Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

Flash fiction

High-pitched

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Photo by NASA on Unsplash

Hi all! For this week’s flash fiction story we’re going into space. Please fasten your seat belts and refrain from screaming. No one can hear you anyway!

The alien leaned over to offer me a drink. It didn’t taste good, but was better than a probe up the rectum. Business class!

“How long will it take to get there?”

The alien answered, but as I had my earphones in (they had Bad Boys II on the TV, and I watch that whenever I get the chance!) I didn’t hear what it said. It smiled though, so I assumed everything must be fine. I went back to my film. How jealous would Will Smith be right now?

If I seem chill, it’s because I get abducted all the time. Ever since I was a kid, I’m used to floating out my bedroom window and being sucked up into intergalactic hoovers. Never had a trip this comfortable, though. I think it’s because I have a photographic memory. I remember everything, so they don’t have to start from scratch every time.

Like I say though, this was the most comfortable trip I’ve taken. Normally I’m on a table lying on my stomach, trying to explain that humans don’t communicate that way. Please remove that probe!

Maybe I’ve been promoted. Perhaps I’ll meet the guy in charge. Or girl, of course. Or… whatever. I hope I get to see the whole film before we get there. There’s no point looking outside, it’s all just black universe out there. What, am I going to try to remember the way? Don’t think so.

Nobody believes me anyway.

Well, that was weird. I suppose it was like a thank-you trip, or something. They took me to their planet, showed me around. We visited schools, and they showed me their textbooks. In Biology, all humans have my face. You know those drawings? With, like, cross sections, and organs and everything? Male and female? They all looked like me.

And they gave me a silverish ornamental probe with a plaque, then flew me home.

I got the feeling it’s all over. Don’t know if I’m relieved or worried.

View

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Woman having a picnic at the top of a hill
Photo by Willian Justen de Vasconcellos on Unsplash

This week we’ve got a piece of crime flash fiction, with a nice bottle of wine, some chicken… and murder. Enjoy!

“The way I see it,” James tossed his apple core over the hedge into the next field, “it’s not murder if no one notices.”

I watched the town in the distance, all red roofs and sleepy chimney smoke from here. James would be a dangerous man to let loose on a town like that.

“I’m sure murder is always murder,” I said. He was trying to shock me. He loved to flaunt his big city cynicism when he came to visit.

“Not at all,” he swigged at the wine bottle, although I had brought glasses. “If you die in the middle of the night of a heart attack, but the doctor doesn’t check, then you’ve died in your sleep. Isn’t that the way everyone wants to go?”

“I’d rather go to France,” I said, but he ignored the hint.

“If you see a bird lying on the ground with a broken neck near a window, you think the poor thing killed itself, not that someone came around and killed it.”

“It would still be murder. Or cruelty to animals, or whatever.”

“In theory, yes, but it would be chalked up as an accident.”

“Do you think we could change the subject?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m sorry, of course,” said James. “I didn’t mean to go on. You know what I’m like.”

I did. At least, I felt I did now.

I knew he liked to talk and had all sorts of opinions, but usually I liked to listen. The village was boring, and I was flattered that he would come and talk to me – he was so intelligent – and then bed me – he was so handsome – but it only occurred to me now that he barely noticed me. He talked to me and bedded me for his own amusement.

Otherwise, he’d have known that I can’t stand any talk of animal cruelty. I could probably have stood the wine bottle up and he’d have talked to that.

I could have saved myself washing the glasses. I could have spent the day watching telly with Charles, my poor dumb husband, who I had killed in order to be with this arrogant fool.

Still, if he didn’t listen to me, I listened to him. It wouldn’t be murder if no one thought it so.

At least, I wouldn’t be the murderer.

“Shall we?” asked James, ready for the second part of our tryst, now that the talking was over.

“In a minute,” I said. “I don’t suppose you’d run back to mine to get me a jumper, would you? Don’t worry, Charles won’t see you. Oh, and a proper knife to deal with the chicken. The big one on the draining board. You might need to wash it first.”

