bvrnin:

where: mars
who: open

Luna looked at her phone, soon enough her shift will be over; she can close up and go to the festivities, she didn’t have any clients today but sometimes people came even without setting an appointment. She truly doubted anybody would come anyway, since the festival was taking away any potential work, maybe they should’ve opened up a booth at the beach for small tattoos, then Luna would’ve had some work to do but either way she perfectly fine just relaxing as she managed to spent the time listening to music and sketching tattoos for future appointments she had.

As it gotten to that time finally to close up shop and leave, the door opened and Luna looked up. “You came a bit late, I’m about to close up.”

As much as Harley wanted another tattoo, he wasn’t planning on getting one today. He was on his way to the festival. He didn’t have an plans on what he was going to do there but he was curious about the free booze boat. Walking down the street he saw Mars still open. Over the years Harley had grew his tattoo collection at Mars and had gotten to know a few of the artist there. One of them being Luna. He popped his head in to see if she was the one still here. “I’m not here for ink. Well not today. I was just seeing if you’re on your way to the festival. Everyone is down there, it would suck if you were stuck in here.”

ofvolcanoes:

WHERE: wherever your character may be around 7am.

WHO: open

It was the principal principle of Leonardo’s continued existence, a law as widely observed as gravity and weekend drunkenness, that he was to suffer terrible grief once per day. A foolish conjecture would be that, with such bereavement being spread so far across the days of his life, there was a thinning effect until it was of no consequence. But Leonardo felt deeply, and a sleep-deprived, caffeine-lacking Leonardo felt like he was on the verge of collapse even without his greatest hope withering. What was he doing, anyways? Hyperventilating at his windowsill first thing in the morning, waxing poetic in preparation for a eulogy that could have been prevented if he had not been a neglectful, narcissistic progenitor with all the free time of a tourbillon watch. 

Could have been prevented, could have been saved, could have been the beautiful excuse barricading his bank account from the tempestuous torrent of tormenting temptation that was to come with the summer fair; such auxiliary verbs haunted him more than the malfunctioning of his irrigation system. Given that his skill with fixing up cars clearly did not follow the transitive property, however, he needed assistance. And a new nervous system. But he could settle.

The trip was a blur of physical activity that sleep-deprived, caffeine-lacking Leonardo had not been prepared for. It took either minutes or decades to find who he was looking for, and even longer to get a calm, coherent request together. While he retained the decency to have a quick change of clothes, the speed at which he arrived to their impromptu meeting spot resulted in his bedhead tousling itself into a rumpled mess.

“Please help.” His curt tone held a desperate undercurrent, quick breaths punctuating his words. In one hand was his cane, its strap slipping off his clammy wrist, and in the other was his beloved child, a potted Maranta leuconeura, its sickly yellow leaves riddled with holes and its stem close to breaking. In lieu of paying attention to the poor soul he decided was best fit for a) magically reviving his prayer plant or b) paying off the funeral costs, he kept eye contact with the bright blue sky. If he burnt his retinas fast enough, he wouldn’t have to look at his failed attempt at parenthood. “It’s dead. Dying. Fungally infected. Unsure which.”

Then, after a moment of consideration in which his brow furrowed by approximately three degrees, he recalled the concept of etiquette. “Good morning. How are you?”

Harley had stepped out of the hospital for his quick break. Graveyard shifts always got him needing a coffee. He just wanted to step in and grab a cup of coffee and not jump into medical assistant mode. Working in the medical field, Harley was always faced with moments of emergency. So when he heard the cry for help, his instincts kicked in. They quickly deescalated seeing the plant in his hand. “I don’t usually do plant emergencies.” He gestured to his nurse badge hanging on his scrub. But that didn’t mean Harley didn’t want to at least entertain the man by looking at the plant. Aside from the human anatomy, Harley did know a few things about plants having a few plants himself. They were not entirely for him but mostly for the couple of bugs he kept for his collection. Leaning into the plant, Harley gave it a once over.

A quick look up at the owner, Harley responded. “Exhausted. Ten hours can really take it out of you. Again, not a plant doctor but I’ve seen this before. Try baking soda.”

hashtacj:

WHERE: the library
WHO: open

Try as she had might, the library was absolutely her favorite place on the island. So much so that she WAS the librarian of it’s only library, and therefore the care taker of many stories. When she heard the commotion a few aisles down, she couldn’t help seek out the cause of it only to find a mess of books on the floor and her anger forming into a tightly pressed smile. She didn’t know whether to laugh or yell at the person who stood at the base of the mess so instead she said, in the softest voice she could manage, “When you’re kind to the stories in these books, they tend to be kind to you. Are you alright?”

Harley was always willing to learn. Being in the medical field, there was always something new for him to learn, understand and possibly help someone. He even had a little collection of all his old medical study books at his apartment. But this visit to the library was due to his favorite hobby of bug collecting. He was always coming to the library to get any information on local species that he couldn’t find on the internet. Mid page flip, Harley turned when he heard Minerva’s voice. He hadn’t realized he had pulled that many books. Glancing down at his stack of books, he apologized. “I’m sorry. I was in a bit of rush to find some information on a specific bug.” He had no intent of making a mess. “I’ll be sure to clean up before I leave. Promise. I’m fine otherwise.”

gluttcn:

WHERE: somewhere in the festival with music playing,
WHO:open

A festival was just a fancier word for party in Gulliver’s mind so of course there he was, holding out a hand to the person nearest to him. “Dance with me, will ya? Let’s show these statues how to move.” A party needed dancing, didn’t it? But God help the poor soul who dare say yes.

Harley only came out to the festival for the yacht of free drinks. And people watch. He wasn’t much of a party goer. He usually kept to himself. Socializing often tired him out, especially after long nights at the emergency room. Harley had stepped off the boat for a second to compose himself from the swaying ship. He took a seat at table, in hopes he was as secluded as he could be at this festival. It didn’t seem that way as a voice next to him got him out of his thoughts. Harley first saw the hand of the stranger. He followed up to see the face of the man asking him for a dance. His face scrunched with confusion and a tad annoyance. “I don’t think all the drinks here tonight will get me on a dance floor. You’re going to have to ask someone else.”