Flashes ~ Shorter Short Stories: Morgen Bailey's Short Story Collections

By Morgen Bailey

This collection comprises 249 stories all under 500 words.

 

We have revenge, luck and misfortune, sharp edges, sticky red hands, no faded circle of skin, twins, family heirlooms, legends of history, writer's block, Chelsea buns, alien hums, and scratches squeaks and barks.

 

With stories in first, second and third-person points of view, the characters live out their dreams, cling to former lives, and discover more than they were expecting.

• Language: English
• Publisher: August Publishing UK
• Release date: Apr 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781913633172

Morgen Bailey

Morgen Bailey always loved books and writing (and blames reading Stephen King books under the duvet with a torch as a teen for her wearing glasses) but it wasn't until she went to an evening class in 2005 that she considered it as a career. Now she is the author of 10 books so far, with more on the way...  Morgen’s fiction books include crime, mystery and women's novels, and short story collections.  They are mostly set against a Northamptonshire background, whether there is crime involved, a dog-detective that can talk, or a serial dater on a mission!  Her non-fiction works are aimed at all levels of writers whether beginners or those who want to refresh their skills – Morgen also tutors in person and has several online writing courses available. She runs her own mentor group on Facebook, very much a collaboration, and she invites all authors to join.  Her Writer’s Block Workbooks are a go-to for every author.  Morgen lives and breathes writing. When she's not editing or writing, she's walking her dog, out with friends, at a literary festival (speaking or visiting), or at the cinema (the only time she sits and does nothing). Find out more about Morgen Bailey, her books, writing guides & courses on her website, www.morgenbailey.com. 

Book preview

Flashes ~ A Collection of Shorter Short Stories

Morgen Bailey

Copyright 2020 © MORGEN BAILEY

The right of Morgen Bailey to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Published in 2020 by August Publishing UK.

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issues by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

www.augustpublishing.co.uk

Cover design and co-editing by Caroline Vincent.

Thank you for downloading this e-book.

If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy,

where they can also discover other works by this author.

Thank you for your support.

Titles by Morgen Bailey

FICTION

After Jessica — money and a girl gone missing

Hitman Sam — a trainee hitman and love triangle

One for the Road — a hit-and-not-run novel

Oh, Henry — a comic dog-detective*

Henry Short Stories – comic dog-detective shorts*

The Serial Dater — 31 dates in 31 days*

The Serial Dieter — 31 dishes in 31 days*

*published as Rachel Cavanagh

Short Story Collections

Shorts — a collection of short short stories

Flashes — a collection of shorter short stories

NON-FICTION

Morgen Bailey’s Creative Writing Workbooks

Writer’s Block Workbooks

1000+ exercises and 50+ tips per book

Editing Fiction ~ A Writer’s Guide

Morgen’s guide to writing a story then pulling it apart

FLASHES

This collection comprises 249 stories all under 500 words and all originally from the ‘Story and Day May’ and ‘Fifty 5pm’ collections, written from prompts provided by www.storyaday.org or from Morgen’s imagination, re-edited for this edition.

We have revenge, luck and misfortune, sharp edges, sticky red hands, no faded circle of skin, twins, family heirlooms, legends of history, writer’s block, Chelsea buns, alien hums, and scratches squeaks and barks. With stories in first, second and third-person points of view, the characters live out their dreams, cling to former lives, and discover more than they were expecting.

Morgen Bailey

Escapism

London made twenty -two-year-old Jordan Lockwood angry. He was unsure why but his aunt’s meerkat didn’t help; screeching away in the basement. Until one day it escaped, Jordan followed.

Stuffed

Robin’s mother turned one hundred the day their cellar flooded but he wasn't bothered, even the stuffed sloth floating to the surface hadn’t made him angry. Of all the hobbies she’d tried, taxidermy was the one he’d encouraged until she’d ordered a life-sized glass case.

Hot Air

Abox thumps down on a chair, narrowly missing a woman. Ow!

Harry grins. Look.

His estranged wife Renata pulls all four flaps, peers in, laughs then sits back as a helium balloon, with ‘Happy Birthday’ on its front, rises.

Harry raises the gun in his hand. Bang!

Dog Collar

Barney was extremely patient.

He’d sit and wait, listen when someone talked to him and then get suitably excited when it appeared that there was something to get excited about.

People seemed to relax when around him and seemed to get so much out of their meeting.

He got his own back on Sunday... with his long but fascinating sermons!

How Hard Can That B–

W hat you doing?

