Tiffany Morgan
Bio
"We are well-advised to keep on speaking terms with the people we used to be...." Joan Didion
I write to know my own thoughts.
I am currently working on my first novel, historical fiction based on a weird true life story.
Achievements (1)
Stories (14/0)
The Giving Tree
Children’s picture books seldom have much depth in their brief pages or illustrations. Yet, The Giving Tree perfectly encapsulates abstract concepts like love, selflessness, and even death. It is simultaneously a straightforward children’s story and a heartbreaking allegory aptly showing the lengths one goes to (and gives to) for love.
By Tiffany Morgan7 months ago in Critique
Altitude
Vertiginous peak Alien windswept domain Ascension ceases
By Tiffany Morganabout a year ago in Poets
Quiet Mornings With the Boys
Most dog parents can appreciate that our dogs live little lives full of privately observed and loved moments that the outside world would fail to appreciate. Our dogs have quirks and mannerisms that we come to know and understand with a warm appreciation that only love brings. I would argue that this is where the magic of love is found: the day to day mundane and unspoken moments.
By Tiffany Morganabout a year ago in Petlife
The Woman Who Lives In the Cellar
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. An unholy odor akin to wet wool with a hint of singed hair told Marjorie something was wrong before she could make sense of it or even notice the innocuous little light flickering through the sleeting rain and darkness. Her feet were carrying her toward the ramshackle dwelling even though she willed them not to and she found herself repeating a kind of prayer in her head: This isn't real. This isn't real. This cannot be real.
By Tiffany Morgan2 years ago in Horror
- Runner-Up in After the Parade Challenge
This Is Where the Silence Has WaitedRunner-Up in After the Parade Challenge
All prior notion of fear has now faded As the piercing din did die, for This is where a silence has waited. Tarnished token luck had hated Now discarded in pockets or bins. All prior notion of fear has now faded.
By Tiffany Morgan2 years ago in Poets
The Harbingers
Looking at photos of my mother when she was young, I’m reminded of a youthful Michelle Pfeiffer circa 1975- pale, rail thin, long straight blonde hair and side-swept bangs framing her moody ingenue face with black-rimmed eyes. In her later years my mother would come to describe that make-up look as ‘two burnt holes in a white sheet.’ It always made me smile when she said that, and it was an apt description, but my God, was she beautiful.
By Tiffany Morgan2 years ago in Fiction
A Lesson in Composition
Late Autumn, 1797, Wiltshire. The wind came east over the fields and forests alike and brought with it a wicked scent of the death of autumn. The twilight-lit reeds that covered the hills blew with a fierceness that signaled the impending snowfall that was shortly to arrive. The kitchen window panes at Fonthill House were alive with percussion from the lively nearby tree branches gently tapping on the ancient glass but inside the kitchen staff did not notice over the noisy bustle of the dinner preparations for the Beckford family and their guests. The Beckford's 'Fonthill House' sat on the western slope of one large hill among nearly 5000 acres of land dotted with dense forest just outside Gifford. The eminent and sprawling Elizabethan house was home to Lady Maria Beckford and her grown son, William Beckford, known in close circles as Will.
By Tiffany Morgan2 years ago in Fiction
Emu
When I was very young, my world was made of concrete, tangible things. It was a definite place with familiar people and things and there was a way things were, and a way things were not. The spring I turned six I found out how reality could bend like a Slinky as imagination bore its fruit, making a worm hole in my tangible world. This revealed a permeable and wild borderland where the real and the imagined coexisted.
By Tiffany Morgan2 years ago in Fiction
No One Wants to See a Soccer Mom On Stage
When I was a little girl, like many little girls in middle-class, mid-western suburbia, I was in dance. I belonged to one of the thousands of small dance studios that were comprised of open floor space in front of a wall of mirrors in the town's strip mall. The walls were painted pink, there were cheaply framed portraits of all of the dance classes for the past years, surrounded by plastic shiny trophies everywhere there was room. Dancing gave me permission to be visible and take command of people's attention. This was a valuable gift to a very shy and socially awkward kid. As I got a little older into junior high and high school, I joined the competition teams as well. While never among a highly talented pool to begin with (you had to pay for and be accepted into a more prestigious studio to dance with the real big dogs), and never the best one on the stage, I loved it.
By Tiffany Morgan2 years ago in Journal