Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

Flash fiction

Tail

by

Rusty sawblade against an apricot coloured wall
Photo by Joanna Malinowska on Freestocks.Org

This must be Hell. Sun smothered him through the grimy bus windows, as the driver rattled them over potholes and rubbish on shot suspension.

The woman turned to him, releasing the meaty smell of her dehydrated mouth. “You must be having a lovely time, Father,” she said. The question mark got lost in the clatter of the bus. His forehead was damp. “You don’t get to go out much.”

Again, it was not a question. He smiled a response, unwilling to open his mouth in case the smell of her breath seeped into it, God forgive him.

“You’re not making the most of things, you eat hardly anything. Not worried about gluttony, are you?” She laughed, her smell sprayed all over his face. He’d have to wash before he could eat. Of all his parishioners, why did she have to sit close to him, carve out these little moments to chat?

He wanted to enjoy the sun. Visiting the Vatican City had been special, returning the long way to England had been the wrong decision. His parishioners were getting rowdy as they sampled wine and food.

The bus pulled up outside a rundown white cottage. The windows were narrow and dark, rusted equipment guarded the open door. A horse nodded its head, its skin shivered on its flanks. Father Michael took a breath of air when he got off the bus. Manure from the farm, hot diesel. It was better than the decay on Mrs Hellingway’s breath.

A man came out of the house and surveyed them. They filed in, the last stop before the boat. The tiny cottage had a large kitchen with a single table taking up most of the room. Two benches, one on either side, used up the remaining space. The cottage floor was packed earth. Father Michael wanted to make sure he was near the door. The man came in and left with an extension cable, one end plugged in.

He should have been paying attention to the seating order. He was with Mrs Hellingway again.

“Father! Jeanie tells me you’re a vegetarian.” She pronounced it “veget-hair-ian.” Was she sick? Father Michael held his breath and nodded. His secret was out. Everyone turned towards him.

“Ah no, Father!” said Mrs Joyce.

“My grandson is one of those,” said Mrs Bently.

“He sure is,” said Mr Joyce, to a slap on the arm from his wife.

“But Father, no wonder you look so pale,” said Mrs Hellingway.

Outside, the shadow of the horse was getting jittery. It kicked at the ground. The man said something. It sounded like a threat, but Father Michael didn’t understand Italian. The language sounded vicious at the best of times. Could no one else smell Mrs Hellingway?

“What about the Eucharist?” said Mary Fellowes, one of the younger parishioners. She looked worried. Father Michael leaned towards her to put himself outside the miasma surrounding Mrs Hellingway. “It’s not literally the body of Christ,“ he said. “Only symbolic.” She looked worried still. Perhaps she had missed the last part; outside, a saw was screeching.

“Surely the Good Lord put the animals here for us to use?” said Mrs Hellingway. “You’re the expert, of course!”

“That doesn’t mean we have to eat them.”

The Italian woman who was to cook for them stood listening.

Her husband came in with a metal tub. Father Michael smelled the blood and his stomach flipped. He stopped talking.

“They are tasty, though,” said Mrs Hellingway. Her breath wrapped itself around him, mixed with the smell of blood. He blacked out.

When he woke only the Italian couple and Mrs Hellingway were still there.

“The others have gone on,” she said. “You feel better.” It wasn’t a question.

He did. On the oven, pots bubbled, but Father Michael wasn’t hungry. He must have been out for some time, if everyone else had eaten and left. There was blood everywhere. Sun warmed him through the cosy windows. Flies buzzed. The earthen floor was soft, though he should get up soon. He stood, patting dust off his clothes. There was blood spattered all over him too. Perhaps the man had spilled the tub on seeing the priest fall over? Outside, the air was fresh. There was a puddle of blood where the horse had been, a belt floating in the middle of it. He looked closer. Not a belt, a tail.

“You didn’t have to eat them, you know,” said Mrs Hellingway.

“They were so tasty,” said Father Michael, without thinking. In the deep end of the puddle were rings, earrings, bracelets and necklaces.

Veil

by

Photo by Shane Rooney on Reshot

Elgin brought the plane to cruising altitude. The hard part is over until she has to nurse it back down. The co-pilot is bent over his meal to keep crumbs off his uniform trousers. They are already shiny with grease from his hands and age. Her own trousers are sharply pressed. She bought them two months ago, though the old ones would have done until retirement.

The co-pilot is one of the boys and doesn’t care what anyone thinks. He thinks he’s casual, easygoing. A good laugh.

