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!
Achievements (1)
Stories (34/0)
- 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 hepworthabout a month ago in Fiction
hole in the earth
“Alois, why are we running?” Lise pants out at her best friend. She attempts to slow their pace, her legs still burning from the previous day’s work. But Alois’s legs are unrelenting, as is his grip on her hand, and he doesn’t deign her with a response.
By angela hepworthabout a month ago in Fiction
death at your hands will be a mercy
She appears to me like a ghost. She is immensely tall and slender and nearly blue-skinned with that strange grayish hue that distinguishes her from the rest of her kind, and her thin arms and legs ripple with muscle. Her long obsidian hair hangs low in curls to her waist, and her clothes are white and nearly translucent, hanging off her body like the wraps of a mummy. Her shimmering skin, glittering like fish scales, seems to blend into the gray fog of the air, casting her in and out of visibility as she moves towards me. The way she seems to slink up the hill without even touching it sends a shiver down my spine, her bare feet traversing across the air above the ground instead of sinking and squishing against the muddy ground as mine had.
By angela hepworthabout a month ago in Fiction
- Top Story - March 2024
Fear
Pierce Starlight was fourteen years old when he decided he was going to take his father down. He can recall the entire experience as clear as day. He still remembers the way the bastard had come to his room and leaned on the doorframe, telling him if Pierce wants any food for the rest of the night it’s now or never, because he’s working on a new book and the kitchen is the quietest place for him to do his writing, and—of course—he absolutely won’t be disturbed.
By angela hepworthabout a month ago in Fiction