Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

Here’s a free book! Now available at Amazon, this sexy collection is a labour of love put together by myself and eleven talented friends. We had a blast writing them and getting them ready for today’s celebration of all that is Irish, including a liberal dash of shenanigans.

Here’s an excerpt from my story, Limerick:

It was St. Patrick’s Day eve, but celebrations were already well underway. The bar was hot and muggy with the scent of perfume and testosterone, but the beer was cold and green. The DJ was playing Moist, or so he’d said. Jason wasn’t sure if that was the name of the song or the name of the band. He sat at the bar scanning the room, Henry beside him. He wondered if the guy always had the lost puppy dog air about him: they’d been there for half an hour and Henry had followed in Jason’s every footstep. He was almost scared to go to the men’s room.
Not that he was afraid of what might happen. Experimentation with a guy was one of Jason’s fantasies. One he occasionally jerked off to. Before anything could happen, he wanted to feel the guy out, so to speak. And he wanted to be felt out. Not jumped at a urinal.
But tonight was all about the ladies. And apparently, according to three quarters of the t-shirts in the room, most of them were Irish and wanted to be kissed.
Jason sipped his beer and wracked his brain for a word that rhymed with “Irish.”
“I got nothing,” he murmured.
“What?” Henry asked. He seemed happy to have a chance to chat, so Jason turned on his barstool to face the bar and have a conversation with the guy.
“Just trying to work something out in my head. So, you ready to mingle?”
“Sure. What am I looking for again?”
“A woman from Nantucket. I don’t have any problem getting women, but I gotta know where they’re from. Got it?”
Henry quailed a bit. “I’m not as good looking as you.”
“That’s not a problem, little friend,” Jason said, slapping him on the back. Henry wasn’t really little. He wasn’t built like a brick shithouse like Jason was, either. “Just ask them where they’re from. Easy. And if you find one from Nantucket, point her in my direction.”

Pick up your copy today!

…and we’re off!

Isabella Morgan is a published author!! Shamrocks, Shillelaghs & Shenanigans is free on Smashwords, Nook, and Kobo!

It’s a sexy collection of St. Patrick’s Day stories by both new and notable authors, with an Introduction by someone very close to me.


Here’s the description of my story, Limerick:

Jason is a purist who wants his poetry to imitate reality. Henry, his roommate, has secret, naughty thoughts about him. All that separates them is one limerick and a girl from Nantucket. (m/m/f)

Here are the links:




It’s up on Kindle as well, but we’re waiting for them to drop the price from their minimum of 99¢ before we start advertising links. The Apple iBooks version will be coming soon!





…and that’s how the literary world ended.

The unimaginable has happened.

Close on the heels of finding out that E.L. James, author of Fifty Shades of Grey, has begun writing a “How To” book on writing (which makes me throw up in my mouth a little every time I think of it) came the suggestion from Kobo that I pre-order her next novel. It may or may not be entitled Grey – it was hard to tell through the blur of tears as I read the devastating news email. What I did get was that the book is, get this, Fifty Shades of Grey AGAIN but through the eyes of Christian Grey instead of Anastasia (aka Mrs.) Grey.

I’ve mourned the loss of the money I threw away spent when I bought the trilogy enough, I think, to know better than to buy the same thing AGAIN. But fans of the first three books surely will.

Will millions of readers die of boredom? Or worse, will they live to take advice from Ms. James on how to write a novel?

Stay tuned. And don’t worry, I’ll be there to hold your hand when the literary world gets whipped right out of existence.


Daily Post: Let’s Make a Deal!

The blackness envelops me; I’m naked, waiting. I hear them on the other side, screeching in glee and dressed in gaudy costumes; clowns, cakes, rock stars, animals… yes, every one of them, animals. The host grins in his shiny dark gray suit with his microphone held out, walking the crowd looking for odd objects.

I am the oddest object of them all.

Which door am I behind? One… two… three…

The final contestant steps up to the front of the audience for the deal of the day. A tiny old lady in a faded paisley dress, holding a white patent leather handbag. Her bucket list is empty – in a paper-flower hat, her deep wrinkles smooth out as she smiles at the host and she is almost beautiful. Somehow I know this, just as I know her last day on earth is approaching. Will the sight of me, nude and on display for the live studio audience be her final vision?

She chooses door number three.

I shiver, and try to cover myself but I’m paralysed. My hands are numb and a distant inkling tells me this is a dream and I’ve fallen asleep with my hands above my head.

The crowd grows quiet, holding their collective breath.

And the doors open.

The bloody red light burns my eyes and I make one final attempt to lower my arms and with a shriek both from fright and the ripping sensation of tendons in my shoulders  I do so…

…to find the sun streaming through my window.

And what should be playing on the television…?

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Just a Dream.”