Morgan plays in the myths and legends of our culture like a child playing in an old abandoned house. She explores the darkness, laughs at the shadows, gleefully celebrates the creepiness, and gingerly dances on creaking wooden floors never fearing she’ll fall. Morgan reuses the known to create the new, giving fresh life to age old terrors and delights. There’s a page-turning and side-splitting thrill to reading her work as the monsters that once hid under our beds now crawl beneath the sheets to draw close to us.
I was in the back of the cop car trying to explain that no, actually, I do NOT make a habit of giving blowjobs in the bathroom of east side bougie Italian restaurants when I realized he was about to blow again. My boyfriend has a condition, okay? It has some sort of science-y name even though its like super rare, like so rare they had to get out the fat dusty actual books and look up how diagnosing used to happen in like ancient papa new guinea or some shit but I just called him my sex bob-omb.
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Necromancers Don’t Say I Love You
For one thing, hearts were gross. Bloody and heavy. He stared at the mess in his hands. It was big, bigger than he thought it could be, and it beat with a steady sleepy rhythm. He was naked. In whats- her-name’s bed, which was covered in some gauzy crap and fucking twinkle lights. He was in a fairyland hell. Blood was seeping down his forearms now, but somehow seemed to be invisibly pumping life to the girl laying next to him…