NaNoWriMo Snippet

So, as I’ve said before, I had originally intended to post lots of my NaNoWriMo endeavor here on my blog, but then I realized that writing fast and I don’t mix so well. But little pieces here and there have shone, so I’m posting one of those today. This is a section from when a street artist begins to paint the post-hurricane city walls, and the art reflects all the pain and suffering that he’s seen since the city was destroyed.

 

On the hospital where his grandmother had died, there were already murals.Those murals had been of saintly people in white, doing good things with their hands, making the world safe and people live. Those murals had been lies once the storm came.

Late at night, on a night after all the patients who they thought they could save had been airlifted out and the rest left to rot there, after the doctors and nurses were gone, after the people who had meant to do good and who had been brought to the postiion of doing the least bad they possibly could had left, he took a ladder and he took spray cans and the took paint tubes and he took brushes. And he stood there all night in the dark, and he climbed the ladder in his boots with the heels hooking over the rungs, and he went up and he went down, and grays and black and browns and reds went up. And there were faces with the bones showing, and the long strings of hair, and sunken eyes. There were soldiers who were more helmet than meat on their bones, there were horses that had lost all their muscle and sinew and carried riders into a foray of death. Hideous insects marched along with the horses, all mandible and reaching legs, doing the inevitable work they did upon the death of anything. The buildings were sticks barely held together by blackness, destroyed by the weak power of skeleton fists. The sky opened into cosmos behind the figures in the foreground, and the stars were holes that the universe fell into, the planets were stretched like rubber bands to the point of breaking, the moon ceased to give off light and became naught but craters and lonely mountain ranges.

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About thebaffledkingcomposing

Pamela DiFrancesco is a writer with a community college degree in journalism, a fancy art school degree in fiction and a penchant for community organizing. A native of Pennsylvania coal country, Pamela lives in Astoria, Queens, writes, and does whatever else it takes to pay the bills. In the past, Pamela has worked for newspapers and taught children journalism in an after-school program. Pamela's fiction can be found on the web at Cezanne's Carrot and Monkeybicycle, in print in The Carolina Quarterly (who nominated "The Chuck Berry Tape Massacre" for the Best American Mystery Writing anthology) and forthcoming in The New Ohio Review. When not writing, Pamela practices acts of love and kindness in hopes of a radically different world, and is preparing for the Zombie Apocalypse through acts of badassery.
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