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)
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 Whelan3 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 Whelan3 years ago in Fiction
Suffer The Children
“Open,” I demanded as I grabbed my ID card and headed for the door. It remained stubbornly closed. “I said, open!” “I’m sorry Stephen, you appear to have forgotten your rebreather,” House responded in an irritating sing-song voice. “Please put on your mask and try again.”
By Angel Whelan3 years ago in Fiction
The Others
Monday 11th June They were at the door again today. Knocking, shouting, begging to be let in. I’m not stupid, I didn’t let on that I heard them. I went to the window, peeled back a corner of the yellowed newspapers to try and get a look at them. Such cunning disguises they have! This time a dumpy looking ‘woman’ with straight, mousy brown hair and a crucifix round her neck. She left a box of something on the porch, but I shan’t go and see till nightfall. It’s not safe in daylight anymore.
By Angel Whelan3 years ago in Fiction
The Arrivals
They found the first one in the backseat of a yellow taxicab in New York city. The driver was interviewed by Ellen and Oprah – 15 minutes of fame as they replayed the viral video again and again. He leant back in their deep couches, his silk shirt open at the neck, black hair sprouting over the top like a 70’s porn star. He threw his arms around wildly as he performed for their cameras – feigned surprise at the baby appearing where a moment before there had been none. The audience laughed, lapping it up. Critics accused him of trickery – was it staged? A CGI effect, perhaps, or an accomplice off-screen? His interviews added nothing to the story – the simple fact was, he didn’t know. Nobody did.
By Angel Whelan3 years ago in Fiction
The Heirloom
1996 Marty held the small locket in his stiff fingers, watching the way the light reflected on the colorful enamel. He opened the clasp, his eyes watering as he saw the photo still inside – it seemed a lifetime ago, that young, eager looking man in his air force uniform smiling up at him. She’d kept it all this time – tucked in her drawer alongside the letters he’d sent her. Their whole wartime romance reduced to a small bundle tied up in blue ribbon. It was too sad.
By Angel Whelan3 years ago in Fiction
De-Unification
We were digging up the potatoes when Maggie-Mae collapsed. She slipped silently to the ground between the neat green rows - I don’t think anyone else saw. I didn’t want to draw attention, so I kept digging as I moved closer to her position, near enough to see she was still breathing. Her soft, gray hair clung damply to her cheeks, and she made a rasping, phlegmy sound with each shallow breath. It was clear she was unfit for work.
By Angel Whelan3 years ago in Fiction
The Klaxons Sounded
Dad and Eddie built the shelter in June 2037. They worked all summer long, using blasting caps to blow a chunk out of the hillside behind our house. Dad borrowed excavators from work, clearing the rubble aside, piling it up to conceal the entrance.
By Angel Whelan3 years ago in Fiction
Almost Perfect
Everybody knew it was a terrible idea. Even the President looked unsure, when he announced the go-ahead for the new magma-fueled power station. And with his grades in school, chances are he had no idea what he was talking about anyway. Finally, people of the world came together, Christians and Muslims, Whites and Blacks, Women and Men, united in the absolute agreement that this was a no good, very bad thing.
By Angel Whelan3 years ago in Fiction
The Many Deaths of Deacon
Pain, so much pain! My bones are on fire, I can’t think… Feels like a damned elephant is sitting on my chest! where’s that bloody nurse? What kind of circus are they running here, anyway? I need my pain meds, this doesn’t feel right, not right, no… oh no, oh no! I’m not ready to die!
By Angel Whelan3 years ago in Fiction