NaNo tidbits

People talk of sorrow as if it was soft, fluid and yielding, of drowning it its waters, being bathed by its tears. They talk about it as if it had a soft caress, comforting even. True sorrow isn’t soft. True sorrow is a thing of jagged rock surrounded by hungry, licking flames. It burns your heart, your motivations, your desires in such a blaze of white-hot heat that not even the ashes can tell the tale of what once was. It crushes your soul under the weight of mountains, squashing out every breath, immobilizing every limb so that your fingers can’t even twitch as you search for the air to scream. It steals your ability to fight, from the inside out. The person you were, dies. Gone. Everything solid, is ash. Gone. Everything real. Gone. Everything solid, real, tangible. Gone.

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Vergissmeinnicht

The sun was sinking in a violent slash of crimson like a fresh wound, just beginning to pucker and bleed. Purple and blue clouds blossomed in the west, slowly changing colors with the iridescence of day old bruises. Mist floated over the park like waiting ghosts, so low to the ground that it almost felt drizzling rain, suspended, afraid to find its way all the way to the bottom. Tiny beads of moisture clung to my body, decorating my skin and hair like tiny shining pearls, like tears

NaNoWriMo Freewriting

The places they are from stain the liquid words that spill from careful lips.
Eyes shine with the reflections of their travels over pupils dilated to the strength of their home suns or moons.
Hands folded over tokens of comfort, leather and fabric.
Eyebrows taut against strangers
Lips traitorously slacking, moisture forming, to share.
***
He leaned, as to create an open space, but folded an arm in, against what might take the invitation. His other hand danced, fingers nervously caressing keys that would punch through a distance for a companion, a savior.
***
She made a dead sound, like the wind pulled through the hollow of a rotted tree. It might have been pretty once, even beautiful, but the world has moved on with the beauty since then. They eyes weren't dead though... death would have made their glassy sunken stares less terrifying. They were eyes turned inwards, not staring at anything more than the abyss of black and soulless nights brightened only by the hell flames of deceit and betrayal.. 
***
I close my eyes as an ambulance approaches below. The rolling sounds wash over the room and hit my ears like waves crashing on shore. For a moment, I can smell tamales and gunpowder, feel the vibrations of a wife being slammed into a wall. The ambulance arrives, the sirens are shut off, announcing their arrival with silence. I am brought back to my new ghetto, super sterilized, white washed, with lunacy perfuming the air, a medicinal smell. I flex my wrists against the leather restraints-- and smile.

My mother shone with a rugged Italian beauty, classic, but too rough, too large and loud for a magazine type appeal. Still, eyes always lingered on her face, her lips, a little too full to be sensuous, her eyes set too far apart to be piercing. Still, there was a perfection in the combination. An allure that caused other woman to sneer and hold on to their husbands arms, every so slightly tighter.