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 (99/0)
Infestation
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. Maybe that’s why we had no warning, no chance to repel their invasion. They arrived in silence, their cloaked vessels soundlessly appearing over our cities without even casting a shadow. There was no war, no last stand for humanity. It was over long before we even knew it began.
By Angel Whelan2 years ago in Fiction
- Runner-Up in The Runaway Train Challenge
The Ticket CollectorRunner-Up in The Runaway Train Challenge
‘Find a job you enjoy doing, and you will never have to work a day in your life.’ – Mark Twain “People these days are always so focused on their destination that they forget to enjoy the journey.” – Wilfred Perkins Senior, 1911.
By Angel Whelan2 years ago in Fiction
The Final Act
Three Days Until Opening Night The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. At least, that was what was supposed to be painted on the backdrop, along with stormy skies and lightning forking down beyond the silhouettes of trees. They were behind schedule, though, and opening night was in just three days.
By Angel Whelan2 years ago in Fiction
It's Your Choice, Tom
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. The key, rusty from so long without use, lay patiently on the door mantel. No longer sad and decrepit, the old place seemed somehow energized, excited. It waited, oh so patiently, for someone to come knocking.
By Angel Whelan2 years ago in Fiction
Hunting Season
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. I assumed it was a couple of local teenagers - the place had been a make-out spot back when I was in high school. It had smelled of damp and decay even then, but beggars can’t be choosers. I made a note to check back later, make sure the candle was put out properly. It would be a shame for the place to burn down, decrepit as it was. I vividly remembered my first time, right there on a filthy bare mattress surrounded by the stale smell of beer and piss. Must have been, what, twenty years ago? Her sweaty hair spread wildly around her shoulders, the red of her lips as they parted with every moan. Ah, for the thrills of youth. Such bittersweet nostalgia.
By Angel Whelan2 years ago in Fiction
The Missing Ingredient
It wasn’t the first time I’d been to a barbeque. The church held one every year for us poor waifs and strays on the 4th of July. The limp boiled hot dogs and gristly burgers came with a side of sanctimonious piety and a lecture on gratitude. Still, it beat the food in the Home by a long shot.
By Angel Whelan2 years ago in Fiction
Wynnie's Wyvern
*Author note:- It is important to me when writing stories for a younger audience to be as inclusive as possible. I hope that I have portrayed Wynnie in a positive, affirming way. If for any reason I have missed the mark, please leave a comment so I can address it.
By Angel Whelan2 years ago in Fiction