Angel in the Whirlwind, an inspirational short story collection, is out now. It’s written about young adults and college students, but it translate well for an adult audience too.
Here’s a short excerpt from the first story, “Voice of the Whirlwind.”
The next afternoon, Fiona and Ginger walked to their freshman psych class. Ginger was complaining about having to read Jung’s autobiography. “I bet he was on something,” she said.
Two days ago, Fiona would have agreed. But today, she didn’t know what to think. She’d read more of the book that morning and found herself arguing, not with the book, but with herself. Some things Jung wrote interested her and enraged her at the same time – this intense rage that seemed to rise from something deeply scared and resistant. I must be coming down with something. She’d had a headache and a sour stomach all day.
Liar. It’s because of the angel.
“But what if it’s true?” Fiona asked as they passed under the great sycamores, where white limbs vanished into deep green leafshadows. “True in a manner of speaking, I mean. Like a metaphor.” She couldn’t believe this was coming out of her mouth. A few days ago she would have been attacking Jung with Ginger.
Ginger shot her a sharp look, black curls swinging around her neck. “He saw a giant … turd fall on a church.” Fiona giggled nervously. “Come on! The guy’s a perv.”
Edgy, Fiona stared into the sycamores that towered over the puny buildings. Light and shadow shimmered in patterns too complex to follow, however long you studied them. The wind sighed, and she swayed as the leaves whispered in a language she couldn’t comprehend. The sun glimmered through the leaves like light on water.
The previous night she’d had a dream. Fiona had been sitting in a chair facing Jung. Jung gazed at her like an owl and said something in Germanic Swiss. Fiona nodded and reached into her pockets to dump handful after handful of tiny devils into her lap. They swarmed like maggots, like leeches, latching onto her fingers with tiny, sharp teeth. Jung had his glasses down, studying them. Embarrassed, she tried to cover them with her hands, but they were burrowing into her skin, through her thighs.
Fiona shook her head hard, stared into the leaves. Strange how the wind seemed like a river, flowing through the cathedral of leaves. Could she open herself to that wind? She wanted to be a sycamore, that great open air refreshing her. How pure she would feel, wind and sun her existence.
“Fiona?” Ginger said, giving her that who-is-this-girl look. “Stop acting weird, you’re scaring me.”
Fiona pulled herself away from the sycamores. “I’m fine,” she said, grimacing at her acid stomach.