Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

Flash fiction

Tricky

by

Beach from above
Photo by Nazarizal Mohammad on Unsplash

Jamie puffed into his floatie. Air whooshed into the plastic like he was Darth Vader. The beach was warm but the sound caused gosebumps on his arms. The dinosaur had been packed away after their last holiday. Jamie had dug it out, when his parents weren’t watching. They were at a different beach, in a different country. Jamie had different swimming trunks, and his parents would have bought him a different floatie if he’d asked. But the only thing that made the holidays bearable was his dinosaur. He’d pulled it out of his backpack this morning. His mother’s lips had disappeared when she saw it, his father had shied back from the flattened wrinkles of Jamie’s brashly coloured T-Rex.

They sat behind him on the hotel’s branded loungers on the sand. Jamie took a break, inflating the dinosaur was hard work and if he took really big breaths, then it left him dizzy, like spinning around. His lips were tangy from the suncream his mother had smeared over him. The dinosaur stuck to his arms. It was taking shape, the monster’s round red eye looking excited.
Happy to be back.
“Good to have you back,” said Jamie.
“What’s that?” his father asked. Jamie ignored it. He didn’t have to explain himself to them. Not after last year. Occasionally someone walked by, usually another tourist. Didn’t the locals go to the beach?
Jamie kept puffing into the dinosaur. The plastic nozzle was built into the dinosaur’s leg and the dinosaur was now big enough to stand lop-sidedly, while Jamie knelt.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like a new floatie, James?” But his mother’s question had the defeated air of one who already knew the answer.
“Don’t overinflate it or…,” his father warned.
As if.
His blood rushed through his ears, the same way air rushed intpo the dinosaur: J-Rex. The most fearsome animal to have ever lived. He took a break from watching the rise and fall of the plastic skin of the J-Rex to eye the people in the ocean.
Enjoy it while it lasts!

“It’s impolite to stare, James.” He wasn’t staring, he had called and called, and she hadn’t answered. She sounded sleepy, the way his parents always did on holidays. As if they felt the exhaustion of the bar staff who raced back and forth, bringing food and drinks, and drinks.
“Please! Can you help me onto my dinosaur?”
James had been on tiptoe, blowing into the magnificent beast. It had a sand-brown belly and a crocodile green colouring along it’s back and sides. A red slash for a mouth and those red eyes. It was twice as tall as his father and he couldn’t climb up, the plastic was too smooth. There was still air leaking through the nozzle. He needed to get onto the huge chicken drumstick-like leg, so he could continue inflating it. From there he could use the black plastic handles to get on its back.

His father pretended to wake, and lifted Jamie onto the dinosaur’s leg. “If you fall…,” he said. All of his father’s warnings ended without being finished. His parents fell asleep again fairly quickly. They didn’t hear the roar as Jamie closed the nozzle. Nor did they hear the screams of the swimmers, as he rode J-Rex into the waves, gobbling down people in gaily coloured holiday wrappings.
The beach was awash with blood and the police had sent a helicoptor, which J-Rex had also eaten, when it flew too close. The carnage had attracted sharks and killer whales and J-Rex had eaten those too. Now Jamie was hungry for chips and woke his parents. Besides it was surely only a matter of minutes before the army sent out a strike team, or perhaps deployed a tactical nuclear weapon to get rid of the holiday menace.

“Don’t stare!” His mother no longer sounded sleepy, but irritated. His father was worse. Jamie had ridden J-Rex back to their loungers and then slid down to the bloody chicken-drumstick leg and from thereto the ground.
Jamie helped her up and together they tugged his fther out of his lounger. They couldn’t walk and he couldn’t carry them back to the hotel, so he let them sit on the dinosaur’s tail and they rode back. Blowing the dinosaur’s cover, if anyone came looking.
Once his parents were in bed and definitely sleeping Jamie allowed himself one little swear.
“Every bloody year,” he said.

Sugar

by

Coloured ice
Photo by Paweł Czerwiński on Unsplash

He already had a moustache. His daddy had made him a little gun-belt, too. The biggest, ugliest baby I ever seen. Not that I’d say that out loud: he was the Sheriff’s son. Burl was his name, but his Momma called him Burly, when she was out and about. And wherever she went, the place emptied out pretty quickly. I felt sorry for her, but there was no saying anything in case the Sheriff caught wind of it. 
So she was stuck with the baby most days, the Sheriff himself having a lot of business around town, all of a sudden. The only thing on everybody’s mind was little Burly Baby. With his moustache and his thick shoulders and his little gun-belt shooting off reflections as he drooled and scowled. He was shaping up to be as much of a bully as his Daddy. Couldn’t stop thinking about that damn baby. The whole town went quiet after he was born. Even in their own homes, in case the wind changed, and carried their words out the window and into the Sheriff’s ears.
It was a relief when the kid started walking around. On the other hand, it wasn’t. We’d spent so much time thinking about little Burly without being able to say a damn thing, that it was a relief to see he wasn’t some shared hallucination. The first time he came out his Momma was behind him, but he had no more need of her. His moustache was halfway to his chin and his Daddy had bought him little toy guns to put in his holster. The poor Momma looked tired and Burl quickly left her behind. 

