I’m Zoe Brook. I’m a writer.
I write short, long, surreal, silly, magical, and often queer fiction.
The Woman Dipped In Ink.
Red dress. Black dress. White dress.
White dress, black flowers, red petal tips.
She drifts through the world. Rain pelts the glass in fat, running droplets as she watches. Their streams distort light, views through the window. Inside, and out.
Her fingertips trail down the pane. Longing, loneliness in her eyes.
Ink seeps from her. Constant, viscous, pooling. From her fingertips, heels, hair, tear ducts, it seeps and runs from her, pooling in places, sticking in others. Reflecting slick highlights.
As she drifts, the ink runs like tears around her. It fills her footsteps, dissipating in rain and evaporating into black stains in the sun. It’s left dark and unseen on anyone she touches, without her knowing. It bubbles up through the skin at her throat, sliding down her chest through her dress’s weave without leaving trace, but marking the whole world around her.
The rain is a mild, warm background noise in a cold city, accompanying her tapping footfalls as she walks through the alley slow, barely feeling the rain. The edges of petals on her soaked, summery dress the only spots of color in the scene.
Soaked in experiences turned potential, is this
Her beginning or her end?
She walks, a lifetime of untold stories no longer contained, flowing away from her in fine rivulets.
He demanded salad, every Sunday lunch. The centerpiece. In the beginning, it was the symbol of his blandness, his normality, everything that frustrated and hurt her. But little by little she learned to make the salads better. Spiced dressings, bits of added fruit, nuts, or grains. They became her own. He didn’t change, but her salads did.
To this day, honey vinegar’s sweet bite reminds her that she is finally free.
Imagine, a city in gray monotone. Noir aesthetic, perhaps with the odd pop of color only occasionally. It’s raining there, striking an odd balance between warmth and chill. The motion of the city blending together into a stillness.
A few people in this city feel balanced within themselves. But most are lonely, brave enough to stay the same, yet lacking the strength that a sincerely offered ear lends. Without quite the bravery to be the first ear in the domino line of change; listless islands they.
Stories are experiences, ideas, woven with magic.
When the metaphorical ink of potential accumulated, would-be written stories, becomes physical force unseen within.
Does it bring hope or sorrow?