• laurie

NaNo? Why Not?

November 1, 2017

image (c) laurie rae dietrich 2012

After years of having (mostly good) excuses when November rolled around, I'm finally joining my Writing Group (small but mighty, unnamed, invaluable) in attempting the NaNoWriMo challenge. The working title is From Hour to Hour: A Myth of Devotion (bonus points to anyone who can cite those two references). When/if finished, it should be a mash-up of a gruesome, unsolved murder from my previous hometown of San Antonio, Texas, and the Abduction of Persephone. Good times! The first few paragraphs are published on the NaNo site, and below...

Dying is an electrical experience. She died inside a lightening storm. Impulses racing bursts of static, igniting the nanoseconds of space between neurons, flinging themselves into the void as slowly, groaningly, the grid shut down. Dying is catastrophic electrical malfunction, mind caught inside, the meat of her mutely responsive to the probe and sizzle of axons going dark.
            There were fires behind her eyes. And black roses blooming. Scents that swelled in her head like solid things: sweat and smoke and grass and fury. She didn’t know emotions lived in skin, until she felt years of sullen banked smoldering confusion flare through his fingers, burn into her neck.
            At first she felt everything with the keen slow-motion emphasis of panic. The observations took forever to form thoughts to spark feelings. Narrow eyes oh not lust not this time not only but oh grimace like but not normal face like rubber like horror like how, how can it twist so oh this is loss. Abdication. This is rictus not sane no control be very very scared now I should be very
            Hands on the outside of clothes, every texture, each fiber a soft scrape on skin moving across. A little too hard, always. Pinches and stings lived in those calloused fingers, always. Like always, anger and fear mixed into a fainting, an opening, a falling down into her hips and her belly, a giving up, a despairing desire. But this time every bell ringing red in her fighting chest, behind her singeing eyelids, screaming close, push, run, resist.
            She is cut in two at the waist by a guillotine blade of incredulity. Above is all animal fierceness; clinging, spitting, stopping. But below rules the well-schooled cross-patterning of helplessness and nerve endings and she is opening like throwing up, opening like evisceration, a parody of welcome he is used to and he’s inside and she is hating loving that colonizing connection, that jerky, coerced-but-not-quite danse macabre of hips, even while his hands, above, are stopping her forever.

EDIT: November 29, 2017 - yeah, well, they don't call it a challenge for nothing. I won't finish inside the box, but starting, and the gift of this story both finally beginning and arising in new form, because I started, is a great gift indeed. To be continued...


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