Published Works:
The Spirit Dragon
MoonFire Publishing
This is the story of a young boy, overweight, terribly lonely, and dealing with schoolyard bullies. Three very special friends emerge from his dreams to lead him to a sacred place, a Dojo, where he learns karate, and even more about himself.
This work is the first in a trilogy. The second book of the trilogy, Minding the Tiger is finished and in the editing stage.
The ASTRAL AVENGER . This work is finished and published by Eloquent books. The cover art for the book is pictured above. This novel features a woman with a knack for astral travel with a passionate hunger for vengeance of the innocent. This story is of the horror genre laced with supernatural twists.
Cover Art is finished for the new book! The first Editing Proofs have been completed and we are close to having an actual book to purchase! It's a com'n!
Please see my Short Works page for more of the anthologies where my stories appear. Scroll down to read a featured story!
Other Works
The Master and the Boy
A short work awaiting publication. This is the story of a boy in China who follows a Master to watch his practice in hopes of becoming a student.
Grandma and the Forest Gnomes
A short work, awaiting publication, about a Grandma telling an old legend to her grandchildren.
Torn Apart
A short work awaiting publication, about two lovers torn apart by, the Dragon's Curse.
FEATURED STORY
Plastic Sins
A short story
The woman stood in the check out line, her eyes traveled from her choices to the tabloid magazines she was always taught not to ever pay attention to. They were sinful. Sandra was an everyday housewife, raising her family the right way, being as green as possible, attending church each and every Sunday. She knew evil when she saw or felt it, and this magazine was evil. She reached across the conveyer belt with her eggs, milk, bread and her special purchase, a two liter bottle of coke, and grabbed the evil filth. She slammed the tabloid down next to her bread and frowned at the cover story. “PLASTIC BOTTLES CREATE HELL IN LANDFILL.”
Sandra’s eyes flickered again from the tabloid to her two liter bottle of coke. She didn’t buy soda very often, but every once in a while would treat herself after a particularly hard week to a bit of carbonated sugar with a movie. The cashier rung up her groceries, bagged them in a paper bag, and handed Sandra her receipt.
Walking as quickly as she could, so no one would catch her sinful purchase, Sandra headed for the car. As she walked she noticed that a corner of the tabloid poked its way out of the bag, making a crackling sound in the wind. At almost the same moment, Sandra saw Delores, the personal assistant to the Pastor at church, getting out of her car not two rows downs. Afraid someone would notice a good God-fearing woman with a tabloid, she shoved the corner down further into the bag and grabbed at her car door handle. Jumping in before Delores could stop and visit about the pot luck brunch after Mass, she swiveled in between the steering wheel and the vinyl seat, jamming the key into the ignition. Nervous, Sandra yanked her seat belt down across her body, turned the car on, and began her drive home.
Sandra treasured her Friday nights. She also cherished her indulgence of soda and pop corn at the end of each week. But how could she continue her most favorite way to relax if the tabloids had something to say about the bottle in which one of her splurges came in? Sandra drove home in an anxious stupor wondering if her Friday evening would ever be the same. Would she be forgiven on Sunday for the purchase of the tabloid? Her mind teased her as she navigated the streets of her safe little neighborhood. She was a housewife, she always did the best she could, but how could she compete against sin?
Sandra pulled into her drive and turned the car off. Her hands shook as she grabbed the groceries and headed into the house. Dropping her keys into the change jar buy the door, she turned around and quickly locked the door behind her. She took her purchases into the kitchen. Putting the bag on the table, she sat down on a hard wooden chair and stared at it. She knew their were perishables that needed to be refrigerated but Sandra was worried. What had she done? She’d bought a sinful magazine and was actually anxious to read it. Could a magazine full of sin, really warn everyday god-fearing people of more sin?
Sandra folded her hands together and closed her eyes. “Dear Lord, please forgive me for what I am about to do. I know you love me, and will continue to, but I need you to know that what I am about to read, I read to prevent sin, not commit it. Please know my heart. In Jesus‘ name I pray. Amen.”