“Sure.”

I watched him disappear down the hill to the village and tidied away all the evidence of our picnic, including the apple core in the next field. I thought about poor birds breaking their necks on windows, so I’d sound upset when I put the call through to the police.

Question

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A burning glove
Photo by Tengyart on Unsplash

Here’s a little something to give the Work Health and Safety people nightmares! Please enjoy safely!

You only needed one finger to work the furnace that burned the bodies. Of course, you didn’t want people thinking you were clumsy. Seth sat in the machine room behind the oven on his break. The funeral home had kept him on out of a sense of duty after he lost the first finger. Seth loved the crackle and roar of the flames. When he died, he wanted to be cremated. Obviously: he’d already started cremating himself. He’d expected to feel it, though he’d lopped the finger off first: a “phantom pain,” but there had been nothing. He’d told Mr Sims the furnace door had done it.

He’d almost managed to keep the second missing finger quiet, until Mrs Sims said, “Oh, I thought it was the left hand it happened to?”

He told everyone he’d been too embarrassed to admit he’d lost another one, insisted the best thing to do was to get straight back to the furnace. Like riding a horse again as soon as you’ve been thrown. Seth reckoned it must have been when he threw in the third finger, and they kept him on, that they had become complicit. As long as he had a finger he do his job, nobody would say anything.

The flames were so bright. He was sure it must hurt, but it must be wonderful, too. To be dissolved by so much power. He’d have to keep his finger, but there were other bits he didn’t need.

This Saturday is Newsletter Saturday. This month my newsletter features the exclusive short story, “The Ladybird Queen”. Don’t miss any more!

Nimble

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A ship's mast against a red sunset sky
Photo by Sam Moqadam on Unsplash

Ahoy there! For this week’s flash fiction, we’re heading down to the docks to see what sort of creepy characters have been washed ashore. Enjoy.

The Crooked Boy climbed off the boat last, once the others had disbursed to seek fun in this new town they had discovered. The Crooked Boy was the navigator of the 50-foot sailboat, and was called “crooked,” because he could turn – crook – his neck all the way around, like an owl. (And because his idea of fun differed from that of the other boys too, perhaps).

He walked purposefully down a narrow alley he’d never been before. It stank of blood from the back of a butcher’s, and of piss from the back of an inn. He was soon among low houses, and when he saw an old grey-haired woman turn from an open window, where she had been stitching in the last of the day’s light, to disappear into her darkened home, he sprang onto her sill. He crooked his head around to check no one in the alley or other houses had seen him, then jumped inside, leaving his head twisted on backwards, so she couldn’t see his face.

Clothing hung everywhere, and the air was damp on his skin from all the washing, but she was quite alone. He followed the sound of her rummaging among pots in the kitchen. He waited in the kitchen doorway for her to turn around to him. His eyes, pointing back the way he had come, took in the clothing, and towels and cloths, with ornate crosses stitched onto them.

If she was religious, it would make it even better when she saw him and screamed. He waited.

“There you are,” she said. A warm hand took his arm and led him to the table, pushed him into a hard wooden chair. “They’ve been out looking for you. Here.”

Food slopped onto his plate. With his head on crooked, he could see potatoes in one pot and stew in the other behind him on the stove.

“If the wind changes, you’ll stay like that,” said the old woman, and the crooked boy uncrooked his head to face her. She pushed a heaped spoon of salty stew into his mouth.

“My boat?”

“All gone,” she said. “All gone, it was just a dream now.”

The crooked boy looked into the other room filled with wet clothes and funerary cloth with ornate crosses stitched onto them. He couldn’t read, but the letters under the crosses looked familiar, like the names of friends, and the smell wasn’t soap, but brine from the sea.

She had drowned all of them, so he could come home.

