, some of whom had said mean things about it, and even meaner things about the Great Engineer, when he had – admittedly quite late in the project – suddenly decided to have the top 10 stories and the spire removed, after deciding that he preferred the old-fashioned style of uncracked foundations. The building could take no more and was retreating into the ground.

But this was a wonderful opportunity! For each storey the building sank, they could add another storey above ground. And who said that the only way to build a tall building was to have it sticking out of the ground?

Well, from now on the Sultan would show that a building could start anywhere, even underground. All the architect and construction manager needed to do was to ensure that each storey had its own entrance in the ceiling, so that the people who were supposed to be working there could continue to access the building.

What?

Certainly they should continue to work there!

And the Great and Gracious Sultan clapped his hands and when he got home, he smirked at the Great Engineer and his daughter hugged him and whispered in the Sultan’s ear, and they both looked at the Great Engineer and laughed.

And the building work continues to this day!

One day, perhaps, the foundations will pop out through the Earth’s crust on the other side of the planet, and if they keep building, then it will be two of the world’s tallest buildings, the Great and Gracious Sultan be praised!

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Forgotten

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Rusted sheets of corrugated iron
Photo by Wilhelm Gunkel on Unsplash

We’re going home for this week’s piece of flash fiction. Or at least to school. Enjoy!

We always took the tanyard shortcut to school after lunch. We only had half an hour and spent a lot of that time queueing for a go on the chip shop’s arcade machines. The school’s principal hated it and used to lie in wait where you came out of the trees that surrounded the school grounds. No one at the tanyard minded us traipsing through, except for Paddy Short and his dog. The tanyard was what nowadays would be called a Business District, or maybe an Incubator. In those days, it was just the tanyard, where businesses went to struggle, shrivel and die. Converted old sheds with battered trucks with telephone numbers on the side.

A dog might scare off intruders, but it was a magnet to schoolkids. Nothing made sneaking into school via the forbidden tanyard more exciting, than first kicking on the gnawed door of the shed where Paddy kept the animal locked up to make it bark, then running off before Paddy came out with his walking stick over his head, his jaws working in rage.

#

I hadn’t thought about it in years, but when I went back to the town to take care of matters after my mother died, I found myself down at the tanyard. Ireland was in the middle of a property frenzy, and the rundown sheds had bloomed into large outlet-style “bathroom paradise” businesses. Still right at the back was Paddy Short’s shed.

And then, maybe out of habit, I thought I’d kick at the door where the dog had lived.

“I wouldn’t do that,” said a voice. The principal. I recognised him immediately, though it was thirty years since I had last seen him.

“I suppose he’s no longer there anyway, is he?”

“Paddy? Oh, he’s there, all right.”

“But he must be 100 by now.”

“Something like that.” He had come up to me and I had my back to the shed. “You prick. I was never able to catch you. But I have you now.”

The venom in his voice! Then he kicked the door and ran off. Before I could move, a hand snaked out and grabbed me.

See you next Thursday!

Morgan

Favourite

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Black rotary phone on white background
Photo by Quino Al on Unsplash

Hi all, welcome back to another piece of flash fiction!

Now, I don’t mean to boast, but I have accounts with two separate banks. They handle security and logging in differently. One of them does it very well.

This story is more about the other one.

Enjoy!

“Thank you for calling the Your Bank! hotline. I’m Trina, how can I help you?”
“Hi. I can’t login online. It says my account has been blocked?”
“Have you forgotten your password?”
“No.”
Silence.
“Do you need me to confirm it, or…”
“No! Sir! Please never give your password to anyone.”
“I wasn’t going to! Just confirm the last few digits, or something.”
“Sir, providing access to your account to third parties is in violation of the agreement you signed when you joined up. Never give your password to anyone.”
John rolled his eyes.
“Sir?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll need to confirm your data. What’s your address?”
“1216 Blue Tree, Arkansas.”
“Correct. Mother’s maiden name?”
“Delphine.”
“Correct. Date of birth?”
“Mine? Um, March 14th, ’83.”
“You’re doing very well, sir.”
He glanced at the phone’s screen. Eight minutes already.
“Now. If you could only take two of your siblings on the helicopter to escape a terrorist attack, which one would you leave behind?”
John waited for her to say “just kidding!”
“Sir? That’s a time-sensitive question.”
“I…”
“Paul, Andrew or Frank.”
“Frank, I sup—”
“Correct.”
Correct?
“Aaand last question: if Paul or Andrew had to die – and remember, this is a hypothetical – if one of them had to die, which should it be? Paul or Andrew?”
“Paul.” Paul was a dick.
“Correct! Thank you, sir, you can now access your account.”
The voice on the other end of the phone stopped talking, but the line stayed open.
“What should I…?” John lowered his voice.
“Sir?”
“What should I do about Andrew?”

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Accent

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Brown floorboards
Photo by boris misevic on Unsplash

Woohoo! We’ve reached blog post 100! To celebrate here’s a little story, which will throw some light on some of the trials an author has to go through to get these things ready on time. It’s not all MacBooks and coffee shops, you know.

