Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

Flash fiction

Replace

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Photo by Camellia on Unsplash

Here’s the first post of the new year. A weird little something which I whipped up while having a cup of tea. It might help if you imagine that the interviewer looks a bit like Terry Wogan. On the other hand it might not. Feel free to pretend that YOU are the interviewer. Enjoy!

“Room for a little one?” he said.
Talking to himself while doing cocaine was one of his more irritating habits, she thought.
He snorted, then massaged his nose wetly with his fingertips. She led him to his seat in front of the cameras. That was what she resented most: he didn’t need to be led to a chair he sat in five evenings a week. How was that even a job?

Opposite him was the unoccupied chair. The guest was always a surprise. She melted into the crew on the other side of the camera.

And then: the interviewer’s mother. Everyone laughed. They hadn’t been expecting that. She started talking, and the room went silent. Across the country, the living rooms all went silent. She was so wise – they could see where he had got it from.

There was no need for coke in the dressing room anymore. She made him warm milk, then picked him up and carried him to the chair in front of the cameras. He curled up in her lap. Sometimes he let his eyes close as he lay against her bosom, while she chatted to the guests.

Heart

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A potted plant on a wooden stool
Photo by Adrien King on Unsplash

Hi all, last post of the new year, so here’s a little story about how great it is to get a second chance to start again. Happy New Year to you all, and enjoy!

Fosdick sprayed money. Came up the hard way, but when he found oil in his back garden that was all behind him. A crowd of hangers-on followed him everywhere. They were lucky he was a nice guy, he could have made them do anything to stay within the rain of his wealth.

The first time he died there was a panic among his hangers-on. And pretty much everywhere else too, let’s be honest: he had controlled enough oil to bring continents to a stop (he never did).

His son wasn’t as nice. So they brought Fosdick back to life. The newspapers wanted to know where the “parts” had come from. Not from any of Fosdick’s friends, that was for sure. Some people got real rich, real quick.

Mind you, Fosdick wasn’t as good as he used to be. He was still kind and looked after his people. But his smile was off, and he seemed tired. Even his hangers-on found it draining to be around him. He’d been through a lot, though. It was only to be expected.

I met him in Fosdick 111, his tower block. He had a Texas drawl, and he was charming, but he made me tired, Like everyone had said. A man stood beside him the whole time, and I swear his lips never moved. Maybe on words with “B’s.”

I recorded the interview, and it sounds like Fosdick says he is a “gillionaire.”

He didn’t want to talk about his resurrections. Experimental therapy was all he’d say (sounded like “egskerimental theragy”). And it still rains wealth all around Fosdick. But it pours on his friends and not much splashes elsewhere these days.

That’s it from me for 2020, see you in the ’21!

Twining

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Castle at the end of a driveway with topiary
Photo by Ian Murphy on Unsplash

This one is short and sweet, like a dwarf working in the mines of Candy Mountain. Enjoy!

Prof Twinings ignored the police line around his house. People crowded the pavement for a glimpse of his home. He hoped it hadn’t escaped. Again.
The twins were delighted, as usual, that he might be in trouble. “You’ve done it this time,” crowed DeborA. DeborB clapped her hands.
No one else could see or hear them. They were useful if was playing poker, but too exhausting otherwise. Twining edged his way out of the crowd to Collins Avenue, where there was another path home. Or rather, to the towering Inferno where he had until recently lived.
His suits were in there.
Twining was the world’s leading demonologist. It was thanks to his hard work that the world had improved so drastically over the past 40 years. Seeing as he had the Devil trapped in a special room in the basement, and everything.
But something had gone wrong.
He crept through the hedge near the rear of his property, slipped through the side door where there were no flames, and opened the basement with a key which mortal eyes could not see. The devil was surrounded by flames. A fork with a charred lump of something lay on the floor in front of him. He didn’t look triumphant. Awkward, rather. “I just wanted to toast the marshmallows for Christmas,” he said.

Happy Christmas!

Far-Flung Self

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Photo by Rachel Gagnon on Reshot

Hi all, I’m still in a bit of a funny mood.

If you liked last week’s fiction you might like this one. If not, see you next week!

Enjoy!

