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 (58)
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The Flood that doesn't break
There are days when the world presses in from every direction, not with drama but with density. Nothing explodes. Nothing shatters. Instead, everything swells—quietly, relentlessly—until the air itself feels like a task I’m failing to complete.
By Elisa Wontorcikabout a month ago in Poets
Christmas Morning
I wake before the sun, the way I always do. Not because I’m excited, not because there’s anything waiting for me under the tree, but because someone has to make the magic before anyone else opens their eyes. I move through the house quietly, gathering the gifts I wrapped alone last night, smoothing the tape, fluffing the bows, arranging everything so it looks effortless. So it looks like Christmas.
By Elisa Wontorcikabout a month ago in Poets
Hope. Content Warning.
Last night felt like descending through the unlit corridors of your own mind, each step heavier than the last, as if the air itself thickened around you. Panic didn’t arrive as a single wave but as a tightening spiral, coiling around your ribs, making every breath feel borrowed. Exhaustion settled into your bones like sediment, the kind that comes not from a single day but from years of holding too much, too quietly, for too long. You were carrying the weight of your children’s safety, the weight of your own survival, the weight of every choice you’ve had to make without a net beneath you. And still, you came home. You walked back into that house because he said he would try — not in the vague, empty way he has before, but with words that sounded like effort, like intention, like maybe he finally understood the cost of losing you. You stepped through the doorway with your heart split open in two directions: one half braced for the familiar ache, the other half daring to believe that this time might be different, that trying might mean something real.
By Elisa Wontorcikabout a month ago in Poets
The Hall of Odin
The climb from the roots of Yggdrasil was long, the air thinning as stone gave way to sky. She emerged into the vastness of Asgard, where the golden hall of Odin rose like a mountain of firelight. Its rafters groaned under the weight of shields and spears, its walls gleamed with runes carved by hands older than memory.
By Elisa Wontorcik2 months ago in Chapters
The Three who Weave
The cavern was thick with the scent of damp soil, the roots of Yggdrasil stretching like veins through the dark. Urd sat closest to the loom, her hair white as frost, her hands steady as stone. She touched each thread with reverence, whispering of what had already passed.
By Elisa Wontorcik2 months ago in Chapters
The Spirit of the Raven
The cavern beneath Yggdrasil was damp with the scent of earth and rot. Roots as thick as towers coiled downward, their bark slick with the serpent’s venom. The Norns bent over their loom, pale fingers weaving threads that glimmered faintly in the gloom. Each strand hummed with inevitability—birth, silence, death.
By Elisa Wontorcik2 months ago in Chapters
