Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

Flash fiction

Tremendous

by

Smoke stacks beside the sea
Photo by Felix Tchverkin on Unsplash

Hi all,

another piece of flash fiction for you, enjoy!

The tide is out. The smoke from the stacks is pulled over my head and out to sea.
There’s no one on the beach. There are lots of men and women running around inside the power station, heaping coal into the furnaces. Or sitting in fake leather chairs, staring at green computer screens.

I’d hate to be out at sea. The wind is already strong on the beach and it gets worse the further you go from the shore. And the monsters out there, of course. That’s why the power stations all point their smoke out to sea. Something in the smoke. They’re allergic, that’s why they don’t come any closer.

I walk towards the power plant. Not so close that the security guards have to worry. The stacks are mottled from rain and age but still impressive. The smoke is almost the same colour as the clouds. A little whiter, a bit more yellow. The tiny soft stones under my feet squish in a puddle.
I look at the clouds. It’s been… 59 days. And 83 days since the time before that. So easily another 3 weeks before we can expect to see blue again. If the smoke stops the monsters could come in from the sea. Better to live with grey. But the grey makes it colder which means the clouds keep growing.
Once I saw a ship, far out and hazy with smoke. I remember shivering at how dangerous it must be, out on the ocean with just a little smoke stack to keep them away. If there was a fault it would be gobbled up immediately. Our power station was sending out plenty of smoke to help them on the water.

My mother tells me about black and white films. When she was younger films had no colour but real life did. Now its the other way around. The films show plenty of colour but life is black and white and grey and empty wet beaches and me by myself.

Scissors

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Hands reaching up out of water
Photo by Arun Kr from Pexels

Hi all,

hope winter is treating you kindly? Here’s some hot flash fiction to help you cope. Enjoy!

We never saw him again after the day at the beach.

He was the most popular guy in school. We couldn’t believe when he started hanging around with us. And we lost him.

It had been humid for weeks. Had rained just before school finished, the clouds trapping all the moisture. It was like walking around in a sauna. People sweating, even when just sitting around and talking. When they blinked a trail of heavy water rolled down their cheeks.

There was a murder epidemic. People going crazy.

In front of The Arcade (they had one Pac-Man machine, always Out of Order but it was our spot) a red car got blocked by a yellow car. The red car beeped and the guy came over and kept battering at the window until he’d punched through it. Screaming that he didn’t get paid enough. We have videos of it. The guy’s forearms bloody, reaching through the window.

And Erkan approaching, calming him down. He talked to him, took him back to his car. A man got the woman in the red car out, took her to hospital. Someone else must have called the police.

It was always women that summer, I don’t know why. I was 12, more likely to fight with other boys. But it was women who suffered in the madness.

A week before school was to start, long after we had given up hope, the clouds lifted. I woke one day, wondering what looked so strange. It was the light. The sun was out. My eyes weren’t crying, I wasn’t damp with moisture. It was the most wonderful feeling.

We went to the beach to swim.

Past The Arcade, past where the yellow car had bashed the red car and onto the rough, warm sand of our beach. We lived north of town so the beach was small. But we were all friends and there were no tourists. We rolled our jeans and t shirts up and splashed into the water.

The air was dry. We had a plastic football. Threw it too hard at each other’s faces. Wiped salt water out of our eyes. And Erkan joined us.

The most popular boy in school. He’d been working at his father’s office. He was destined for great things. It was only a matter of time before he would expect us to bring him coffee or mow his lawn or fix his toilet.

But today he was just another boy. Hot and tired form a long summer. He joined us in the water and we threw the ball too hard at his face. He wiped salt out of his eyes.

It might have been me who hit him first.

Rich Erkan. Lucky Erkan. Erkan who was famous as a hero for saving the woman.

The sun blinded me. I shouted. I remember that.

And the other boys came over. I remember that.

He held his hands up to calm us down. I remember his hands in the air.

But we were in the water, so we didn’t have our phones.

Maybe if someone had recorded what happened I would remember the rest.

The prompts were the picture above and the random word ‘scissors’ for the title.

Not too many scissors in the story, I admit. But I was thinking about the gap between rich and poor. I knew my narrator was poor right from the beginning. There were more hints in the original piece such as him and his friends needing to rely on The Arcade’s free Wifi.

And that’s got something to do with scissors, does it?

Yes! Because then there’s Erkan, who’s quite well off.

Go on…

So I was thinking about the gap between rich and poor.

My bus will be here in a minute!