Sandra got up and put the perishables away before she committed the act of wastefulness, the tabloid staring at her from where she’d dropped it on the table. Unable to wait any longer, she grabbed the colorful silky pages and turned to the story which had been her undoing.
As she read, her eyes began to water with worry. Sandra had thought her soda a harmless indulgence, if any indulgence was ever harmless. Yet, according to this story, it took plastic thousands of years to decompose. She sat at her table stunned. Thousands of years? Could this be true? Sandra pushed away from the table and began to pace the length of her kitchen. She could see thousands of plastic products all over her kitchen. The water bottles, to avoid germs, the container of milk to support local farms, the container her beloved strawberries came in to her bottle of dishwashing soap. Sandra began to feel panicky. What would she do with so much plastic? She couldn’t just throw it out. They didn’t recycle a thing in her town which was part of the reason she felt so strongly. She’d been headlining the project to bring a recycling plant to the area.
But what in the mean time?
Sandra began running around emptying all the plastic containers she could find. Dumping water. Pouring milk into the sink, emptying the container of strawberries on top of the swirling liquid. Dish soap made a slimy mess in the bath tub. And to top it off, her precious soda drained on top of the dish soap foaming its way to the drain.
Now Sandra was heartbroken at all the waste, and was left with a stack of plastic containers. What could she do to help remove her sin from the planet? She didn’t know. She didn’t know how to correct her wrong. Gathering the containers to her, she prayed. “Dear Lord, tell me what to do?”
As she waited for her answer, she heard a fire truck racing down the street. That was the answer. She would burn all the plastic. She knew it wasn’t the best plan, but they had a fireplace, and burning the plastic would get it off the earth. Thousands of years of sin up in flames.
Sandra pushed all the plastic kicking some containers, pushing the rest on the floor to her fireplace. Before she could rid the world of her sins, she needed a lighter and fluid to BRING DOWN THE PLASTIC! Sandra finally felt a sense of purpose in her actions. Finally she would feel ok again. Sandra kneeled, just like in church, in front of her fireplace creating a stack of plastic containers. She grabbed the lighter fluid and poured it all over the neat pile. Listening to the drip of the fluid, drop from container to bottle like a leaky faucet, she grabbed the lighter. Holding it to the paper she scrunched at the bottom of the fireplace to get things going, she lit the pile and rejoiced as it burst into flame.
Sandra closed her eyes and began to pray again. She thanked God for giving her the courage and strength to burn away her sins before actually reaching Hell for committing them. It was brilliant.
Sandra opened her eyes to see black smoke trailing up and out of the chimney. It didn’t smell very good. But then again, sin shouldn’t smell very good. She laid down next to the fireplace to watch the pretty colors of the plastic burning, saving her soul, as her eyes became heavy. Sandra drifted on an ocean of peacefulness. She had rid the world of her sins. Sins she never knew she was committing.
Sandra’s husband arrived home that evening to several surprises. First her found a magazine her thought he’d never see in his house, let alone sitting open on his kitchen table. His eyes and nose burned with an acrid smell permeating the house. He knew something deadly had burned in the house and ran from room to room searching for his wife.
When he found her, he fell to his knees grief stricken.
Medics had been called. Sandra could not be revived. The police had been through the house, perplexed at all the waste they had found. Soda and dish soap in the bathtub. Strawberries mixing with milk in the kitchen sink. The police brought Sandra’s husband to the kitchen sink to ask if he had any idea what his wife had been thinking. Still in shock, his eyes searched the kitchen, he shrugged his shoulders as if to say he had no idea, until his eyes fell upon the tabloid on the table. Suddenly he knew. He looked at the police officer and answered the only thing he could. “Sin killed my wife officer. Sin.”
Redeemed
A Short Story
Have you been redeemed?
My right eye exploded with pain. Bright white light filled my vision with little red stars arcing their way across the view. Liquid dripped from my face but I couldn't be sure if it was blood or tears. I was trying so hard not to cry but the pain was great, and I was tired. Crying only infuriated him and the punches would come faster. I couldn't recall what brought on this latest barrage of punishment, but he never needed much. If he wasn't punishing me for a misplaced towel or dirty dish he was toughening me up so I wouldn't be so emotional. I didn't understand his logic but that didn't matter either.
