Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

Flash fiction

Chess

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A traffic light with a red hand for pedestrians
Photo by Matej Sefcik on Unsplash

This week’s flash fiction is a slice of life, inspired by the streets of Berlin…

The Mercedes stuck half out of the parking spot on the road, blocking the cars driving by. By the time the driver came back, his windscreen sported a flapping yellow ticket. He drove off without noticing.

At the next traffic light, he spotted it. He had to interrupt his phone call with his friend to get out and confirm that it was really there.

The traffic light turned green while he stared. Horns rose around him. He didn’t notice. He had never had an accident! At least, he had never caused an accident. With all the lunatics on the roads, it was normal to have had a few bumps and scrapes.

The light turned red again. He gave the finger to the cars behind him, still beeping.

Beeping him for no reason. Idiots!

He crumpled up the ticket and threw it away.

How dare they?

He revved the engine and had to swerve around some idiot who had decided to cross the road right in front of him.

The traffic light turned green and the other cars started to move.

So. Bis nächstes Mal, wa?*

*Translation, Berlin -> English: Fare thee well, yes?

Texture

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Nakagin capsule tower, Chūō-ku, Japan
Photo by Raphael Koh on Unsplash

Another story about a call-centre (you can find the first one here). Enjoy!

The distorted buzzing of the telephone bored into his ear. Around him, the other telephone jockeys were hunched into their cubicles, headphones gripping their heads. He hadn’t made a sale all day, and the boss was watching him.

“Hello?” a granny on the line.

He was only getting grannies today, and they weren’t interested in high-speed ISDN internet, though they’d hum and haw if it kept him on the line. “Good afternoon, ma’am. My name is Ewan. I’m calling to let you know how you can surf even faster—“

“Ewan? My God, how have you been?”

“Fine thanks, ma’am. How are you? Wouldn’t you like to see how fast you can explore the worldwide w—“

“Did your mother tell you to call?”

Senile. Great. Time to hang up and hit redial. “Sorry, ma’am, the line’s not great. I’ll try again later with an amazing deal for y–“

“I’m not going into a home!”

“No, ma’a–“

“I’m sorry, but your mother’s a bitch, Ewan.”

The old woman sounded like his own Grandma. And his mother was a bitch.

“I’m afraid I have to go now.” He needed to make a sale.

“Wait! What’s it like there?”

“It’s fine,” said Ewan. “Nice people, interesting job.” Like Hell. But the supervisor was right behind him, his earphones on, listening in to calls. Best to play it safe and pretended he liked the shitty job.

“I’m glad,” she said. “You were my favourite.”

“Thanks.” Play along and get off the call. “You too.”

“The doctors say it’s inoperable.” She didn’t sound upset, almost proud that her sickness was serious.

“I’m sorry,” said Ewan.

“Not your fault, Ewan. Besides, it’ll be nice to see you again.”

“Sorry?”

“I’m quite looking forward to it. It didn’t hurt when you went, did it? At the very end?”

The sound of the call centre around him had melted into a roar dulled by the faux-leather pads of his headphones. She sounded so much like Grandma.

“No,” he said. “It was fine.”

He wasn’t sure which of them hung up, but the supervisor was staring, so he pressed the redial button and the buzzing in his head started again.

And I’m looking forward to seeing you again next Thursday for another piece of flash fiction!

High-pitched

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Photo by NASA on Unsplash

Hi all! For this week’s flash fiction story we’re going into space. Please fasten your seat belts and refrain from screaming. No one can hear you anyway!

The alien leaned over to offer me a drink. It didn’t taste good, but was better than a probe up the rectum. Business class!

“How long will it take to get there?”

The alien answered, but as I had my earphones in (they had Bad Boys II on the TV, and I watch that whenever I get the chance!) I didn’t hear what it said. It smiled though, so I assumed everything must be fine. I went back to my film. How jealous would Will Smith be right now?

If I seem chill, it’s because I get abducted all the time. Ever since I was a kid, I’m used to floating out my bedroom window and being sucked up into intergalactic hoovers. Never had a trip this comfortable, though. I think it’s because I have a photographic memory. I remember everything, so they don’t have to start from scratch every time.

Like I say though, this was the most comfortable trip I’ve taken. Normally I’m on a table lying on my stomach, trying to explain that humans don’t communicate that way. Please remove that probe!

Maybe I’ve been promoted. Perhaps I’ll meet the guy in charge. Or girl, of course. Or… whatever. I hope I get to see the whole film before we get there. There’s no point looking outside, it’s all just black universe out there. What, am I going to try to remember the way? Don’t think so.

Nobody believes me anyway.

Well, that was weird. I suppose it was like a thank-you trip, or something. They took me to their planet, showed me around. We visited schools, and they showed me their textbooks. In Biology, all humans have my face. You know those drawings? With, like, cross sections, and organs and everything? Male and female? They all looked like me.

And they gave me a silverish ornamental probe with a plaque, then flew me home.

I got the feeling it’s all over. Don’t know if I’m relieved or worried.

View

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Woman having a picnic at the top of a hill
Photo by Willian Justen de Vasconcellos on Unsplash

This week we’ve got a piece of crime flash fiction, with a nice bottle of wine, some chicken… and murder. Enjoy!

“The way I see it,” James tossed his apple core over the hedge into the next field, “it’s not murder if no one notices.”

I watched the town in the distance, all red roofs and sleepy chimney smoke from here. James would be a dangerous man to let loose on a town like that.

“I’m sure murder is always murder,” I said. He was trying to shock me. He loved to flaunt his big city cynicism when he came to visit.

