NaNoWriMo and Halloween

Today is Halloween, and you know what that means - NaNo is tomorrow! (tonight at midnight). I have a little over 12 hours left to finalize my ideas. I've been working on this sci-fi plan (a little out of my comfort zone) for about a month now and I've got all kinds of notes and books.

Tonight, we WRITE!

After our Halloween party we shall begin at midnight.

http://www.nanowrimo.org/en/participants/superbecca

The Ritual

Behind a pair of glasses his glazed eyes speak words like ‘processing’ and ‘organization.’ I am sure, at one point, he begins to repeat himself. But as I stand he speaks still, staring at the chair I leave, and the record spinning around his kidneys skips a note. “Processing,” he says. “Process-process-process-progress-process-progress-progress.” The heel of my black boot crashes into the broken record, breaking it. Fluorescent lights flicker. Something oily and primal grips my ankle and laughs and laughs and bends my back to its will, saying, “Sex and wine and candles and chants. Now! Chant!” Its fingertips have lit like waxy wicks, spinning hypnotically in cold light. In my next breath my knees are pressed into the stone of an altar, I feel the strains of ritual humming in the pit of my stomach, I breathe the stench of rusted metal and cruel laughter.

Oppression

of heat, thick like fog but hotter

sticking to the inside of wailing lungs 

You kissed

but not to give, a

selfish kiss of taking

breath

like the stealing of

her first 

Apathy

in cold hands that touch

too much

too little, scraping razor-

smooth surfaces 

You cut a little

deeper in every

righteous scream, until

she was a huddled mass

of trembling blood

Hate

is hate. No symbol suits

raw enough

at least

better than

swallowing a rock 

Did you feed

it to her knowing, or

ignorant?  She didn’t

crush her teeth, but

that rock settled in

her stomach and

poisoned her slowly

from the inside

Did you know

she loved you? She

could have mothered you

and you smothered

the rain dance before

it began

Why Not?

sometimes I find myself

thinking

Why isn’t everyone

who is thin

a model

Why if

you can use big words,

don’t you

Why if they have

pairs of lungs

don’t they pull them out

of their throats singing

and strew

them in the gutters and paint

them in the murals on big walls

forever

Why

does she dance african

barefoot on former stained

glass and laugh

when she bleeds, saying,

“you knew this would

happen and you still

didn’t stop me?”

but that only

makes her stomp harder

laugh louder

Why

if I am jealous

don’t I make

love to her and see

if a little bit of her

soul can be in

mine