July 24, 2026
‘Queue Jumping’ – A Morgan Cry iPhone Story.
I used to write science fiction short stories, still do on occasions and this is a tale of a dystopian world of the future. This story was inspired by a couple who queue jumped my friends an I while waiting to get into the VIP area of the Mad Cool festival in Madrid. At the time I said nothing but now I can get my revenge. This is another story iPhone story, written soley on my mobile.
Enjoy.
‘Queue Jumping.’
by
Morgan Cry
The queue is the same as most every other queue on this green and blue ball – unloved. I mean, who likes a queue? Anyone want to put their hand up? I suppose they have their uses. A mass brawl at an airport check-in isn’t cool. Turning up at the hospital to discover a scrum of patients is far from ideal. Paying your respects to the bereaved relatives after a cremation en masse could be a bit embarrassing
And when there are queues there are often ‘skip-the-queue’ options. Fast-tracks. Express lanes. VIP entrances.
This queue is not one I want to be further up. We all know of such – those queues that you have no desire to reach the front of.
Standing in a line of fellow pupils to receive the belt from the teacher because you’ve mouthed off. Sitting in the waiting room of the dentist for the check-up you have dodged for five years.
This is one of those queues.
From my position I can’t see the end of the line in either direction.
Of course this is by design.
It’s a theme park thing. Never let the punter see the true extent of the queue. Twist and turn, hide and reveal and maybe the next corner will be the last. . . Nope. This one? Nah. The next one? No.
Only this is no theme park.
‘Un ticket, senior. Tienes que tomar un ticket.’
You have to take a ticket.
My number? 326,578,326.
Handed to me in a café near the Matadero in Madrid not two hours ago.
A couple appears at my shoulder. She’s a bottle-made blonde. He’s salt and pepper hair with goatee.
Queue jumpers.
If this was the line at the supermarket or the queue for the bar or people filing for the bog, there would be muttering, snide remarks, low whispers and, from the forthright, outright confrontation and condemnation at any attempt to cut in.
Not here.
You are welcome to queue jump here.
The pair are intent on slipping in between me and the man in front, believing, erroneously, that avoidance of eye contact with everyone somehow swathes their queue-jumping attempt in a cloak of invisibility.
This is not the queue they think it is.
This is the wrong queue.
They haven’t figured this out yet.
I could tell them.
Warn them.
But…
…no talking in line.
It’s a rule.
The queue moves forward. I hesitate and the couple, seeing their chance, slide in, backs turned firmly towards me.
I tap the man on the shoulder.
He ignores me.
I tap her shoulder.
She ignores me.
If they turn to look at me, I will mouth a warning.
They don’t turn because they think they are in a different queue.
One that would be worth queue jumping.
As we round the next corner the walls either side close in. Above us guards now look down.
The couple turn around, the first signs of confusion washing over their faces.
A gate rises from a slot in the floor in front of me, separating me from the couple. One rises behind me.
For the briefest moment I’m alone.
The gate in front slides back down and the couple reappear, now showing signs of rising panic. The gate behind slides forward, thrusting me onto a moving walkway.
There is now no way back.
Only forward.
A sign appears ahead.
‘You are close to the edge’
I’ve seen pictures of this sign many times. Many times.
Red letters on a white background. Times New Roman typeface. No full stop. Which is ironic, oft studied and always commented upon. Who knew that the lack of terminal punctuation would be a source of worldwide interest?
The couple in front enter full terror mode.
‘Un ticket, senior. Tienes que tomar un ticket.’
In the café.
The speaker’s official uniform and ID accompanied by her official expression. Blank.
Take a ticket. No choice.
The date, time and location printed in the slice of paper.
Two hulks with guns had hovered nearby as she’d clipped the necklace around my neck. Rumour goes the necklaces are tamper proof and stuffed with enough explosive to remove your head, if triggered.
An effective way to ensure you turn up for the queue.
The Call queue.
I knew The Call would come one day. It comes for all but the rich, the powerful and those that are off the grid.
In town for a music festival, I was enjoying a late afternoon café con leche when The Call officer and her enforcers had tracked me down.
