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 (103)
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The Exorcist Baby
Every new parent thinks their baby is the cutest thing in the world. We are blinded by hormones and love to the fact that our firstborn is a wrinkly, tomato-faced gremlin. Those first few days we are completely awe-struck, tentatively holding them as if they might shatter in our hands.
By Angel Whelan5 years ago in Families
The Plight of the Hawthorne
I saw it first. A ship on the distant horizon, barely more than a smudge against the merging blues of sky and sea. “Ma! Ma! It’s here! Pa’s ship is here!” I hollered as I ran down from the clifftops towards the town. I was panting by the time I reached the small main street, with its cobbled road leading towards the market square and beyond that the harbor.
By Angel Whelan5 years ago in Horror
Bold As Brass
It was 3am, and the air was hot and heady with the scent of the coming storm. The highway stretched monotonously into the distance, the moon my only driving companion now while my family slept. I thought maybe I could keep going without a break, make it to my In-Laws before dawn. My eyes grew heavy, the road blurring slightly as I tried to stay alert. I don’t know what made me choose that exit, but without even realizing it I was indicating and heading for the nearest gas station, the word ‘coffee’ flashing in my mind like a beacon. So strange; I rarely touched the stuff and especially never at night, yet here I was suddenly craving that caustic, bitter kick of caffeine.
By Angel Whelan5 years ago in Petlife
Marakesh
Tucked away down a narrow side alley just off the bustling South Street, Marakesh has an unassuming front entrance. You have to knock on the heavy oak door for admission, and it feels like you are entering your own personal Narnia as you pass through the heavy drapes and enter the restaurant.
By Angel Whelan5 years ago in Feast
No Prince Charming
Everything about him spelled trouble. We see his type all the time at the restaurant; cocky young men in pastel-colored polo shirts, wearing their white male privilege as casually as the designer jacket draped over their shoulders. His winter tan spoke of Daddy’s vacation lodge at Aspen, his gold Rolex deliberately oversized and gaudy. I could sense the waitresses tensing as they watched to see where he was seated, knowing to expect lewd remarks and paltry tips if they were the unlucky winner of tonight’s douchebag lottery. He ran a hand through his bleach blonde highlights, flashing an expensive and predatory smile at the hostess. She gestured him towards the bay window, our prime date night seating area. I wondered if he’d slid her a twenty, or whether he’d just namedropped her into submission.
By Angel Whelan5 years ago in Humans
