Jeffrey Wigen
Bio
Designer living in LA with my husband.
I moved to the city from a small town in the middle of Montana to attend the College of Architecture at IIT – where I now teach.
Writing, for me, is drawing with language, enjoy!
Stories (10)
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The Shinigami at Ushibori
Everyone was shocked, and understandably so, when Death revealed himself to be a fisherman living in Japan. Wary at first, dozens of brave reporters from around the globe heeded his summons to attend a press conference outside his humble home— a little harbor house and old port-side barn on the bay of Hitachi. It was a bit run down and ramshackle, but that only added to its unmistakable charm and surprising aura of warmth for so chilling a dweller. Death had caught everyone’s attention earlier that month by releasing a series of videos and posts online asking the world to pay close attention to the news in the coming weeks for any disasters and tragedies, natural or otherwise, and to observe the fatality tallies. The weeks unfolded as shootings, outbreaks, crashes, collapses, tornados, floods, fires, and a great number of daily calamities all reported zero deaths.
By Jeffrey Wigen5 years ago in Fiction
THE LAST EMPEROR
Similar to when a pounding rain breaks against the fast clip of a windshield, exploding in radial bursts of thin lines, the cracks in the windows were so many raindrops catching and throwing the morning light. Spider-web shadows crept across the silent rooms of the sleeping house. It was vacant now, and steadily falling into greater and greater disrepair. The little house stood last in a row of similar structures, lining the gently bent, dead-end street. The street too, was becoming more and more derelict. Among all the houses, nearly every other one showed signs of neglect. Paint chips scattered in odd piles like little heaps of strange white, blue, and green snow around the weed ridden dirt lawns. Missing shingles left bald patches on the rooves as the dandy lions tangled and tied them to the ground. The absence of scattered newspapers and phonebooks on the doorsteps marked the inhabited ones, crisscrossing ruts in the dirt indicating that someone had at least tried to tame the rampant weeds. Large amebic patches, slightly off from the original colors, struggled to hide the houses’ molting skins.
By Jeffrey Wigen5 years ago in Families