I bumped into him in the woods. He gave me the foulest look I’d ever seen. He was still drooling, his moustache grey from slobber and his single eyebrow going from ear to ear. He’d found one of the cats that made a good go at being a stray. He had his toy gun out as he played with it. Bashing its head in. I passed on and never said a word to anyone in case his father thought I was bad-mouthing his son. 

It was agreed he should be homeschooled after he attended his first class. In return the school children should first apologise for laughing or whatever it was they must have done to set him off. Then he was out of sight for a few more years. He didn’t mix well. We went through so many teachers, that the sheriff arranged for the new teacher to stay in the jailhouse when he wasn’t at work. For his own sake. 

There was a river a couple miles out, real secluded, and people’d go there and talk about the Baby—he remained Burly Baby, even though he was in his twenties by now. They’d talk about the things he’d done, how he looked at them, and how no one was allowed to say anything, and the water took the words away downstream and they’d feel better. 

There was a knock on my door.  I knew it was him.  I’d been young when the Sheriff’s wife gave birth and it had put me right off the thought of marriage. The town was dying out.
There he stood, with the same moustache and the same angry look. I shrank back, but I don’t think he noticed, because we’d all had so much practice.
‘Hi Burl,’ I said.
He pushed his way in and he had real guns in his belt. ‘You got whiskey?’ he asked. I didn’t. Anyone who had whiskey had drunk it. It was only the teetotallers left. And Burl, who couldn’t get his Daddy to buy him more after last time. 
‘I’m thirsty,’ he said, twitching his moustache in a manner that I could never figure out. I had some coffee on the stove and he drank that, which made him talkative.
‘I’m thinking of getting a wife,’ he said.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘But there ain’t no women.’
‘Right,’ I said. There weren’t. You had a daughter you married her off real quick, before Burl came around.
‘How come you never married?’ he asked. He started wandering around my room, poking at the photo over my hearth and my pan of food and sucking my evening meal off his finger.
‘Never fancied it.’
‘I think it’s time we married you off, as well,’ he said.
‘Sure, just need to find us some women.’ I relaxed. I couldn’t think of a single one anywhere that we could get in trouble by talking.
‘But I’m getting married first. I need to have kids, carry on the line.’
There was another knock at the door. 
‘So if you can wait a few years, I’m going to give you my eldest.’
‘Sure.’ But I didn’t feel so fine no more.
The sheriff pushed into my room when I opened the door. Dragging his wife in after him.
‘So you’ll be my best man?’

Basket

by

A frog's eye
Photo by Drew Brown on Unsplash

I bet there’s something you would change if you could go back in time, isn’t there? Even if it’s just your shirt (seriously, that shirt with those shoes? Really?)

Wouldn’t it be great? Read on…

That’s the advantage of time travel: the goods never go off. I’ve got fruit, I’ve got vegetables. Always fresh. And they don’t hardly cost me a penny. I bought them once wholesale, now I sell them, put on my time travelling hat, and go back. There are some things I don’t quite get about time travel, but I know how to make money. The only disadvantage is that the view is pretty awful. What with the people screaming and the skeletons and the Eyeball.
‘There you go, darlin’.’ She’s brought her own bag, which I appreciate. I stuff it right up to the top with juicy Jaffas. Send her on her way.

I sell my stuff nice and early, and then knock off for the afternoon. The market smells best in the morning. Aromatic oranges, leafy cabbages and washed pavements. It gets a bit niffy later on.
I have lunch in the pub and then I put on my hat. Twist it around, three times, tilt it back. And you’re there.

See? I leave my van near the market, tilt my hat and I’m back at it again.
It’s this morning again. All my lovely Jaffas, my crispy lettuces. The cherries are a bit hard, need an hour in the sun. The same lot I’ve been selling for years. I start unloading.
This is the bad bit. Because it’s not just me. There are corpses. They start screaming, clutching at me. The sky is red. And between me and the sky, towering over the houses is a skeleton herding the corpses. At the end of the street is an Eyeball. It takes up the whole street. The iris is green, and the pupil moves, watching me. It’s bloodshot, probably because it’s lying out in the street. I stack my stall and take my hat off and all the scary stuff disappears.
Here comes the first old love. She’s got her basket ready and I know what she wants. I’ve been selling it to her for years.