At sixty-four I’m in the ninety ninth percentile of The Call. Way past the norm. I’d begun to wonder if I’d fallen off the list. Unlikely, but you heard stories. You always heard stories. People who had never had The Call. That some glitch in the computer had erased their name, skipped their name, forgotten their name. That The Call was not in their future.
Truth be, when your fiftieth birthday arrives, The Call will also arrive – one day.
Unless, of course, you’re one of the lucky ones. A Global Lottery winner.
I’ve never met anyone that personally knows someone that has won the Global Lottery, but I’ve met plenty who know a friend of a friend of a work colleague that has.
Bottle Blonde is now screaming at the guards patrolling above the walkway, ‘We are not meant to be here. We are in the wrong queue. We are in the wrong queue.’
The guards have heard it all. Seen it all. The beseeching. The crying. The defecating. The heart attacks. All. They have seen all.
I can relate to the couple’s point of view. I really can. They are, without doubt, in the wrong queue.
Right next to where they joined was the queue for the Global Lottery.
The one they thought they were queue jumping.
Now that is a line to play skip-the-queue. Almost compulsory to try. Stupid not to. When the lottery desk is only open one hour a day, and every lottery office has a queue thirty miles long, or more, there is no way to reach the front bar skipping the line; unless you are up for weeks of camping on the pavement.
It’s recommended to allow at least four weeks for that.
Fifteen days before my fiftieth birthday, I’d pitched a tent to be rewarded with a ticket twenty-nine days later.
I didn’t win and you don’t get a second shot at the lottery – although there are stories.
It’s deliberate, the queues being so close together. Screws with your mind, and in the couple’s case, their senses. The couple are far from the first, and will be far from the last, to queue jump the wrong queue.
She’s now in hysterics, holding up the line. Six more have cleared the gates behind me and, as the walkway rolls ever forward, I’m being shoved by the others into the couple.
Bottle Blonde tries to climb the smooth wall. Leaping onto her partners back to do so.
A guard reaches down with an electric cattle prod - and Bottle Blonde drops like a shot dog. Her partner also tries to climb the wall. He too is electrocuted.
I pass beneath the most famous sign of all.
Thank you for your sacrifice.
Panic is now breaking out in front and behind.
I see a man, ten ahead of me, vanish with a scream.
People push back but the cattle prods work overtime. Zap, down you go.
I stand still.
I want to see my end.
Six bodies lie in front of me, including Bottle Blonde and Salt ‘n’Pepper. All laid out on the moving walkway. All out cold. As are eight behind me.
I’m the last man standing.
I see the edge.
The famous edge.
Nothing stupendous about it.
Just the end of the walkway.
I see the dancing light of the furnace on the far wall.
A young woman goes over the edge.
Into the fire pit.
No scream.
She’s unconscious.
Four to go, then me.
I look up.
The guards are watching.
I’m interesting to them.
Not many go over the edge awake.
Most are zapped.
So, I’ve heard.
One more person drops into the pit.
That leaves Bottle Blonde, Salt’n’Pepper then me.
Bottle Blonde rouses.
Her eyes say it all.
Sheer fear.
Salt’n’Pepper drops.
Silence.
Bottle Blonde drops.
Screaming.
I can feel the inferno.
See the inferno.
I take a last breath.
The moving walkway stops.
My toes are an inch from the edge.
A sheet of metal slides across the pit, shutting out the noise and the heat below. Sealing it off.
A door on the far side opens. A woman appears. Behind her three men in white coats stand. Two are pushing a trolley big enough to carry a person.
‘Por aqui,’ she says to me.
This way.
I cross to her, feeling the heat on my feet through the metal beneath my shoes.
She leads me through the door, leaving the men to attend to the zapped people behind.
To tend to the survivors.
To the lucky ones.
I enter a small, sterile room.
A man is sitting at a plastic table.
‘Senior Galbraith.’
I nod.
‘Aqui.’
He hands me a small ticket.
It reads:
Lotería Global: Eres un superviviente: esto supone una exención vitalicia de la llamada.
Global Lottery: You Are A Survivor. This Is A Lifetime Exemption From The Call.
I know a Global Lottery winner.
Me.
My necklace is removed and another door opens. I’m ushered into the street, into the baking sun. Ticket in my pocket. Out of sight.
No one can know I have it.
