Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

Flash fiction

A Bit of Give and Take

by

A family of gingerbread figures, one of whom is unhappy
Made with a photo by Food Photographer | Jennifer Pallian on Unsplash

I’m not a big fan of Christmas, so I wrote this piece of flash fiction to get myself in the mood. Enjoy!

We grinned at each other as we heard cursing come down the chimney. Becky was ready with the good silver tray with its glass of milk and expensive shortbread biscuits. I prepared to lend a hand unloading the Xboxes, PlayStations, and accompanying games we’d requested. The figure was soot-black and still cursing as he climbed backwards out of the grate. Then he turned around and Becky screamed.

“It’s not what it looks like,” said Death. “I’m just filling in to help out.”

“Gran’s in bed, take her!” said Kevin.

Death pursed his… mouth? “Well, that’s not nice.”

Kevin wasn’t getting a go on my Xbox, I thought. Then I quickly and loudly thought: I mean, of course he can play on mine. (No point taking any risks at this stage.)

“Would you like a biscuit?” Becky had picked one of the broken shortbreads off the carpet and offered it to Death.

“Thanks, I’m on a diet.” He patted where his belly would have been if he wasn’t a skeleton. “Tough crowd,” he said after a minute, and sighed. “Let’s get this over with, shall we? An Xbox and three games each, alright?” He rummaged in his bag.

“I wanted a PlayStation,” said Kevin, as he wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“Yes, but you just tried to trade your granny for one, so no.”

He stacked the brightly wrapped boxes under the tree, while we crowded around to double-check the name-tags. Once I saw mine, I went to get a wet dishcloth to mop up the spilled milk. Again: no point taking chances.

I rubbed at the carpet’s pile, waiting for Death to say “just kidding!” but it looked like he meant it, and was going to leave without giving Kev anything. Father Christmas is usually prepared for a bit of give and take, when he comes around to our house. And that’s when the strangest feeling came over me. It was a sort of aching hollow in my chest, which I had never experienced before.

I…

I felt sorry for Kevin! It was a Christmas miracle, just like on TV!

“Wait!” I called as Death was folding himself up to get back up the chimney. It wasn’t fair to leave Kevin like this. Death turned, so did the others, and I knew this was the right thing to do. I even felt it in the tears running down Kevin’s face.

“About Kevin… “ I took a breath. Was it just my imagination or did Death’s skull face soften? It wasn’t Kevin’s fault that he always messed things up, but he’d be miserable all during Christmas again.

“He got nothing this year. But neither did you.”

Death’s eyes flashed, but we’d already got our presents, so there was no question about it being a bribe.

“Won’t you take him with you? As a gift?”

In the end, Death had to go out the front door because of course Kevin’s stupid dead leg wouldn’t fit properly into the sack.

If you read this on Thursday, the 23rd of December there’s still a chance to boost my preferred Christmas song into the number one spot of the UK charts.

Because I’m a “certain sort of person” and because you owe it to posterity. Get it here! (<– Content warning for lots of swearing.)

And if you’re still looking for a Christmas present, may I recommend Witness X by S. E. Moorhead? (<– Content warning for an unputdownable page-turner!)

Letters

by

A crab on a rock
Photo by Phil Hearing on Unsplash

It’s cold and dark here, so for this week’s piece of flash fiction, I let my imagination take me away to a tropical island. Join me?

My guess is: it was some sort of WWII installation. A tiny island – only 15 metres at its widest point – and smooth red rock rather than the sandy beach, those cartoons about a man stranded on a desert island would lead you to expect.

And a huge pylon antenna right in the middle.

My guess is: I was going to die here.

A lot more rain than you’d expect, too. I sat under the antenna, wishing it provided some shelter, listening to the raindrops sizzle as they fell through the metal struts. Microwaved castaway: like that joke about only needing five minutes to get a full eight-hour sleep in the microwave bed. I’d be dead of thirst, exposure, or pure boredom in hours rather than days. Fine.

The rain sounded like music after a while, cheap 80s synth beats.

Then it sounded like voices: “This is an emergency broadcast, this is not a test. If you can hear this…”

That’s when the storm let up and it cut out. Murphy’s Law.

Was that how I came to be here? I couldn’t remember, the antenna must have fried my brain already. I left the psychological shelter of the antenna’s iron legs to search for my boat for answers.

#

No boat. No supplies. Was WWII still going on? Was I a prisoner of war?

Dummy, I’d learned about WWII in school. How could it still be going on?

Unless that’s what they wanted me to think. But who were they?

I didn’t really fancy touching the antenna in case I got electrocuted, but I had no more options, so I climbed to search for a clue as to what was going on.

And I found it. There was a little steel plate screwed to the back of the antenna – or brainwashing machine, or whatever it was. “Made in China” was stamped into the metal in block capitals.

They couldn’t do this to me. I was an American citizen.

Wasn’t I?

Looking at my hands didn’t help. I could have been American. Or anything else, really. Maybe I was a God? Of this whole island. And unless someone else came along – if there was anybody else, which seemed unlikely at the moment – I was God of everything else, too. I clambered away from my metal totem pole down the slippery rocks to the shore. There were crabs there.

I let the ones who worshipped me escape and ate the non-believers.

Some butter would have been nice to fry the meat under my microwave tower.

