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 (114)
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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 Indigoabout a year 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 Indigoabout a year ago in Poets
No 'I' in Gonzo
Work*ng Vacat*on Star*ng Charley Knox Between the ego cleanse and flame-fueled loan shark duel, he evolved Charly to a scary goon; he was off to earn the fury of career devoutness back. ‘He looked worse after the gap months; what happened?’ Landed before The Great Party story pre-jotted on the plane. Pre-rummed for the crawls; the boss won’t have a clue except for the coach seat long tab. At a bar to breathe the scene, locals celebrate and feel all the same, enthused by the future change of atmosphere. ‘Who’s that—Oops! Sorry man. Excuse my flawed culture.’ Spotted her eyes on the gruff above the Wally-World floral button-up. Toast to her acknowledgment regardless of the pounds of dreads. However, the drunk level took some thought because the stool next door earned a guest no knock and jumped to the handshake before the name. Two more rums from the cheeky barkeep, they converse, unknowable plans fly to meet the day of. He doesn’t care for auras except hers reads as a fresh copy of the Book of the Dead. ‘Oh well, good talk and good luck.
By Willem Indigo2 years ago in Fiction
