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Felix Morgan

Content marketer, author, filmmaker, journalist.

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I have extensive experience in copywriting, branded and unbranded content, B2B and B2C, scriptwriting, email marketing, white papers, ghostwriting, training materials, documentation, content marketing, ghostwriting, creative writing, and journalism.

With advanced degrees in psychology and communication, I bring a deep understanding of narrative, audience, and positioning as it applies to marketing and content strategy. 


Editorials and news on pop culture, film, technology, and science for local and national publications.


“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." --  Owen Egerton

Film and Video


Knowing So Much

I cleaned the sheets and then I cleaned the mattress beneath them 

in case the reason why you couldn’t be with me 

was one of the stains you couldn’t see 

when you’d sneak into my house 

and out again 


Knowing So Much

Knowing So Much

The Regional Office

Confetti flowers fall

like Oh Henry for the woman in red

every time I went to Oz I ordered

a cocktail and a mechanical heart


But the night heron keeps bringing me

words instead of coins

to feed the great calm maw

of the collection department


And somewhere between

Sweetwater giants and the

heady waters of the long-horned beasts


A sparrow bashed its brains out on the windshield of my Honda Odyssey


A voice in my head with no smell

keeps telling me me to take my time

but I'd rather take yours.


The woman thought she was already dead and there was no convincing her otherwise

She shuffled through her waking grey life

Waiting to rot 

She woke her husband in the night 

Explaining that she must have died months ago 

Begging him to tell her why

She had been condemned

Nothing was hers

Not him and not her fingertips or her legs 

Not her hair 

She left it in the sink 

The dead men on the train knew 

They watched the way she peeled back her nails 

To see what was underneath 

And when she rode through the crowded empty streets 

When she opened the speeding car door and slid out under the wheels

She ripped and tore 

She bent and shattered 

Her life as persistent as her death 

She didn’t feel anything at all 


These cold sheets still remember 

how we'd fall asleep
in the strangest positions, baby. 

Noses touching 

faces making hearts
in negative space.
Or hands entwined, 

thrust up where the pillows were before we made dark wild love 

my back arched
your dreams and breath at my breast free fingers stroking lazy
on my soft stomach 




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