What mattered was the pain. "You useless bitch! You're fucking crazy!" He screamed as he sent twenty five pounds of weight into my gut with a single fist. Doubling over, I couldn't catch my breath. "Awww poor baby" he mocked as his knee slammed into my side knocking me to the ground. Now on my hands and knees I was looking at the pretty floral pattern of our kitchen linoleum floor. It was dirty. Maybe that's what set him off. "Oooo baby, just the way I like you on all fours like the lap dog you are!" He growled as he got down to his knees behind me.
"Please Goddess," I prayed "Please help me, don't let him do this." I pleaded silently as clothing was ripped from my body, his hands gripping my hips. "Please Goddess, Please. Make this stop, please, Dear Goddess." I continued like a mantra as my husband slammed his member against my womb. I had no will left in me to fight, no feelings left to feel with, my entire world was pain.
Until suddenly it wasn't. I wasn't looking at my dirty kitchen floor, but at the greenest grass I'd ever seen in my life. Soft and supple, I gripped it with my fingers, relishing the coolness of it's touch. Though I couldn't seem to look up, I could tell it was still nighttime. I couldn't move much at all. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was aware that my husband hadn't finished his abuse of my body, yet I couldn't feel it any longer. The pain had vanished.
Was this Heaven?
There were soft footfalls gathering around me. I could sense I'd been surrounded by several people though I still could not look up to see who. Then I saw a pair of perfect, very white, bare feet approaching me. Such perfect small feet had to belong to a woman. It was then Her voice whispered along the cool night air. "Your Sisters are with you child." I heard her say. Her voice was melodious and sang in harmony with the night. "You have been brought here to die and transform in your pain. Do not fear."
I couldn't fear. I had nothing left to fear with. And this was certainly better than ... I couldn't finish the thought.
Suddenly I heard the clear ringing of a sword being drawn from a scabbard. I could feel the point of the sword touch my back right before it pierced my skin, touching the vertebrae of my spine. Still, I felt no pain or fear. Nothing could overwhelm the pain and fear of what I'd already endured. I'd rather die at the hands of a woman then a man at this point.
But I didn't die.
I did however, feel layer after layer of skin slip off my body like the fine membrane you find just under a boiled egg's shell. Seven layers of skin just peeled away and fell to the earth, sinking within.
"Be whole child." The woman's voice whispered, and as I realized I could raise my head to see who helped me, my benefactors were gone. Vanished with the summer wind.
I raised my head to look at the full moon shining down upon me and offered thanks for I was indeed whole and unhurt. I looked back down expecting to see the green grass beneath me, and was greeted by my pretty linoleum kitchen floor, sparkling clean.
I was fully clothed. Nothing was broken or bleeding, and my husband was nowhere to be found.
As I moved my body, gingerly at first, until I realized my healing extended to every single inch of my body, the small kitchen TV buzzed to life. A news program was informing the community of a fatal car crash not 15 miles from my small home. As I listened to the story, a familiar red truck, filled the screen. It had collided with a semi truck carrying a load of fresh dairy milk. The driver of the semi had been taken to the local hospital, and was listed in stable condition. The driver of the other vehicle had not fared as well, and the name would not be released until the next of kin had been notified.
I blinked several times at the sight of that red truck, my husband's truck.
Someone was knocking at the front door. I got up quickly and scurried to answer it. Two police officers stood on my front porch, handing me items my husband had carried with him always. Telling me of a terrible car accident, asking me if I could accompany them to the hospital to identify the body.
"Yes, of course." I told them and reached for my purse. I opened the screen door to leave but caught site of a picture I'd recently hung over the fireplace. A woman stood in a field of grass, her robes fluttered in captured wind. Her arms were uplifted, hands outstretched toward the moon, holding the tip of a dagger to it's light.
"Thank you." I whispered, as I followed the officers to identify my husband's body.
His loss, would not be mourned.
copywrite*Kerry A Morgan All rights reserved no part of any story or work on this site may be reproduced in any way shape or form, electronically or written, or by any other means without written permission from the author.
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