Angel Whelan
Bio
Angel Whelan writes the kind of stories that once had her checking her closet each night, afraid to switch off the light.
Finalist in the Vocal Plus and Return of The Night Owl challenges.
Stories (109)
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Bleeders
It crashed behind the barn just before dawn. I was still bleary-eyed, standing on the porch waiting for Red to finish his morning business. The inky sky split in two, torn asunder by an electric-blue ball of fire. It left a trail of light in its wake, and I braced myself for the shockwave that was sure to follow. But nothing happened. I told myself I was imagining things, still drunk on sleep. But the smell, I couldn’t have imagine that – an acrid, bitter scent it was, like burnt fuses, or that time Momma bleached her hair blonde. I felt the hairs on my arms tingle from all the static what was in the air.
By Angel Whelan5 years ago in Fiction
The Homestead
I never intended to return here. As I drove down the bumpy lane I realized I’d been holding my breath, my knuckles white as I clung to the steering wheel with a death grip. I put the radio on, hoping to calm myself with the latest summer hits, but somehow the channels were scrambled and an angry male voice spat fire and brimstone through the crackling speakers. I turned it off. I didn’t need any more reminders of my destination.
By Angel Whelan5 years ago in Fiction
The Welcome Party
Emory took the ceremonial sabre and ran it along the edge of the champagne bottle, the cork releasing with a satisfying pop. Celeste caught the fizz as it foamed out in a delicate crystal flute. The others clapped, though they’d seen him do it a thousand times before. It seemed the right thing to do.
By Angel Whelan5 years ago in Fiction
This is How The World Ends
It started with the night clubs. One Friday night, after a long day at work, the whole world collectively decided to just stay home. Why go out, when you could order a take away and watch some comedy panel shows with the family? A bottle of wine and a good curry sounded so much better than getting dressed in their glad rags and hitting the town.
By Angel Whelan5 years ago in Fiction
Maelstrom
So hard to move. The weight of the chains that bind me crush my chest, pin me to the ground like a butterfly in its glass case. It’s dark here in my prison. I sense time passing as though it were a moment -the flash of winter freezing the earth around me, then Spring and the damp scent of fertile soil. Over and over, winter, summer, winter. How long? How long have I waited for them to remember me?
By Angel Whelan5 years ago in Fiction
Influencers
I woke up realizing two things – I was no longer cold, and the others had gone. I wasn’t sure where I was at first – hazy recollections of running through the dark mall, ivy covered pillars and broken escalators. Looking around I realized I was in was some kind of a storeroom. No windows, shelves stacked floor to ceiling with boxes containing who knows what. A department store, perhaps, judging on the thick duvet and pillows I was wrapped in. I hadn’t been this comfortable in months.
By Angel Whelan5 years ago in Fiction