Writing a story, a scene at least. Flash fiction. Micro fiction, actually. Fifty-five words. Look.

How hard can that b–? Oh. Ouch.

I know. Fifty-five words exactly. How mean.

Good luck with that. I’m making hot milk. Want any?

Fab. Thanks.

Good for your brain.

Mmm, right.

Big mug coming up.

Giving Gene Simmons A Run For His Money

H ow did you do that ?

What?

Touch your nose with your tongue.

I have a long tongue.

Stick it out again. Let me see... Wow! You give Gene Simmons a run for his money.

Who?

Gene Simmons. Rock band. Kiss.

Oh yeah. Kiss. What... what are you doing?

Kissing you.

Mmm, that’s nice.

Passion Wagon

Finch had wanted to be a train driver ever since he was a child but fate had led him to be an accountant.

Now he was retired, he was finally fulfilling his dream.

He loved to watch the children laugh as he pulled the chain to sound the horn.

All aboard! he’d shout when they reached Lakeside Park’s miniature railway station.

Just Getting Started

Sixty-word monologue ! Seriously? I’d only just get started in that amount.

Couldn’t pick a subject that I could waffle on. ‘Talk for England’ as the saying goes.

I’m English. Middle England, like the Hobbit... or was that Middle Earth?

Presumably if I were another nationality, I’d talk for that country instead.

As for foreigners living here, don’t get me started.

Dating Paradise

The Brington Chronicle’s lonely hearts advert read ‘gentle giant forties sought for romantic picnics and cinema visits by petite blonde late thirties, reply to Box 147’.

Eve waited for over a week for replies to trickle in but by the second week she’d had fifty.

She sifted through them and found her ideal man, Adam... a match made in heaven!

Quirky Boots

The string quartet that accompanied Tony and Jane’s wedding that week in May was beyond special. Their choice of music would have been unusual for most occasions but everyone knew their quirks and when the couple’s first dance came on, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house... as they stomped the floor to ‘These Boots Are Made For Walking’.

Late

As Shay walked through the door, she was standing in the lounge doorway tapping her foot and pointing at her watch.

OK, so he was a few minutes late from work occasionally but did he really need this treatment every time?

She tutted.

He sighed, and hung up his jacket and faced her.

Mum, I’m seventeen. Give it a rest!

Through

Throughout my adult life I’ve known I should think things through more, before I say something I shouldn’t. But I’m a waffler through and through – open my mouth and out it comes, out through my cake-hole.

Actually I don’t remember the last time it saw any cake. I even resisted a whole stall of it at a literature festival last weekend. And I’m through with diets – none of this high-protein, no-carb or just salad fads. I see right through them.

I’m off to Tesco as I’ve worked my way through my Weight Watchers ready meals and flavoured water.

So I’ll end this piece here before you see right through me.

Double Trouble

S he looks lost.

She’s not lost.

She’s looking around like she’s lost.

She’s taking in the scenery.

She doesn’t look very...

Happy.

No.

We should speak to her.

We should.

You might frighten her.

No, you might.

Why me?

You’re bigger.

No, I’m not.

Are too. She’s coming this way.

She’s looking at us.

No, she’s not.

Schhh.

You’re the loud one.

And you’re the ugly one.

You’re stupid. Loud and stupid.

I can change, you’re still ugly.

She’s turning away.

Where’s she going?

She looks lost.

She’s not lost.

She’s looking around like she’s lost.

She’s taking in the scenery.

She doesn’t look very...

Happy.

No.

We should speak to her.

A dialogue – homage to Lewis Carroll

Most People

I t’s their legs I don’t like.

Sorry?

Spiders.

What? Where?

Nowhere. I’m just saying.

Why are you just saying?

It occurred to me, that that’s what I don’t like about spiders.

Don’t think many people do like them.

Some do.

Who?

I dunno. David Bellamy, David Attenborough, other Davids, I suppose.

Which is why you don’t like them.

Because of their legs.

No, because your name isn’t David.

Now you’re being silly.

You started it.

It seems a funny thing to say.

That I don’t like spiders.

It’s a little odd, that’s all.

But you said most people...

I know but most people don’t work in a reptile house, do they?

Colourful. Loud. Exotic

I t’s fate, Harold.

Yeah, yeah. That’s only what that Madam Helga told you.

Zelda. And she’s right. She’s always right.

Waste of money.

Worth every penny.

Of my money, Stella!

Housekeeping.

So she told you that the next time you went shopping you had to buy the most expensive thing.