People will kill for it.
I turn right and walk past the queue.
Smiling.
July 21, 2026
‘A Cool Bet’ – A Morgan Cry iPhone Story.
Given the heatwaves of late I pulled out my iPhone and typed this. Another in my iPhone stories series.
Enjoy.
A Cool Bet
by
Morgan Cry
The thermometer read, in old school, one hundred and six degrees, and that was in the shade. Humidity ran at ninety-two percent.
Moaning was the agreed national sport.
The usual phraseology that peppered a heat wave had become redundant. ‘It’s boiling’ ‘FFS’ ‘This is murder’ ‘You could fry eggs in my boxers’. None conveyed the level of discomfort with the required clarity.
A heat dome. That was the weather person’s technical term for the cause.
‘Sweat Dome’ was the term adopted by all.
The ‘Pishin’ with Sweat Dome’ was Cammy Whyte’s term. ‘I’ve got PSD.’ His new favourite phrase. ‘Symptoms are stinking oxters, soggy balls and the Amazon has re routed down the crack of my arse.’
Cammy was a taxi driver of the vintage that shunned air conditioning in his car, and for a good reason. His late 1989 model Ford Sierra Sapphire RS Cosworth wasn’t fitted with such tech. The original owner opting, in Cammy’s view, quite correctly, for leather seats instead.
However, Cammy had to admit, in the current climate, leather that scorched the arse of his punters coupled with no cooling wasn’t going down well on the customer feedback front.
‘I’m going to hire this pain wagon to cook my Christmas turkey,’ one wit had said. ‘It’d be done in ten minutes in here.’
Another had alluded to the ‘rank stink’ that Cammy’s un-showered body was emanating. The water shortage and subsequent standpipes in the street had relegated Cammy’s body cleansing to a quick dab with a damp rag and half a can of Sure for Men.
Cammy skipped on the rag more often than not.
A fare popped up. Top of High Street to Castlemilk. A good run. Cammy accepted.
With all the windows open and the fans on full, the car interior was the doppelgänger for the interior of a hairdryer nozzle at full blast.
‘Now this is global warming!’ said Michael Fraser, a fellow taxi driver, to Cammy as they’d sat together on the kerb a few hours ago waiting on the next call. ‘My grandpa served in Borneo during the war. He told me it was cooler there.’
That Michael’s grandpa had died three days before Michael had been born negated the evidence presented as being from the horse’s mouth, unless the Foetus Michael had caught wind of a conversation while baking in his mum’s tum.
That Michael’s grandpa had never been to Borneo, nor seen active service in a war was equally redundant.
Michael’s grandpa was a fountain of knowledge unmatched in Glaswegian folklore. All of it from the imagination of Michael
In this case Michael’s grandpa was correct. Borneo was cooler today. By ten degrees.
‘Do you know how they stay cool in Borneo?’
Cammy had no idea.
‘They rub red peppers all over, then they rub green peppers all over and then they climb a tree and blow on each other.’
‘How many people live in Borneo?’ asked Cammy.
‘Tons.’
‘And they have a lot of trees?’
‘Squillions.’
‘And red and green peppers?’
‘Bazillions.’
‘How long do they stay up the tree?’
‘Two days.’
‘So, when it gets hot in Borneo everyone rubs peppers on their skin and climbs a tree to blow on each other?’
‘Aye.’
‘For two days?’
‘Aye.’
‘And who pays you when you’re up there.’
‘The government. They declare a heat emergency and you can get a week’s pay for climbing a tree.’
‘Everyone stops work to climb a tree?’
‘Aye.’
‘Doctors, police, fire brigade, everyone.’
‘Aye.’
Cammy had been about to point out that having the entire Borneo fire brigade up a tree during a heat wave seemed dumb as fuck when a fare walked up claiming they ‘couldnae walk another inch in this bloody heat.’
Cammy dumped the memory as he followed the sat nav to the pickup point on High Street.
He slowed the car, not quite sure what he was looking at.
Sitting on the pavement outside the pickup address was, what looked like, a Guy from a 5th of November bonfire. Full length woollen overcoat. Fedora hat. Scarf. The works.
Why the hell would that be here in July?
