Elisa Wontorcik
Bio
Artist, writer, and ritual-maker reclaiming voice through chaos and creation. Founder of Embrace the Chaos Creations, I craft prose, collage, and testimony that honor survivors, motherhood, and mythic renewal.
Stories (62)
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The First Real Breath
The First Real Breath The first real breath doesn’t arrive with relief. It arrives with space. A small, unexpected pocket of air inside a body that has been tight, dim, and heavy for too long. I don’t notice it at first. It slips in quietly, the way light slips under a door — thin, hesitant, almost accidental.
By Elisa Wontorcikabout 22 hours ago in Chapters
The Days That Blur
The Days That Blur The days don’t disappear. They dissolve. One into the next, without edges, without markers, without anything sharp enough to distinguish morning from afternoon or Tuesday from Thursday. Time doesn’t pass down here — it spreads.
By Elisa Wontorcik2 months ago in Poets
Silent Panic
The Silent Panic The panic doesn’t arrive with a scream. It arrives with a whisper — a tightening in the chest so subtle I almost miss it. A flicker of something sharp beneath the slow-motion heaviness. A shift in the internal weather that doesn’t match the stillness of my body.
By Elisa Wontorcik2 months ago in Chapters
Slow Motion
Chapter 7 The slowing doesn’t arrive like a warning. It arrives like a thickening — a quiet shift in the internal physics of my body and mind. After the dimming, after the weight, after the quicksand, everything begins to move at a different speed. Not the world — me.
By Elisa Wontorcik2 months ago in Poets
Quicksand
The ground looks solid at first. Flat. Steady. Dependable. After the fall, after the weight, after the mind underwater, I want to believe I’ve landed somewhere stable — somewhere I can stand, even if I can’t rise. But the moment I put my full weight down, the earth shifts beneath me.
By Elisa Wontorcik2 months ago in Chapters
Moving through Molasses
Inspired by the 1919 Boston Molasses Flood Moving through the Ground feels like moving through molasses — not the kitchen kind, not the syrup on a spoon, but the kind that drowned a city in 1919. Thick. Relentless. Slow enough to watch, heavy enough to crush.
By Elisa Wontorcik2 months ago in Poets
