Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

Flash fiction

Toe suit

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Flash fiction prompt. Woman sitting on the beach
Photo by Elia Pellegrini on Unsplash

Hi all, here’s another piece of writing prompt flash fiction. I’ve switched from using one random word for the title to two random words for the sake of variety and ended up with a winner on my first go. Toe suit, eh? Yeah, I can make a story out of that!

Enjoy!

Beatrice waited on the beach. Her hair was braided and she had the dress that she knew he liked. And the sun went down and there was no sign of him.

The servants didn’t like doing her hair, and her eyes were quite red from staring into the sunset and into the wind which blew off the Corsican Sea day after day. And it pained them to see her soft skin grow slowly tough when it had used to be soft and downy. But she wanted to be there when he returned and the King and Queen didn’t know what else to do with her: it was their son she was mourning. Because she surely couldn’t believe that he would return after all this time.

And when the King died and the Queen died she still sat on the beach. It didn’t bother anyone too much, the clever men in the kingdom had made sure they were in place to make decisions and look after everyone. And they made a good thing of it too, though there was a melancholy air about the whole place.

The young people said that even if he could come back he surely wouldn’t, for she was old and her skin was as tough as a horse’s hoof. If he was alive he would be under the waves with the mermaids, everyone knew that their skin was soft where it wasn’t scales. Others said they ate the men and nobody knew which was true. Beatrice never said anything any more but went to the beach every day because she knew he would return.
For her servants it was a funeral march: mourning her husband, the King and Queen. And Beatrice herself, who had arrived from a country in the north long ago and had aged here under the Southern sun but still believed her husband would return. And the young people couldn’t stand the melancholy of Pistali on the coast, with its fertile fields and olive groves and abundant seas. And it was dangerous to fish, who knew what would happen to the fisherman who caught her husband’s body—the king’s body—in his nets and they left for the mainland and the island grew quiet.

And one night he came back. He may have been a ghost or he may have been alive but he had spent time in the sea. That much was certain for his toes and fingers and his nose had been removed by crabs, the torn wound nibbled back to neatness by the lips of fish. He strode from the water, straight to Beatrice and picked her up and before they could do anything—what indeed should they do? this was their king—he had returned with her to the water. Some of them said that the horizon was jagged with the claws of crabs and the hands of mermaids, which were smooth after all.

And the people of the island took Beatrice’s place on the beach and waited for them both to return. For if one can then surely both could. And the servants braid the hair of the women and dress the men and no one goes fishing, for fear they catch the toes and the fingers of Beatrice and her husband.

An air of peace surrounds the town of Pistali on the coast and people remove a toe and a finger once each year. The servants lace the toes together to hang around their necks and put them in their pockets. The men who run the kingdom invite young people from other areas to till the fields and manage the olive groves and fish the abundant waters—on the far side of the island, where no one can see them. And the old people wait for their queen and their king to rise and take them under the waves, where the crabs dance and the mermaids’ hands are as soft as anyone could want.

I reckon this story could really benefit from some proper editing, unfortunately that’s not allowed for my writing prompt flash fiction, as you know. Despite judicious deleting and re-punctuating quite a few sentences are actually quite vague. Hopefully you got so caught up in the story that you didn’t notice? Usually I keep my prose tight and sentences short but I really liked the long, looong run-on sentences here and felt they added to the fairy-tale mood.

Coil

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Flash fiction writing prompt. Street corner between Brick Lane and Bacon Street beside a sign informing about the use of CCTV.
Photo by Hello I’m Nik 🍌 on Unsplash

Hi all,

Another piece of writing prompt flash fiction. The prompts were the above picture and the random word ‘coil.’

I don’t know, a ‘coil of sausages’, perhaps? Have a read and tell me what you think. Enjoy!

This is where I grew up.
Old Sparky is probably the only one I‘m going to outlive. 

Wonder if he‘ll be sad to see me go? Probably not. Gave him a kick up the arse one too many times. Not that we don‘t have our fun, eh Sparky? 

Sparky? You a good boy? 

Course you are. His food costs a fortune, one of the reasons I keep working. Bent Billy, Billy the Kid, Billy ‘The Goat’ McAllister, Billy Basher and Billy The Slug have all retired. 

My name is Billy, too, of course. You have to be called Billy to do this gig. I wasn‘t christened Billy, you understand, but the man said you‘ve got talent but you ain‘t a Billy. So I went back the next day.  A brand new business card: 

Billy Bacon, Brick Lane, Birmingham 

He liked the alliteration. Pretty impressed the way I snuck in through the window and left the thing on his Bleeding Bedside ‘Binet!  I knew how to impresss in those days. 