The Guy surprised Cammy by standing up, a laborious affair that required effort, scrambling and much swearing.
‘Are you the taxi for McNish’ asked the Guy.
Cammy nodded.
‘Thank fuck.’
The Guy clambered into the back seat. Only then did Cammy notice the three bands of gaffer tape wrapped around the guy’s waist. All were covered in black writing.
‘Get me to hospital,’ said the Guy.
‘It says Castlemilk for the fare, not the hospital.’
‘You wouldn’t have come if I’d put the Royal in.’
You could walk to the Royal Infirmary in five minutes from where the taxi sat.
The Guy groaned, ‘Just go.’
Cammy obeyed.
‘Aren’t you hot?’ Cammy asked as he pulled the car into the traffic.
‘No, I’m fucking Baltic.’
‘In an overcoat?’
The Guy coughed followed by a dry wretch. ‘Hospital.’
‘A & E?’
‘No, the maternity ward. My waters have broken. Fuck. Of course, A & E.’
A few minutes later Cammy pulled in front of the A & E entrance. He parked behind an ambulance.
‘You’ll need to come in with me,’ said the Guy. ‘My wallet’s in my coat. I can’t get to it for another. . .’ He looked at his phone. ‘Seven minutes.’
‘Come in with you?’
‘Aye. I also need a witness to video this.’
‘Video what?’
‘A world record. Now can we get in.’
Another cough and wretch.
The A & E department was overflowing with victims of the heat, half the patients lying on the floor.’
Cammy trailed the Guy through the masses to the reception desk.
‘Name?’ asked the nurse.
‘Gerald McNish, 4 Campbell Gardens. Date of birth 3/4/89.’
‘And what’s wrong with you Mr McNish.’
‘Severe heatstroke.’
The nurse looked at him, ‘And wearing an overcoat, scarf and hat is helping?’
‘No, neither is the jumper, t-shirt, thermal underwear and hiking socks.’
‘Take a seat,’ was the work-weary reply. All, and seen it, were the nurse’s bywords.
‘Three minutes,’ groaned Gerald. ‘Can you take the scissors out of my pocket, driver. ‘My haunds seemed to have stopped working.’
Cammy obliged.
The Guy collapsed to the floor. A nurse ran over and a doctor joined her.
‘Don’t take my coat off,’ pleaded Gerald.
‘Sir you are burning up,’ said the doctor.
Gerald looked at his sweat covered phone. ‘Ninety seconds, give me ninety seconds.’
‘Sir I’m cutting this tape.’
Gerald swung out at the doctor’s arm, sending the small knife he was holding skidding across the floor.
‘Sixty seconds,’ said Gerald.
‘Sir, I will call the police if you do something like that again.’
Gerald rolled onto his back, phone in the air, ‘Thirty seconds.’
The doctor retrieved the blade. It was broken. He spoke to the nurse, ‘Can you get me another one, please.’
The nurse rose as Gerald said, ‘Ten, nine, eight. . .’
He coughed again. ‘Video! Driver use my phone to video this. Three, two, one. Fucking A. Cut me out, cut me out. Cut the tape. And video me now.’
Cammy took the phone and not really knowing why, he began to shoot.
‘Is it on?’ asked Gerald.
‘Yes,’ Cammy said.
‘See you dicks,’ Gerald said to the iPhone. ‘Told you I could do it. Nae trouble. Twenty-four hours. Look,’ he tapped at his waist. ‘The signed tape is intact. You all owe me.’
With this he passed out.
…
The following day, the sweat dome having lifted, Cammy was sitting in the pub with Michael telling the story of the Guy.
‘What the hell was he doing?’ asked Michael.
‘A bet.’
‘A bet?’
‘Aye turns out Gerald’s a bit like your grandfather.’
‘In what way?’
‘Full of shit.’
‘My grandpa is not . . .’
‘Shut it Michael I’m not having another discussion about your grandfather. It was a bet. Gerald claimed to his mates, over a pint, that all the news around the PSD was nonsense. No one collapses due to the heat, he claimed. He said that anyone could survive this and worse. He bet he could wear his full winter gear and be fine.’
‘And?’
‘Twenty-four hours. He bet he could put on the coat and all and cruise through twenty-four hours.’
