Willem Indigo
Bio
Let truly writing into the void begin.
Stories (119)
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A Story of the Whiskey Hotel
June 13th, 2005, 11:37 PM. ‘Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky,’ the last line before Shane finished his solo later than a staged queue was planned to, but Angie began to play on, moving into the next track anyway. In the song Knock it Off, Shamus has a point where the sax switches from rhythm and takes the lead over the guitar. This time, however, the tempo increase was initiated by a three-second drone with all notes turned flat and an octave lower before the snap recovery seemed to return the drums to their recently maintained pop. Their instruments aged fifty years backward, then forward, and I’m unsure if anyone else noticed. The marionette act the track alludes to begins with Angie leading Marcus in an improvised and unrhythmic dance; her moves were meant to appear unpredictable, with steps and dips done to trip him up. During the line, ‘Show me what your control tastes like,’ there was meant to be an eight-count lead-in, but thanks to Shane’s shredding, its jerky resonance put Marcus starting on the four. So he moved drastically, and she followed the best she could, then it didn’t seem like the choice hers to refuse. Within a couple of lines punctuated by Angie's tiny break, ‘Burn you dust to dust at your own game,’ they were son in tune who was leading who was impossible to distinguish, and no matter her instrumental limitation, he moved more and more freely. Was he supposed to work her to death? I kept wondering as the crowd raved louder in their own cesspool of nature, melding together with mud that’ll dry to crusty statues.
By Willem Indigo3 years ago in Fiction
Return of Cleo DeJune
Return of Cleo DeJune ‘…. Speaking of never using the currency in favor of lackluster bartering in lesser services, Alice has returned and refused to wait at reception. She has stunned three guards, with and without using one of our trademark tasers, and put a pistol to Stephanie’s from Bungy Resources’ skull for her access identification. How she got that relic through four security checkpoints puts me at a perplexing loss, but you have about forty-seven seconds left at best.’
By Willem Indigo3 years ago in Fiction
Moment
What a view. A necessity it may seem, in a dream nowadays, that the report is due on Monday, the deadline was reached four days ago, and you’ve enticed your readers with the sultry presence of fabled outer limits danced upon for data astrophysicists will drool over.
By Willem Indigo3 years ago in Poets
Twenty-Seventh find of the Meaning of life Scavenger Hunt
Traversing catacombs, skulls lining the walls seem alien. Thirty-seconds tour in the sand wars, and then you may discover its treasure. Enough of that, ‘Bombs away’ shaking the shafts supports of their decay, pointless daring escape with empty hands, better power through angry recesses. Couldn’t have done this without local talent because, on pure souls that open the transdimensional portal, one sacrifice is required for the one-way journey free of fire. Didn’t have the time to even register the betrayal, ‘it hurts to be this good’. No wonder my scavenger hunt partner came back crying, “I never could.” Becoming one with gravity waves since, here, it’s all I recognize, too busy tasting with my eyes going blind except for a newly forming eye. All landings hurt, but the second-dimension line holds every stage of it at the same time. I’ve puked, will puke, and am presently puking from the broken ribs; double check for the cyanide can’t be trapped here, better respect the deadline. It’s still fine. The sooner I start coping, continue to cope with this insufferable urgency, and I will find the artifact twenty minutes ago, still unprepared to cope with the challenge of my organ count, and won’t be until twenty minutes from now. Holy shit, map glows, the surprise isn’t in the act, it proceeded to engulf itself for a job about to be well done. “My compass is garbage.” Passing creatures evolving into beings, then into enlightenment, presenting daily life as less than a hassle, yet searching the metropolitan jungle unites the 2D faction to the common threat. Wanna bet the betrayer lies stretched far and wide in every consciousness searching for what they’ve already found and has died, is being murdered and relishing in the oncoming parade in their honor--oh wait. Leapfrogging heads to spelunking in culdoscopes, a holy trope I’m still fairly unaware of. Of course, it’s the staff of a dead pope from a religion they don’t recognize. Getting ready to grab the capsule that’s choking to the afterlife, this dead can’t die here locals carry the convulsive idiot to save their sacred timeline. Not awake until I’m suffering a familiar vacuous finality. Hope the partner knows of the perk hidden in my pocket, coordinates in the bag of an undying hag. Heinous Al Father Guard, now seeing its truest form, I feel I have done the work of a Villain.
By Willem Indigo3 years ago in Poets
Torch Passing
They warned her all the time. It wasn’t enough to be cautious, skeptical in the beam of peace strife to death with a tension tenuously amorphous lurking behind corporate meetings and political discourse. At least water is still affordable, technically. Her many Careers since joining the bureaucracy to maintain such a teetering balance of the remaining United States have been growing in intensity. With a hand-delivered envelope stoking paranoia that would call for a report and alert, it becomes a faded distilled truth from the Career of a nameless co-worker. So she tidies up her daily security blockades, passwords, new mother’s maiden, throw the sim card away, and get a new phone entirely. Its front read, ‘Taste their blood for sight,’ and inside, on a single index card, it read, ‘change my code for best results,’ written in lavender matching the tab as the rest was a Matte black, nearly soft like velvet. The notable smell left her re-feng shui-ing her loft until, after an hour or two, the aroma brought a pause, with a location that could not be named but held such a place in her mind, not distinctly from what, but the mood it exposed to her conscious that says this problem must not persist. Step by step, like a navigation system via heart-pounding memory revitalization, revealing streets, mile markers, and settings somehow updated with the current disaster aftermath, but how she saw this left her with regret brought from a flashback. Who’d ever consider reverse engineering paper, and despite its texture, that’s all it was, to explain an origin of a place long dead, long gone, yet historically unforgettable? It’s no wonder she waited a week to plan the trip.
By Willem Indigo3 years ago in Fiction
Family Solution
The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. She hadn’t been in her father’s room since the calamity was announced thirty-five seconds before the lights went out. Consistent thirty-year 10.5 earthquakes would have been a softer destabilization than the abrupt cosmic visitation basked in enlightenment dragging behind them a pet Basilisk. They carried, upon their arrival, a grudge of misappropriated rage that spread like a wild virus similar to the infectious common cold equivalent they forced humans into hiding. Clarity came too late, decimating the land with fire and chemicals poisoning the soils recklessly before the realization led the extraterrestrials to exclaim in a great somber mass-translated announcement, ‘our bad.’ Though they were in trouble with some galactic federation that only a small group of humans met and hopefully pushed in the right direction, they were left on a dying planet waiting for reparations to revive the planet. Outside of constructing gargantuan turbines filtering the air to be breathable once more, Humans were on their own.
By Willem Indigo3 years ago in Fiction
