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+----- Thread: ❝ SHARK BAIT ❞ ━ open, joining (/showthread.php?tid=15870)
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Re: ❝ SHARK BAIT ❞ ━ open, joining - sharkbeak - 06-30-2018
[align=center][div style="background=transparent; borderwidth=0px; bordercolor=; width: 515px; font-size: 11.4px; line-height: 125%; text-align:justify; font-family: arial; margin-top: -3px"]People draw attention like honey draws flies, eyes flitting like insects to land on their frames. Being interesting is as simple as being new — but the novelty fades if you don't keep moving. A reputation helps. A trademark, a brand, is better. Living the names thrown at you, turning insults into weapons and sneers into ammo. A switchblade, a mace, a gun. A bow and three quivers of arrows. Someone calls you strange and you add another to your collection. The harsher the better. A shot of something, bloody and warm. The wet glide of ink across paper. The last letter to his family: “Mamá, the people are dyin' here. I'd come home but there's no place for me now.” Words wriggle around like tadpoles trapped behind his teeth. Thoughts fall like discarded shells on the sidewalk. A chalk outline on the road, overlapping onto the pavement — is that the scene of a crime or someone's imagination?
Maybe both. Everything's art nowadays, an expression of self. Make your mark on the world or leave it unchanged and risk being forgotten. For some people, that mark is their gravestone. Red in the grass, on the side of the street. He wants the ripples he leaves in the water to be softer, but he's playing a game in which winning is but a dream. Tasting victory in the form of survival. It's sweet to the point of pain, something only the strong can stomach after years of numbing the palate. Get used to digging. One day it'll be your grave you're making. Soil against skin is a familiar sensation now.
He arrives at a departure, keeps the crowd constant. The integration isn't seamless, but little ever is. Fingers are too fidgety in the subtlest way, settling in the safety of pockets as though afraid of the exposure. The body they're attached to is marginally less closed-off, shuttered up by anxiety and a fear of foolishness. At first glance, it's nonchalance— frigidity, almost— that settles in the eyes, the slant of the mouth, the set of the shoulders; when quiet falls, a hand lifts, palm sliding against the back of his neck, and sheepishness presents itself instead. "Welcome." Words feel funny against his tongue. Tadpoles. Set them free. He blames it on the rustiness. He hasn't spoken in some time, and his manner is slow, practiced, as though each syllable is carefully planned. "I'm Aquilino. If you... need anything, I'm around." He doesn't offer himself often. He needs to change.