“I’ve never seen it before,” I say.
“But you’ll admit it’s your hand?” says the policeman.
“I know what my hand looks like, officer. This isn’t it, it’s not even the right size!”
“Reviewing the evidence, which is to say, it’s attached to your arm, sir…”
“This isn’t my arm, you fool, I don’t have tattoos!”
“You have one right there on your biceps, sir. Who’s Trisha?”
“That’s not my arm,” I say. “My God, is there anyone else I can talk to?” Eventually, I get to see someone higher up the chain. Not because they believe me, but because I’m starting to scare the other prisoners. Although I don’t know what they’ve got to worry about. They aren’t the ones who woke up with body parts replaced. I mean, who would do such a thing?
“This way sir,” says the officer. He’s one of those big solid men. Unflappable, if you want to put a positive spin on it. Unimaginative. Not necessarily a bad thing in a police officer, I suppose. We sit in an interrogation room. Me, and the arm, leg and ears that don’t belong to me. It’s the ears I’m most worried about, as they might start working against me.
“What seems to be the trouble?” The policeman gives me an encouraging look, but I hear the other officer shift against the wall behind me. Any sudden moves and he’ll be only too happy to restrain me. I sit on my right arm, then wrap my left leg tightly around the leg which doesn’t belong to me. I don’t want them threatening the police and getting me in trouble.
“Officer,” I say. “I woke up this morning and somebody has taken my leg and arm and given me these in their place.” I nod towards my restrained limbs.
“And who do you think might have done such a thing, sir?”
He’s got me. Who would do such a thing. I don’t have any enemies.
“We get this a lot, sir,” he says. “Oh yes.” He leans back in his chair. I shift my weight. I think the arm that doesn’t belong to me might be suffering pins and needles and I don’t want to hurt the thing. I just want my own back. “People wake up, and it’s usually a Thursday, say. Like today. Say their legs, or their arms, or their eyes, or whatever doesn’t belong to them. And I always ask: ‘who do you think might have done it’ and what do they say?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Exactly, sir. ‘I don’t know.’ I’d love to help, if I could. I woke up feeling funny myself one morning so I understand. But you get used to it. The alternative would be for me to drag in the entire population, and ask them where they were last night, and whether they hold a grudge against you. The majority won’t even know you, and then I’ll have to describe you, sir. And go into your life story, until they get a feel for who you are as a person. Sir. And do you know what? It takes quite a while, and you’ll find that people who had never heard of you, and didn’t hold a grudge against you, sir… well, after a few weeks of hearing about you in this room, they pretty much all hate you sir. And we’ll still have no evidence. Would you like that, sir? Maybe we’ll even find out who stole your leg and arm, but the entire population of the country will hate your guts.”
“But—”
He held up a hand. “Hear me out. I’m not saying we won’t proceed, I’m saying maybe you’ll get used to the new arm and leg. This the new arm? Looks quite nice, sir, and if you ever meet a girl called Trisha, well, you’ve already got the tattoo. Some other poor bugger had the pain of that, and you’ll be the one to profit.”

He stood up and, although I wasn’t happy, it made a certain sense. My new arm, my false arm jumped out to grab his arm and they shook. It felt like an unusual shake, one of those hidden handshakes you hear about. Then he leaned in and whispered something. I’m sure it was important, but they weren’t my ears—they didn’t work for me—and I couldn’t hear it. He walked me to the door. He walked a little lopsided. I noticed a lot of people looked strange. It seemed to me that that man’s eyes were too wide for his face. That man’s mouth kept muttering, as if it wasn’t completely under control. That lady definitely had one shoulder higher than another. Behind the front desk, the lady had two shades of hair: brunette growing up under the blonde.
Outside, people stumbled along to work. Two young boys in school shirts and shorts, and surely those couldn’t be their real knees and elbows? So knobbly? A man in a tan suit had jowls too large for his thin face, and a pot belly that belonged to a much fatter man.
I’d be late myself, if I didn’t get a move on. The sun was hot and when I looked at it, it seemed to waver, as if just settling in. Almost right, but not quite.

Quack

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Photo by Pablo D. on Reshot

Hi all, I’ll be honest, this one might be a bit too weird for some of you. But it’s short too. So: swings and roundabouts. Enjoy!

He popped another zinc tablet against the sniffles, but was fast coming to the conclusion that it was more like an allergy to Berlin. He hadn’t been able to shake off the running nose since moving. The dirty air.

He kept his lederhosen, in keeping with the local style he now had a tote bag as well, slung over one shoulder. He kept Evie in it: his inflatable sheep. He had to be careful she didn’t burst.

It was usually okay during the day when the city was mostly sober, but at night people shouted at him. Not always bad things: it was surprising how many offers he got to come around to someone’s house for a drink. Everyone wanted to take a selfie with him, but he didn’t like attention. He just wanted to be back in the countryside.

If it wasn’t for Evie, that’s where he’d be.

