Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

Flash fiction

Stood

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An empty old-fashioned lecture hall
Photo by v2osk on Unsplash

Hi all, this week’s piece of flash fiction hearkens back to the good old days of cheesy 80s horror. Enjoy!

“Time to take the bandages off,” said Dr Stood. In the excited air of the lecture hall, the patient had his cocoon unwrapped, one soft layer at a time. When the last piece of gauze had been removed, there was a gasp, for nothing remained underneath.

Dr Stood’s wolf’s teeth grinned out of his thick black beard. ”The patient’s wounds were too serious, his body could not sustain such grave injuries. He has been absorbed. Now, see that you don’t let him escape.”

The pile of bandages no longer gleamed from the stage, though Dr Stood had certainly not tidied them away.

In the front row a student, Hawkins, grunted and flailed at something, like he was shaking off an attacking dog. The boy next to him did the same, and the next. Creeping into view, a piece of white fabric wound its way around their bodies, tightening its grip on their necks.

“You see? He has his strength back.”

The entire row was being pulled sideways after the bandage, which tightened further to cut into soft living flesh, turning red. How could such a thing live at all?

“The patient was weak,” said Dr Stood. “I merged him with my own genetic material.”

It had reached my row. The hideous thing was no more than a millimetre thick, but strong. At its front, rendered by the blood, red lips, flushed cheeks, covered by Dr Stood’s beard of wolfish black fur.

If you liked that, you might like some of the short stories I’m putting together to be released later this year. Want to find out more? Sign up to my newsletter for updates, free fiction and personal recommendations. Click here to join!

Spins

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Sunset in a red sky
Photo by Wolfgang Hasselmann on Unsplash

This week’s piece of flash fiction is a little bit darker. Enjoy!

We’d head half a mile out of town and watch the sun go down in the old red Toyota. The windshield glowed, then reddened. And the girl would appear in the field in front of us and we let her in the back. Every night.

I don’t feel bad, and Rich didn’t either, I guess. I don’t know about the girls, they never said anything.

No, Sir. Not a girl. Girls. A new one every night, come down out of the sun. I told you.

Well, where else are we gonna put ‘em afterwards but in the earth? That’s where the sun goes every night. Comes back up the next morning.

No sir, I never hurt no one, just helped put the sun to bed.

Well, maybe the sun is her soul, so she has to die for it to come back the next day.

We never did anything like that to them. We just drove around until they cooled down enough to touch, then made them get out of the car and turn away so we could kill ‘em without them seeing.

If you only found one body, that proves my point, because we’ve been doing this for months. That hole should be full.

Like most of these stories, this is an edited version of a writing prompt exercise. The idea is just to keep writing and see what happens. As soon as I had written the first sentence I immediately noticed the mistake, which suggests that the sun is setting in the Toyota. So I wrote the rest of it trying to find out what that would be like, if it was true.

Building

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A skyscraper building
Photo by Simone Hutsch on Unsplash

I recently had a conversation with someone who insisted on telling me something that WE BOTH KNEW FOR A FACT was not true. So that’s where this story comes from. Enjoy!

They kept referring to it as Central City’s tallest building, even as the spire and top ten stories had to come off, because the weight was cracking the foundations.

It was still pretty big.

Then, one morning, it looked shorter. It was sinking into the ground.

By the time everyone assembled, it was midnight. The Great and Gracious Sultan of the country did not like to be summoned. But he was willing to be present when the architect and the construction manager insisted that, only he, the Great and Gracious Sultan could help them figure out what to do. If the ground was as solid as the Sultan’s Grand Engineer (and son-in-law) had told them, then it was inexplicable that the building should sink. The Great and Gracious Sultan clapped the Grand Engineer around the ear-hole, then went to see what he could do.

The answer, of course, was simple. No mistake had been made. The building was too beautiful to be seen by common people, some of whom had said mean things about it, and even meaner things about the Great Engineer, when he had – admittedly quite late in the project – suddenly decided to have the top 10 stories and the spire removed, after deciding that he preferred the old-fashioned style of uncracked foundations. The building could take no more and was retreating into the ground.

But this was a wonderful opportunity! For each storey the building sank, they could add another storey above ground. And who said that the only way to build a tall building was to have it sticking out of the ground?

Well, from now on the Sultan would show that a building could start anywhere, even underground. All the architect and construction manager needed to do was to ensure that each storey had its own entrance in the ceiling, so that the people who were supposed to be working there could continue to access the building.

What?

Certainly they should continue to work there!

And the Great and Gracious Sultan clapped his hands and when he got home, he smirked at the Great Engineer and his daughter hugged him and whispered in the Sultan’s ear, and they both looked at the Great Engineer and laughed.

And the building work continues to this day!

One day, perhaps, the foundations will pop out through the Earth’s crust on the other side of the planet, and if they keep building, then it will be two of the world’s tallest buildings, the Great and Gracious Sultan be praised!

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Forgotten

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Rusted sheets of corrugated iron
Photo by Wilhelm Gunkel on Unsplash

We’re going home for this week’s piece of flash fiction. Or at least to school. Enjoy!