‘And the tape around him.’
‘Signed by all to show he’d not taken the coat off. It had to be uncut. My video proved he’d made it through twenty-four hours with all his clothes on.’
‘How is he?’
‘He nearly died. But the hospital told me this morning he’s stable and should be alright. Holds the hospital record for the highest recorded body temperature.’
‘A bet? For how much?’
‘No idea.’
…
The following day Gerald’s story, courtesy of Cammy’s Facebook page, had gone viral.
At nine that night, as Cammy was preparing to call it quits, an alert pinged in from his Facebook account.
He opened his page. There sat Gerald McNish, barely recognisable to Cammy without the hat and scarf. He was sitting upright in a hospital bed. The caption below read, ‘Thanks to Cammy, the taxi driver, for getting me to the hospital. I’ve emailed Guinness to see what the record is for being taped inside an overcoat in a heatwave. But no one has replied.’
He was holding a Curly Wurly in one hand.
Cammy replied to the post, ‘Good to see your okay, but you’re a nutter. By the way what’s with the Curly Wurly?’
The reply came back in seconds, ‘My mates’ standard bet.’
Cammy typed, ‘You risked your life for a Curly Wurly?’
The reply, ‘Fresh out of the fridge. Delicious.’
Look out for more iPhone stories on my Substack every week.https://substack.com/@morgancryauthor/note/p-205030983?r=5u37z1&utm_source=notes-share-action&utm_medium=web
June 28, 2026
‘Papa’ – A Morgan Cry iPhone Story.
I was one of the many Scots that travelled to the United States to follow Scotland in the World Cup. While in Florida my wife and I took some time to drive to Key West. It was there, sitting in a bar called Sloppy Joes, that an idea for a short story popped into my head. Writing on my iPhone I produced the following.
Can I thank Charles, the bar manager and Matty, our bar man, for their warm welcome, and cold beer.
Enjoy the story.
‘Papa.’
by
Morgan Cry
‘Composed in Sloppy Joe’s bar in Key West – 27th May 2026. ‘
Miller sat at the bar, a glass of rum and lime juice warming in his hand. He stroked at his beard, pinching hair between his thumb and forefinger. Too long? A couple of millimetres off? Would that have helped? Probably not.
The late afternoon heat and humidity had dragged many a tourist into the bar in search of relief and refreshment.
Two had taken up stools next to Miller.
‘It’s not who you want to be. It’s who you can be. That’s the money-shot in life.’
Miller placed his drink on the smooth-aged, wooden surface of the bar and fumbled in the top pocket of his crumpled linen shirt for the chewed, rubber-ended pencil he kept there. He reached over, grabbed a handful of napkins from the shelf below the bar and dropped them next to his drink. Separating one from the pile, he scribbled the sentence he’d just heard the young man to his right utter.
Can be, not want to be.
What you can be.
The man that had spoken was dressed in a neon pink t-shirt with the words ‘Take Me’ printed in slime-green across his chest. His shorts were vomit yellow, ripped and tighter than cling-film on a cooked chicken. His sandals held together with gaffer tape. Add in the slick, unwashed, dandruff-laden hair, mustard-coloured teeth and aftershave of choice, Eau D’BO, and Miller was guessing this lad’s ‘can’ in life was not one of a multi-billionaire, unless he was, and this was more than possible, vibing late Howard Hughes as his role model.
Miller thought ‘can’ not ‘want’ was inspirational if you looked at it with a certain squint, after all his own ‘can’ had been detailed on a rough sheet of paper typed on a 1926 Underwood Standard Portable typewriter sitting upon a crooked desk in a rented shack not two hours earlier.
Five bullet points that laid out his future. No, dictated his future.
And those points resonated heavily with the word can.
He sipped at his drink, staring at the words he’d scribbled on the napkin.
The young man’s conversation had moved to the merits of ketchup as a cheap sunscreen alternative.
Can, not want.
Was this what he had been waiting for, searching for, hoping for, since he’d rolled into town? A start point to his pending, assured and, no doubt, enduring contribution to the world of literature that would be his legacy. A novel of more than a little note?
After all, hadn’t the great man based his work on what he heard, what he saw, what he did?
1) It’s in you to write a classic.
