Willem Indigo
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Let truly writing into the void begin.
Stories (119)
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Winter, the humbler. Taunting the snowy peak on castle-storming errands, four wheels gambling from valley to top, introducing the new myth of the No Lives Snowcap. Or…mid-day walks, stalking wind’s brisk current through my neighborhood. Recluse to the garage’s freeloader for busy hands and summer dreams where the tickets to ride are always warnings at worst. That’s the shit end of a fresh dip outside the former high tide line. Near a mile above, not the time to revisit the below. The free space that was once held by loaded Irish coffees till noon to overflow the writing stream red-eyed behind the laptop screen, typing as the words blur. Never reread the orange notebook. None. Mental push-ups to get the placebo effect of the imaginative inner monologues, pressing me—US—me forward into the oblivion of daylight. “Would you like a bag?”
By Willem Indigo4 months ago in Journal
Day 5: Bluemoon Lit Caper
I knew this would happen. Normally, the poison named My Inclusion takes longer to show warning signs. If I can remain on par the course through their retelling of my symptoms from a night of "sleep," the next level of obstacles won’t hit so hard so fast. The roar is brewing beneath the volcano’s lid; the medication will have faded by now, whatever has been waiting to flood my vision is on its way. Testing each other...sure, okay. Maybe I should've force-filled stolen medical records they weirdly had with a prophecy with killer stats, but as doctors suggested, pretending it’s not there is worse as a stressor than communing in the meantime. Guess there's no need to relish. Fighting to ignore childhood bias, home training might be easier with these lunatics at the helm. Don’t get me wrong. No semi-competent crew could hold down one bitchen fort like this. These aren’t dizzy dames and loose cannons playing religion. They’re tough customers. (Explanation for the period in the addition.) Yet, what they expect to happen—what Cornman Ron is spooked about seeing for whatever reason, is loony with a capital LUNE.
By Willem Indigo4 months ago in Fiction
Day 4: Closed Circuit Walk-a-bout
I was awakened by Cornman Ron at roughly 06:10; a way of telling time takes too long in the afternoon, since he'd bother me if I wasn't perfectly pretending to be sleep. His spying yielded some reportable gains; one of them involved my events slated for me today. Such a breath to reach beyond my nostrils with such putrid air far eye-watering than I could take. I was on track to ignore the whole of him, but mentioning what post I’d be starting, the heads-up felt needed, even if I couldn’t deduce why in my fugue state. I wonder if he knew I couldn't move for the first six minutes he was talking. I could feel the tears; did he see anything off? Somehow, it had become my duty to report to him since the fire and the second and third hanging, something I wasn’t fully knowledgeable of before searching for my pants for your information. It didn’t take much to make the leap that that was his bias’s aim. Journals are—well, let me make clear the Journaling thing.
By Willem Indigo4 months ago in Fiction
Day 3: Gossip in the Religious Routine. Content Warning.
I can only compare the 02:19 wake-up call to a boot camp built right into your childhood treehouse. Having a tank's echo was the real blistering fire finger poker to my headache. Bunked near Ron, I followed him toward the howling echo octaves bolstering of a dying bat squeal out of the bellend that rang deeper and lower the closer you were by the inch. Their solution to this explains the why on the journaling exercise, demented spirits or not, it’s smarter to have pen and paper in this damp, hovering humidity cesspit of body odors before the raid.
By Willem Indigo4 months ago in Fiction
Day:2 Ded Moone Camp Facility. Content Warning.
I was told to get a feel on my own. That’s what I get for asking a question after midnight. Dark and wet, I could appreciate the existance of a trail to the rear of the island, the hike through the brush, the single slip i'd be from disappearing in the drink for a gulp. Sleeping comes whenever the hell it wants, but it eventually skews me back toward the night shift with everyone else here, so far. It’s those brief moments of sunlight in the late evening when I've caught a rare dose of nap. This night ended at the bar on the stool. I never thought it would be this comfortable all those times I was prevented from indulging in the act by the sheer ridiculousness of the look as it was the movie staple of the down trotted fuck-up. The Voice, it—I am literally dying for this shit, so excuse the fucking bias I may share as I bring this up, but to keep with my journaling immersion technique from Wolfman Patrick, i have to be cautious aboout said—context.
By Willem Indigo4 months ago in Fiction
Journal entries of the Wolf-man . Content Warning.
Ded Moone’s Peregrination Introduce yourself, I guess, Night 1: A frenzied, radical move of lunacy during a moment of lucidity, but friends and family miss the dark for their best interest. With a track record of putrid half-measures focused on the financial debacles I can’t be blamed for despite the epic effort, I must say to that and all this, fuck’em. They are long aware of the cost/savings benefits of avoiding the lifetime hardship of holding firm against the disruptive acts they’ve given up trying to explain to first responders, friends, in-laws. This is respecting my cousin’s shrug and smile when I was last wheeled to the psych ward from the main lobby during some one-man natural disaster while trying to keep me away from your lives. I appreciate her silent candor, nestled in a refusal to respond to the question vocally once I pleaded my case, not a one-for-one; is it worth the gas money anymore? Nurse Jackie genuinely means well with ‘come back soon,’ layered with overbearing subtext for her devotion to patients, avoiding the sobering alternative, like, for instance, that my legs are delightfully, currently dangling over, so we had a good last run. No more power-ups after Black-Hawk-Downs at terminal velocity if I miss the other freeways. It’s, in a fashion, an attempt to fight the very notion of wind in favor of landing in the shadowiest section of an unlit road leading under Pocahontas Parkway. I saw it one trip heading to the Tar Heel State for a lecture. Can't say it wasn't gaudy, reaching out over that Potomac, I think, but I took note of it all the same on the drive back north. What a beautiful view, last or otherwise. A powerful end, one splat to resend all wasted energies to a greedy Earth with fallen angelic wings of flaming middle fingers—wait, wait, what am I doing—why the hell am I doing it this way?! I’m a god damn stamp on this putrid State rationality of what widens our perspectives naturally in regard to death and its role in the human psyche. I’m a fucking explorer of the damned, the feared unknown--I’m a god damn MAN! I gotta go, that's certain. This is the experiment of a lifetime, and I’m wasting it on a bridge jump in the dark alone? Symbolism over the race to see the unknowable—Geez, Fuck these nightmares! I might’ve missed the synchronized opportunity of my…
By Willem Indigo4 months ago in Fiction
Five Stanzas of Lightning
Pedal on the floor with a rear view going mental—ignore the motorists going backward toward Gaia’s takes on creating side of the road vigils. Thunder clapped clouds, no road out of its war path. Apathetic wrath made me glad I re-stopped for gas. Turn up the nitrous, cackling through the overpass finish line, as the lyrics find their way back to the scene of the crime. Not this driver seat.
By Willem Indigo4 months ago in Poets
Out Through the Attic Window
This is to appease the Manic Rambler. Syllable by symbol to breathe soul into the Zero-G, some call it life in free fall. Blamed by the inner. SEE!? Left rethinking all laws; whose world have I been released in? I'd lie if it didn’t feel like a useless pause. Saying to say the said thing to the succubus, ignore the countdown timer she checks, it's not for you.
By Willem Indigo5 months ago in Poets