She told me I’d find a very rare artefact. And of course rare is expensive.

But it’s hideous.

Colourful.

Loud.

Exotic.

You don’t even like flamingos.

No, but I like pink.

Where you are going to put it?

In the lounge.

Not in sight of my chair, you’re not.

It’s art, Harold. You have no... no... no imagination, no vision!

Put that anywhere near me and I won’t, no.

Off By Heart

Learning his lines had never come easily to Jake. He’d pace the floor reciting his part as his ever-patient wife shook her head from the sofa.

It’s Everdale Village not Emmerdale.

Jake growled. Why did they have to make it so close to something that already exists?

Because it’s a spoof, dear. Don’t panic. It’s not like you’re in the West End.

Jake glared and puffed out his reddened cheeks. It may not be the West End, Pats, but you never know who’s going to be in the audience. There could be talent spotters there for all we know.

Patsy smiled as she looked back at the script and thought, There’d need to be some talent to spot.

Like A Scene From A Hammer Movie

The second half of the football match had only just started when the mist began to rise from the pitch, the combination of the damp and heat making it look like a scene from a Hammer movie, had it not been for the streetlights at each corner.

One of the blue-jerseyed players kicked the ball towards the goal, hitting the goalie square on. Instead of the ball deflecting, it passed through the goalie’s chest and out the other side. The man put a skeletal hand to the hole, poked a finger through and cackled.

Another player retrieved the ball from behind the goal posts, two gravestones, and threw it back on to the pitch as the spectators clapped for more.

The Curved Soul

She said it was the soul that left the body first – before everything started crumbling but Otto thought her soul had left years ago. It was the crooked curve of her right eyebrow that gave her that fixed expression; suspicion of everything, everyone.

He’d see it in the reflection of the television, through the dappled windows on a rainy day. It followed him to work – everything had curves when you looked close enough; like buying a new car, suddenly everyone’s got one. Except no one had someone like Mabel. There’s no one to be suspicious anymore so it’s something he feels he should do, just for her; keep himself safe until it’s his turn to crumble, for his soul to find hers.

No Joke

Kit pleads with you not to go, but you pick up your bag and walk into the hall.

Before you reach the front door, he darts in your way.

I’m sorry, he says. I didn’t mean...

Your eyes bore into his. He’s seen that look before, too many times. He knows what he has to do, that one apology won’t be enough.

I’m sorry, he repeats, and offers a hand to take your bag. Really I am.

He studies you as if trying to see your brain evaluating the situation. One of many, repeated almost every time you come to visit; a throwaway remark, regretted as soon as it had left his mouth.

I’m sorry, he says for the final time. I promise, no more mother-in-law jokes.

Until The Shaking Happened Again

You first noticed the shaking when you went to pick up your cup of tea.

Velma had left the room so didn’t hear you slam the cup back on the table, didn’t see the wet patch on your jumper, notice the tears welling up in your eyes.

You’d thought there’d been something wrong for a while. You know your own body, don’t you? But that’s the sort of secret you don’t share with your loved ones, not until they start seeing the signs, and won’t take no for an answer.

You waited, palms outstretched, for the shaking to stop, and it did, then you drank your tea as quickly as your throat could take it, until it was gone, until Velda came in, until the shaking happened again.

Idiosyncratic

W ell, well, well.. .

What?

He’s at it again.

Who?

Old Ambrose.

Oh, Raymond. Leave him alone.

What?

He’s just old. You always have to find fault.

Mary, I tell you, he’s up to no good.

Why?

It’s his green bin. He’s stuffed it full of lemonade bottles.

So?

It’s not right.

Ours is full of wine bottles; that’s worse surely?

He’s idiosyncratic.

What’s that?

Quirky. Odd.

You’re like a walking dictionary, Raymond.

And that’s what you love about me.

If you say so. Listen, come away from the window. He’ll see you and think you’re idio-whatsit.

Syncratic.

Yes. I still don’t see what’s so odd about drinking lemonade at his age.

That’s the thing though, Mary, from the way he’s struggling to move them, he’s not drinking them, they’re all still full.

Master of the House

It was when the snow went beige with muddy footprints that Fran hated it most. It compacting and freezing didn’t bother her – she never went anywhere – but virginal white reminded her of postcards, of times when people went places and wished she was there.

The TV took her away, from the humdrum, had strangers talking to her as if she was their friend.