Miller believed, to the last penny of his meagre, depleted bank account, that this was true.
He touched his wallet in his pocket, more than aware his liquidity was only a few days from drying up. He placed the glass on the bar; drinking at speed would not help his financial situation.
2) Greatness comes from standing on shoulders.
Miller knew his creativity to be that of reflection, not of originality.
3) Life is too short to wait.
Miller was seventy-eight years old. Until two months ago, he’d been living with his mother in a two-up-two down on Glasgow’s south side. The same house he’d been born in. His mum had passed at the age of ninety-eight, whereupon Miller had discovered her bank account empty, her home sold and her jewellery stolen; all by his younger brother: now hiding out somewhere in Italy.
‘Sorry, you certainly have something about you but not enough.’
The words that had excluded him from the all-important competition last night in this pub. He’d argued the accuracy of his beard, the choice of clothes, his knowledge of words should have graced him entry to the contest but, even in light dimmer than a one-watt bulb, his discernible resemblance to the great man was tangential. There, but tangential.
He wished he’d accepted the decision with aplomb. He’d liked to have told them why his entry to the competition was so important. So prescient. Truth be told, he’d drunk too much and left the bar cursing the judges, the competition and most of humanity.
4) For Whom The Bell Tolls.
Everyone is connected. Everything is connected. Every death matters. Wasn’t that the gist of those words by the great man. That we all turn to dust. A warning to make the best of what we are. What we have. What we can.
Miller’s bell had tolled as he’d stared into his mother’s grave, but he should have heeded its ring many years before.
‘Less years ahead than behind, my son.’
His stepfather’s words after the doctor told him about his cancer, the untreatable cancer.
Once the depth of his brother’s deception had been revealed, Miller had sold the contents of his mother’s home, including his own pathetic possessions, to a home clearance firm, packed a small flight bag, and flown to the U.S. on the cheapest air ticket he could find.
His thumb had done the rest of the work to reach this town.
5) Remember Finca Vigía.
Nombre del recién nacido: Miller
Fecha de naciemento: Deciembre 4, 1948
Hora de nacienento: 14:12
Lugar de naciement: Maternidad Obrera de Marianao
Nombre de madre: Joan McFarlane.
Nombre de padre: Desconocido.
Desconocido. A haunting, life defining word. Unknown. Except el nombre de su padre wasn’t unknown. Not anymore. He was known. Well known.
A death bed confession in the tiny bedroom his mother had slept in for three quarters of a century had seen to that.
Miller’ mother had worked in the British intelligence services from late 1945, transferring to Cuba in 1947, the youngest in her profession. Lived, loved and gave birth there. Gave birth to Miller McFarlane. Him of a Cuban birth certificate. Him of a padre desconocido.
‘Your father? You are still asking after the identity of your dad?’
Close to her last words.
He’d nodded, tears in his eyes, a spoken reply denied by a throat swollen with the knowledge of the grief to come.
‘You shouldn’t have to ask me who your father is, Miller. You already know. Look to where you were born, when you were born, to your name and then ask yourself who your papa is?’
The poster on the pub wall stared down at him.
‘Sloppy Joe’s Ernest Hemmingway Look Alike Contest.’
The Ernest Miller Hemingway Look Alike Contest.
The competition Miller had been rejected from the evening before in Hemingway’s bar of choice back in the day.
Hemingway’s place of inspiration.
A picture of the great man sat centre stage in the poster. Taken in the late 1940’s it showed Hemmingway at his desk within his home in Finca Vigía, near Havana in Cuba, rubber-ended pencil in hand, hunched over his Underwood typewriter
Under it someone had scrawled the great man’s nickname.
Papa.
Miller ordered another rum and lime juice from Matty, the friendly bar man, picked up his pencil, grabbed a fresh napkin, and began to write.
Morgan Cry’s latest crime fiction novel in the Blake Glover series, The Fracture, is out now published by Severn House and Scotland’s International crime writing festival, Bloody Scotland, www.bloodyscotland.com will run from the 18th to the 20th of September in Stirling.
