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David Morgan is more an idea than an actual person. Created in a sterilized 1980s laboratory with gleaming white walls, he was marked for greatness, bound to be a beacon in the sea of humanity, leading the masses to an everlasting epoch of unequaled love and prosperity. Under the flickering glow of a long fluorescent tube, he was taken pain-staking care of by a classified team of anonymous doctors, who watched, if not lovingly, at very least proudly, as he grew from idea, to germ, to bouncing baby boy. Nourished on the best things money can’t buy and taught at the feet of the greatest philosophers yet to be born, David Morgan grew into a man. And became a writer. And the doctors were all canned.
Or David Morgan was born in California, but only lived there for a short time before being whisked away to spend his formative years in Virginia Beach, Virginia. He played a lot of soccer, but only when he wasn’t parading around the neighborhood with his brother. He excelled in school right up to the point when he realized that the world would, in fact, not end if he didn’t complete his homework, and then he did okay. Above all he was nice. Or so he would have you believe. But what he won’t tell you, is that he once sent a friend hurtling down a dirt path on a bike, instructing him that on this part of the trail you have to go as fast as you can, and then David watched in delight as said friend jumped the edge of a small cliff and ended up hanging inches above a dirty creek, only separated from the stinking water by a dense patch of foliage. He won’t tell you about that.
David lives with his wife and daughters in a house. He is severely outnumbered at home in the gender department, but he thinks that’s pretty cool. David writes from the warm tropical beaches of his mind, but looks forward to a day when he can write from the warm tropical beaches of Hawaii’s reality.
If you can’t get enough of David—and who can?—there’s more available here:
You can also contact him at email@example.com