angela hepworth
Bio
Hello! I’m Angela and I love writing fiction—sometimes poetry if I’m feeling frisky. I delve into the dark, the sad, the silly, the sexy, and the stupid. Come check me out!
Stories (43/0)
Andyne
Laryians and humans alike shrink back when Commander Andyne rips through the main floor of the castle. The sound of her iron boots hitting the floor, clanking and clattering along with her long, powerful strides, sends the loud, ravenous hall of Freepallian soldiers into silence every time without fail. Queen Sylvia’s first in command, a warrior fiercer than any other, Laryian or human, male or female—Andyne was nearly a queen in her own right, commanding respect with her mere presence alone. Today, certainly, was no exception.
By angela hepworth2 months ago in Fiction
- Runner-Up in Whispering Woods Challenge
Mother of The WoodsRunner-Up in Whispering Woods Challenge
When Lilia listened to the woods, truly listened, the woods spoke back. It communicated, of course, not through mere words as humans did, but through ways of a more natural sort, a godlike sort, whispering sweet nothings to her through wisps of wind licking between her fingers. Its curling, giggling, lilting breeze tickled the hairs on her neck, making them stand at attention like a pack of hungry, primal beasts. The woods never pushed or pulled her this way or that; rather, the woods probed at her playfully, lovingly, as she walked past the beauty of it, immersing herself body and soul into its depths, letting the shrubs and ferns speak to her through those long, scratching traces they left along her exposed arms and legs, letting them tell her their meaning, their history. She closed her eyes and listened to them speak.
By angela hepworth2 months ago in Fiction
- Runner-Up in In Eclipse Challenge
ECLIPSE OF HOPE, OF DREAMSRunner-Up in In Eclipse Challenge
e very time she looks up at the dark night sky of blacks and blues and specks of white—spots of glittering stars gleaming in the blackness—her heart always chills at the sight of the moon, dwelling high above her; whether it is
By angela hepworth2 months ago in Poets
- Top Story - April 2024
death at my hands will be a mercy
Grimelda had lost many people in her life, but never a daughter. Humans might have said Malia’s grave was beautiful, her big tombstone at the head of it, smoothed over with fresh mud and colorful flower petals. To Grimelda, it was repulsive. But she knew that a human gravesite, crawling with bugs and rotting with flesh, was where Malia would’ve wished to be. This was where she chose to live, Grimelda reminded herself constantly, long fingers twitching. This was where she was happiest.
By angela hepworth2 months ago in Fiction