Poet. Storyteller.
Bang. Bang. “Just a second.” I was still between that half-life that is sleep and wakefulness. Through my half-lidded eyes I saw shadows moving up and down. At the end of the bed. To the same rhythm as the noise. Bang-Bang-Bang. Through my half-opened eyes, I sat up. And saw him. Dark framed in a…
“I don’t know why I’m even telling you this,” she says. To the stranger over the phone. At last it has begun for her. Though of course it is over for me.
Andrew Whalan
“One for each person,” she thought she heard. “And one for the pot,” the whispered reply. Yes she thought. You again.
An ink-stained manuscript materialises before her. Through the mist, she sees him. Crouched, pen-poised a man is waiting, frozen in time. His pen rises, falls, sweeps down but doesn’t touch the paper. He sighs. She sees two hands rise towards her. “Nothing. Still nothing.” He throws his pen down on the desk. She leans towards…
My entry in the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction competition. Genre: Ghost Story, Setting: Waterfall, Object: A Salt Shaker.
A kiss. A heavy unmoving kiss. Like my first : open mouthed and no movement. A kiss that flowed over me and washed me downstream. I woke a little. I drew a breath. I held it. I threw up my arms. I pushed her away. She didn’t want me. I wasn’t interested. I had other…
He was standing in the lounge room. He was pushing against the glass of the wooden framed back doors, fortunately closed and locked. I thought for a moment how strong he was and yet how he could topple over and fall so easily. He appeared to be watching something. Perhaps a kangaroo or wallaby had…
Andrew Whalan
Andrew James Whalan