Old Sparky is the only one I can impress now. Still, I like working. And I like complaining so I‘m as Happy as Carl. Carl the Contented c…Count! (Larry drives a truck. Long haul. Poor bugger.)

I wish old Boris was around to see what he did. Wonder if he‘d be happy.

Britain: Back to Basics. 

Boris and his Bouffant.

BJ.

Yeah, I wish he was still around. Love to have seen him get what was coming to him when they brought in the Alliteration Scheme. 

Happy Families and a Job for Everyone.

Some were happy with what they got. The Man In Charge, Maxwell Ian Charleston, he landed with his arse in the caviar, I can tell you. And I became Billy the Butcher. 

Not sausages, though. I do more …specialty cuts, if you know what I mean. Midnight meat. Off to Hamburg tonight for a little job. 

I don‘t think I“ll be coming back. 

Old Boris couldn‘t stand the thought off Brussels unBending his Banana but I“m not that Bothered. I quite like the Germans. And the French, for that matter. Funny accent. Always makes me laugh. 

Old Sparky, though. He can‘t come with me, so the last job I did (nicely…separated, nicely packed, if I do say so myself), I lay it out for him. He’s an old dog, don’t need to worry about him scarfing it all up and then being sick. He doesn’t have much appetite at all any more. Enough meat for me to get the job done and move around a bit. Then I can let someone know he’s here and needs looking after. 

I’ve got Mrs Williams number. Poor old biddy, she’ll be delighted to look after him, I reckon. Mrs Williams the Widow. What a life she“s had! Two nights together before the men from the office came around. She used to cry a lot. 

Not for a while. Nobody does. Not anyone on the whole island. Stiff Upper Lip is mandatory and when Tommy Tourist comes around to look at the Jewels and have Michael the Monarch wave, they talk about how cute it all is. 


But they keep looking over their shoulder until they get back on the plane and I don’t blame them.

So, what do you think, a coil of sausages? No, you’re right, I forgot to use it. Never mind, I enjoyed writing it, all the Capitalisation and Alliteration.

Anyway, the Good Old Days, eh? You can have them if you want them, I”m happy where I am, thanks.

See you next week!

Worm

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Coffee cup and name badge
Photo by Allie Smith on Unsplash

Hi all,

networking, eh? Here’s a short story about that. And Sex and the City. Enjoy!

‘Hello. My name is— ’
Busy. Face looked familiar. Television? That ad? The loud one, where he shouts not to be a fool, invest with him?

I read a tip: if you’re in a room full of people and just standing against the wall, then go up to someone else standing at the wall and introduce yourself.
What’s Plan B if you’re the only one against the wall?
Ha! They’ll shoot me first when the revolution comes! As I’m already up against the wall. Ha.

I’m drinking water. I need coffee but what if it makes my breath bad and someone comes over? Coffee on a nervous stomach isn’t a good idea anyway. Makes me gassy.

I see Loud Man is a backslapper, whacking meat left and right.
Glad I was able to get rid of him. Ha.

I’m going for a walk. Maybe someone will say something as I pass and I can chime in. Come on! Somebody talk about Sex and the City! Series or film, I don’t mind.

My collar is itchy because I’m stressed, it makes my skin sensitive. But if I start scratching I won’t be able to stop.
What are they all talking about? I don’t know the names. I don’t recognise the subject.

I’ll hang around the refreshments table, people always need refreshments.
Hey you’re drinking water? Me too, hello! My name is—
Nobody comes over. Surely nobody knows who I am?

There’s someone coming.

‘Hi there!’ I stick my hand out. She shakes it, but it’s slippery. Her hand slips out of mine. ‘Juice?’ I say, looking at her glass. She shakes her head. ‘I’m—’ She’s gone, holding a finger up to signal she’ll be back. She won’t be.
Perfect place for a serial killer this. It’s impossible to give away your identity. Ha. The clock on the wall doesn’t seem to have moved at all. I give myself five minutes to talk to someone. If I can tell them my name that’ll count, okay? I move back to my wall, go the other way around to listen in.

Pass Mr Loud. And slap him on the back. It’s not a good slap, timid. But it gets his attention. He turns. There’s a split second when he can see me. And already his eyes are glazing over.
I slap him again. The people he’s with are all staring at me. Nobody slaps the Big Man, right? I have one second to do it.

‘Hello.’ My voice is calm and I’m not squeaking or quavering. ‘My name is Worm. I Am Death. Happy to meet you. Take your time, I’ll be waiting.’
There’s a hush around the room. I hear mobile phones buzzing in pockets.
‘So,’ I say. ‘Sex and the City. Who’s your fave character?’

