Morgan Delaney

Dark, strange and fantastic fiction

The Plenum

Basket

by

A frog's eye
Photo by Drew Brown on Unsplash

I bet there’s something you would change if you could go back in time, isn’t there? Even if it’s just your shirt (seriously, that shirt with those shoes? Really?)

Wouldn’t it be great? Read on…

That’s the advantage of time travel: the goods never go off. I’ve got fruit, I’ve got vegetables. Always fresh. And they don’t hardly cost me a penny. I bought them once wholesale, now I sell them, put on my time travelling hat, and go back. There are some things I don’t quite get about time travel, but I know how to make money. The only disadvantage is that the view is pretty awful. What with the people screaming and the skeletons and the Eyeball.
‘There you go, darlin’.’ She’s brought her own bag, which I appreciate. I stuff it right up to the top with juicy Jaffas. Send her on her way.

I sell my stuff nice and early, and then knock off for the afternoon. The market smells best in the morning. Aromatic oranges, leafy cabbages and washed pavements. It gets a bit niffy later on.
I have lunch in the pub and then I put on my hat. Twist it around, three times, tilt it back. And you’re there.

See? I leave my van near the market, tilt my hat and I’m back at it again.
It’s this morning again. All my lovely Jaffas, my crispy lettuces. The cherries are a bit hard, need an hour in the sun. The same lot I’ve been selling for years. I start unloading.
This is the bad bit. Because it’s not just me. There are corpses. They start screaming, clutching at me. The sky is red. And between me and the sky, towering over the houses is a skeleton herding the corpses. At the end of the street is an Eyeball. It takes up the whole street. The iris is green, and the pupil moves, watching me. It’s bloodshot, probably because it’s lying out in the street. I stack my stall and take my hat off and all the scary stuff disappears.
Here comes the first old love. She’s got her basket ready and I know what she wants. I’ve been selling it to her for years.

I don’t understand how I keep making money. I go back selling the same fruit and veg to the same people so it should be the same money. But my pockets fill up. I suppose anything I have on me, stays with me? It makes me wish I was selling something a little more upmarket. Electronics. I’d be able to retire a lot quicker. Move somewhere sunny. Somewhere far away. Saw myself in the mirror the other day. I looked old.
Maybe Fiji. I fancy somewhere with a volcano.

Today I bottled it. I couldn’t face going back again. Sat in the pub instead. The face looking out of the mirror was worse than the Eyeball. I’d be lying if I said I knew what was going on, but I can’t keep going. So I made a promise, One more time. Tomorrow and that’s it.
It’s an easy promise to make.
Sounds familiar, too.

Could you not write something with a bit of action in it? A couple of lads after some other lad, and they all have guns. You know the sort of thing.

Yes.

People like that sort of thing. You’d have loads more readers.

Yes.

So you will?

…

Hello?

Kinky Design Crimes

by

Architectural plans and buildier's tools. Someone means business!
Photo by JESHOOTS.com from Pexels

Hi all,

aaaaand I’m back! Here’s a light-hearted piece this week. I’m obviously refreshed after that break. Hope you–

Hang on!

oh god. Yes?

It says ‘Kinky’ up there at the top of the page.

Well? I will not be censored, I am an arti–

So is it durty?

Is it… what?

Durty! Durty! Is it a durty story?

Dirty?

Durty!

Well. A tad suggestive, perhaps.

Lads? Come on, it is durty!

Well, no. What I was attempting to capture was–

Shh! Reading.

Emil fingered the stubble on his jaw as the lady of the house continued to witter on. She was nervous. Was hoping they’d finish before her husband came back. He wasn’t listening, he never listened to his clients. He knew what they wanted. What they needed.  Something nagged at his subconscious. She was too nervous.

He let the strap of his bag slide through his fingers until his knapsack of tools thumped on the floor. He looked at her, shook his head. No more talking. He pulled out his spirit level, sighting along it from where he stood. Getting a feel for the room.
‘But…’ she started.
Emil shook his head again, twitched aside his jacket so she could see the badge on his belt. He was an Interior Decorator, and this was a crime scene. 

It wasn’t working, he couldn’t feel the room. He stood in front of the window, looked out and suddenly turned back again. To surprise the room. Instead, he surprised Mrs Whats-er-name, whose eyes jumped from his backside, encased in tight jeans. Emil pretended to ignore her, stalking through the room. Trying to get a fix on the starting angle, the genius locus of the room. The clue that would tell him what the room wanted to be. He brushed past her a few times, peeled off his shirt. The room wanted to play hard to get? No problem. He felt the wife’s eyes on his biceps, on his shoulders, but the room wouldn’t talk to him. Time was running out. He had no desire to be caught in flagrante by her husband, any more than she did. Get in, decorate, get out. That was his motto.