His belly sits on top of his belt buckle. He’s retiring too, but he’s not looking forward to it. No more trips out East where company can be had cheaply. He has a flat in the centre of London. Elgin has seen it in photos of parties with other pilots. All men. Elgin has a house in the country. Small, but there’s some garden around it. She was glad to get it. Every time she went on maternity leave, a huge bite was taken out of her pay, out of her bonus hours. She had to fight to get as high as First Officer. By the time she had paid back the training fees, the youngest had finished college. Free as a bird at last.

“What’ll you do?” The co-pilot means: when we land in Peking. He’s just making conversation, he has no intention of inviting her along to whatever it is he has planned. He wants her to answer quickly so he can tell her about it.

She knows already. Not the details, but it’s “off to a club, then a massage, then an old girlfriend or two.” The word girlfriend stressed to put quotes around it. Girlfriend, you know what I mean?

She has an image of one of his abandoned “girlfriends” and feels depressed.

“Read,” she says.

He scoffs. “Well.…” He tells her everything. She’s not listening but can tick the keywords off on her fingers.

His name is Horn. His surname. He’s an easy-going bloke, but don’t make the obvious joke about his name. He doesn’t like that.

The stewardesses call him Captain By. As in “Horn by name, horn by nature.” As far as Elgin can tell he doesn’t mind, because he thinks that’s the Captain in Mutiny on the Bounty.

“What’s the last book you read?” she asks, when he finally shuts up.

“Don’t have time.”

A Mr Men book? That’s unfair. He had to read in school. Lord of the Flies, perhaps.

She can’t help a glance at his lap. The bulge of the zip pokes up—barely—between belt buckle and thighs, dusted by the crumbs of his meal.

Of course he notices that.

And of course he misunderstands it.

But he doesn’t say anything. He’s not going to risk his pension for her in these hysterical #MeToo times. But she can feel satisfaction emanating from his overfed body.

***

They stand at the door of the cabin to say goodbye to the passengers. As far away from each other as they can in the small cramped space. The humidity of Peking, leaking into the disembarkation bridge, is shocking.

Then the plane is empty, and it’s time to leave.

“Bye,” she says. A question.

“Bye,” he confirms.

Lying

by

Yellow corn stalks against the sky
Photo by Kristen Colada Adams on Unsplash

I mentioned The Yellow Wallpaper in my latest newsletter. It’s easy to see the influence of it on this story. Still, at least we’re out in the fresh air. Enjoy!

No roads, just yellow stalks waving around me. The trail peters out after a few meters. The field closes up around me. Crickets rub their legs at the base of the corn.


I follow the sun because there are no other features. The field goes on and on, nothing to aim for. Then I realise the sun moves. I think I’m heading north. North is cooler than South, and the sun has baked the sweat out of my skin, and made my clothes itchy. I duck down and tunnel through the corn to get away from it. Crickets rub their legs around me.
I know I’m hallucinating when a chicken darts in front of me. Getting hungry, I suppose. I want to chase it but I need to keep to my path. There’s a system in the field. It’s not obvious, but I need to go left around this next corn and right around the one after that. I need to stay on my path. I wonder if the chicken is doing the same. The thought blows my mind. I get back on my knees and crawl. Right around the next stalk, twice anti-clockwise around the next, and left around the one after that. Got to stay on course.


I love it down here. I can barely see the sky. Crickets rub their legs above me.


The way. Is the goal.
That keeps going around my head. The field goes on forever.
I’ve seen more chickens. I saw a rabbit. There are mice, too. I ate one. Ha ha! I’m not chasing mice, I’m not crazy! It was dead already.


The crickets rub their legs. Night is drawing in. Cold. I keep going. Forward. And down. I pull up the dry earth. It’s soft and warm. The field goes on forever in front and behind. But if I go straight down? It’s hard. The roots are thick and it’s hard to tell if I’m on course. But the way is the goal.
I can’t hear the crickets, just the patter of loose soil spilling over me as I head into the ground. Away from the sun, away from the field. It’s nighttime and I’m ready to rest.


Violet is a mile from town when she finally gets reception on her phone. She calls the garage. She calls the police, David has been gone so long. Their car broke down near a cornfield. He said there was someone in it. He got out of the car. The figure ducked down. Then David ducked down.
They find the field with their car beside it. The farmer gives permission to search, but there’s no sign of David. No sign of anyone. She stands at the roadside.


The car has been repaired, and the crickets rub their legs. She hopes against hope that David will come back. She gets in the car.
Wait.
There!
Someone is in the field, waving. She gets out of the car.

That wasn’t too bad, actually.

Oh, thanks!

Yes, we were surprised.

Hrmph. Thanks.

Just one thing, though. What was wrong with the car?

I don’t know…the carburettor?

What was wrong with it?

It was…empty?

You haven’t a clue, do you?

