Digital Delirium

Writing and Photography


Christina Angel began her life firmly rooted in Normal and has worked her way towards eerie. She may or may not be any of these things: a writer, a cat-lover, an angst-queen, a survivor of the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writer's workshop, a lover of all things chocolate, a goth, a punk, an upptiy bottom with a sadistic streak, and less harmless than she was before.

She has appeared on panels at Torcon talking about goths, vampires, sex, and BDSM.


You can read Christina Angel's fiction in the following places:

"Say It"

Read "Say It" in The Mammoth Book of Women's Fantasies published in November of 2004 by Caroll & Graf.

"Stop there," he tells me as the door slams closed; even though I expected the sound, I jump. I've only taken three steps into the room. "Stand still."

Every instinct in me screams, "No." It's built-in defiance that makes me want to provoke, ask, "Why should I?" makes me want him to give me a damn good reason to do so. It's the control freak in me that makes me want to take another step and another, just because he told me to stand still.

"Skin Deep Being"

Read "Skin Deep Being" in Sacred Exchange published in April of 2003 by Blue Moon Books.

Sipping my drink, I caught sight of her again. She wore leather. Leather that clung and hid and revealed in a way that seemed impossible but looked so natural on her, so normal, so right: midnight black criss-crossed tarnished silver, rubbed, shifted, slid. Eyes that would have been gray on anyone else glowed and sparked, were silver on her. Eyelashes blended silver and black, so long I could've touched heaven with one of them.

Straight black hair streaked with silver--not gray, not platinum, silver, metallic, shimmering silver -- swiped at the backs of her calves, clung to the leather licking her hips and thighs. Something unreal. And there I was, watching her across the bar when I shouldn't have been. And if Amara and I hadn't just ended things, then I wouldn't be there, wouldn't be looking at her, thinking how impossibly perfect and beautiful she was.

She was surrounded by her friends. Or at least by people who acted like friends, who looked at her and laughed with her and acted as if they liked her or loved her or wanted to fuck her. They were people who looked like her, or, rather, like her shadow. They were beautiful, perfect, but they were imitations. They strove to be the real thing, the one they surrounded and admired and worshiped and wanted, but they fell short. And maybe they didn't realize they fell short.