I don’t understand how I keep making money. I go back selling the same fruit and veg to the same people so it should be the same money. But my pockets fill up. I suppose anything I have on me, stays with me? It makes me wish I was selling something a little more upmarket. Electronics. I’d be able to retire a lot quicker. Move somewhere sunny. Somewhere far away. Saw myself in the mirror the other day. I looked old.
Maybe Fiji. I fancy somewhere with a volcano.

Today I bottled it. I couldn’t face going back again. Sat in the pub instead. The face looking out of the mirror was worse than the Eyeball. I’d be lying if I said I knew what was going on, but I can’t keep going. So I made a promise, One more time. Tomorrow and that’s it.
It’s an easy promise to make.
Sounds familiar, too.

Could you not write something with a bit of action in it? A couple of lads after some other lad, and they all have guns. You know the sort of thing.

Yes.

People like that sort of thing. You’d have loads more readers.

Yes.

So you will?

…

Hello?

Yellow

by

A yellow banana
Photo by BRUNO EMMANUELLE on Unsplash

This is Captain >khrrrrrkh!<speaking. I’d like to welcome you on board flight >khrrrrkh!< today. Please make sure your seats are in the upright position and your tables stowed away as we will shortly departing for >khrrrrrrkh! <

Stars shot past on the screens. The captain was sure it was a looped image rather than footage from the cams. The cockpit was silent. “Time ’til destination?”
“Unknown sir,” a young woman answered. He stared at the screens. There! Was that the cut? The smooth scrolling had juddered for a split second.
He needed to do something, find out what they knew about the mission. The secrecy was idiotic, but it would be worse if they knew the truth…. “Bring up the destination on the screens,” he said. There was a pause.
“What is our destination, sir?” The young woman again. Her face impassive as she tapped at controls. The other crew members stared openly. They didn’t know.

“How far from the nearest friendly planet?” The crew members looked at each other. He’d said the wrong thing. He decided to brazen it out. “Where do you think we’re going, eh…?” He had no idea what her name was. “All of you! I want you to tell me where you think we’re going. And why.” They murmured. He noticed a tattoo crawling out of the sleeve of his uniform. The black of the design—concentric circles and spheres, a solar system, but which one?—was faded to a dusty blue-grey.
“Someone tell me what they think this mission is!” In the silence that followed, the electrical buzz of the controls and the rasp of tense breathing could be heard.
The woman stood up. “Sir, I have no idea where we’re going.” A red-headed man stood and said the same. Others nodded. The speakers spoke for them too.

The captain’s uniform was red with gold piping along the shoulders. “Anyone?” he asked. They waited. “I am the captain of this vessel. I think. Staring at the screens just a couple of minutes ago is the earliest memory I have. I have no idea where we’re going.” The woman started to laugh. Others joined in. Relief. The captain stood and went to the screen. “So why not just go…there!” He pointed.
“Yes sir,” said the woman. “As soon as I figure out how these controls work!” The crew hooted with laughter.
Outside the test ship, the scientists shook their heads. Man was not yet ready for warp drive.
But at least now they knew why it was called that.

Used

by

Black and blue image. Ice that looks like the night sky
Photo by Paweł Czerwiński on Unsplash

I hear them snapping. Sometimes there’s a rustle as they brush against the grass. They snap more when the wind is strong. I don’t think they can smell. Maybe the wind, blowing through their skin, tickles the muscles in their jaws. They catch birds. A flock will come down. If they step too near the zombies’ mouths then snap! When the wind is strong, it’s like a sea of weeds and denim. 
Very few come to get gas, but I keep the shop open. You never know. I’ve got a nice collection of drivers’ licenses, too. Not everyone can pay for the stuff anymore. In money. It’s all about meat these days. Everybody wants it. 
Daisies grow around the side of the building. The plants get really tall. Some days you can’t see the zombies at all. Just a snapping and a rustling. 
They go quiet when it rains. Who’d have thought zombies were afraid of drowning? 
I’ve got a blue sky above me. As wide as the eye can see. Some days there’re clouds. One day I saw a Chevy. Just like one I used to own, too. On days when I get really bored, I go up to the roof. Take pot shots at the zombies. Only out the back of the building, of course. You don’t go shooting near a pump. 
There’s a trail of dust to my left. Someone coming. Customers. I make sure the gun is loaded. 
There are four of them squashed into a small Japanese car. Which means they let two out, half a mile up the road. Even if I hadn’t seen them through my binoculars, the snapping of zombie teeth would have given them away. I keep my zombie garden full.
‘Hey, mister!’ One of them shout through the window, the driver. He’s wearing a black leather jacket. It goes well with his curly orange hair. He’ll brighten up my garden. ‘Mister! You got any gas?’
I say nothing. Just because I live in Bumfuck, Nowhere, USA, doesn’t mean he can waste my time. They need me to open up. Then they rush me.
‘Looks like it’s gonna rain, guys’ I said.
Ginger looked up at the sky.
‘I need an umbrella. Wait right there.’ I climbed onto the roof. Took out the two guys behind the garage before they knew what was happening. Two shots. They dropped. Their buddies drove off. I watched the trail of dust. It rose into the sky. It looked like a face. As it rose, it turned towards me. But as it grew, it got fainter. 
Then it was just me on the roof by myself.

