Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

Flash fiction

Party

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Bad make-up
Photo by Gregory Buzdyk on Unsplash

In this week’s piece of flash fiction a young girl dealy with love and peer pressure. Enjoy!

Rachel pushed the boy towards me. “This is Caleb,” she said.

I knew that. I’d had a crush on Caleb for a long time, the way he brushed his brown, messy hair off his forehead to reveal mischievous blue eyes.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” said Rachel, and left the bedroom.

I’d never done it before, but I was sure Caleb had. This was the last party of the year. Next year I’d be a Senior, and it’d be pathetic if I was the only Senior who hadn’t done it.

“I like your dress, is that… Zara?” I kissed him to shut him up. Would it hurt? I hoped it wouldn’t, but all the girls said it hurt first time. Mom said to wait, but the girls said it was better to get it over with.

Caleb sat next to me on the bed. His Adam’s apple stuck out, looking manly and vulnerable all at once. He was already a Senior, he’d be off to college next year.

“We can just talk, if you like,” said Caleb. I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down and decided to go for it.

“Let’s do it,” I said. “But…”

He leaned in close.

“Can we lock the door?”

“Sure.” He bounded over and twisted the key to the door of Rachel’s bedroom, dampening the make out music. Everyone was downstairs, listening to hear if I’d cry out. I blushed at the thought of going downstairs with Caleb afterwards. Would he hold my hand? The thought of it almost made me puke, and my cheeks burned red. He took his shirt off as he came back to the bed.

“Should I?” My voice shook as I shrugged my shoulders, asking if he wanted me to undo the buttons of my dress. God, I knew nothing!

“Up to you,” said Caleb. “I promise not to get blood on you.”

I felt his teeth on my neck and it hurt. I gasped, but didn’t cry out. He drank some blood. It felt like a lot, but I don’t know, maybe it was only a little?

Afterwards, I felt cold and mature. Rachel and the others gave us a round of applause when we came downstairs. I felt at my teeth with my tongue, but they didn’t seem different.

“It’ll take a little while for them to grow.” Caleb held my hand and brushed the hair off his forehead. I watched the Adam’s apple dance in his neck, licking my lips.

If you enjoyed that, you’ll love the exclusive short story planned for this month’s newsletter. There’s still time to sign up for that right here!

Must

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Eucharist: Wine chalice and wafers
Photo by Josh Applegate on Unsplash

In this week’s flash fiction we look at when “til death do us part” isn’t such a long time as one might think…

Getting married in the middle of nowhere was almost like a small wedding, in that none of my friends and family were there. Still I hadn’t wanted to get married at all. But Shelley wanted it so badly, and she was so sick that she could barely get to the church on her family’s Scottish estate.

It must be a Scottish thing that the groom is presented to the bride. Shelley stood at the altar, smiling – perhaps – under her veil. Definitely showing teeth, while her father held my arms and marched me up the aisle. I hadn’t realised how sick her family looked. Some of them look practically dead, their necks creaking as their eyes followed my progress to stand before the priest.
“Do you take this man?” he asked.
“We do,” replied the congregation. They advanced on me with knives and forks.

Shelley’s father was strong but a kick in the balls is a kick in the balls, and I twisted out of his grasp, avoiding Shelley’s teeth as she lunged at my neck. The church was small, I couldn’t avoid them, there were so many. I slapped away grasping hands and grabbed a knife, putting out its owner’s eye, ripping Shelley’s veil. The priest was trying to sneak up on me, but I pulled his stole around his neck and tightened it. His belly took the brunt of the cutlery jabbing towards me and I manoeuvred my way to the door. The wedding guests were sidetracked by the intestine’s – bishop’s purple – spilling from him, and I tossed him into their midst.

I drove as fast as I could, not stopping until, my body shaking with used adrenaline, the tins tied to the back of the car finally quietened.

In other news this week, I’m really enjoying Molybaron’s new album. Here’s a taster: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2NhjrElHZrI

Fair

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Two coconuts
Photo by Chris Liverani on Unsplash

In this piece of sneaky flash fiction we learn that our mothers – who told us to make sure we always had clean underwear on – were right. Enjoy!

“Roll up, roll up!” said the barker at the fair. And people did.

The governor sat in the bucket seat under the July sun, ready to be dumped into the tub of water for charity.

“Just a dollar,” said the barker. The line snaked around the rest of the stalls past the tea tent, the fortuneteller’s purple-curtained tent, all the way to the entrance.

Mrs Crenshaw dumped him into the water on her first shot. He struggled out, puffing and laughing insincerely. Mr Baker dumped him in again. There was no laughter as he climbed back into the chair.

“It’s for charity,” the barker reassured him. The Barker would hand people the balls used to hit the target, which sent the governor into the tub. And Miss Blakely, who was taking the money, would discreetly hand him a small stack of bills to tuck away.

The governor lived in a nice house, with servants, and twice as many cars as he needed. If he got dumped in the water a few times, it was just payback.

When he wasn’t able to climb out any more, they left the body to float in the tub.

“I think Mrs Crenshaw caught by surprise with that first shot,” said the barker. The people left in line, who hadn’t had a go, nodded angrily. They’d been looking forward to dumping the governor.

“Well – and remember it’s for charity – if Mrs Crenshaw would get in that bucket seat, then we could keep the fun going. What do you say, folks?” The people roared their approval, and Mrs Crenshaw was forced into the bucket seat in her underwear.

After an hour or so, it was Mr Baker’s turn.

