WRITING CONTEST

it’s barely ten past ten when he realises he’s out of wine.

but he’s already drunker than a boy who has just turned twenty-one and doesn’t know the risks of drinking a bottle of straight vodka in one sitting while having a low alcohol tolerance.

he lost count how many shots he took before he started sipping from a glass. then he lost count how many glasses he went through before he started drinking from the bottle, and he’ll lose count of how many times he goes to take a sip from a bottle only to realise that there is nothing left.

he lays on the floor, arms spread out, bottles and glasses scattered across the floor like it’s his masterpiece. there are a few spots of red wine on the white carpet from his accidents.

the first is from when he bumped into the couch with a glass a little too full. the second is from when he started to laugh over a memory he tried too hard to suppress and knocked over his glass. the third is from when he stood up too fast and all the blood rushed to his head with a bottle in his hand and he stumbled over his own feet. the fourth.

well, the fourth isn’t wine, but he’ll say it is. he’ll laugh it off with a pretty smile that’s too practiced to be real, but just that right amount of believable to not make you think twice.

you’d never find the little blade he used, it’s tucked away behind layers and layers of pretty dresses and bottles of wine.

just like him.

he’s wrapped himself so many layers, so many layers of pretty dresses and bottles of wine and “passionate” nights that he doesn’t remember who he is. or maybe he just chooses not too.

angel alessi.

that’s his name, it’s what he let’s people call him. it’s what he wants people to call him. it’s what he makes people beg, over and over and over.

it so much prettier, so much nicer, so much lighter than

noah parsons.

the simple thought of that name makes his stomach drop, makes him want to throw up, makes him want to take that blade from behind the layers and layers of dresses and wine and drive it so deep into his skin that he’ll just bleed it out, he’ll just bleed out that name.

and then all he’ll be left with, is angel alessi.

Attempting Reno Roslin for my bro, Ayu! I do apologize in advance upon butchering him. OTL

It was easier to walk the walk than it was to talk the talk.

He ain’t never had a silver tongue. Never had a use for it. Because real men didn’t follow leaders or influential shitheads who sat on their asses trying to come up with the ‘next best thing’. Real men were driven by courage to say what needed to be said and do whatever the hell that needs to be done. "It's nothing serious." Was that he told anybody who had to pull the caring card on him, asking him questions out of worry. Deep set of an abnormal shade of purple splotched over his eye.

It was easier to talk with his fists than it was to say, "Excuse me for minding my own damn business, prick." Because he didn’t have to feel anything by the time the punches flew across the pub. Sure, there was always the possibility of getting his ass whooped in the process but why stop? He didn't believe that it was about making a statement to the opponent in front of him. It was about making them shove their belief so far up their rear, they'll be singing church songs like a big soprano lady from last Sunday to next Sunday.

All he wanted was a glass of water from the bar then he was out of there, finished with his evening gig. That was when dumbshit–drunk as a skunk, decided it was cool to place his crummy-ass fingers on his guitar strapped over his shoulder. Anyone who knew him knew not to touch his possessions. Especially his guitar.

Words could only get people so far in life. They were next to nothing save to dead to the crimson tuft lad after the bastard stopped laughing. It took eight minutes with three men to pull the two apart. An additional man in the group to throw the two out of the pub. A promised phone call of the police was enough to make Reno and the drunk fuck take their separate ways. "Lucky his fingerprints came right off." he murmured to himself. Otherwise he would've been out for blood. He leaned up against the wall of his room, recollecting the rush of events that happened after the gig.

The black eye he received was a trophy to that statement. In fact, he got the better end of the deal, blowing the guy out of the water despite his size disadvantage. It was easier to do something rather than talking shit out. Because when all was said and done–he could proudly say at the end of the day he did something rather than sit on the side doing jack squat.

For babies, nothing exists if they cannot see it. For William, nobody dies if he’s not there to fail to save them. If he touches them with his left hand, they’ll die. If he touches them with his right hand, then - hell, who knows? He is careless as a child.

The prophet takes his tea with two cubes of sugar but he never stirs it and he swallows the cold, gritty remains like a hard shot. But why be prophet when he can be like a Hindu god, with as many hands as instruments on his trolley, and he can orchestrate the shell game, because he holds the secrets of the universe in one of them. That, he’ll give up on a spread palm to the curious, to the humble, mortals. It’s the teabag in his sixth left hand that he’s keeping close.

But it’s all a big joke, because he really keeps the universe on the layer of grime along the bottom of his jacket, where it skims the ground as he walks. Where he scrapes up, bit by bit, a little gravel and dust off this floating rock. He can walk forever, if only by night (If there are 4380 hours of night in a year, how many hours of night are in infinity? Discuss), until he wears it down to the ocean floor – to the megaladons and iota of plankton and deeper still. To molten lakes and geysers screaming like kettles.

All his hands are empty, and the island piles back up from the dust on his coat.