And in German the phrase for ‘the gap’ between rich and poor is ‘die Schere’ – the scissors.

It is!

It is!

Marked

by

Two girls standing in water
Photo by Whoisbenjamin on Unsplash

Hi all,

sorry for missing a few weeks. I’ve been refurbishing and updating the site and it’s been a lot more complicated than I was expecting.

How complicated was it?

Oh. Em. About as complicated as …your mother?

Hey!

Sorry, you caught me off guard. I didn’t see you there.

Hmph.

Anyway. Here’s some lovely writing prompt fiction. This one didn’t even require much editing.

I’ve tagged it as ‘fantasy’ for the benefit of my international audience.

Irish readers will know better.

Enjoy!

The statue moved in the mornings.

Ella had seen it. She slept badly, often getting up while it was still dark.

Norah had never seen it move. She slept well.

But everyone knew the statue moved.

Busloads of tourists prayed to it. Tanned Italians. Pale Poles. They unfolded wheelchairs, lifted out those who needed help. After twitching their collars up they would go up the narrow gravel path between the lake and the mountain to the statue of Saint Mary. Some would do it barefoot or on their knees.

Ella said it never moved for them because that wasn’t the way: you had to go through the water. So you were clean when you stood in front of her.

Norah heard the tap on the window. It was dark outside. Her room had cooled overnight and it was hard to even think about getting up. It sounded again, louder. Ella. Who else? 6 am according to the pale glow of her alarm clock.

Ella, her eyes dark with shadows, wearing trousers. She almost always wore skirts, unless she was covering up bruises. Norah opened the window.

“Come on,” said Ella. Her teeth were chattering. “She’s moving again.”

Norah started to pull on tights. Took them off. Leggings and jeans and two pairs of socks. If they were going through the lake then tights were a bad idea.

She climbed out the window. “We have to get back before 8,” she said.

Ella grabbed her hand, pulling. Norah had to jog to keep up. There was a thick mist and Norah’s hair stuck to her face. At the lake they pulled off their shoes and socks and stepped into the water. The first step was so cold it burned but Ella was still pulling at Norah’s arm. She had to keep going to avoid falling over, the cold deadening her feet against the stones on the lake bed.

The grotto was invisible under the mist.

They got closer. Norah could see the statue. The blue-robed Mary was moving towards them, walking towards them. Running towards them.

Her mouth was open. “Go back!” she said. “Go back!”

Ella kept pulling Norah onward.

Behind the statue was emptiness. It carried the statue. As Norah reached it she was swallowed up.

The prompts were the above picture and the random word ‘marked’ for a title.

My usual writing prompt rules apply (only changes to typos and punctuations as well as deleting is allowed). Otherwise I would definitely change ‘…up they would go up the narrow…’ to ‘…up they would ascend the narrow…’ Tidier and avoids the repetition of ‘up’ in the sentence.

And ‘under the mist’ should be ‘behind the mist.’

On the other hand I was able to change

‘Ella was outside. Her eyes were dark with shadows. She was wearing trousers.’

to

‘Ella, her eyes dark with shadows, wearing trousers.’

Good call?

Slow

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Dog with orange eyes
Photo by 𝗔𝗹𝗲𝘅 𝘙𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘳 on Unsplash

Happy New Year everyone!

Let’s celebrate with some writing prompt fiction. This one was inspired by the above photo and the random word “slow” for the title. No changes except to typos and punctuation and deleting stuff. Enjoy!

“We need to go,” she said.

Benji wagged his tail from the basket.

Normally he ran to the door. There was a park with birds, rabbits and picnic leftovers. Today he just grinned with his tongue falling out one side of his mouth.

“I’m late,” she said. “If we don’t go now then we’re not going.”

Benji rose, ambled down the hall. She had her boots and jacket on, a roll of little plastic bags in her pocket. Benji let her hook the leash around his neck.

Her phone rang. Her boss wondering where she was, wondering if the report was finished. Wondering if he’d made a mistake asking her back. She had everything ready, just needed to get the dog to do his business and then she’d jump in the bus. Be there in no time.

“Come on, Benji!” All month he’d been lively and full of beans. This morning he would barely move. She looked at him. His head was low but he was looking up at her with his orange eyes. A sly look, from that angle.

He probably just sensed something was different, he didn’t like change. Didn’t like it when she’d left to move out on her own.

“This is a good place, Benji.” They were in the park, off to one side of the entrance. He often did his business here. She waited, scrolling through her phone.

