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 (116)
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Cart Before the Horse
A mystery to be solved at a later date, I suppose. Yet, in deep diving into the desert that is personal growth, it still powers a witching hour pacing session for two decades since it was introduced. It's the best thing for a restless night awakened from other obsessive nightmares topics. If I may break from the subject a second, I love a good paradox to meditate angrily like a trap without any binds or restraints to take it seriously. This one is forever tiresome and functions with a legitimate living specimen. The complete lack of vision in their vision, passion devoid of devotion, all with hope so worthy of ridicule, it'll jump-start adulthood and confound a mathematician from twenty-three paces. To this examination, my childhood, I warn of its effect can be a sort of spiraling infinitely without progress or direction of any validity. However, this enduring wooden rollercoaster that's beyond too creaky for that seventh loop. The Father mystery wears the mechanism to implosion to the point of a vacuous finality. If you can excuse the nauseating discomfort of too much cotton candy, it goes as follows: 'After your mom and I get rid of our car for an SUV for my hip, we're going to buy that house out in the country. Then I'll see about getting a job.'
By Willem Indigo3 years ago in Journal
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
