Willem Indigo
Bio
I spend substantial efforts diving into the unexplainable, the strange, and the bewilderingly blasphamous from a wry me, but it's a cold chaotic universe behind these eyes and at times, far beyond. I am Willem Indigo: where you wanna go?
Stories (113)
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White Out
The blowout sale and one-day-left coupons made the trip sound sweeter, leaving them in a haze of jittery anticipation for the Montana mountains. Half the savings would remain home for being, what Vick thought would over-saturate the experience. Sharp cold can be strangely calming. The smooth flight of chair-kicks paled in comparison to the vista overlook the six stopped at before the campsite. How could they not stretch their legs beyond the civilian trail to the snow-kissed riverside? Dana’s husband, Jason, spotted the hidden path into the mountain base.
By Willem Indigo2 years ago in Fiction
Where did they go?
“Don’t call me a lower-than-dirt criminal until the facts—yes, facts from my point of view. All of it, the money, that detective I thought was one of you, all the tunes just get me out of this damn position. I’m fresh out of an arm cast, undoing weeks of physical therapy progress.
By Willem Indigo2 years ago in Criminal
Words of Jude
Don't notice the hair Head down, count the broken glass in view, That weapon is always loaded. Took her on back when I would dare Voice rejects their murderous hypocrisy, Shit, don’t notice the hair. Glad hostages unanimously voted But clearly Janis was catching Stockholm, Did I mention the weapon is still loaded. On the lam, can’t imagine she knows where Not enough skin to align her views on, Need another writing hand or I’ll notice the hair. Singeing my temple, not sure she noticed Although her god-sorts-his-own plan is Holding. Somehow her weapon is still loaded. Wheres and whys abandoned with The hows and flipping whos Don’t acknowledge the glowing frizzy RED, Because her weapon is ALWAYS loaded.
By Willem Indigo2 years ago in Poets
Introducing the Whiskey. Content Warning.
Introduction to the Whiskey Calamity Tape 1; Side A Lines of tobacco smoke froze before them as ghostly barriers to their enigmatic silhouettes occupying four folding chairs in uniquely solemn fashions. The single forty-watt bulb above, obviously a victim of misplaced emotional turmoil, eerily shifted their shadows between blinks with its malaise-like, swinging remaining constant, moving a light they sat just outside of their darkened, deepened all facial expressions. It became as imperturbable as it was flimsy in the smoked-out backstage locker room. Howard dared to describe entering the throat chastising bubble like stepping into a localized hotbox preventing itself from spreading as far as the locker’s edge was expansive for comparison. Those accounts don’t hold, considering others who entered smelled it all over, into the hall even, despite none of the visible intertwined blunt vapors going outside the little cove of rarely used, recently beaten lockers. Amongst their hands, the only competing light source going from figure to figure, followed by puffs to replace the still lines that faded at the edge of their sanctuary but providing no more information than the red glow of puckered lips on the other end did on the inhale. Howard, their enraged manager, sick of this behavior, found their silent protest to be another demonstration of their disrespect for his fragile sanity.
By Willem Indigo2 years ago in Fiction