It’s not about the car!

If you respected your readers you’d have researched that, though.

I did. A little yellow light came on and they kept going instead of taking it to the garage, which they should have done.

Was it the oil light?

No, it was the engine check light. And if they’d taken it to the garage they’d have found out it was error code P0217 signalling an Engine Over Temperature fault.

So they were driving a Suzuki, were they?

That’s right. And I’ve established that it was a hot day in the story so they really shouldn’t have been driving with a fault like that.

Well, they didn’t know, did they?

No.

A lot of people don’t understand enough about cars. They’ll drive them, of course!

Yes.

And this mechanic in the middle of nowhere just happened to have the spare parts for a Suzuki handy, did he?

No. But it was only a small coolant leak. He patched that up, topped it up and that did the trick. Violet will have to take it to an authorised Suzuki dealer when she gets home, of course.

Of course. Good story!

Thanks!

Float

by

A girl with her hair floating in front of her face
Photo by Alicia Petresc on Unsplash

Kelly liked to annoy me in the cutest ways.
I wake slowly, I’m not a morning person. Sometimes she’d lean over me, with her eyes crossed and her tongue sticking out, her cheeks sucked in. I could tell from her freckles that it was her.
“Stop it,” I’d say, my heart thumping. “If the wind changes, you’ll stay like that.” She’d bite me and I’d tickle her. Our bodies ironed folds into the bedsheets. Mine were long and thin because I slept on my side. Hers were a swirl as she tossed and turned.

“Turn here,” she’d say, when we went out for a drive. She’d grin as I tried to navigate my way back onto the road we wanted without turning around. She kept her hand on my thigh. When the sun shone, her freckles were russet brown.
When she smiled, I wished the wind would change so she would stay like that.

It was our seventh anniversary, but something was wrong. We ate and wished ourselves another seven—and more—happy years. But it was her tight smile, the one that didn’t make it to her eyes.
She wore a yellow dress. I didn’t notice until we got home that she wasn’t wearing any underwear. I had insisted we sit opposite each other near the front of the restaurant because the view was famously good. You could look across the road to the stained glass entrance of the cathedral.

She was wearing a short nightdress, the black one. One hand up to hold back the hair trying to cover her face. Her other hand holding up the hem of the nightdress to show me what was underneath. I was full of beer and food. I closed my eyes.

In the morning I couldn’t find her. I didn’t have her number on my phone. Clothes. There were no women’s clothes in any of the cupboards, nor in the washing machine, though we’d done a load the day before and hadn’t hung anything up. I had to lie down. When I woke the wind was strong outside.
And there she was.

I think. Her eyes crossed, her tongue out and her cheeks sucked in. Trying to scare me. My Kelly, always trying to annoy me
This was the best prank yet.
I told her to stop in case the wind changed direction. She didn’t, and she didn’t laugh, and she didn’t bite the end of my nose. And I could see that she—it must be a she?—didn’t have any freckles either.

Scrape

by

A man walking out of a large empty concourse
Photo by jet dela cruz on Unsplash

I’ve hated these places since Croke got killed. Stupid. Got caught red-handed and tried to make a run for it in the Station. Cameras and avatars everywhere. He never stood a chance. Now I’m doing the same thing.

The curtains part in the info desk and the avatar looks up. Supposed to make it more human. Like Good Old-Fashioned People who answer questions. And sell you a ticket, if you’re a tourist. They are, without doubt, the creepiest thing ever.

“Good morning, sir,” it says. It waits for me to say what I want. Customers don’t like questions.

“I need to get out of here and I don’t have a ticket.” I need to get away from Rail Security. Actual people. I miss them talking to this piece of rubber. “I’ve dropped my ticket,” I say.

“I can’t let you out without a ticket.”

“I came from Centre. There was a commotion on the train.” Caused by me, I don’t add. “I don’t know where I lost it.”

“I can check the cameras for you.”

“Well, I’ve got this parcel, you see. It’s rather heavy.” It is. I have the jewels well wrapped up inside. “Do I really have to go all the way back?”

“I can’t let you out without a ticket,” it says, and we’re back to square one. Robo—effing—Jobsworth.

I give it an obscene smile. “I’m a foreign tourist,” I say. “This won’t look good when I go to the embassy.” Tourists are an endangered species.

I could swear the avatar leers. “A foreign tourist is someone who arrives from abroad for business and/or recreation, Mr Field.”

Christ. I look around. Talking to me?

“Mr who? My name is Gustav Flederson. Here.” I dig in my pocket. Let my face fall. “I… I’ve lost my passport.”

“I can check the cameras for you, Mr Field.”

“Mr Flederson.”