If you’re a subscriber, then watch out for my newsletter this Saturday, featuring your exclusive tarot reading for 2022! Not a subscriber? Shame, it’s going to be a tough year, apparently…

Parable

by

The nib of a gold-coloured fountain pen
Photo by MJ S on Unsplash

This week’s piece of flash fiction is a parable about parables! Is that deep and “meta”? Or just plain irritating? You decide!

There were once two parables. One prized honesty, truth and beauty above all things. Her teachings were designed to help those who heard her. The other cared little for principles, much preferring to be comfortable and have the things she wanted. She liked attention and told people what they wanted to hear, so they would listen to her.

One day, while resting in a glade, they saw a handsome young man. The first parable thought his beauty a form of truth and fell in love with him. The second thought that it would be gratifying to have such a handsome creature admire her.

The young man prized truth. He also prized simplicity, which attracted him to lies, which are easier to understand. His friends and colleagues now wondered at the young man, who was suddenly gifted with a silver tongue, able to supply a suitable tale or aphorism for every occasion. And if one tale did not suit his audience, then he had another which would, for both of the parables gifted him with their wisdom to win his admiration. Unfortunately, he was unable to discern which tales came from which parable, and lacked the intelligence to work it out for himself. As a matter of fact, he was not at all aware of the parables’ attention and sometimes found himself wondering what was happening to him, to suddenly know so much.

Nonetheless, he enjoyed how people asked for his opinion, and assumed that he was helping them with his advice, because he was pure of heart. (He was pure of heart, it was just that he was also rather empty of head.) His fame grew to such an extent that he became rich and famous, printing books and t-shirts and posters. And he met a young girl and fell in love with her. She was kind and beautiful, as well as clever. She found it cute that he was so innocent despite his reputation, though sometimes she had to bite her tongue.

The two parables realised they had lost the man for good and hated each other. Each blamed the other for what had happened. The parable which prized beauty believed it was the lies which had sent the young man away on the path to fortune, and the parable which loved comfort and attention believed it was the insistence on truth which caused him to fall in love with the young woman, who was so beautiful and honest.

But, for all they could do for others, the parables were unable to ever decide which of them was which, so they decided to blame the young man and the young girl instead, which was anyway both the truth, as well as being what they wanted to believe.

Did you know I have a brand new book out? And it’s nothing like the story you just read? It’s called The Phoenix and currently (Thursday, the 14th of October 2021. Morning.) the No. 1 download in three separate charts on Amazon? Check it out here!

Exhibit A

by

Hi all, last week I promised a very short piece of flash fiction. So here it is. I tried writing a poem a few weeks back and it was really hard, so I wrote a shopping list instead. Enjoy!

A shopping list scribbled on a serviette. The items are: 6 bottles of wine; 2 bottles of vodka; 4 bottles of bleach; bin bags; rubber gloves; a steak knfe; a meat hammer; ear plugs; air freshener; cheap offcuts with bones and dry food for the dog; foot powder; toilet paper, and cigarettes
by Morgan Delaney

If you like this kind of nonsense, then make sure you sign up to my newsletter for more!

Six

by

A pile of broken watches
Photo by Heather Zabriskie on Unsplash

Today’s super short piece of flash fiction is all about time. Which is why it’s so short.

On the first day, the sun was a blessing. After a long winter, the sudden heat was welcome.

On the second day, the sun was oppressive. It didn’t used to hang so low in the sky.

On the third day, the sun was hotter still. No one went outside.

On the fourth day, no water came from the taps.

The fourth day became the fourth night, at least according to the clocks. The sun rested on the horizon.

On the fifth day, everyone was silent. Throats were dry, and no one had enough moisture to even sweat.

On the sixth day, the sun swallowed the planet whole.

If you think this story was short, wait until you see next week’s piece. See you then!

Work

by

A deflated yellow balloon on the ground
Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

This week’s piece of fantastic flash fiction is all about ice-cream, because everyone likes ice-cream. Enjoy!

“Float, please!”

The kid looks young to be making that decision himself, so I look at the mom over the cold metal counter of my ice-cream fridge.

She’s done herself up: make-up; nice jacket, but her face is rigid, lips compressed.

She nods, trying not to cry. I give them both a scoop of ice cream. She says “keep the change,” and they’re off.

The queue stretches around the block, and there’s an eerie sigh as they lift into the air to join the people already up there. Some of my first customers show which way the wind is blowing. There’s a wedge of them heading out towards Blankenfelde.

“Float please,” says the next kid. Another one with a pretty, heartbroken mom. This job can be a downer sometimes, but I’m helping people out for €3 a scoop. It’s usually a death in the family, or the dad has run off. Or the kid has something terminal. Sometimes I get dads, too, but they’re usually by themselves. Literally: that’s why they’ve come for a scoop. Cheering you… up! That’s the slogan. There’s a look on their faces when their feet leave the ground that makes it all worthwhile.

From the sky, there’s a delighted laugh, as two people collide. I hate that. I prefer to think of them as already gone once they lift out of sight. But they’re happy, that’s the main thing. I try to forget about the laugh, the collision, the headlines in the paper. They’re calling it “The Killing Field” outside Blamkenfelde, where the bodies come down again. What do they expect for €3? Nobody floats forever.

Not signed up to my newsletter yet? Well, it’s too late to get the next edition, due out this Saturday. But if you’re quick, you can still be among the first to learn about The Phoenix, and take advantage of a very special offer!