The full title of this one is Used, or Elevated Horror is Ruining It For Those Of Us Who Just Want To Read A Good Zombie Story and It’s Not Even Elevated Horror, You Just Don’t Know How It Ends.

To which I reply: Not elevated horror? No proper ending? Voilà!

*Tosses perfumed curls, points to page*

It’s got a rooftop climax, doesn’t it?

The Tell

by

Bark peeling from a tree
Photo by David Clode on Unsplash

Hi all! Last week we went to the zoo, this week we’re off to the museum for our flash fiction journey. Enjoy!

“Late sixteenth century. Maybe early seventeenth.”
I kept my head down and continued brushing. It was weird. The plaster was old, but the mould was new. I’d seen it before: an old treasure stored in poor conditions. Stolen. The saint, his finger on the open Bible, his gaze towards the heavens, life-size, gave me the creeps. Almost as much as Steve.

I knew him from College. He’d done well, financially. He never had many friends, which is probably why he contacted me for this restoration job. Working his way through his contacts. I’d change my number as soon as I’d finished. Steve was just off. It didn’t surprise me at all that he’d “found” this statue. I was doing internet research in the evenings. If I could find out where it was stolen from I was going to call the police. It didn’t make sense to pretend I didn’t know what was going on. Once it came out it would make me look as corrupt or as clueless as Steve.

I felt his eyes on me. “How are you coming along, Penny?” He always stood too close. “What do you think? Isn’t she a beauty?”
“Surprisingly complete,” I said.
“Right.” He walked around the statue. “I nearly got Richard for this job, you know? Good man.”
“How is he?”
“Oh, he’s good, I suppose. He couldn’t make it, said to give you a call. But what I’m saying is: it’s easy enough to restore these old things. Finding them is the tricky part.”
“Where did you…?”
“That’d be telling! I told Richard….” He leaned in, his breath oniony. “So I had to kill him!” He laughed.

I couldn’t find anything about the statue. So that left one option. Steve had knocked out a forgery, aged it, then stuck it in damp storage to make it hard to tell “real” mould from fake mould. I came in early next morning to take photos and a scrape from the pedestal.
“You’re keen.” Steve was behind me.
“Steve! Hey…I’m just documenting the progress. Thought I might put it on my blog. You know: drum up trade.”
“You don’t have a blog.”
“I wanted to start one, this is just what I…”
“Don’t think so,” said Steve. He came closer. Onion breath. I backed away, bumped into the statue. It rocked, which meant it was definitely fake. An original life-size would be too heavy. Sketchy Steve had skimped on the filling, too.
“Wait, Steve!” He was big. And between me and the door. He lunged. I pushed the statue. I just wanted to put him off, make him dive at the statue instead of me. It toppled over and crashed. We both stared at the mess. Plaster had shattered across the museum’s floor.
And still half encased in it: Richard.
“Oh dear,” said Steve. “Looks like you’re going to have to fill in for Richard again!”

“Yeah,” said Steve. “I had to let her go. Caught her trying to move the statue. Cracked it and all. I had to take it away. Give it a full integrity test. You never know, these old statues can fall right apart.” He was interviewing restorers. “Yeah, it’s pretty old. Late sixteenth, early seventeenth century. I’ll be bringing it back next week.”
The other voice asked a question.
“Ha! That’d be telling. I told the last lady. Then I had to kill her!”

Have YOU ever been sealed in concrete? Or are YOU a restorer? Is YOUR name Steve?

Then get in touch, I just found something. Needs a bit of work but I’m sure it must be valuable…