Stafford Morgan

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jul, 2020

Stories (4)

4 Stories

167 karma pts

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“Monomachy” by Stafford Morgan

In the three days following Frank McKinley’s nomination for president, he had managed to kill twelve men. On the fourth day, a mirror appeared on Monomachy Beach.In antsy preparation for the duel with his final opponent and the current president of Dixieland, Scott Marcus, McKinley had arrived at the beach some fifteen minutes in advance. And there, parallel to the sea, was the mirror. Not just any old mirror. Measuring an astounding two-hundred and twelve feet in height, it stretched along a solid two miles Dixieland’s coastline a...

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“Woe To That Land” by Stafford Morgan

There came after the shot a silence so pervasive it rang like a mistake. The deaf forest recovered, first with birdsong and snowmelt, and then the wind returned and the world recalled how to breathe again.The first boy, the youngest, the one holding the gun, lifted a gloved hand to point at the prostrate figure in the snow some ten yards ahead. He choked on a word, half spun like a dog, looking about his feet as if he’d dropped something before some presence of reason took hold in his mind, and he levered the Winchester a few times...

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“Deserter” by Stafford Morgan

There was a gun in his waistband. He probably shouldn't have brought it, let alone held onto it for this long. If he had any other option, he wouldn’t be here in the first place.The bus had dropped him a few miles from the orchard where he then lingered long enough for the next one to come and go. When he finally made his way down the road, he cut into the first row of apple trees and spent about an hour oscillating between turning back or advancing onto the house. If there was any doubt he was in the right place, this o...

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“Charon” by Stafford Morgan

Hear the witch as she wails like a bean sídhe, throwing her anger upon the barren steppes and scattered buildings with their yellow-paned windows that glare back at you like weary eyes…The man walks this night, keeping shoulder with a dogged blood bay that pulls a hay wain. Mud rises to meet his boots, sucking and grabbing, and he sees the stretched face of that mad sky-crone in the black shine of it all. He came from the salt plains, carrying the minerals on his pants and duster and into the sloping prairies where he first met the...

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Author bio

Writer, insomniac, professional worrywart. Empty twitter here ⬇️ https://twitter.com/staffordwmorgan Serial ramblings here ⬇️ https://staffordmorgan.com/

Shortlisted 1 story ⭐️

Contest #70
Woe To That Land – read story