An Alien Hum – short fiction by MorgEn Bailey

November 17, 2019October 27, 2019Leave a comment

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…

An Alien Hum (a 110-word sentence)

Listening to the orchestra, Billy couldn’t quite put his finger on what was wrong, the melody soothing as it was, the violinist perhaps or the cello, both musicians concentrating on the conductor, as Billy usually did, but today he scanned each instrument in turn, knowing the stroke of each note so intimately, Eric Satie’s Gnossienne no. 1 an all-time favourite, though today there was an alien hum, an extra instrument perhaps, but as he looked around he felt a tap on his shoulder and heard his wife, who was swatting away a summer bee from her floral dress, telling him it was time to come into the shade for lunch.

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The Chelsea Bun – short fiction by MorgEn Bailey

November 16, 2019October 27, 2019Leave a comment

The Chelsea Bun

The old man pointed to the display and put up one finger.

“One of these?” the girl behind the counter asked softly.

The old man tapped his ear and leaned forward, turning his ‘bad’ side towards her.

“Oh, sorry,” the girl said louder, then boomed, “A Chelsea bun?”

“Yes, please,” he replied, his artificial voice robotic.

The woman behind him, his bank manager although neither of them had ever met, tapped her foot and looked at her watch.

“Anything else?” the girl asked the old man.

“Sorry?” he croaked.

“Anything other than the Chelsea bun?” she repeated, even louder.

“Chelsea bun?”

“Look!” the bank manager snapped. “Isn’t there anyone else serving?”

The old man swung round and jabbed a pistol into her spotless cream jacket.

“Hey! You’ll mark my…” then she looked down and screamed.

“On the floor!” his voicebox ordered.

“My suit!” the woman complained.

“Get!”

Before he needed to say more the woman was kneeling.

“Down!” he growled and the woman lay on the floor, whimpering.

The face of a young woman appeared at the door but saw what was going on and she ran off, mobile clamped to her ear.

The man turned round and looked into the frightened assistant’s eyes, took the bun and left the shop, sirens wailing in the distance.

A week later, an old man who’d fought in two wars, a bullet from the latter ripping through his throat, entered the Ivyworth Bank.

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Art Theft – short fiction by MorgEn Bailey

November 15, 2019October 27, 2019Leave a comment

Art Theft

The face was familiar but Adrian was rubbish at names.

The man extended a hand. “Hi, how are you?”

“Really well,” Adrian lied. “You?”

“You know.”

Adrian didn’t, but nodded sympathetically. He was about to comment on the painting they were standing in front of, how the woman looked like someone he used to know, when the man burst into tears and threw his arms around Adrian, burying his face into Adrian’s shoulder.

Adrian waited, arms limp by his sides, trapped. “There, there,” he wanted to say, as if comforting a child, but the man was older than him, father-like almost.

“She’s never coming back,” the man sobbed.

Adrian, with no clue who ‘she’ was either, said a pathetic ‘I’m sorry’.

The man’s grip relaxed, and Adrian assumed he was going to let go but instead felt a sharp pain in his side.

“Too late for sorry, too late for Sasha,” the man grunted.

As Adrian dropped to the floor he remembered the man’s name; Jeff Robson, the artist and the man from whom Adrian, all those years ago, had stolen his wife.

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Family Heirlooms – short fiction by MorgEn Bailey

November 14, 2019October 27, 2019Leave a comment

Family Heirlooms

You’re trying your hardest not to smile. For months you’ve been waiting for this moment, holding off getting another job ’til the last minute. Another week and you’d have had to resign, no longer able to resist the pay increase, the drop in travelling, the bigger car. Now you have the new contract and redundancy, and you want to dance around the office… with Helena, had she still been here.

You feel sorry for Jeffrey, really you do. You weren’t here at the beginning but you’ve read it all, know the company’s history; the clichéd one-man-band’s rags to riches… and now back again.

Something tells you to pack slowly, despite you wanting just to throw it all in the box and leg it, go down the pub and start the bender you’ve been promising yourself for weeks. But for Jeffrey, you stay, place each item side-by-side as if family heirlooms, show them the respect you’ve shown your boss… ex-boss in… you look at the clock… fifteen minutes.

Finally the box is full. You debate whether to say ’til 5 but no one else has, so you balance the box under your left arm, grab your jacket from the stand, and head for Jeffrey’s office.

You knock on the door although you know you’re not interrupting.

“Night, Jeffrey,” you say, and you’re sure you see tears in his eyes.

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Our Joanie – short fiction by MorgEn Bailey

November 13, 2019October 27, 2019Leave a comment

Our Joanie

“Oh look, Ethel. Deirdre’s here.”

“Looks well too. Can’t have been anything serious.”

“Nick not with her?”

“Nick?”

“Clampett.”

“Not seen him. Why would he be?”

“They’re married.”

“They are?”

“Four… no, three years ago.”

“Didn’t know that, Marjorie.”

“You didn’t? They were here together the year before last. Their first anniversary.”

“Don’t remember that.”

“Ah no, you weren’t here. Your skiing accident, remember.”

“The room’s filling up nicely. Busier than last year?”

“Could be. So where’s Nick do you reckon?”

“Working?”

“He and Manny shared a birthday, didn’t they? And he’s long-retired.”

“True. Haven’t seen him yet either.”

“Oh, I have. Came in with Evelyn.”

“Evelyn Ward?”

“Thompson neé Ward, yes.”

“A Thompson we know?… Not Derek.”

“One and the same.”

“No! But she’s always been to these things on her own.”

“I don’t think it lasted long.”

“And now she’s cosying up to Manny?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘cosy’, not arm-in-arm or anything but…”

“Anyone else missing?”

“Erm… ”

“Who’s the speaker this year, do you know?”

“Didn’t you read the invitation?”

“I didn’t get mine, remember, you rang to remind me.”

“Oh yes. I’m surprised I didn’t tell you.”

“Who?”

“Candy Simpson.”

“Candy Simpson?”

“Yes!”

“Who’s Candy Simpson?”

“Oh, Ethel, don’t tell me you’ve never heard of her.”

“No.”

“She’s a porn star. You know, Dirty…”

“Marjorie, dear, why would I have heard of her? I don’t…”

“She’s Joan.”

“Joan? Our Joanie?”

“Shh… the lights are going down.”

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How’s Your Mum? – short fiction by MorgEn Bailey

November 12, 2019October 27, 2019Leave a comment

How’s Your Mum?

Hi Liam, you look well. No.

It’s been a long time. No.

How’s your mum? That’s good, Bridge, start with his mum, he’s close to her.

How are your brothers? No. He’ll think I don’t care about him. But I can’t care too much, he isan ex.

I should have worn a dress. Men like dresses. Something floral, pretty. He used to like… the blue one, he liked the blue one. Too late now. This is OK. Smart casual. It’s not like we’ll be alone.

OK… hair nice? Yep. How he likes it… cascading, feminine.

At least there’ll be no small talk. No “What music do you like? What do you do for a living now?” We both know why we’re here.

Oh great, there’s Anna, only the cutest reporter on the planet. Should have gone with the blue dress – shows off the curves Anna doesn’t have.

Morning, Anna. You’re here early…

And we all know why. And of course she chose a dress, stuffed with chicken fillets by the looks of it.

Ooh, Tim. This should be interesting. As if I needed reminding how incestuous this business is.

Hi, Tim. Two cameras today – serious stuff. Probably going to be a long wait. He’s notoriously… Yes, I suppose you are.

Hi Liam. Good to see you too. How’s your mum?

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