Zoe Brook. I’m a writer.
I write short, long, surreal, silly, magical, and often queer fiction.
The Woman Dipped In Ink.
dress. Black dress. White dress.
dress, black flowers, red petal tips.
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.
fingertips trail down the pane. Longing, loneliness in her eyes.
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.
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.
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.
in experiences turned potential, is this
beginning or her end?
She walks, a lifetime of untold stories no longer contained, flowing away from her in fine rivulets.
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.
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.
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.
are experiences, ideas, woven with magic.
the metaphorical ink of potential accumulated, would-be written
stories, becomes physical force unseen within.
Does it bring hope or sorrow?