“Mr Field. Is your parcel heavy? You can leave it with me.” A hatch opens in the kiosk that the avatar occupies.

“I want to speak to your supervisor,” I say.

The avatar’s eyes dim. It spins on its chair, and I face the back of its head. Which looks the same as the front, but softened to make it look female. She has a yellow chip on her uniform to show she’s the boss.

“How can I help you, Mr Fie—”

“Mr Flederson. The other fellow was most rude, and he tried to take my parcel. Is this the way you treat tourists?”

“Mr Fiel—”

“Mr Flederson. I won’t say it again.”

“Let me apologise if you are unhappy with the service provided by English Rail, Mr Field. However, you need a ticket to leave the station as my colleague informed you.”

I say nothing. I am Mr Flederson and I will not say it again.

“Mr Field. If there is nothing else perhaps you can either show me your ticket, or else make room for other passengers.”

There are no other passengers.

She tries again. I stay quiet.

After 30 minutes, the curtains close and they are gone. Automatic timeout. I stroll through the gates, where the mechanism has been paused. The avatars have registered an anomaly in the system.

The City and Security people looking for me. They won’t catch me here. They have it all on camera and will try to work it out and close that loophole. But it’s not really a loophole, it’s the truth.

I live in the country, that’s where I got the name Mr Field from. I really am Mr Flederson.

Here on business and business is good.

Wide

by

Woman looking into the distance
Photo by LOGAN WEAVER on Unsplash

There aren’t many places you can go when you’re famous. Dalton booked this cabin. He says it’s perfect.
The landscape is naturally beautiful. Mountains in the distance, a lake out front. He says I can relax and do whatever I want. But I don’t want to be here. This is not my idea of a good time. The cabin is cosy, has all the modern conveniences. Almost as good as Hollywood. But there are no photographers. No fans. Nothing to do.
Tony got custody of our friends after the breakup. I got custody of the blame.
He knew what I was like when he married me. He told me it was what he loved. Someone to have fun with, who wasn’t just out for their career.
At some point he did want a career, and I was out of favour. Out of favour with him: my career took off. He couldn’t keep up. Dalton says I should clear my head. He has a few roles for me when I fly back.
I don’t know if I’ll survive a few weeks here.
I have two bodyguards and the driver who goes shopping. Dalton has made sure they’re all homosexual, so I hope they’re having fun in the guardhouse. I sit on the deck in the evenings and drink wine—nothing stronger—and wait for the sun to set.
It never does. We’re somewhere Scandinavian and the staring white ball never leaves the sky. Perhaps I could have done a better job juggling my career and private life. But this feels too much like prison. A panopticon.
I arrange with the driver that we’ll go to a restaurant at the weekend. He says there’s a nice place in town, which is just what I need. He sounds like Dalton. He looks quite a lot like Dalton too.
On Saturday, I get dressed. We drive off and I nod to the bodyguards. There’s another guy, too, that I “don’t know about.” He’s more Dalton’s spy than my bodyguard. The restaurant is fine. It’s nice to get out. I eat slowly. I have two desserts. I drink. More than I should, but not enough to get me in trouble with Dalton’s spy. Yet when we leave, the sun is still there. The driver takes me back to the cabin. I sit on the deck.
I met Dalton when I started in Hollywood. He said he would take a chance on me and he did. He still does. But now he owns me. Or treats me like he does.
I miss Tony. As he got older his adenoids became worse. The sound of his breathing when we sat together was infuriating.
I have a glass of wine.
The sun is still there.
It occurs to me that I should be glad I’m not here when it would be the night sky always. Stars sparkling. Northern winds. That might suit my mood.
I read scripts for want of something better to do. Dalton has his own plans for my career, and it doesn’t really matter which roles I would like. I’m a star, he says. But I’m not yet eternal.
I don’t think I want to be.
The sun out here is eternal.
It’s awful.

I head out to the guardhouse, look in the windows to watch the three men who look like Dalton. It’s not the scene of drunken orgies, which I had sometimes imagined. One Dalton likes to read a book. There’s either a film on the television, or sports. The other two watch it.
They nearly caught me last night. Branches lay on the ground. I crackled a couple as I moved from one window to the next. My plan is to sneak in when they’re in bed.
They have guns, which I don’t think is legal.
It’s exciting, though.
The driver said the seasons change soon, which means the sun will disappear.
That’s what I’m waiting for.
I’ve been to visit them a few times. They were surprised. I know the guardhouse inside out, I’ve picked my favourite Dalton. As soon as the sun is gone, I’m going to pay him a visit. I’ve unlatched his window from the inside.
I’m going to creep in and give him a surprise.
Liven things up around here.
As soon as the sun has gone.