Enjoy!

There was no one else in the house, of that I had no doubt.

The voice spoke again. “Once I find you, I’ll have you.”

What else could it be, other than a ghost? If it had been a real murderer, she’d surely have made good on her threat to come kill me.

I had rented the little cottage for the summer, in order to finish my book. Instead, I spent the days dreading the nights when, as soon as the sun had dwindled outside, I’d hear the floorboards above my head and the spiteful ghost – the dead wife of the cottage’s owner – call out her warning. The spot over my head, through the plaster ceiling: I could feel her standing there.

It was a ridiculous situation, made worse by the fact that I wrote horror and ghostly stories: I should be delighted to make the acquaintance of a ghost.

“Once I find you, I’ll have you.”

***

“One, two, three, …”

She had never counted before.

Footsteps moved to the bedroom door, down the short hallway. To the stairs.

There was no one in the house, I kept telling myself that. I was overwrought by lack of sleep, imagining footsteps slapping down on the steps, getting closer and closer, now just outside the living room.

There was no one else in the house, I told myself again.

Which meant that she must be coming for me.

Cheers! See you next week for post 101!

Corruption

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A piece of sacking
Photo by Alona Po on Unsplash

I don’t even remember writing this one, that’s the great thing about writing every day (it probably helps that I write them first thing in the morning, when I’m not always properly awake—)

Yes, well, that certainly helps explain things!

BUTANYWAYSHUTYOURFACE! and I hope you enjoy it!

The last delivery of the day, and his favourite. But when he dropped the bag of corn outside the chicken coop and knocked on the door for Mrs Byrne, she had no kisses or tender words for him. She was in a right state.

The thing was, he liked their little arrangement, how they went back to their families afterwards. She hadn’t said that with her husband dead, she’d expect him to marry her. But you couldn’t run a farm without a man. Even the chickens would get uppity, if there was no man about.

And here he was, carrying the man of the house over his shoulder to his cart.

He had enough sacking to cover it, and he ki-yahed the horses until he got to the river. He let them graze along the banks. The back of the cemetery lay through the trees on the other side. He was lucky. There was nobody else there, though it was a popular spot on nice evenings like this. He wouldn’t even need to think up an excuse to tell his wife. She knew he came back late on Fridays. He was just missing out on Mrs Byrne’s affections. Oh well, nothing came for free.

He flipped back an edge of sacking. Mr Byrne’s face was bruised and blood caked his lips. She’d really given it to him this time. Poor bugger, he’d never known how to handle his wife. Not the way she liked.

He hefted the body over his shoulder. Once he had dropped it over the wall into the cemetery, it would no longer be his problem, the priest would have to take care of it. He’d hide it under the coffin next time someone was being buried, same as usual. There was sometimes such a stink with so many bodies in one hole!

He decided to stop off at Mrs Byrne’s place on the way home. She might need some comforting. He certainly did. And he could stay as long as he liked, now that there was no chance of her husband coming in and finding them.

Her lights were off. That was no good. She should keep up the pretence that everything was normal until her husband was found. That was the way things were done. He tripped over Mr Byrne’s boots in the dark hallway.

“Annette?” he called. She was crying in the bedroom, snuffling. He made his way towards the sound. There she was, wrapped up in her blanket in the dark. “All taken care of,” he said.

The priest threw back the covers, and whanged his head with a shovel.

He woke when his body dropped into the narrow hole, landing on something soft: Mr Byrne. He turned and opened his mouth to ask for help. The priest threw a handful of dirt into it, choking him. Annette started shovelling dirt while the priest put his arm around her. It looked like he knew how to handle her.

Changed

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Hi all, here’s a little bit of late-night paranoid insomniac fiction for you. Please wipe your shoes before entering my head.

Enjoy!

He couldn’t sleep with the light on in the flat. Unfortunately, the flat was across the road, and the tenants had moved out several weeks ago. Most likely they had simply forgotten to turn the light off in the bedroom. But what if they had done it on purpose?

What if there was someone in the flat? What if – and this might sound paranoid – but what if they hadn’t moved out at all? Perhaps they had got some kind of opaque adhesive sheets printed with an image of an empty flat, and stuck them on the windows, because they were sick of him staring at them? Perhaps a dark adhesive sheet for during the day, and a bright one for during the night. What if they had scratched off little eye-holes in the sheets, so they could watch him?

He waited at the window to see when they would swap the two sheets, but he never caught them. Perhaps they were blinds. One quick pull to swap day for night. Blink and you’d miss it. As he always did…

They must be watching very closely indeed, if they were able to anticipate his blinks. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he took a step away from his window, refusing to blink until he was out of sight.

Someone knocked at the door. When he looked through the spy-hole the man on the other side, his face distorted by the lens, looked like the neighbour who had moved out. Or one of the removal men: he definitely looked familiar. He waited for the man to go away, but of course he had a key. There were other men with him. These were the removal men.

It was time to go.