Mike Morgan
Bio
I love language in all its complexity and nuance. Communication is constantly evolving as an element of immense potential and power. The gravity of words woven into story is a timeless force universally transcendent. Thank you for reading!
Stories (14/0)
A Rival's Departures
Parker June slid into her first-class window seat wearing ear buds and proceeded to put her cell phone into airplane mode. She wore a pair of dark sunglasses and a blue Yankees fitted cap tilted slightly toward the aisle and the two seats across from her single row. She kicked off her slides, slumped a bit, pulled up her navy blue hoodie, crossed her arms, closed her eyes, and disappeared into the narrative sweeps of "Dune" as passengers shuffled past toward the rear of the cabin. Flight 7809 to La Guardia was set to take off from Chicago O'Hare in about 20 minutes. Heading home.
By Mike Morganabout a year ago in Fiction
Juniata Hijinks
Nobody has to set an alarm when you're seven. Something about the thrill of a day in the life of a kid that age sets the engine on autopilot. Adrenaline takes control, jumping through the central nervous system of one intrepid wanderer setting out to tackle Tuesday in the heat of his first real summer break. Nobody has to dress you any more. You laid out your Thundercats T-shirt, your faded Pirates cap and your neon biker shorts on the chair by your Nikes last night. Nobody has to make sure you eat your lunch. You just grab a banana on your way out the door with the Handi-Snak, Fruit Roll-up and triangle-cut PB & J you packed in a brown paper bag the night before. Your green Army surplus canteen with the canvas strap is already chilling in the fridge waiting for you, so all that's left to do is get your butt in gear and get out that front door. After Mama's kiss on the cheek, of course. Then it's time to make tracks as you shout, "See ya later!"
By Mike Morgan2 years ago in Journal
It Grows On You...
The tan rotary phone rang in the study and Ethel Jean Charleston pushed her padded chair back from the table and set her Pinochle hand face down (even though she didn't have any company presently). "I'm coming," she called out to whomever it was on the other end of the ringing telephone. "Hold your horses." Hunched over and leaning on her cherry wood cane, she shuffled past the refrigerator, through the doorway and into the study. Pictures on the wall of a very Catholic-looking Jesus and Virgin Mother Mary greeted her with unwavering attention the moment she entered the study and continued to scan her paced movements across the room.
By Mike Morgan3 years ago in Fiction
Postal
Herbie Joyner hated his job. Sure, it took his uncle over a month of negotiation with the regional director, and transferring to the Hayvenhurst branch to open up a spot for him, but Herbie hated his job nonetheless. He wouldn’t call himself “ungrateful” about the whole thing, though. People would, especially the people who’d been queuing up to recommend a sister or a cousin or some good friend for the rare job opening that Herbie somehow snoozed his way into, only to immediately regard it with disdain.
By Mike Morgan3 years ago in Fiction
Sol (sin) Luna
They had finally decided (after a stupid argument in the appliance section) on a nice and modern gunmetal grey double-door refrigerator. The kind where the freezer slides out like a drawer from the bottom. Now in the early hour of 2:23 a.m. on their anniversary morning, Solomon Diaz stood in the dark and empty kitchen staring into that freezer drawer, barely open a crack... Tears streamed down his cheeks. Cold fog and a faint light spilled out onto his bare feet and plaid pajama pants over the grey linoleum floor. He sniffled and swiped the back of his hand across his nose, nearly tilting his Boston Lager a bit too far, then catching himself, finally breaking the trance of his spiraling daze. He sniffled away the spite resignedly... “Whatever,” he muttered as he tipped back the bottle, draining it, and tossed it into the sink over his shoulder. It clattered to a stop amongst the piled dishes as he opened the freezer, hastily shaking loose a taped-up box from its icy frost catacomb. Some of the white cardboard ripped off, leaving a brown tattered strip stuck to the corner of the freezer shelf where it lay idle over the past year. Solomon grunted with mild annoyance. Setting the taped box on the counter with a dense thud, he pulled a heavy knife from the block and ran its sharp edge between the lid and the front panel, slicing through the scotch tape with almost comically little ceremony. “Voilà!”
By Mike Morgan3 years ago in Fiction