As afternoon turned to evening, she switched on the living room light and swallowed as the bulb popped. She pictured the box of spares under the sink and the torch magnetised to the fridge door but they’d wait. She’d let the TV illuminate the room until she had to do something about it, until something reminded her that Malcolm had gone, and she was now the mistress and master of the house.

He Doesn’t Look Right

Ican’t believe he just did that; stuffed a plastic bag into the hedge then go back... I thought to pull it out, but he pushed it in further, encouraged by his girlfriend.

Of course if I say something they might turn on me. I’m only little. Four feet seven.

Always been little... of course I have. Was four feet seven at school, so might be even shorter now...

Do your parents litter the countryside too? Or is it just you?... or just her? I saw her talking to you when you did it. You don’t? Of course you do. She does too or she wouldn’t have encouraged you.

And you’ve parked on the grass, it just gets better. Bet you hog the middle lane on the motorway.

Road rage.

No, Beryl. Don’t say anything... he doesn’t look right.

Nutcase

Y ou’re allergic to everything, you are.

No.

Alright then, almost everything.

That’s not fair.

Tomatoes, nuts, cream, wheat, washing–

Washing? I’m not allergic to washing!

Are you sure?

Mum!

Conrad. Con, when was the last time your body felt the shower, your bedding the washing machine and your car–

Yes, okay. I get the picture. If I’d known I was going to get this much hassle, I’d have not moved back home.

How Lizzie ever put up with you, I don’t know.

Izzy. Isobel. And she’s no angel herself.

She’s lovely.

So lovely you can’t remember her name.

You weren’t with her that long.

Twenty-three years. Twenty-two too long.

So you’re back home.

Yes, but...

Conrad. You get your pension next year. I think it’s about time you grew up!

Yes, Mother.

Hot For A Man In Uniform

Milano loaded the stretcher into the ambulance, slammed the doors shut then looked at himself in the mirrored glass.

Licking a finger, he patted down a stray hair, then pulled at the yellow hem of his jacket to tug out any creases that probably hadn’t existed. He knew his looks would fade eventually but for now, he’d make the most of them, charming whoever was ‘hot’ for a man in uniform.

Come on, Mila! his colleague, Suzanne, called from the driver’s seat.

She was new and had not yet succumbed to him but she would, Milano knew, melt eventually.

As he walked down the side of the vehicle, he noticed one of the stripes peeling away. Cheap and not so cheerful NHS, he said as he opened the passenger door, fixing his mouth into a cheesy smile.

Scratch at the Door

Asoft scratch at the door was all it took to wake the old lady.

Who’s... there? she stammered, and swallowed, making her ears pop.

No reply, just another scratch.

Climbing out of bed, the steep curve of her back making her wince, she hobbled to the door. Hello?

Again, the night was mute.

Opening the door a fraction, she recognised the red hooded cloak and smiled.

Cleaning Up The Town

According to that morning’s paper, the psychic had dreamed the homeless man had been washed downstream, then come inland with the tide, but the chief inspector knew better. He’d dumped the body there himself, in his ‘company’ car.

He had orders to clean up the town. No one would suspect him and when he turned up on the crime scene, no one would notice that his car was already covered in sand.

Bringing Work Home

Picking up the knife , Edie wiped the blood on the tea towel she’d used to dry the dishes.

Tapping her foot on the pedestal bin, she threw away the tea towel, put the knife back in the cutlery drawer, opened another, picked another towel and dried the rest of the evening meal’s washing-up.

Dexter! she called into the lounge with her strong Yorkshire accent he loved so much. If you will insist on bringing your work home with you, you’ll need to buy me more tea towels.

And No Lucy Either

Istretched my arm across the bed, brushing cool cotton. No surprise Ryan wasn’t there. He’d be making breakfast, checking the post-box, or feeding the birds – house-husband through and through.

But today there was no smell of toast wafting upstairs, no metal clank as key hit lock, no flurry of excited wings.

And no Lucy either; bouncing on the bed, showing me her latest high-score or text from her friends.

And then I remembered; the two of them going off in the car.

The two of them not coming back. Never coming back.

Erlina Didn’t Mind

Erlina Mason didn’t mind that her husband of forty-two years had gone off, with their dog, and married someone else.

Erlina didn’t mind that a dog walker had lost control of its dogs and their leads had tangled around Erlina’s legs. She’d not fallen over, so no harm done. She’d even been able to give the dogs a treat each from the bag she still had in her jacket pocket.

Erlina knew there was unlikely to be anything that bothered her again, not since that Saturday evening when she’d checked her lottery numbers.