“Not at all,” he swigged at the wine bottle, although I had brought glasses. “If you die in the middle of the night of a heart attack, but the doctor doesn’t check, then you’ve died in your sleep. Isn’t that the way everyone wants to go?”

“I’d rather go to France,” I said, but he ignored the hint.

“If you see a bird lying on the ground with a broken neck near a window, you think the poor thing killed itself, not that someone came around and killed it.”

“It would still be murder. Or cruelty to animals, or whatever.”

“In theory, yes, but it would be chalked up as an accident.”

“Do you think we could change the subject?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m sorry, of course,” said James. “I didn’t mean to go on. You know what I’m like.”

I did. At least, I felt I did now.

I knew he liked to talk and had all sorts of opinions, but usually I liked to listen. The village was boring, and I was flattered that he would come and talk to me – he was so intelligent – and then bed me – he was so handsome – but it only occurred to me now that he barely noticed me. He talked to me and bedded me for his own amusement.

Otherwise, he’d have known that I can’t stand any talk of animal cruelty. I could probably have stood the wine bottle up and he’d have talked to that.

I could have saved myself washing the glasses. I could have spent the day watching telly with Charles, my poor dumb husband, who I had killed in order to be with this arrogant fool.

Still, if he didn’t listen to me, I listened to him. It wouldn’t be murder if no one thought it so.

At least, I wouldn’t be the murderer.

“Shall we?” asked James, ready for the second part of our tryst, now that the talking was over.

“In a minute,” I said. “I don’t suppose you’d run back to mine to get me a jumper, would you? Don’t worry, Charles won’t see you. Oh, and a proper knife to deal with the chicken. The big one on the draining board. You might need to wash it first.”

“Sure.”

I watched him disappear down the hill to the village and tidied away all the evidence of our picnic, including the apple core in the next field. I thought about poor birds breaking their necks on windows, so I’d sound upset when I put the call through to the police.

Question

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A burning glove
Photo by Tengyart on Unsplash

Here’s a little something to give the Work Health and Safety people nightmares! Please enjoy safely!

You only needed one finger to work the furnace that burned the bodies. Of course, you didn’t want people thinking you were clumsy. Seth sat in the machine room behind the oven on his break. The funeral home had kept him on out of a sense of duty after he lost the first finger. Seth loved the crackle and roar of the flames. When he died, he wanted to be cremated. Obviously: he’d already started cremating himself. He’d expected to feel it, though he’d lopped the finger off first: a “phantom pain,” but there had been nothing. He’d told Mr Sims the furnace door had done it.

He’d almost managed to keep the second missing finger quiet, until Mrs Sims said, “Oh, I thought it was the left hand it happened to?”

He told everyone he’d been too embarrassed to admit he’d lost another one, insisted the best thing to do was to get straight back to the furnace. Like riding a horse again as soon as you’ve been thrown. Seth reckoned it must have been when he threw in the third finger, and they kept him on, that they had become complicit. As long as he had a finger he do his job, nobody would say anything.

The flames were so bright. He was sure it must hurt, but it must be wonderful, too. To be dissolved by so much power. He’d have to keep his finger, but there were other bits he didn’t need.

This Saturday is Newsletter Saturday. This month my newsletter features the exclusive short story, “The Ladybird Queen”. Don’t miss any more!

Nimble

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A ship's mast against a red sunset sky
Photo by Sam Moqadam on Unsplash

Ahoy there! For this week’s flash fiction, we’re heading down to the docks to see what sort of creepy characters have been washed ashore. Enjoy.

The Crooked Boy climbed off the boat last, once the others had disbursed to seek fun in this new town they had discovered. The Crooked Boy was the navigator of the 50-foot sailboat, and was called “crooked,” because he could turn – crook – his neck all the way around, like an owl. (And because his idea of fun differed from that of the other boys too, perhaps).

He walked purposefully down a narrow alley he’d never been before. It stank of blood from the back of a butcher’s, and of piss from the back of an inn. He was soon among low houses, and when he saw an old grey-haired woman turn from an open window, where she had been stitching in the last of the day’s light, to disappear into her darkened home, he sprang onto her sill. He crooked his head around to check no one in the alley or other houses had seen him, then jumped inside, leaving his head twisted on backwards, so she couldn’t see his face.

Clothing hung everywhere, and the air was damp on his skin from all the washing, but she was quite alone. He followed the sound of her rummaging among pots in the kitchen. He waited in the kitchen doorway for her to turn around to him. His eyes, pointing back the way he had come, took in the clothing, and towels and cloths, with ornate crosses stitched onto them.

If she was religious, it would make it even better when she saw him and screamed. He waited.

“There you are,” she said. A warm hand took his arm and led him to the table, pushed him into a hard wooden chair. “They’ve been out looking for you. Here.”

Food slopped onto his plate. With his head on crooked, he could see potatoes in one pot and stew in the other behind him on the stove.

“If the wind changes, you’ll stay like that,” said the old woman, and the crooked boy uncrooked his head to face her. She pushed a heaped spoon of salty stew into his mouth.

“My boat?”

“All gone,” she said. “All gone, it was just a dream now.”

The crooked boy looked into the other room filled with wet clothes and funerary cloth with ornate crosses stitched onto them. He couldn’t read, but the letters under the crosses looked familiar, like the names of friends, and the smell wasn’t soap, but brine from the sea.

She had drowned all of them, so he could come home.

This week I discovered the 41256 podcast, each episode of which consists of various bits of radio shows stitched together. Relaxing, enjoyable, creepy, and very more-ish. Here’s episode 50: https://www.listennotes.com/podcasts/41256/episode-50-telling-them-HM4BteY3J52/