‘I think you’d better go,’ she said.
Emil turned in shock. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘This has never happened to me before.’ He knelt over his bag. Her eyes travelled up and down his body. He didn’t understand what was wrong. She wanted him to renovate, but he couldn’t…
He noticed the dust on the floor. This room had been empty for a while. How many other decorators had she lured here? There were his footprints tracing back and forth. Then he saw it. Another line of footprints. Obliterated in the middle of the room where he had crossed and re-crossed. They came from the door and went in a straight line to the wall beside the fireplace. Then disappeared. He straightened up. 
‘My husband will be back any minute,’ she said.
But Emil’s trained eye saw the telltale cracks in the wall. With an easy blow, he opened the secret compartment.
‘The husband, I presume?’ he said.
The man nodded, scared. ‘We didn’t mean any harm,’ he said. ‘We just…’
‘You like to watch,’ said Emil. He tutted. But the secret compartment was what he had needed. He had his inspiration.
He went to the woman. ‘Key,’ he said. 
She handed it to him. He tucked it into his pocket.
‘I’ll be back tomorrow. Same time. I will let myself in.’ He nodded to the secret compartment. ‘I don’t want to see either of you,’ he said and winked.

Oof! Is it me or is it suddenly hot in here?

This blog post was sponsored by Morgan’s Interior Decorating Services. Contact morgan@morgandelaney.info today for a quote!

Nauseating murder

by

Sepia photo of a boy with a barrow
Photo by Boston Public Library on Unsplash

Hi all,

talk about a clickbait-y title! Hopefully you’ll feel it’s justified.

Enjo—

Hang on!

Yes?

Is this going to be unpleasant?

It is. A bit. Yes. 

Oh.

Hm. Sorry!

Well, I hope it will at least make some sense. Unlike the last few…

*through gritted teeth* always happy to receive feedback. now go. enjoy. Now!

The queue went around the corner. The policeman watched people inspect the body. He’d be in trouble if someone complained, but Kelly was in the hall. Taking a penny from each of them. Brody kept count how many people passed through the room. Counted the kids separate. They shouldn’t be here. The body lay on the bed as if it had been thrown, bounced off the wall, its head and left arm dangling down the side. The ribcage was pulled half out of the chest. The spikes of the ribs made Brody think of the thin fence his father had built around his property at Castlerea. Thin branches, mossy. Pointed. The chest cavity was empty, the guts gone. The area around the bed was covered in blood but there were no bloody footprints or trail of blood. The door had been locked when they arrived. The window had been smashed but they were three stories up and there was no way down that Brody could see. No drainpipe, no fire escape, no building close enough for someone to jump to.
164 adults and 52 children. 2 dollars and 16 cents. A dollar and 8 cents each.
And none of them could see the expression on the victim’s face. The recognition. Brody and Kelly had arranged it all. For a dollar and change. But he had a family at home. He had to take care of them. Take the anger out on someone else. The sheet with the guts was tucked under the bed, he”d remove it later when everything had died down. Throw it out the window to Kelly.
A young boy came right up to Brody and peered around the bed.
‘Move along, son,’ said Brody. The boy looked at him. Most likely it was the shock of the body that shone in his eyes but Brody saw blame. He wished Kelly wouldn’t let children in. It wasn’t right. Now he’d seen the boy and had that feeling in his gut like when he drank too much gin. It was squeezing his belly and he knew who the next victim would be.
This was the bit Brody didn’t understand. He—the policeman part—said poor little kid. Another part used his eyes. Only Brody’s eyes. It wasn’t part of Brody at all and it had seen the boy and there was nothing he could do. Brody the Policeman raised his hands to wave the boy back. And Kelly would be pleased. They earned more when the victim was a child. Brody the Policeman tried to think through the noise of his blood. He was still counting the visitors and thought Kelly will be pleased.
Brody stood at the window and calmed down. He had seen the boy leave the building and pick up his barrow. He’d be able to find him again easy enough.
Nearly three dollars now but he couldn’t put a price on the calm that washed over him. A steak for dinner and flowers for Annie. Chocolates for his girls.
The visitors kept coming.

Scissors

by

Hands reaching up out of water
Photo by Arun Kr from Pexels

Hi all,

hope winter is treating you kindly? Here’s some hot flash fiction to help you cope. Enjoy!

We never saw him again after the day at the beach.

He was the most popular guy in school. We couldn’t believe when he started hanging around with us. And we lost him.

It had been humid for weeks. Had rained just before school finished, the clouds trapping all the moisture. It was like walking around in a sauna. People sweating, even when just sitting around and talking. When they blinked a trail of heavy water rolled down their cheeks.

There was a murder epidemic. People going crazy.

In front of The Arcade (they had one Pac-Man machine, always Out of Order but it was our spot) a red car got blocked by a yellow car. The red car beeped and the guy came over and kept battering at the window until he’d punched through it. Screaming that he didn’t get paid enough. We have videos of it. The guy’s forearms bloody, reaching through the window.

And Erkan approaching, calming him down. He talked to him, took him back to his car. A man got the woman in the red car out, took her to hospital. Someone else must have called the police.

