Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

Realism

Ol’ Danny

by

Ol' Danny feedin coal into a furnace
Photo by Kateryna Babaieva from Pexels

Another piece of writing prompt fiction. This one was based on the photo and five random words to be used in the story. Who is Ol’ Danny? Read the story and the notes afterwards to find out! Enjoy!

‘Come rain or shine,’ they said. ‘Ol’ Danny’ll be feeding the flames.’

It was like a promise. You went to work and Ol’ Danny was there, shovellin’ coal into the tiny mouth of the furnace. The ass, some people said. That was the closest thing to annoyin’ Danny you could do. He liked to be treated with respect, it was a dangerous job. The last guy? It belched. One minute he was tossin’ in lignite, the next there was nothin’ left but the shovel. Bullshit. Anyone can see Danny has a new shovel. Hard to imagine Danny without the shovel actually. If I picture him out of work hours he still has it. Leanin’ against the bar, a cool beer in one hand, his shovel in the other. Down at the store, his shovel over his shoulder as he grabs a milk…

He’s been here 20 years, staring into the glowing orange mouth. I couldn’t do it. Not strong enough, anyways.

But there’s no premium on bein’ fearless, I guess. The guys up top have said they don’t need anyone doin’ Danny’s role.

‘What if somethin’ went wrong. How would that look?’ they asked.

‘How’s it goin’ to look when we fire him?’ I asked back but they didn’t see it. People get fired all the time, but a guy bein’ roasted to a cinder makes good television, I guess..

‘Danny.’ I know he can hear me. I call again. ‘Danny!’ He turns around. He’s got his visor on, a little strip of smoked glass. Makes him look like he’s got a superhero mask on. He stops. Places the blade of the shovel on the ground, waits. ‘Can we go talk?’ I swear he’s communin’ with the furnace in his head before he gives me a nod. He pulls on thick gloves, closes the door of the furnace. Looks at his watch. We head to my office and he still has his visor on. It feels like he’s in charge, showing me where to go. Sit in here and stay out of my way. That’s what it feels like and I’m gettin’ annoyed. He stands all day shovellin’ coal, so I get it that his people skills might be a little rusty, but shit…

I let him sit down. I give him the news. Redundant. He stares at me, still wearin’ that visor. I don’t ask him to take it off ‘cause he’s not the only guy I’ve let go. Guys like Danny, who’ve stayed in this shithole because they had a job here and they’re loyal. Didn’t up sticks and move somewhere where they might could have had a job and a family. They tear up and some of them bawl their eyes out. If Danny’s cryin’ I don’t want to see it. But I tell him that things have changed and it’s no longer workable to have a guy doin’ what he does. Health and Safety, its just not possible any more. And I offer him another job. Somethin’ I know he’ll be too insulted to want to do. He’ll turn me down and that’s it. If he gets angry, even better. Then I know he’s an asshole and I’m glad we’re rid of him. ‘How would you like,’ I ask Danny. ‘To drive a forklift? We can always use another driver in the warehouse.’

Danny pulls his visor off and his eyes! They glow orange and there’s heat pouring out. My eyeballs dry up and I can feel my skin gettin’ crisp.

He walks out and I know he’s gone back to the furnace and I don’t dare follow him. He’s a demon. Or he’s turned into the flames he’s been feedin’ all these years. When it’s time to go home I wait a little longer. Then, when I have to go, the place is almost empty but I can hear the skritch of Danny’s shovel on the floor, still feedin’ the machine. I go over ‘cause I have to but there’s nobody there. The flames have died down a bit. Restin’ until they get fed again. There’s no sign of Danny, but I know he was there. I think of his burnin’ eyes and I’m dreadin’ when he comes back. He doesn’t. And when we look nobody knows where he is.

I have to set up the new system to feed the flames, but the fire has been burnin’ just fine since Danny quit. And I don’t want to be the one to open the door to the furnace. Open up the mouth. Nobody else wants to either. The guys call the furnace Ol’ Danny and I know that’s exactly right.

The random words were

promise
premium
strong
picture
workable

And the name? I hate coming up with names. But I’d been re-listening to Throw Rag‘s ’13 Foot and Rising’ album the night before and the song Lil’ Danny was still tuck in my head. Luckily it fit. (In a way that, e.g. Lil’ Montgomery would not have.)

Drag

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The bottom of a pier
Photo by Analise Benevides on Unsplash

Hi all,

more flash fiction for you. This one’s got a teddy bear in it so it’s really nice. Enjoy!

