Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

Flash fiction

Godly

by

Coffee shop window
Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

Hi all,

another piece of writing prompt fiction for you. The prompts are the above picture and the six words below the story (one as the title, the other five to be used in the piece. I’ve gone off two-word titles.). Enjoy!

‘What’ll it be?’ The Chicken had a beard and a mild London accent, glasses.
‘Flat white. Skinny.’ Joe flicked him a glance, then looked back at his phone. A guy in a chicken suit, his feathers wobbling as he bashed out used grounds on the edge of the counter. There was a Zebra behind him and what looked like a Scooby Doo dog near the door. Two girls in black cat suits sitting at the counter. He looked around, nodding his head to the electro-jazz on the sound system. Chill place. Except for all the animal costumes. He scanned the walls for a clue. Dress Up For Free Coffee Day? Tuesday morning, so not some party. He tried not to stare, turned around and leaned on the counter. The machine thrummed. The guy in the chicken suit gave him a wink. ‘Won’t be a minute, bro.’


The Zebra wasn’t moving. Nor was Scooby. They were all hunched over their cups, unmoving. He saw one Cat girl blink once, but that was it.
‘You scared ’em, bro.’
Joe turned back, frowned at the Chicken over the jar of cookies. He had pulled out a slice of baked New York cheesecake, crumbled a few pieces on the Cats’ saucers, waddled out from behind the counter. Put some on the Zebra’s plate. On Scooby’s.
‘What’s going on? Like Instagram day, or…?’
‘No, same old, same old. But you scared ’em. They’ll be alright. Just waiting for you to leave.’
‘I didn’t realise…’
‘Don’t worry ‘bout it. Scared of humans is all.’ He scratched a Cat on the top of the head. She leaned into his hand.
‘I’ve got a spare. If you want to stay?’


Joe’s coffee was in a disposable cup. To be drunk outside.
He’d never had anyone scared of him before. It was a weird feeling. Upsetting. Scooby was a big guy, too. Six foot easy.
It looked rainy.
‘I’m not going to hurt them.’
‘Tarred with the same brush, man. You’re human, right?’ He had pulled out a folded up wad of material, which he now unrolled with a jerk of his arm. The contours of a penguin suit tumbled to the ground. ‘But everyone loves a penguin. Am I right?’
Not the one he would have chosen, but it had the cat girl’s attention. And black with a yellow crest on top. His colours.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Can I…?’ ‘He indicated the counter.
‘No problem, bro.’ The Chicken moved back and Jo stepped in behind the counter, took off his trousers and jumper. Pulled on the penguin suit.
‘Suits you, bro,’ said Chicken.


Joe was about to answer—the suit felt good—when he saw a shadow at the door. Someone coming in. A guy with a backpack and big red headphones on his ears. Joe realised that—for some weird reason—he was wearing a penguin suit. The door opened.
He froze.

The prompts were:

godly
tumble
wink
machine
bake
rainy

The usual writing prompt fiction rules apply.

Kinky Design Crimes

by

Architectural plans and buildier's tools. Someone means business!
Photo by JESHOOTS.com from Pexels

Hi all,

aaaaand I’m back! Here’s a light-hearted piece this week. I’m obviously refreshed after that break. Hope you–

Hang on!

oh god. Yes?

It says ‘Kinky’ up there at the top of the page.

Well? I will not be censored, I am an arti–

So is it durty?

Is it… what?

Durty! Durty! Is it a durty story?

Dirty?

Durty!

Well. A tad suggestive, perhaps.

Lads? Come on, it is durty!

Well, no. What I was attempting to capture was–

Shh! Reading.

Emil fingered the stubble on his jaw as the lady of the house continued to witter on. She was nervous. Was hoping they’d finish before her husband came back. He wasn’t listening, he never listened to his clients. He knew what they wanted. What they needed.  Something nagged at his subconscious. She was too nervous.

He let the strap of his bag slide through his fingers until his knapsack of tools thumped on the floor. He looked at her, shook his head. No more talking. He pulled out his spirit level, sighting along it from where he stood. Getting a feel for the room.
‘But…’ she started.
Emil shook his head again, twitched aside his jacket so she could see the badge on his belt. He was an Interior Decorator, and this was a crime scene. 

It wasn’t working, he couldn’t feel the room. He stood in front of the window, looked out and suddenly turned back again. To surprise the room. Instead, he surprised Mrs Whats-er-name, whose eyes jumped from his backside, encased in tight jeans. Emil pretended to ignore her, stalking through the room. Trying to get a fix on the starting angle, the genius locus of the room. The clue that would tell him what the room wanted to be. He brushed past her a few times, peeled off his shirt. The room wanted to play hard to get? No problem. He felt the wife’s eyes on his biceps, on his shoulders, but the room wouldn’t talk to him. Time was running out. He had no desire to be caught in flagrante by her husband, any more than she did. Get in, decorate, get out. That was his motto.

‘I think you’d better go,’ she said.
Emil turned in shock. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘This has never happened to me before.’ He knelt over his bag. Her eyes travelled up and down his body. He didn’t understand what was wrong. She wanted him to renovate, but he couldn’t…
He noticed the dust on the floor. This room had been empty for a while. How many other decorators had she lured here? There were his footprints tracing back and forth. Then he saw it. Another line of footprints. Obliterated in the middle of the room where he had crossed and re-crossed. They came from the door and went in a straight line to the wall beside the fireplace. Then disappeared. He straightened up. 
‘My husband will be back any minute,’ she said.
But Emil’s trained eye saw the telltale cracks in the wall. With an easy blow, he opened the secret compartment.
‘The husband, I presume?’ he said.
The man nodded, scared. ‘We didn’t mean any harm,’ he said. ‘We just…’
‘You like to watch,’ said Emil. He tutted. But the secret compartment was what he had needed. He had his inspiration.
He went to the woman. ‘Key,’ he said. 
She handed it to him. He tucked it into his pocket.
‘I’ll be back tomorrow. Same time. I will let myself in.’ He nodded to the secret compartment. ‘I don’t want to see either of you,’ he said and winked.

Oof! Is it me or is it suddenly hot in here?

This blog post was sponsored by Morgan’s Interior Decorating Services. Contact morgan@morgandelaney.info today for a quote!

Perpetual longing

by

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

by

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

by

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

by

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.