June 9, 2026
Bloody Scotland 2026
I'll be appearing at Bloody Scotland on Sunday the 20th of September with Kate Foster and Louise Herren. Tickets here https://bloodyscotland.com/event/dark-caledonia-morgan-cry-kate-foster-louise-heren-541812/
May 21, 2026
The Fracture – out in paperback
The Fracture is now out in paperback.
April 1, 2026
New Book Deals
I've signed contracts to bring four new books to the market between now and the summer of 2028. The first two books will be a new historical crime series set in 1662 starring a Dundee advocate called Sir George Mackenzie. The first book, Dark Accords, will be published on the 3rd of November 2026 and the second book, It Will Never Be Over, in May 2027.
In addition there will be two more Blake Glover books coming out following the success of The Cost and The Fracture. Called The Toil and The Body Keeper they will be published in January 2028 and July 2028.
December 14, 2025
Substack – My New Newsletter
I've flipped to substack to bring you a more regular and, hopefully, more interesting newsletter. Hop on over and subscribe if you want some tips on writing, some short stories and Q and As with great authors. https://gordonbrownauthor.substack.com/?utm_campaign=profile_chips
November 5, 2025
The Fracture – out now
The Fracture is now available for purchase in hardback and eBook. The second in the Blake Glover series it is published by Severn House.
Ex-police officer Blake Glover’s past threatens to catch up with him and destroy his small town life in this second instalment of the Blake Glover Crime series by Bloody Scotland co-founder Gordon Brown writing as Morgan Cry.
Ex-police constable and now taxi driver Blake Glover thought retiring to his hometown of Fraserburgh would be calm – until, while attending a local funeral service, he notices something disturbing: did the sturdy expensive coffin split as it was lowered into the grave? How could this be possible? Is there a cruel scheme taking place?
As if this wasn’t enough, one of Blake’s customers from the night before has gone missing and Blake is the last person to have seen him alive.
To make matters even worse, Blake is contacted by his old colleague-turned-nemesis, Mitch Campbell – now imprisoned in Glasgow’s HMP Barlinnie. Mitch is threatening to frame Blake unless he agrees to a dangerous request.
Torn between helping friends, confronting a past enemy and uncovering dark deeds, Blake is dragged into a toxic world of small-town tragedy and big-city drama. As he tries to untangle the truth, he underestimates just how deadly things will become . . .
September 18, 2025
Paperback – The Cost
The paperback of The Cost will be out on the 25th of September. Available in all good book shops it will be followed by the sequel, The Fracture, out on hardback on November the 4th.
July 23, 2025
Short Story Anthology
At the moment, in between Blake Glover books, I’ve been working on an anthology of short stories. Lifted from a dark corner in my Mac, I’ve selected a dozen stories written over the years. Some have been seen before, some have lain, unloved in the hard drive for many a year. With the blessing of my publisher, I’ve embarking on a voyage of self-publishing for the anthology. For this I need to thank Barry Hutchison, better known as JD Kirk, who is a whiz at the self-publishing game and has been a great help. The anthology is now available on eBook and is called ‘Short Stories From a Dark Corner.’ and is available here - https://www.amazon.co.uk/Short-Stories-Dark-Corner-Others-ebook/dp/B0FJ8QNF2S/ref=sr_1_1?crid=Z8L3L373MV0T&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9._NwlrpUsDdIyud4kQd_iuH8wnVIMdx2i4HKENNraDZXGjHj071QN20LucGBJIEps.1kbDZ3k7y3JRo2xwBdozyI00BjByEDdtBXkLtBhaBSk&dib_tag=se&keywords=short+stories+from+a+dark+corner&qid=1753241299&sprefix=%2Caps%2C89&sr=8-1
The blurb - 'Every corner hides a story, some are just darker than others.
From the twisted mind of Morgan Cry comes this gripping collection of short stories — intriguing, sharp-edged, and full of unexpected turns.
Written by Morgan throughout his writing career, and now gathered together for the first time, these tales ask questions such as: Would you kill for a bet? Who is the Banjo Killer? Is there really a naked burglar out there? Why was a19th century serial killer never caught? Does someone have a pact with the devil? Why steal a pound note? Would you go on the ultimate diet? ... and more.
For fans of crime, tartan noir, and the unsettling secrets people keep, Short Stories From A Dark Corner is a journey into the places most of us would rather not look… but can’t resist.'
