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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Retirement Ain't so Great
A mad dash pack-n-scram put a damper on her plans, but efficiency was duly appreciated. The day he had was gold medal worthy at the mundane Olympics. Todd, at check-out, poorly handled a customer complaint claiming his curly blondish hair weaved itself through their bananas. During the oil change, a mechanic attempted an up sale so egregious the lube tech broke ranks to confess on his behalf of his uneducated new management as they wished Lars well sending on his way. To bring this fantasy-level sunshiny day to a victory lap, he visited his P.O. Box to greet a dramatic finality taking over a counter three-fourths the elderly lady’s size. All this, and Sandra was feverishly packing a bag he didn’t know if he had seen prior. And then, from the way its smell wafted to flare Lars’ nostrils, it wasn’t a factory color but a ColorPlace special. That’s not to say the extra pockets crudely stitched amid a firefight aren’t decently symmetrical. He recounted his conversation with the landlord and how keen he was to make a laid-off family of three homeless; Lars caught a glimpse of his favorite shirt folded neatly amongst the madness of stuffed laundry. Then she opened the canned food cabinet, moved everything either to the left or right and opened it again.
By Willem Indigo3 years ago in Fiction
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
