Willem Indigo
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Let truly writing into the void begin.
Stories (119)
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Pineapple Upside Down Cake
No one is pretending anymore. A disgusting former noose that brought America to the brink only to fall for the sweetness in nightmares sold as a constitution revisioning. That’s how Papa Jimmy described it after I told him how my teacher presented it in her lesson. One of his mini rants during his morning routine of black lemon tea and skunk-ish smoke. He talked, whether he had an audience or not, and greeted the new audience happily without needing feedback between breaths. Dad says it’s how he used to plan routes. My mom and dad stopped volunteering to listen a long time ago. I guess war stories can only be so interesting in the revisit, although they let him stay while he was ‘stranded’ but beyond that, silence. Dad never said why. The most he would betray was the inner battle cry he’s amazing at hiding. I felt that he wasn’t the only one silently asking for quiet forgetfulness from all of us. I refuse to try to forget to look for what I don’t know. “That-a girl.” Wish other adults weren’t so secretly sad in conversations. Or a deep nostril exhale before abruptly changing the subject. Nervous laughter sounded the same as laughs at dirty jokes in kid-friendly movies. Not Papa Jimmy; he cackled even before he left two years ago with his ‘I’ll be back’ line referencing what Dad called a dumb kids movie from decades ago.
By Willem Indigoabout a year ago in Fiction
Panic
Dear Oh, you know who you are, First and foremost, hello. How have you been? Our conversations are getting scattered in the ether of excessive work, so any medium in a storm for us lighthouse dwellers, right? Doesn't matter. You do, I mean--Bare with me. I'm on another train, and after the next flight, sending this is going to take more than the 'while' that I'm willing to deal with not saying this. I've never been the inspired type, awaiting the vibe or even looking for 'the essence,' but this turnaround with you feels different. Plights from broken brains to over-worn feet pours before it rains to chronically piss on our life progression. The ups and delusions making that crazy anime you like a slog through an ADHD nightmare I've been in and the mess, so....
By Willem Indigoabout a year ago in Humans
Secrets from the Under Realm. Content Warning.
Bret shot awake in a fight-or-flight grasp that gave him nothing to attack and no direction on the cliffside shelf to run. He hit his head hard on the fender on his way to the feet and let out a groan that jolted Vince, but he remained motionless. The Suburban was upside down. This forced his eyes upward to the fog. Where could the peak they come from, he thought. If he gave it a thorough guess without the tools of his reasoning skills, the drop was four--five hundred feet before the fog started, practically cloud cover without an ounce of visible sky. That’s not possible, he thought. “Cynthia!” he yelled on his way back to the surprisingly structurally sound vehicle gently placed in the rugged, loose gravel, merely shattering the windows. Helping her up, seeing her scraped but barely bruised, they were left in a state of rising anxiety over the anomaly granted to them. Vince had been thrown to the edge of the shelf, overlooking what possible cause for smoke lay at the bottom of the valley. Still buried in consistent fog with familiar-ish shingles piercing the vail and a steeple in the distance further in the opposite direction, from his defeated position, he saw the zig then zag then zig again of a path down. They varied from San Fran. to salt flats. Artie climbed off the underside of the truck, camera in hand, and pointed it everywhere, assuming he was the first to film the underworld.
By Willem Indigoabout a year ago in Fiction
Secrets from the Under Realm
The river ran backward on the day the Queen Vanished. No one wanted it to be true; however, some of her subjects saw nothing but the waning of a king befuddled by the prophesized bringer of calamity. Kings are often attacked, threatened, hell, they may even be killed. But to witness the fragile truth of mother nature’s bottomless potential in the field of the ungodly, icy, uncivil revenge added to a marshy truce humanity maintained in hubris. Take everything down to their spirits, and you still can’t salvage the drowned eyes in the torrent of sadness. It was written that this land would know new rule and the people will prosper for an era or three. Then again, some bushes blocked the sign to Aqua Sulfur Pit once fell to loose dirt, so new inductees may begin coming in abundance if they survive the transition. To the last influential folk to get the right kind of loss, not that they had time to argue, must know the mage or be the light for the Green Jay to follow the air of destiny.
By Willem Indigoabout a year ago in Fiction
Start of the Hiatus
Officer Drew Account. The Whiskey Hotel was fine. A sentiment attached to every statement of the few surviving concert-goers the night of October 10th, the day of the C.P. Holly Concert Hall disaster. If the band were the only ones saying it, it wouldn’t rub Me wrong in the slightest. A four hundred-seat venue un-packed of its floor seating for the standing sort of crowd to stretch the limit of the maximum occupancy for a return to their roots. The firefighters weren't the only ones disturbed, but their battle went from ragefully unkillable to smoldering reminisces of a once proud city staple. A cause felt impossible to determine and somehow stumped a twelve-year veteran fire chief who joined the investigation personally. Tickets were sold by the row despite that not mattering, according to the witnesses I picked up with front row stubs. Claims of where the fire originated were extremely egregious as I found some starry-eyed grievers and asked a few folks from the nose bleeds. They called the experience a bonding enlightenment akin to Burning Man, and it sent shivers down the spine, ending at the mass grave of over a hundred sixty people. Chief Grimm and I started with……..
By Willem Indigo2 years ago in Fiction
How the river flows
How the River Flows Lately…. Consciousness under the thunder, blundered horizon takes the fire away from the sin, ‘what’s today?’ Ladder to her window typing fast so the rungs don’t break from the weight. To satiate the caged ape pauses must by ignore, self-floored to soften the welcome mat, hold tight, The Hostage Taker would like a word. Dutiful road map for where the lightning claps too soon on the record. Nothing to notice outside the—Don’t re-read the crux of this misdeed. Can’t to bring the listeners to the cliff, lemon juice in the slash marks to make them long for the rocky sea bottom. Won't to get a chuckle. Is your savior on high yet? Diver without a pile—Limbo of boredom hint of citrus if you squint daemon slow chases for all the hip the rip still leaves nothing in between us. Loose lips remain airtight. Death in a fashion, weak color, cool shades, flat tones, no faces, banned by a round of applause. A jaded cause without existing—Fit to a fault, primed to revolt, ‘the strays will eat fucking cake!’ Shaking in an earthquake since the Wachovia hold up of ’92. Rewritten by corrupt journalists, police have too many contrivances in their reports, and the gun-toting loudmouth recruited loyalty in under an hour. What an ordeal to carry for the one taking pistol kisses every time they say her name. Hostage Taker….
By Willem Indigo2 years ago in Poets