This week I discovered the 41256 podcast, each episode of which consists of various bits of radio shows stitched together. Relaxing, enjoyable, creepy, and very more-ish. Here’s episode 50: https://www.listennotes.com/podcasts/41256/episode-50-telling-them-HM4BteY3J52/

Party

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Bad make-up
Photo by Gregory Buzdyk on Unsplash

In this week’s piece of flash fiction a young girl dealy with love and peer pressure. Enjoy!

Rachel pushed the boy towards me. “This is Caleb,” she said.

I knew that. I’d had a crush on Caleb for a long time, the way he brushed his brown, messy hair off his forehead to reveal mischievous blue eyes.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” said Rachel, and left the bedroom.

I’d never done it before, but I was sure Caleb had. This was the last party of the year. Next year I’d be a Senior, and it’d be pathetic if I was the only Senior who hadn’t done it.

“I like your dress, is that… Zara?” I kissed him to shut him up. Would it hurt? I hoped it wouldn’t, but all the girls said it hurt first time. Mom said to wait, but the girls said it was better to get it over with.

Caleb sat next to me on the bed. His Adam’s apple stuck out, looking manly and vulnerable all at once. He was already a Senior, he’d be off to college next year.

“We can just talk, if you like,” said Caleb. I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down and decided to go for it.

“Let’s do it,” I said. “But…”

He leaned in close.

“Can we lock the door?”

“Sure.” He bounded over and twisted the key to the door of Rachel’s bedroom, dampening the make out music. Everyone was downstairs, listening to hear if I’d cry out. I blushed at the thought of going downstairs with Caleb afterwards. Would he hold my hand? The thought of it almost made me puke, and my cheeks burned red. He took his shirt off as he came back to the bed.

“Should I?” My voice shook as I shrugged my shoulders, asking if he wanted me to undo the buttons of my dress. God, I knew nothing!

“Up to you,” said Caleb. “I promise not to get blood on you.”

I felt his teeth on my neck and it hurt. I gasped, but didn’t cry out. He drank some blood. It felt like a lot, but I don’t know, maybe it was only a little?

Afterwards, I felt cold and mature. Rachel and the others gave us a round of applause when we came downstairs. I felt at my teeth with my tongue, but they didn’t seem different.

“It’ll take a little while for them to grow.” Caleb held my hand and brushed the hair off his forehead. I watched the Adam’s apple dance in his neck, licking my lips.

If you enjoyed that, you’ll love the exclusive short story planned for this month’s newsletter. There’s still time to sign up for that right here!

Must

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Eucharist: Wine chalice and wafers
Photo by Josh Applegate on Unsplash

In this week’s flash fiction we look at when “til death do us part” isn’t such a long time as one might think…

Getting married in the middle of nowhere was almost like a small wedding, in that none of my friends and family were there. Still I hadn’t wanted to get married at all. But Shelley wanted it so badly, and she was so sick that she could barely get to the church on her family’s Scottish estate.

It must be a Scottish thing that the groom is presented to the bride. Shelley stood at the altar, smiling – perhaps – under her veil. Definitely showing teeth, while her father held my arms and marched me up the aisle. I hadn’t realised how sick her family looked. Some of them look practically dead, their necks creaking as their eyes followed my progress to stand before the priest.
“Do you take this man?” he asked.
“We do,” replied the congregation. They advanced on me with knives and forks.

Shelley’s father was strong but a kick in the balls is a kick in the balls, and I twisted out of his grasp, avoiding Shelley’s teeth as she lunged at my neck. The church was small, I couldn’t avoid them, there were so many. I slapped away grasping hands and grabbed a knife, putting out its owner’s eye, ripping Shelley’s veil. The priest was trying to sneak up on me, but I pulled his stole around his neck and tightened it. His belly took the brunt of the cutlery jabbing towards me and I manoeuvred my way to the door. The wedding guests were sidetracked by the intestine’s – bishop’s purple – spilling from him, and I tossed him into their midst.

I drove as fast as I could, not stopping until, my body shaking with used adrenaline, the tins tied to the back of the car finally quietened.

In other news this week, I’m really enjoying Molybaron’s new album. Here’s a taster: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2NhjrElHZrI