She’d seduced him and no mistake. He’d let himself be seduced. He was weak when it came to women.

When his doorbell rang at six in the morning, he knew who his visitor would be. Evie’s father barely fit in the hallway. He was with his eldest son. They had to let air out of each other before they could pass through the door. The ceilings were high, but the doors surprisingly narrow in some of these buildings.

“You know why we’re here,” said Pappa Baa-baa.

“I love her,” said Karl.

In the bedroom Evie listened to what was going on.

“It gives us no pleasure to do this,” said Pappa Baa-baa.

“I’m ready.” Karl wouldn’t struggle. He’d do it for Evie.

The eldest son—and Karl still didn’t know his name, wasn’t that silly?—brought him to Pappa and Karl took his lederhosen off. Pappa held Karl down. The eldest son looked at Karl. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But this is the only way you can be family.”

Karl had always wondered what the little nozzle was that hung out the front of him. When he drank too much piss came out, but he’d always felt it must have a purpose beyond that. This was it.

The eldest brother got on his sheepie knees, took the nozzle in his mouth, and started to blow. Karl’s stomach swelled, and Karl’s skin lifted off the bones, and he swelled and swelled, and the pain of his stretching skin was too much to bear, until Evie came and stroked his forehead to comfort him. His forehead squeaked.

Once Karl was full—almost as big as the eldest brother, and about two cubic metres smaller than Pappa—he tied the nozzle of the Karl balloon off, and they floated off together through the French windows, and over the balcony and away from Berlin to the mountains where they had come from.

Writing

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Glass walkway between two buildings
Photo by Valerie on Reshot

The editor’s on the third floor. His editor’s on the seventh floor, and the scheduler is on the eighth floor, but in the other wing of the building. I have to see the scheduler to arrange for the editor to read my manuscript, but first I have to visit his editor (that’s the one on the seventh floor) to find out when he has “capacity.” Then the scheduler will contact my editor to work out when he can check my last draft, and when he needs the next one. She can’t contact the editor’s editor because that’s the job of her scheduler, who’s been pinched by the marketing team in order to arrange for the bookmarks to come out in advance of the book. She’s still grouchy about it and HR don’t have time to get a replacement as they’re understaffed. She’s doing me a favour in even seeing me.

“Baskin has time on July the third, 2022”—That’s 18 months away. What am I going to do until then?—“but we need to lock it in with him now.” I keep my voice neutral, there’s no point in getting her back up.

“I don’t have time in July,” she says.

“That’s okay, it’s only me he needs to see. And I’m free.”

She sighs. “As per company memo dated…” She taps at her computer. She ignores the ringing phone. She ignores me. “…17 June 2020: ‘the scheduler may decide that their presence is required at author-editor meetings to ensure scheduled meetings are for the purpose for which they were scheduled.’”

“But what else what I be scheduling it for?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “But what are you going to be doing until then?”

“I don’t know.” I think. “Working,” I say.

She gives me a look. “I can do September,” she says.

“I asked about other dates while I was there. He told me July was the only window. Look, I can record the meeting for you. I just want to get my book out. It’s been—“

“We all want to get your book out, Mr Harlowe. That’s why we need to make sure everything is locked in. You’re hardly earning your advance running from one office to another. F_____ Publishing is carrying you and has been for quite some time. I can assure you we are most keen to see some return on our investment.”

“What if I helped out as an assistant? Between writing.”

“Oh, nice try,” she says. “Don’t think I haven’t heard that before.” Her mood is restored. “Now run back to Mr Baskin and ask again about September. If not 2021, then perhaps 2022.”

“2022?”

“Or 2023. Really, you’re wasting time. Hurry before the window closes.”

I walk back to Mr Baskin to find out if he will have time to see me in two-and-a-half years, so we can start editing my manuscript. The sun is hazy in the walkway between the two wings of F_____ Publishing. It’s cold outside and people scurry past on the street. It must be Christmas soon, and I allow myself to imagine that they’re all rushing back from the bookstore, eager to open the book they just bought. It’s got my name on it. An idle fantasy to cheer myself up. F_____ Publishing is still quite some way away from that. In the meantime, I help edit other manuscripts. Anything to help the editors get through the slush pile. And the scheduler is right. I’m not earning my money back. At least I’m helping out. Since the advance disappeared, I live in one of the dormitories where the authors live. I give myself a shake and keep walking. I’m glad I’m not outside, anyway. It looks cold, though I can’t remember what cold air on skin feels like. My reflection in the glass has grey in its hair.