We always took the tanyard shortcut to school after lunch. We only had half an hour and spent a lot of that time queueing for a go on the chip shop’s arcade machines. The school’s principal hated it and used to lie in wait where you came out of the trees that surrounded the school grounds. No one at the tanyard minded us traipsing through, except for Paddy Short and his dog. The tanyard was what nowadays would be called a Business District, or maybe an Incubator. In those days, it was just the tanyard, where businesses went to struggle, shrivel and die. Converted old sheds with battered trucks with telephone numbers on the side.

A dog might scare off intruders, but it was a magnet to schoolkids. Nothing made sneaking into school via the forbidden tanyard more exciting, than first kicking on the gnawed door of the shed where Paddy kept the animal locked up to make it bark, then running off before Paddy came out with his walking stick over his head, his jaws working in rage.

#

I hadn’t thought about it in years, but when I went back to the town to take care of matters after my mother died, I found myself down at the tanyard. Ireland was in the middle of a property frenzy, and the rundown sheds had bloomed into large outlet-style “bathroom paradise” businesses. Still right at the back was Paddy Short’s shed.

And then, maybe out of habit, I thought I’d kick at the door where the dog had lived.

“I wouldn’t do that,” said a voice. The principal. I recognised him immediately, though it was thirty years since I had last seen him.

“I suppose he’s no longer there anyway, is he?”

“Paddy? Oh, he’s there, all right.”

“But he must be 100 by now.”

“Something like that.” He had come up to me and I had my back to the shed. “You prick. I was never able to catch you. But I have you now.”

The venom in his voice! Then he kicked the door and ran off. Before I could move, a hand snaked out and grabbed me.

See you next Thursday!

Morgan

Favourite

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Black rotary phone on white background
Photo by Quino Al on Unsplash

Hi all, welcome back to another piece of flash fiction!

Now, I don’t mean to boast, but I have accounts with two separate banks. They handle security and logging in differently. One of them does it very well.

This story is more about the other one.

Enjoy!

“Thank you for calling the Your Bank! hotline. I’m Trina, how can I help you?”
“Hi. I can’t login online. It says my account has been blocked?”
“Have you forgotten your password?”
“No.”
Silence.
“Do you need me to confirm it, or…”
“No! Sir! Please never give your password to anyone.”
“I wasn’t going to! Just confirm the last few digits, or something.”
“Sir, providing access to your account to third parties is in violation of the agreement you signed when you joined up. Never give your password to anyone.”
John rolled his eyes.
“Sir?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll need to confirm your data. What’s your address?”
“1216 Blue Tree, Arkansas.”
“Correct. Mother’s maiden name?”
“Delphine.”
“Correct. Date of birth?”
“Mine? Um, March 14th, ’83.”
“You’re doing very well, sir.”
He glanced at the phone’s screen. Eight minutes already.
“Now. If you could only take two of your siblings on the helicopter to escape a terrorist attack, which one would you leave behind?”
John waited for her to say “just kidding!”
“Sir? That’s a time-sensitive question.”
“I…”
“Paul, Andrew or Frank.”
“Frank, I sup—”
“Correct.”
Correct?
“Aaand last question: if Paul or Andrew had to die – and remember, this is a hypothetical – if one of them had to die, which should it be? Paul or Andrew?”
“Paul.” Paul was a dick.
“Correct! Thank you, sir, you can now access your account.”
The voice on the other end of the phone stopped talking, but the line stayed open.
“What should I…?” John lowered his voice.
“Sir?”
“What should I do about Andrew?”

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Accent

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Brown floorboards
Photo by boris misevic on Unsplash

Woohoo! We’ve reached blog post 100! To celebrate here’s a little story, which will throw some light on some of the trials an author has to go through to get these things ready on time. It’s not all MacBooks and coffee shops, you know.

Enjoy!

There was no one else in the house, of that I had no doubt.

The voice spoke again. “Once I find you, I’ll have you.”

What else could it be, other than a ghost? If it had been a real murderer, she’d surely have made good on her threat to come kill me.

I had rented the little cottage for the summer, in order to finish my book. Instead, I spent the days dreading the nights when, as soon as the sun had dwindled outside, I’d hear the floorboards above my head and the spiteful ghost – the dead wife of the cottage’s owner – call out her warning. The spot over my head, through the plaster ceiling: I could feel her standing there.

It was a ridiculous situation, made worse by the fact that I wrote horror and ghostly stories: I should be delighted to make the acquaintance of a ghost.

“Once I find you, I’ll have you.”

***

“One, two, three, …”

She had never counted before.

Footsteps moved to the bedroom door, down the short hallway. To the stairs.

There was no one in the house, I kept telling myself that. I was overwrought by lack of sleep, imagining footsteps slapping down on the steps, getting closer and closer, now just outside the living room.

There was no one else in the house, I told myself again.

Which meant that she must be coming for me.

Cheers! See you next week for post 101!