There wasn’t much of a line left, so the barker called young Timmy Alan from the line, to make sure people kept paying their dollar – it was for charity – and he disappeared around the back with Miss Blakely.

They commandeered the governor’s silver Mercedes. The barker packed his and Miss Blakely’s belongings into the trunk.

The dunk tank was doing fine as they drove out of town.

Art

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Red paint on yellow background
Photo by Allec Gomes on Unsplash

Hi everyone, I’ve been to a few galleries in my time. There were several near where I used to work, so it was a good way to get a drink. But I never saw anything like this…

You had to show your cock to get into one of Breckham’s “things.” It was lewd or life changing, depending on who you asked, and just one of the reasons the critics hated him. I can assure you he paid more attention to the flash of a Patek Philippe or Rado on the wrist than what was being fished from between the steel teeth of the zipper.

The starkly white walls of the space were hung with kitschy gold framed canvases, all blank. The walls around them were daubed with neon paint. I was admiring the one closest to me: the blank square canvas the focus of a swirl of purple green and yellow that made me think irresistibly of water leaving a sink after a hippy had tie-dyed a T-shirt there, when Lena walked in.

I knocked back my wine and grabbed another one before the fireworks started. As always, Lena had taken the thing too far. She strolled around with not one, but two joke shop penises hanging over the elastic of her waistband. Breckham wouldn’t like that, but that was the point. When he saw her, he grabbed for the penises. She managed to hold on to one of them, and the thing turned into a bendy latex sword fight.

It looked good, but was clearly choreographed, at least to my eyes. But then, as his agent, I knew Lena was not just his most vocal critic, but also his business partner and lover. They fought their way around the room, crashing into guests now and again, until Lena had worked her way around to the table at the back where Breckham’s ink-filled phalluses stood. She grabbed a handful of the dicks and, slapping Breckham on the side of the head, knocking his glasses off, she raced around the walls squirting a glob of colour right into the centre of each of the blank canvases.

We made it into all the newspapers the next day. Not just the art sections, but the actual “news” parts. We didn’t sell any of the art. Breckham gave some interviews, magnanimous in agreeing that perhaps his art had become too phallocentric. We let that settle in, while I wondered how many zeros to add to the “defaced” canvases when they finally did go on sale.

If you’re signed up to my newsletter, keep an eye on your mailboxes this Saturday for a special Choose Your Own Adventure style short story. If not, sign up here to avoid missing any more!

Form

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An aging model of earth
Photo by Mohamed Ali Saidane on Unsplash

In this week’s piece of flash fiction, I attempt to explain things. What things? Well, how about everything? Enjoy!

“I can’t let you onto the site. Sundays are double-time, and the boss won’t like that.”

“Come on, man!” God didn’t need this right now, still hung over from the night before, and tomorrow was the deadline to get the job done. “I just need a couple hours to finish things off. You won’t even notice I’m there. Nobody complained about yesterday.”

“You were here yesterday?”

“No, just… just messing around with a couple of the monkeys.”

The supervisor sucked in a deep breath, shaking his head. “More than my job’s worth,” he said.

“What happens when the whole thing falls apart in a couple thousand years?” asked God. “‘Cause you wouldn’t let me on site?”

“That’s your problem, buddy. I’ll be in some other dimension by then.”

“What about ‘taking pride in your work?’”

The supervisor laughed.

“Look, this job has been a tough gig from the start, there are some major flaws that need to be corrected.”

“And yet you spent yesterday playing with monkeys?”

“Man, they’re the next big thing, I’m telling you. Some of those guys are almost intelligent.”

“Well, explain that to the boss when he turns up, maybe he’ll give one of them your job.”

Gravel crunched outside. The powerful thrum of the boss’s engine reached them.

“Here we go, Lucy’s here.”

The door opened, and the owner of Lucy’s Fair Construction Company walked in, all smiles. “We looking good?” he asked. He was a big man, and charming. It was hard not to tell him what he wanted to hear. God and the supervisor just nodded.

There we go, that explains everything, I think? See you next week!

Blackmail

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My short story collection, People Skins, Volume I is out now. To celebrate, I’ve teamed up with 23 other writers to bring you the Flashes of Fear book bundle. Get TWO DOZEN free books, including People Skins by clicking on the picture above or here!

If that sounds like it’s just too many books, then stick around for this week’s piece of thrilling flash fiction, instead. Enjoy!

He didn’t want me to kill the main character, a rising criminal lawyer called Kate Field, who was clearly an idealised version of myself.

“There’s been too much killing already,” he said. “And no one seems to have profited from it.”

There it was. He knew how much of the story was real, and how much was fictional. And how much I’d have to pay to keep him quiet. His own story for the creative writing class featured a superficially charming Talented Mr Ripley type who knew how to get away with anything.

The rest of the class liked my story, however: Kate kills her abusive spouse, and hangs the murder on the suspect of another crime. He accepts the punishment as there isn’t enough proof to convict him for the crime he did commit, which he regrets.

“Let’s move on to your piece, Brian,” said the teacher. “Have you made any changes since the last feedback round?”

“I’ve polished the language, and considered the rest of the points,” said Brian, which meant *no.*

He’d been bringing the same story to class for months: a man blackmails another writer with a story about what that writer has done with her husband’s body.

“He still gets away with it, at the end?” asked the teacher.

“Oh, yes,” said Brian. “It’s the perfect crime.”

“Famous last words,” I murmured.

“Brian has dropped out of class,” said the teacher the following week. There was a half-hearted mumble from the students. I joined in, then pulled out a brand-new story to be critiqued.