Rooney Morgan
Bio
'97, neuroqueer (she/they), genre-eclectic (screen) writer.
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Stories (24/0)
The Glow of Ice at Dawn Light
“I’m sure Sheri will just live in here,” says Karryn with a little giggle. “Sheridan.” She scowls, looking around the sitting room, resenting her stepmother’s accurate assumption. They’d barely walked in the door from a four-hour car ride when Karryn asked Uncle Rudy to take them on a tour of the chalet to see the renovations that had prevented their large family from convening last Christmas.
By Rooney Morgan3 years ago in Fiction
A Moth in the Night
I’ve learned to differentiate the guards from their sounds and footsteps. There are four of them, for each of the quarters. The same guard slides food through the slot under my cell door every half cycle. I still don’t know day from night but since I woke up each guard has been here ten times, following the same order, so I’ve been here for at least five cycles.
By Rooney Morgan3 years ago in Fiction
It's No Bull on the Ice
The crowd is screaming, skates scrape, sticks clatter, bodies hit the boards. The opposing team relies on brawn alone, big players who hit hard and don’t fall easy, and who are rarely satisfied with a game unless there’s at least one good fight. The back of Nick’s throat tastes like metal as he sprints across the ice toward his teammates, ready to intercept and make a play that might just earn them a lead.
By Rooney Morgan3 years ago in Fiction
The Small Blue House on Germaine Avenue
The small blue house on Germaine Avenue is where Henry’s father moved after his parent’s marriage finally came to a tumultuous end. It was worse than a fixer-upper then, with peeling paint, a lawn made of dry cracking dirt and weeds, and a broken front porch. It was all he could afford and exactly what he deserved. Henry was seventeen then, and though he’s ten years older, the drive to his father’s house is the same as it always has been.
By Rooney Morgan3 years ago in Fiction
Can't Put a Leash on That
The exterior of Leland Blake University is a sight to behold. Its architectural roots lie in the French Baroque style, but the result is much more modest and inviting, especially due to the stature of the trees on the property that are likely as old or older than the building itself. The most striking part is its height, well worth pausing to take it in and feel for a moment, that one has stepped into a period film rather than onto a university campus.
By Rooney Morgan3 years ago in Fiction
What Follows into February
Reader discretion advised. This story contains implications of sexual assault and attempted suicide. As thick fluffy flakes of snow come down from the clouds in an erratic dance, Greta watches a couple’s approach, pulling a wooden sled on which their two small children are immobilized to the absurd in their brightly coloured snowsuits. They are a pleasant contrast against the grey of the day, the bare trees along the median wrapped with pale blue string lights having lost their novelty about a month earlier. The lights are simply part of the landscape now, and would likely remain that way until the end of March. And by then, she’ll be meeting her daughter.
By Rooney Morgan3 years ago in Fiction
What Began in July
The lunch rush has fizzled out at the café, but the place is still full, without a single table free. Greta has been there for fifteen minutes already, sipping at a ginger and lemon tea. She was early on purpose and in that time the tables filled up quickly. She’s glad she had options on where to sit because now, even though she’s so nervous her hands are shaking, at least she’s hidden behind some decorations in the storefront window and can keep an eye on the door.
By Rooney Morgan3 years ago in Fiction
Nature's Inexorable Imperative
Reader discretion advised. This story contains brief implications of sexual assault and restrictive eating behaviours. Elle has become numb to the hot throbbing ache in her face, abdomen, and leg from injuries that she received five days earlier in the form of kicks and blows when a group of travellers intercepted her in the dead of night and tried to rob her. She is now without her bicycle and the trailer she’d hitched to it herself, on which she stored her gear and a small cooler for her food. She’d only gotten away with her backpack, the clothes on her back, and her life.
By Rooney Morgan3 years ago in Fiction
Heart Stowed Against the Chest
A shrill, piercing, echoing cry stops the mother short. She knows it did not come from either of her eighteen-month-old twins, but she glances down at the cover of her sturdy jogger anyway, listening for sounds of their stirring. Their quietness has been a blessing since having to leave the truck behind days earlier. Its engine was too loud and rumbling and had left her feeling exposed, even with her dog Marble, an extremely well-trained, cookies-and-cream coloured pitbull, sitting vigilant in the passenger’s seat beside her as they drove.
By Rooney Morgan3 years ago in Fiction
Bullshit-Free Ideas for Building an Adaptable Writing Routine
Disclaimer 01: This isn’t a foolproof method. When it comes to writing advice and techniques for productivity I always say it’s best to keep an open mind, to take only what works for you and simply leave the rest.
By Rooney Morgan3 years ago in Journal
You Will be Hungry, Dear
I woke up with the sun this morning. Without the familiar metropolitan lullaby that I’m used to outside my fifth storey apartment window, I spent my first week here barely sleeping. I still can’t identify the animal sounds outside during the night, but now that I’ve been here nearly a month I’m sleeping better than I ever have, accompanied by a chorus of what I’m certain are crickets and frogs.
By Rooney Morgan3 years ago in Horror
The Hermit's Fortune
Stanley Bosko’s house is made up of normal things, but thrown together it all seems just a little bit removed from reality. Returning has felt like walking into a place frozen in time while also falling headfirst into one of those I Spy books from my childhood.
By Rooney Morgan3 years ago in Humans