I wanted to stay at the candy floss place. I had my stick full of spun sugar but there were plenty of other people waitng. I loved watching the lady make it, dipping in with the overlarge toothpicks and turning them until they were covered in pink clouds. The smell was wonderful. But Daddy wanted to go on.

We went to the fortune teller’s tent. I was allowed to eat my candy floss but the lady said be careful not to drop it. I sat on a plastic stool that had a limp faded cushion while she told Daddy what was going to happen next. I like to know what’s going to happen. Usually Mammy and Daddy just pull me with them wherever they’re going. Daddy didn’t like what the old lady was telling him. He said thank you but he didn’t smile, which is how I know.
“What did she say?” I asked.
He looked like he’d forgotten I was there and I hid my face behind my candy floss, wisps sticking to my cheeks. He shook his head. Next was a shooting range. You could shoot at tin cans with a small rifle. I don’t like shooting and Daddy doesn’t either. Past that was one where you could throw rings around ducks and win something. There was a large teddy as a prize but I knew I’d never win it. Still though, I imagined I had won and was dragging it the same way Daddy was dragging me but nicer. I pretended I offered the teddy some candy floss but he didn’t want it in case it got stuck in his fur. We threw some rings and I tried not to look at the teddy because I knew I wouldn’t win him and it wouldn’t be fair to get his hopes up. Anyway I had my imaginary teddy and I didn’t want him to get jealous. There was a girl beside me and she stared at my candy floss the whole time.
On we went. The crowd was getting thicker and I had to walk half behind Daddy. My candy floss stick was almost finished and I wondered what I should do with it. I liked to keep the sticks but somehow never did. I made up my mind that this time I would keep it on my pocket and then put it in the shoe box under my bed, so nobody would throw it away when I was at school.

Once we reached the end of the pier we’d look out at the sea. Daddy would say he loved me as much as the sea and more and then we’d go home.
I forgot that I was holding my imaginary teddy but I was able to imagine that he caught up to us, dodging through the crowd’s legs. He’d been looking at the van that sold all the sweets and didn’t notice when we moved on. He looked scared and sad and I told myself that I would tell him I loved him as much as the sea and more before we went home.
At the end of the pier we had to wait until there was a space free at the railing. People were taking photos of themselves. Daddy thought that was vain. I knew he was right but I wished he would take a picture of us together. He looked out over the sea and I nestled in close to his side, it was getting chilly.
“Finished?” he said.
I nodded without thinking and he grabbed my candy floss stick and threw it into the sea. We walked back home through the crowd.

When we got to the car I realised I’d left Teddy at the end of the pier and he didn’t know what our car looked like so I couldn’t imagine him finding us.

I think the voice in this one is quite different to my usual voice, which is good. What do you think?

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?

Second chance

by

Candles in a row of glass bottles
Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

Hi all,

another piece of 20 minute writing fiction for you. The prompts are below the piece. Enjoy!

The jar cracked before Mel could pull it out of the saucepan.
“Shit!” She dropped it onto the messy counter. Blew on her fingers as she checked the cupboard. Two more jars. “Shit!”
Bryan was slapping the plastic table of his high chair, his head lolling as he followed the movement of his arms. He squealed, looked in her direction and smacked the table again.
Hungry!
She poured cold water into the saucepan, ignored her phone. She couldn’t afford to mess up another jar.


“Ya, yaya, yayayaya!” said Bryan.
Don’t look at it, Mommy, he was saying, look at me drumming.
Bang, bang, bang. He paused and the excitement drained out of his face like warmth into a black hole.
Hungry. That’s all.
The jar. She checked with her finger.
Scooped, tasted.
Disgusting.
Perfect.
His head wobbled as she went to him. Staring like he had no idea who she was.
It’s me, Bryan. You know?Here. Every day. Me. me.
“Here, you go, Bry! Yummy!” She put on her friendly voice but his face crinkled and he started to cry. He didn’t like her.
She breathed, rested her forehead on her left hand, feeling the pressure on her skull.
The stink of sweet carrot and chicken in her nostrils.
Bryan getting louder and louder, his nose dripping snot into his mouth. So when the phone vibrated it was natural to pick it up.
Get away for a moment.


He’d swiped back! She could contact him, take it further.
Why not? Next time would be better.


