Author Games: Murder & Margaritas

Slot Twelve: Ireland Graymonte (@lostwithmyfriends)

Name: Ireland Graymonte

Age: 19

Sex: Male (he's always been more genderfluid, but he sticks to he/him).

Appearance: Ireland's head is shaped both sharply and smoothly, elegant to a hardened eye; it's like sanded wood, rubbed by sandpaper beneath calloused hands, scratching until the surface peels to its softest layer. Perhaps he's the trunk of a tree, chopped down and chipped; he's the stage between bark and paper, counting the rings of an ageless stump. His eyes have bled internally for far too long, now deepened to a slithering black. Thinly and quiet, they're simple, colorless, but they move in the wake of beautiful ultraviolet storms. Ireland stands neither tall nor short, with a torso bony enough to display racks and ribs, collarbones, pelvis, all vulnerable to winds and chill; his spine seems to walk on a different plane than his feet, like a bland puppeteer leading him elsewhere, over that sunset hill. The young man's lips stammer and still, trembling while stoic- his hands are the same, with long fingers, wrinkled palms, and veins like artwork spreading throughout him. Throughout.

Personality: He's a boy of chalk. Of murals drawn on asphalt, concrete, faded hopscotch patterns powdery and pastel. He loves the more soothing aspects of life, like calming colors, quiet sounds, sensations of careful fingertips against his dusted skin. But he's not against intensity, confrontation, screaming when it's necessary and applicable; he doesn't mind convoluting and coalescing with another's body, passionate and breathy and heated- so heated, maybe, that the world stays burned forever. He goes from volcanic rock to misted steam in the matter of seconds, his smile and laugh sticking to the air like stars, like clouds, like trees, buildings, nothingness. And because he tends to live for himself, he's often criticized for being a terrible communicator, a selfish lover, and a thoughtless person. He thinks so much; he's just not thinking about you.

Background: Ireland grew up with his mother alone. His childhood bedroom was small, albeit comfortable and cozy; he had a bed, for which he was grateful, and a large enough home that the kitchen and living area were separated by a doorway. The hallway walls were covered in pictures of he and his mom, smiling on swingsets and embracing downslide; he went to school across the street, assimilating easily into a familiar group of friends which he kept for over a decade. Life was definable, and its descriptions stayed the same for perhaps one year too long. One could say he became bored- one could say everything, and Ireland would believe none of it. He dropped out of school in the middle of his senior year, attended a party centerpieced by a bowl of little pills, and entered a new dreamscape. Ecstasy, perhaps, came in the form of chalk and capsule; but he's not done yet, still living in the grayscale of high and sober.

Invitation: There's always been a rush that's gone unfelt, a sensation unmade. Ireland didn't make the decision to accept the invitation, but he thoughtlessly said yes because movement meant dynamite. He did this for himself; but quiet, quiet, keep the secret.