Cassondra Windwalker

Cassondra Windwalker


Cassondra Windwalker grew up on plains and longed for mountains. Today she lives by the frozen sea. She earned a BA of Letters at the University of Oklahoma and pursued careers in bookselling and law enforcement before resigning her post to write full time.

A poet, essayist, and novelist, her short-form work has appeared in numerous literary journals and art books. Her full-length books of poetry and prose are available in bookstores and online. She welcomes conversations with readers through her social media platforms and in the occasional coffee shop.


Cassondra Windwalker @WindwalkerWrite

I press my bare feet deep into silty, coal-dusted sand. The tide, unmindful & uncaring of where I am planted, surges against my calves. Time crystallized pricks and sticks in the tender skin between my toes. We all make either castles or coffins of the past.

FYI friends...due to health issues, I will no longer be fasting by refraining from food on the first of every month as I normally do. So I'll be fasting from social media instead on that day. Don't fret if I seem to be ignoring you - I'll be back on the second, refreshed & reset!

Sam suspected Clay would stay awake, night after night, shuffling and reshuffling events, replaying conversations, in the fruitless effort to rewrite what had been inscribed in permanent ink, to draw meaning from the meaningless.

I understand that she could never have stayed with me. But I think she also understood that I could never let her go. Why else would she have painted with her own blood? The ultimate striving after immortality, knowing how brief her days would be.

I need my beauty sleep. The library opens at nine sharp every morning, and while I could probably be persuaded to stay up late for a thousand-year-old vampire lover or a banished Norse god, anything less just doesn’t tempt me.

I read histories
on worn tree stumps kept alive
by their sisters' roots
I hope my bones tell stories
as sweet and true as do these


My cousin, being a boy, found it easy to disguise his interests. Dissection & taxidermy were merely proof of a tough, scientific mind.
So it was with delight I made him squeal like a girl when I made a blood eagle of him in his own secret lair. What a family.


within me, a host
teeming, scheming, in my skin
I am only nest

prompt: host

I despise deceit in men but worship it in flowers. Springing at my feet, peeping from the old wood and billowing in the swamp, the little liars promise without remorse an ever-summer, and my old winter heart never fails to believe them.


His voice was soft, but his words, as they fell into the great silence spilling between us, were #thunderous. I could not hear my heart beat over their echoes. My whole body reverberated with the sound for a moment. Then the silence swept us away, too.


leaving corn for hares
without begrudging the hawk his survival


A box of old letters may hold the key to her husband's heart - or unlock a door holding a demon at bay. Read this contemporary gothic horror today:


On a filthy street in the bitterly cold wee hours that in winter are monstrously long hours, he huddles outside the bakery. The fragrant scents of rosemary & rising yeast leave him light-headed with hunger, but he stays, clinging to the memory of a home that never was.

Since my brain is clearly incapable of creating content today, I decided to read @egilliland7 's What Happened on Box Hill instead, and so enjoyed a truly wonderful afternoon.


Lord, I give up. First the wrong prompt word, then I substituted "which" for "each." Then the right prompt word, but I erased the word "voice" and exchanged it for a SECOND use of "echoes" in the same piece. I cannot wurd today!!

The rain never stopped, but it never stormed either. Bleak, unremitting grey sheets that swallowed light &darkness both. The whole world from her window was mud. She curled into a pecan shell &let the torrents carry down her down the gutters,off the edge of the earth.#FromOneLine

Oops! Wrong prompt word. Do-over...

He lies splayed on dry, octa-cracked earth, oblivious to the flies drinking sweat from his skin. His skull echoes with the resounding echoes of the lost waterfall. Perhaps, he thought, if I lie long enough, I will become river.


A year & a day. He set himself the traditional deadline to complete his quest: three of her teeth in the palm of his hand, one for which brother of his she'd devoured.
366 days later, he sighed with delight as her bite sank deep. Maybe this was all the teeth he needed. #WeirdVSS

dusty grimoire sleeps
tome ignored, the only hope
sans story, all fails

prompt: dusty

Collar me quickly. Keep from my own destruction, lead me into peace disguised as pleasure.