I used to do a lot of networking, hopefully that comes across in the story (and the tips are useful?). But I’m not a Sex and the City fan. That’s where it becomes fiction…

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Holiday

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Black and purple silhouette
Photo by JR Korpa on Unsplash

The chair collapsed. I took a photo of the dust as it settled in the abandoned factory.

There were noises outside. Not a security guard, they came stomping around to scare off intruders. It wouldn’t be Vanessa either. Sometimes she comes with me. My most popular photos are of her posed around diseased and dying buildings. In red at the old hospital at Dahlem, I got thousands of downloads for that. But she’s bored, on her phone in the car, ‘keeping an eye out.’ Things haven’t worked out as she wanted. Timo is telling her he can get her in front of more eyeballs, I know he is.

That sound again. It could be paper, blown around, all the windows are cracked. Could be rats. Birds.

I creep upstairs. I’m careful on the stairs, push plaster and bottles and wrappers off each step before I trust them with my weight. I won’t fall. But I’m in trouble if security does turn up. The guard’s not going to chase me. All he has to do is wait for me to come down again.

It’s starting to get dark. One photo of the rat or the bird or…. And that’s it. Time to go home.

Loud. Must be the acoustics. I send Vanessa a text with lots of emojis. She’s turned off read notifications. If I plunge through the stairs it’ll be the last thing I ever write.

It was David who got me into these places. Old buildings, boarded up and locked. But always with some way in for the determined. He was a quiet guy, responsible. It didn’t seem like him at all, breaking into private — if unwanted — property. But his eyes lit up as he squeezed through whatever door or window allowed him in. I think he was looking for something. Because I’m looking for something too.

Right now I’m looking for that rat, though it must be a whole family of the fuckers judging by the noise. One shot. It could be a rat king, how cool would that be? That’d get me downloads again. Maybe enough to….
I have to shout this internal monologue in my head because the rustling is so loud. If the stairs were easier to navigate I might well turn back. I have the collapsed chair and the dust: that’ll make a fantastic gif.

But I’m looking for more than the photo. What? When everyone has moved on, what’s left? I want to document that in my photos. I wish Vanessa was here. The last of the sunlight is shining through a window at the top of the landing. I could get such an amazing shot ofher silhouette.

The rustling. I follow the noise to the end of the corridor, my camera held out protectively. I can’t afford for anything to happen to it (I can’t afford for anything to happen to me either?). The windows are boarded up and it’s dark but it’s the right place. I can hear it, I can see the movement. Like the whole floor is shivering but it’s the plaster and the paper and the rats underneath. There must be dozens. It’s the whole floor. One photo and I’m out of here.

In the flash I see the room for one tiny second. I’ve found what I’m looking for.

There are no rats in the room, no birds. The floor is shivering and there is no plaster and no paper. It’s the floorboards. There’s a bed in the corner and a person — or what used to be a person, or what will be a person on it. They stretch a hand out to me, the wasted skin is awful. The floor is shivering because it’s growing a carpet. There’s a wall paper pattern seeping onto the walls. There’s a hole where all the dirt and plaster and rats have been sucked in and swallowed.

The room is remaking itself to suit the person in the bed. I realise where David went. Because the same thing s going to happen to me. Because I’m in the bed. The building wants me. I want to stay.

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?

Tremendous

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Smoke stacks beside the sea
Photo by Felix Tchverkin on Unsplash

Hi all,

another piece of flash fiction for you, enjoy!

The tide is out. The smoke from the stacks is pulled over my head and out to sea.
There’s no one on the beach. There are lots of men and women running around inside the power station, heaping coal into the furnaces. Or sitting in fake leather chairs, staring at green computer screens.

I’d hate to be out at sea. The wind is already strong on the beach and it gets worse the further you go from the shore. And the monsters out there, of course. That’s why the power stations all point their smoke out to sea. Something in the smoke. They’re allergic, that’s why they don’t come any closer.

I walk towards the power plant. Not so close that the security guards have to worry. The stacks are mottled from rain and age but still impressive. The smoke is almost the same colour as the clouds. A little whiter, a bit more yellow. The tiny soft stones under my feet squish in a puddle.
I look at the clouds. It’s been… 59 days. And 83 days since the time before that. So easily another 3 weeks before we can expect to see blue again. If the smoke stops the monsters could come in from the sea. Better to live with grey. But the grey makes it colder which means the clouds keep growing.
Once I saw a ship, far out and hazy with smoke. I remember shivering at how dangerous it must be, out on the ocean with just a little smoke stack to keep them away. If there was a fault it would be gobbled up immediately. Our power station was sending out plenty of smoke to help them on the water.

My mother tells me about black and white films. When she was younger films had no colour but real life did. Now its the other way around. The films show plenty of colour but life is black and white and grey and empty wet beaches and me by myself.