It was always women that summer, I don’t know why. I was 12, more likely to fight with other boys. But it was women who suffered in the madness.

A week before school was to start, long after we had given up hope, the clouds lifted. I woke one day, wondering what looked so strange. It was the light. The sun was out. My eyes weren’t crying, I wasn’t damp with moisture. It was the most wonderful feeling.

We went to the beach to swim.

Past The Arcade, past where the yellow car had bashed the red car and onto the rough, warm sand of our beach. We lived north of town so the beach was small. But we were all friends and there were no tourists. We rolled our jeans and t shirts up and splashed into the water.

The air was dry. We had a plastic football. Threw it too hard at each other’s faces. Wiped salt water out of our eyes. And Erkan joined us.

The most popular boy in school. He’d been working at his father’s office. He was destined for great things. It was only a matter of time before he would expect us to bring him coffee or mow his lawn or fix his toilet.

But today he was just another boy. Hot and tired form a long summer. He joined us in the water and we threw the ball too hard at his face. He wiped salt out of his eyes.

It might have been me who hit him first.

Rich Erkan. Lucky Erkan. Erkan who was famous as a hero for saving the woman.

The sun blinded me. I shouted. I remember that.

And the other boys came over. I remember that.

He held his hands up to calm us down. I remember his hands in the air.

But we were in the water, so we didn’t have our phones.

Maybe if someone had recorded what happened I would remember the rest.

The prompts were the picture above and the random word ‘scissors’ for the title.

Not too many scissors in the story, I admit. But I was thinking about the gap between rich and poor. I knew my narrator was poor right from the beginning. There were more hints in the original piece such as him and his friends needing to rely on The Arcade’s free Wifi.

And that’s got something to do with scissors, does it?

Yes! Because then there’s Erkan, who’s quite well off.

Go on…

So I was thinking about the gap between rich and poor.

My bus will be here in a minute!

And in German the phrase for ‘the gap’ between rich and poor is ‘die Schere’ – the scissors.

It is!

It is!

Marked

by

Two girls standing in water
Photo by Whoisbenjamin on Unsplash

Hi all,

sorry for missing a few weeks. I’ve been refurbishing and updating the site and it’s been a lot more complicated than I was expecting.

How complicated was it?

Oh. Em. About as complicated as …your mother?

Hey!

Sorry, you caught me off guard. I didn’t see you there.

Hmph.

Anyway. Here’s some lovely writing prompt fiction. This one didn’t even require much editing.

I’ve tagged it as ‘fantasy’ for the benefit of my international audience.

Irish readers will know better.

Enjoy!

The statue moved in the mornings.

Ella had seen it. She slept badly, often getting up while it was still dark.

Norah had never seen it move. She slept well.

But everyone knew the statue moved.

Busloads of tourists prayed to it. Tanned Italians. Pale Poles. They unfolded wheelchairs, lifted out those who needed help. After twitching their collars up they would go up the narrow gravel path between the lake and the mountain to the statue of Saint Mary. Some would do it barefoot or on their knees.

Ella said it never moved for them because that wasn’t the way: you had to go through the water. So you were clean when you stood in front of her.

Norah heard the tap on the window. It was dark outside. Her room had cooled overnight and it was hard to even think about getting up. It sounded again, louder. Ella. Who else? 6 am according to the pale glow of her alarm clock.

Ella, her eyes dark with shadows, wearing trousers. She almost always wore skirts, unless she was covering up bruises. Norah opened the window.

“Come on,” said Ella. Her teeth were chattering. “She’s moving again.”

Norah started to pull on tights. Took them off. Leggings and jeans and two pairs of socks. If they were going through the lake then tights were a bad idea.

She climbed out the window. “We have to get back before 8,” she said.

Ella grabbed her hand, pulling. Norah had to jog to keep up. There was a thick mist and Norah’s hair stuck to her face. At the lake they pulled off their shoes and socks and stepped into the water. The first step was so cold it burned but Ella was still pulling at Norah’s arm. She had to keep going to avoid falling over, the cold deadening her feet against the stones on the lake bed.

The grotto was invisible under the mist.

They got closer. Norah could see the statue. The blue-robed Mary was moving towards them, walking towards them. Running towards them.

Her mouth was open. “Go back!” she said. “Go back!”

Ella kept pulling Norah onward.

Behind the statue was emptiness. It carried the statue. As Norah reached it she was swallowed up.

The prompts were the above picture and the random word ‘marked’ for a title.

My usual writing prompt rules apply (only changes to typos and punctuations as well as deleting is allowed). Otherwise I would definitely change ‘…up they would go up the narrow…’ to ‘…up they would ascend the narrow…’ Tidier and avoids the repetition of ‘up’ in the sentence.

And ‘under the mist’ should be ‘behind the mist.’

On the other hand I was able to change

‘Ella was outside. Her eyes were dark with shadows. She was wearing trousers.’

to

‘Ella, her eyes dark with shadows, wearing trousers.’

Good call?