landslide { gaby
Nov 13, 2016 19:26:43 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Nov 13, 2016 19:26:43 GMT -5
SHILOH TEIXEIRA
RAISE YOUR ARMS THE HIGHEST YOU CAN
Sweat hangs between his skin and his sweater, a light thing like two a.m. silence and the panting of manic breathes. Shiloh was never one for failure. A never ending sway, spear in hand after sixty-one jabs in aortic valves and optic nerves, but they were still standing and standing still and it bit at his ever living nerves. No matter how many times he did the same routine, there was still no way to kill something that was never living.
His knuckles were whiting, blinding under the bind of skin on his knuckles, rope rash burning down to the skeleton from the feeling of flesh on flesh - it was something. Each attack a rub on hands, a little more raw and it was something. A feeling more so than he was able to get through anything else, and that almost made it enough. Counting midnight swings as he counted between sixty one to sixty five, the goodnight hustlers praying his name under that of warm cash.
Through that day, he broke eight matches, a bundle of cash in a lock box felt like nothing more than weight.
He hated wasting time.
That sweet night harmony put the red back in his skin - the cry of his name and the bounty on his skull, shaky knuckles and knees. Shiloh was known for anything but taking breaks. He was known for slow fights, fun fights, something worth more than the spit in his mouth and a wet dollar bill; quick fights weren't interesting. That's a thing he learned quickly; however efficient is could be, there was no point in it. There's no practices that go quick that are worth anything, so why rush a good fight.
Besides, those good fights make the eighteen years almost fucking worth it.
Seventy-three, "come on," he counted the sound of his knuckle against Robin's chin, the sliding of dry skin on concrete and the muffled moan of a kid crawling out. There's some whines from the choir, it was no fair fight - it's the damn streets. There is no fair fights when it comes to concrete, only free money. Mist exhaled from his mouth, puff of frost in the night's air as he breathed through broken rhythms. Seventy three, seventy three executed blows, seventy three years a boy named Shiloh was meant to die in. Nails dig into his back, scratching at the bruises while money is added to his cash grab - he stares the man in the eyes as it goes. "I'm stayin' up here."
Each year he should've died, and each year he never quite reached the point of numbing it out.
It was inefficient to say the least, volunteering before eighteen - why. If one shot was all he got, then why not spend the time to perfect the only him there was to volunteer, and there were enough hims to last until the last second. That last breath of his free life, like smoke in the midnight air.
As long as he never lived, they couldn't kill him anyways.
"Fresh meat!"
Squinting, calls from one of the betting men, "raw enough to still have blood in her-"
Shiloh holds his shaky hand, wrapping it in gauze as fast as he could, fresh meat. The number seventy four on his lip, just beneath the skin of it all - he'd get there eventually. Street fights were all he had; why waste it so quickly? "Fresh meat-?" taking the center of the concrete and staring her in the eyes - she's pretty.
What the hell is she doing here?
"That's unfortunate."
His knuckles were whiting, blinding under the bind of skin on his knuckles, rope rash burning down to the skeleton from the feeling of flesh on flesh - it was something. Each attack a rub on hands, a little more raw and it was something. A feeling more so than he was able to get through anything else, and that almost made it enough. Counting midnight swings as he counted between sixty one to sixty five, the goodnight hustlers praying his name under that of warm cash.
Through that day, he broke eight matches, a bundle of cash in a lock box felt like nothing more than weight.
He hated wasting time.
That sweet night harmony put the red back in his skin - the cry of his name and the bounty on his skull, shaky knuckles and knees. Shiloh was known for anything but taking breaks. He was known for slow fights, fun fights, something worth more than the spit in his mouth and a wet dollar bill; quick fights weren't interesting. That's a thing he learned quickly; however efficient is could be, there was no point in it. There's no practices that go quick that are worth anything, so why rush a good fight.
Besides, those good fights make the eighteen years almost fucking worth it.
Seventy-three, "come on," he counted the sound of his knuckle against Robin's chin, the sliding of dry skin on concrete and the muffled moan of a kid crawling out. There's some whines from the choir, it was no fair fight - it's the damn streets. There is no fair fights when it comes to concrete, only free money. Mist exhaled from his mouth, puff of frost in the night's air as he breathed through broken rhythms. Seventy three, seventy three executed blows, seventy three years a boy named Shiloh was meant to die in. Nails dig into his back, scratching at the bruises while money is added to his cash grab - he stares the man in the eyes as it goes. "I'm stayin' up here."
Each year he should've died, and each year he never quite reached the point of numbing it out.
It was inefficient to say the least, volunteering before eighteen - why. If one shot was all he got, then why not spend the time to perfect the only him there was to volunteer, and there were enough hims to last until the last second. That last breath of his free life, like smoke in the midnight air.
As long as he never lived, they couldn't kill him anyways.
"Fresh meat!"
Squinting, calls from one of the betting men, "raw enough to still have blood in her-"
Shiloh holds his shaky hand, wrapping it in gauze as fast as he could, fresh meat. The number seventy four on his lip, just beneath the skin of it all - he'd get there eventually. Street fights were all he had; why waste it so quickly? "Fresh meat-?" taking the center of the concrete and staring her in the eyes - she's pretty.
What the hell is she doing here?
"That's unfortunate."
SO THE WHOLE UNIVERSE WILL GLOW
