We fluttered to the pavement, slowly, dipping back and forth on invisible air currents, twirling and dancing until we came to rest, feather light, in the dank grime and sludge of a snow melt-covered, impoverished alleyway. One by one by one by one, slipping through his fingers not like sand, or water, but like life blood. The last caress, tingling sentiment, lingered on our surfaces over every inky line and each single pen stroke.
One by one by one by one, sinking into the mud of the world, to be trodden on along with it, trampled by the boots of the world.
His face is a blur, as though the murky clouds have sunk below the level of the eaves to envelope him, leaning back in the wind from the railing slipping from his grasp.
The next movements are shaky like painting, cut apart, placed back in the wrong places—the wrong place. We’ve all reunited at the bottom; he fumbles for something to satisfy a desire, a release channel, to aid in the escape.
The crack, followed by the rain—of glass on the pavement. Where brown splotches seeped through us from beneath, now black liquid runs as fast as a gossiping tongue to mingle and stain. A few last drops of ink sprinkle from his fingers—our creator’s priceless, unremarkable fingers, now lifting the next bottle and releasing it, with no exerted pressure to make it fall faster. His mind’s eye doesn’t follow it down; it sees it released, and floating on air for a split second—then the crash. The violent start at the sound, and then he hurls himself down on the balcony floor, bringing his fist down after him—the third bottle.
Like arrows, quills fly, ready to pierce and tear our delicate skin. We receive not a scratch, as the soft tendrils of feathers outweigh the sharp point and cushion the fall. He sweeps them down upon us, his arm sliding in a wide arc over the place beside him, wiping away the last traces of black as he discards his instruments. His shirt, torn off in haste and permanently stained, follows all this over the edge, billowing out and blanketing our sorry pile. Perhaps he can no longer see us, his handiwork. We were perfectly white, with bold, blunt black, impossible to ignore. We were the back curtain, the set and props; his thoughts were placed against us, the actors on our sheets. Our perfection is blotted out in reality, like his mental image of us was driven to be.
One last page balances, on the back of his hand; one last pen is curled in his thumb, against the palm.
The cold is setting in. The slightest puff of air is for a second upon us, wafting down ahead of the last of us, aggravating the chill. He huddles, yet on the ground, hiding his face not from the wet fog, but hiding from us. And don’t call for him. His words, they try, and are silenced; he retook the life he gave them.
He gives us up, as others have done before him. But we will not be lifted up once again. This is perpetual abstinence.
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I really enjoyed this, the style was beautiful and artsy. The sentences flowed really well. All the best with the contest! 