The jar was cold when they finished chatting. She got off the couch. Confused. Holding a small jar of crap.
There was noise in the kitchen. But she didn’t want to think about that.
Something she didn’t want to think about?
She had to get ready.
Big date. The start of a new life.

I think I might have overdone it with the exclamation marks and italics, etc. but…I think it works. Let me know what you think.

The prompts were:

hole
friendly
jar
disgusting
finger

Hate

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Photo from barnimages.com

Here’s another piece of 20-minunte writing fiction (20 minutes, no changes allowed during editing except fixing typos, puntuation and deleting). The prompt was the above photo and the title (Hate), courtesy of my usual random word generator.

Enjoy!

…hate.”

Marthe stood behind the curtain.

The men were in the dining room; her husband; the General; his aide and soldiers.

A wisp of hair tickled her cheek. She pushed through the curtain into the dining room.

They sat with glasses of aperitif. The General was pulled up right in front of the flames, his face rosy, his neck sweating around the stubble of his shaved neck. His men, twenty years younger—this would be their first war—were all handsome. Strong limbs, tidy uniforms and open faces. The General’s aide jumped up and helped move plates aside for her to put the casserole dish down.

The casserole was full of meat. A present from the Germans, as was the aperitif they were drinking. The dining room, which had been their youngest’s bedroom until he had been taken prisoner, was crowded with the table, the chairs and the men around the fire.

“It smells delicious,” said the General.

Marthe nodded acknowledgement.

“We are lucky to be here in such a comfortable home, with such a fine cook.” His men slapped their thighs in agreement. The silver ladle clattered against the casserole dish.

After they had eaten the first few bites, the General piped up again. He drank too much. But the last lot had pissed in the garden and eaten everything in the house without buying back.

“We were talking about the hostility in the town. The General spoke directly to Marthe.

“It’s understandable,” said Marthe. All eyes were on her. “A lot of people have suffered. Things are not easy.”

“But we sit here together – all friends! I don’t see why people are hostile. There’s a war in Germany, too. Throughout Europe, in fact. You French have come out rather well!”

“The thing about hate…” Marthe speared a piece of ham and held it up as she thought. “…it’s not rational. People hate what they hate. Or what they are afraid of.”

“Surely you are not afraid of us?” said the General.

Her son, her neighbours who had been rounded up as Communists and Jews, the shortages that made her accept his food. “Not afraid, no.”

Market stall

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Photo by Allan So from Pexels

Hi all,

this is my last week of research before I get back into the next draft of my work in progress. I’m looking forward to it as writing feels slightly more like work than reading does.

Here’s another piece of writing prompt fiction. It turned out quite dark and there’s a swear word in it too so you might want to save it for later if you’re in a bad mood.

People streamed past. A grandmother in a pink t-shirt, dragging two girls bumped into him.
It was 5pm and stallholders had started to pack. The summer was still warm and heat emanated from the metal wall. His brother was inside waiting for him to come back.


Tell him.
His stomach clenched. Rob wouldn’t understand.

Tash was packing away her earphones, wrapping them around the stick from an ice-cream, packing the lot inside a knitted case. She started matching up knitting. Bags. Jumpers, scarves, hats. Multicoloured animals, mostly sea creatures. Her logo was an orange octopus with four sets of knitting needles in its eight legs. It wasn’t a cartoon, more like a tattoo. It gave Clive the creeps. She didn’t care. After this she was going to Uni, Industrial Design.

He had an aberrant thought: he could go to Uni too. Industrial Design. He shook himself out of it. He had never learned anything at school.

Nor outside it.


Tash was ignoring him. Knew he’d make a fuss.
She’d never forgive him.

The baby, Rob. It’s…

Tash stared at him for a moment then looked away. The octopus paused in its knitting. Did it matter whose it was? As long as she didn’t hang that creature over its crib and scare it senseless.

He walked over. “Tash.” He hated that name. “Natasha.” Tash put a dozen knitted pocket squares into a plastic bag.

Knitted pocket squares, for fuck’s sake. Industrial Design had no idea what was going to hit it.

“It’s not suitable for children. No octopus.” She looked at him. Looked down at him. It was easy to forget how tall she was.

“Too late.”

“You’ve told Rob?” He couldn’t believe it. “So…”

“Mr. Elbows didn’t want him. So don’t worry. And I’ve got Uni next month.”

Clive looked at the octopus, knitting.

The prompts were the picture at the top of the piece and the following words:

stream
rob
brother
learned
aberrant
ill