A Woman Made Cold Short Story

She had endured a life seated in unparalleled heartbreak. She was not born hard; she was a woman made cold by circumstance.

She walked up to the door… her black leather heels digging deep into the softening oak beneath her. She didn’t knock. Her steps were authoritative without being obnoxiously loud. She seemed emotionless but if you looked hard enough you would see that her compassion ran deep. She had endured a life seated in unparalleled heartbreak. She was not born hard; she was a woman made cold by circumstance.

Excerpt from “A Woman Made Cold” original short story

by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse

This story is still unfinished. It comes to me in pieces that may or may not ever fit together, but I suppose that is the nature of inspiration.

Untitled Artwork by Vanessa Cate

No Room for Pierre

No Room for Pierre by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse

I started with the cartoon of the lonely, french babyman. When he was done, I noticed that his expression was very dreary and disheartened, so I added the tub filled with others just like him enjoying a group bath. The backgrounds that I drew ended up distracting from the absurdity, so I moved on without completing the piece. I really would like to blow it up and hang it in my kitchen one day.

Opening to “Hypochondraway”

There is a bloody rot in this place. It breathes beneath the floors. It lurks in the shadowy vents stalking the weak- hunting for meat until all the sick are swallowed whole. The thick smell of it made my vision go grey.

I’d been here as a child when it was a normal crumpled hospital for normal crumpled cirhossis patients and gangrenous feet. Thoughts of cancer crept into my ear, reminding me that there are poisons in this world that I can taste as clearly as the salt that rides on an ocean breeze. I wasn’t completely cured yet. Dark, unpleasant thoughts often swelled up in my head leaving no room for cupcake recipes or oven cleaning tips. Today’s Hypochondraway treatment would fix all that though. From now on, ALL my daydreams would be happy and light like lemon meringue.

Excerpt from unfinished science fiction story titled “Hypochondraway”

The concept of this fragment is inspired by a series of psychosomatic fainting spells I had. The imagery, which I will expand on in later posts, is taken from a dream I often have where I am sitting in the waiting room of a hospital in the early 1970s. Everything is yellow, linoleum, and humming with the sound of indifferent machinery.

by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse

Evan Doll Without Feet

This is a doll that I made of my fiance using sculpy and bent paper clips. I can’t sew, so he is topless. He also has no feet. After I finish a face I tend to lose interest.

by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse

Everything’s Blue in this World

Beauty is mysterious;

finding mere pieces of Her is all we can ever hope to do.

In an effort to understand how truth and beauty are created, we regularly break down large perplexing works into more manageable pieces.A novel is merely a group of chapters, which is a group of paragraphs, which is a collection of sentences, etc. All interesting subjects become the victims of criticism, the Self included.

The artist’s perception of the world cannot be separated from her perception of self. Ultimately, she is another mystery worthy of dissection and interpretation.One whose smaller parts offer glimmers of truth that can be seen, but never truly captured.

photo by Jaq Vega

journal by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse