Bath for Two – short fiction by MorgEn Bailey

The following piece of flash fiction is from Morgen’s larger short story collection (250 stories), Fifty 5pm Fictions Collection, available in eBook and paperback from Amazon  and Morgen’s online store where you can not only instantly download the collection but also purchase the paperback dedicated to you or as a present! We hope you enjoy this story…

Bath for Two

“Twist it.”

“It won’t turn.”

“Here, let me have a go.”

“No point. I’ve tried.”

“Try a different angle then, or something.”

“Tried every angle.”

“Tried to warn you.”

“It’s been alright before.”

“Before me?”

“Just one… I told you about Sam.”

“Thought you were just friends.”

“To start with.”

“Like us.”

“Not like us, we’re better.”

“You got them undone before.”

“Always.”

“Happened often then?”

“A few times.”

“Didn’t realise you were so…”

“It’s OK. It’s not a competition. Wasn’t serious like we are.”

“Just fun then.”

“Yes.”

“More fun?”

“Different fun.”

“Turn the key again. The lock might have loosened.”

“No good. Have you got any WD40?”

“In the shed.”

“Would you mind?”

“But I’ll have to put some clothes on.”

“It’s dark, no one will see you.”

“Next door have a security light… I don’t think WD40 will work.”

“Soap then.”

“Bath for two?”

“OK.”

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My One Regret – short fiction by MorgEn Bailey

The following piece of flash fiction is from Morgen’s larger short story collection (250 stories), Fifty 5pm Fictions Collection, available in eBook and paperback from Amazon  and Morgen’s online store where you can not only instantly download the collection but also purchase the paperback dedicated to you or as a present! We hope you enjoy this story…

My One Regret

It wasn’t falling through the air that I regretted. I knew I had no choice.

It wasn’t standing on the edge – that had given me clarity. My heart was thumping, to be expected really. I could hear it above the chaos, the screams, the sirens of this city, new to me.

Being outside was colder than I’d expected; a real contrast to the building behind me. Not much wind, autumn hadn’t had a chance to set in. That’s how I felt; more life ahead of me than behind, or at least there should have been.

I was glad I was wearing trousers. It’s funny thinking about dignity at a time like that, but if I’d been wearing a skirt and had spun, done a cartwheel, then my knickers would have shown. Like a 5-year old’s, except they don’t care, it’s only their mothers that care about a thing like that.

I knew I’d be one of many. I wasn’t the only one to take that way out. The rest stayed. Burned. I couldn’t do that.

I wish I’d been able to say “Goodbye”, kicked myself for forgetting my mobile, leaving it on charge when I should have switched it off, put it in my handbag as I always did. Kicked myself for not knowing your number off by heart so when a colleague had said “Goodbye” to his loved ones then offered me the chance to do the same to mine… to you, I could have taken it, thanked him with all my heart, for one last opportunity; a chance to say sorry… for arguing, for not making up before I went to the meeting. The one time I’d left like that. I could hear others leaving frantic messages on answerphones, their regret that they couldn’t speak person-to-person, that there’d never be another face-to-face.

And as I fell through the air, dropped those hundred-plus storeys of that stark, glass building, I was at peace… with myself, but not with you. That is my one regret.

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Weapon of Choice – short fiction by MorgEn Bailey

The following piece of flash fiction is from Morgen’s larger short story collection (250 stories), Fifty 5pm Fictions Collection, available in eBook and paperback from Amazon  and Morgen’s online store where you can not only instantly download the collection but also purchase the paperback dedicated to you or as a present! We hope you enjoy this story…

Weapon of Choice

The red scarf, he’d decided would be his weapon of choice. Ironic, given that it was her favourite.

He’d plotted this moment all day; romantic dinner, superb wine, get her in the ‘mood’ then he’d do it.

She loved him saying what he was going to do to her – gave her something to look forward to – only there were some things she didn’t need to know. Telling her he’d kiss her neck was fine, but saying he was going to wrap it in red silk and squeeze it until she stopped breathing would only spoil the moment for them both.

He’d kiss then caress her neck, let her feel the scarf soft against her skin, stand behind her, a position of strength. She’d struggle of course, try and scratch his hands but she bit her nails so they’d have little effect. Besides, he was a foot taller, heavier.

As he walked up the path to the cottage, a bottle of Mas de Daumas Gassac in one hand, the other inside his right jacket pocket, she opened the door and smiled. He followed her inside, right hand feeling the soft material that had lain there all day, since he’d removed it from her dressing table that morning.

They went into the kitchen where she’d already started cooking, the smell of his favourite meal, beef goulash, permeating the air.

“I’ve got something to tell you,” she said, but he knew what she was going to say; that she’d found someone else, that she didn’t want to be with him anymore, that this was the last meal they’d share together. He’d known for weeks, could tell she was ‘acting’, that something wasn’t right.

Placing the wine bottle on the kitchen table, he went over to the stove and stood behind her as she stirred the goulash, then watched her lean over to smell the sauce. Although he was hungry, he’d hardly touched breakfast, skipped lunch, the thought of sharing a meal with her now made him feel sick.

There’d be no last meal, no small talk, no “I’m sorry” conversation.

Pulling out the scarf he wrapped each end round his wrists and pulled it tight, then brought it over her head and in front of her neck. He saw her head lower, her gaze following the scarf.

“Oh, that’s where it went,” she said and laughed, a laugh he used to find endearing but had more recently found annoying, like a schoolgirl’s, immature, almost babyish. She stopped laughing as he brought the two ends behind her neck and crossed them tightly. “Ow,” she said, putting her free hand up to her neck, “lighten up a little, will you darling.”

But he didn’t lighten up, he squeezed, his biceps pressing against his pale blue work shirt.

He heard the clank of the spoon as she dropped it into the saucepan and starting pulling at the scarf, her fingers clawing at his, her voice no longer understandable but a rasp that faded as she slumped to the floor.

That’s when he saw the envelope, on the work surface, her name in writing he didn’t recognise and he knew he’d done the right thing. He stepped over her body, lunged at the envelope and tugged out the single sheet of paper.

As the photograph revealed itself he saw the scan, the human peanut surrounded by a black and white blur, and he screamed as it fell to the ground.

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