Emails from work. Lots of them. They didn’t think she was up to the job. There was an undercurrent in all of them

…if you get a chance

… not sure it’s something you’re across…

happy with your decision but…

Benji was grinning at her.

She let the leash drop, started running. Sometimes she could trick him into moving a bit quicker. “Look!” she said. “Look, look, look!”

Benji turned, walking back out of the park.

“Benji!” She grabbed his leash. She pulled and he looked at her, Once. She apologised immediately

They walked the rest of the way in silence. Their flat was on the ground floor. Dark, she rented it for the bit of garden it had. She’d thought it would be perfect for Benji. Give him a chance to run around, be outside by himself when she was working. He hadn’t used it.

Inside the flat he went straight to his bed and lay down.

“No poo, Benji?”

No.

She hesitated at the door.

“Will you be okay? I’ll just be gone for a few hours.”

He rolled over and snorted.

No.

She squeezed her keys in her hand until it went numb. “I could stay here with you?”

No.

She went out to the garden, sat on the green plastic chair with its corroded ashtray. Slowly the tears came.

Is that Benji saying no?

Well, what do you think?

Reductive Surgery

by

Black and white line silhouette
Image: Reductive Surgery by Morgan Delaney

Hi all,

another piece of writing prompt fiction. As befits the topic I had to make a lot of cuts to get this one looking good. The prompts are given below the piece (but can you find where I’ve hidden them in the piece?).

Enjoy!

Pretty comes later.

They come for help but they’re looking in the wrong place.

Beauty is only skin deep, they say.

I nod and tell them what I’m, going to do.

I hate the phrase plastic surgery though it suits the people who come to me. Fake. Disposable. Pathetic. Until I turn them into art.

I give them a number and tell them how much it will hurt and they call.

I tell them it can go wrong and they call.

You can make me pretty, they say.

No. Pretty comes later. First we find your soul. And they think I mean that beauty is only skin deep.

It’s not. Beauty goes all the way through to the bones. Skin covers up beauty. Skin is the enemy.

Fashion comes and goes in waves, art lasts forever. When preserved.

I have them all, beautiful bones, matte organs, spiderwebs of combed tissue.

You’ll be famous. I tell them. You’ll be a work of art.

Will I be pretty?

First we find the message only you can give to the world.

Will I be pretty?

First I take you apart, then I put you back together.

You won’t survive.

Pretty comes later.

The prompts were

number
lace
cover
waves
pat

Puncture

by

Trees at the roadside, dawn
Photo by Branimir Balogović on Unsplash

Hi all,

here’s another piece of writing prompt fiction for you. I’m going to start tagging the genre so the archives are easier to navigate.This one is “Horror”.

You know the rules by now: 20 minutes, no editing apart from changing typos and punctuation and deleting.

Enjoy!

Rain taps on the roof. The headlights pick out a hedge, the trunk of a tree. The light is too yellow, the contrast off.

The car is half on the road, the hedgerow impaled between the bonnet and the tree. The windshield wipers squeak across the glass. The car is warm inside but there’s a draft. From the driver’s side window, which is cracked, a triangle missing. The engine hisses and the bonnet pops as it cools.

There are three people in the car. The driver, the person beside the driver and the person in the back. They wear seat belts. One is breathing jaggedly, lungs avoiding broken ribs.

Look around, blink, look again and the scene comes into focus. It doesn’t make sense. The dark, the yellow lights, the noise of rain, the weird angle of the car. Then: the pub; the drinks; the offer to drive the two girls home.
The sudden movement as the car crested the small hill.
The weightlessness as the car aimed itself at the ditch beside the road.

His neck was sore.
Please, God, not broken.
The girls. Maura beside him, Siobhán in the back. He called, his voice drowsy with shock. He couldn’t see her, couldn’t turn his head, couldn’t get the seat belt off.
“Hey!”
Did she move?
“Hey!” Movement behind him. “Siobhán?”
He could hear breathing. Thank God, they had their seat belts on. And it was only a little bump. Just ran off the road trying to avoid a… what was it?
A flash of white before the car had lifted off the road. Singing. Keening.

Maybe they’d hit… whatever. Or a fox in heat.
Behind him. Keening.

In the mirror. The banshee on Siobhán’s lap. She rocked and wept as she sang.
Life, coming out of Siobhán’s mouth. The old woman sucked it in.
And Siobhán started to sing.


And Maura started to sing.


And the old woman, dressed in white, her tangled hair muddy with blood crawled across the dead girl.


And he was singing, too.