xx.

[hautelysian]

WHERE: at a showing (no specific neighborhood/building complex, utp) WITH: margo toya (realtor & secretary of the bastards) WHO: anyone! ( @anchoragestarters ) CAP: 0/5

rays of sun bleed through the stained glass windows, cascading margo toya in a waterfall of prismatic shimmer. she remains poised by the doorway, a picture of monochromatic pink: vans, pantsuit, and tie that rests crisply against an ironed white button up.

newer residents were something of a luxury nowadays. anchorage would not be known for its welcoming allure - and more locals were departing for less serial killing-prone towns than newcomers were arriving. which made her job quite the bit unforgiving at the moment.

the saving grace? a party she would be hosting post-shift. margo was prepared to let her hair down, physically and metaphorically - to forfeit her stressors and lack of success in the arms of another woman.

but for now - margo would think professional thoughts. only for now. only because the chime of a doorbell alerted her to another visitor.

these days, most of the open-house attendees seemed to place a vested interest in the assortments of free foods than the estate itself, so margo was not hopeful for any sales.

nonetheless, her demeanour remains boisterous, margo eagerly tugging the door ajar, an animated grin to her face.

❝ welcome! can i interest you in some freshly popped popcorn? ❞

[prismagpie]

WHERE: criminal records, the record store WHEN: n/a (no specific date, just current) WHO: anyone! ( @anchoragestarters ) CAP: 1/4

Every now and again, Ash would find himself alone in the record store's shop front. Whether the others were in another room or they'd stepped out altogether, it didn't change the fact that Ash was the only one working front of house, left to man the register. It had been a fairly slow day, the kind of which Ash liked to take advantage. No customers meant no conversation and no conversation meant he could throw his headphones on and slip off into his own world. Getting paid to daydream, as it were. There was usually music playing through the store's speakers but it wasn't always to Ash's taste. He was much happier to bring along his own CD player (perhaps not a great look for a record store cashier) and leave whatever album he was into that day rolling on heavy rotation.

There was a customer in there with him but he wasn't paying them much notice, all attention focused on the rapping of his fingers against the countertop, the rhythm of the song blaring through his headphones perfectly matched. He was so absorbed, in fact, that he didn't see them approach. In just a few blinks, there were there in front of him, waiting by the register. Ash hurried to press the pause button on his CD player and, without even removing the bulky headphones, swung around in this revolving seat to face them. "If it's not on the shelves," he said, with the kind of confident cool that belied the belied the gentle beating of his pulse in the side of his skull, "It's 'cause we don't have it. Sorry, no backroom stock." This was the question he was asked most often, it was better to get it out of the way first. "But lemme know if you need something else. Within reason, I mean. I'm just the cashier."

[hautelysian]

music had become their salvation. sleepless nights now were spent with a mattress, a blanket, a bottle of whiskey, and a record to resonate through her ramshackle apartment.

for a time, atlas had in possession one, meagre record. she had found it upon moving in, a haunting echo from tenants past. the disc itself was scathed, bearing an uncanny resemblance to the marred, blue paint or uninspired wood panelling. everything about atlas and her home was scarred. so perhaps she felt a kinship to this record.

she knew nothing of the artist, guns n' roses, aside from her piqued interest of the band's name. so atlas came searching, eager for more melodies in which she could escape the bitter trenches of her life. this was a rare occurrence, the pallas-dexicos triplet out and about during the hours of day, but she refused to recede into the hem of her tattered, black crew neck.

indeed, her stature is more rigid than could be considered the norm, and her smile splinters across her face: forced.

❝ erm-- ❞ seldom had she engaged in conversation with anyone but her siblings. calloused fingertips pick at the skin of her shoulder as atlas rehearses her question not once, not twice, but several times, until she feels adequately prepared.

❝ i was looking for music recommendations. do you know anything about the band guns n' roses? i was hoping to find some similar records today. ❞ her weight shifts, one hip popped (blatant overcompensation). ❝ or -- should i ask a colleague of yours, mx cashier? ❞

[hautelysian]

❮ pcisxnivys​:❯

when: during the party

featuring: @hautelysian​ and annaki

One could argue that he was enjoying his time at the party more when he was tagged around by the sisters with whom he’d shared a womb than any of the other guests attending the party — there was inseparability founded by more than their birthright, vermillion shades and the distant memories hewn of flesh singing from the bone and peeling apart. There was seven years that capsized the time spent with the taller of the sisters, and peculiarly, they fell into stride together as if Goliath had never wedged a rift between them all. Aside from the love of his life, the siblings he’d grown up stitched at the hip to enacted a soothing bell amid the overwhelming burble of talking heads and dizzying light fixtures. The six months that Atlas had arrived in town, the pair of redheads were not confounded by her isolation into the tiny trailer she’d rented for a while — instead, they bid the same effort that Annaki would have if the sybarite had fumbled into an episode of tacit catatonia and shut himself in. They ventured, they nurtured, and they fashioned a raft out of one another. If he were still a religious man, he would have recalled something of repetition to him over the years — God will not part these waters, but we can.

“Você está confortável?” the artisan was addressing them both as the role of gracious co-host’s husband this evening, a sincere undertone as a hand came to rest upon Atlas’ arm. He smiled with the ease of running water, scarcely known to many in attendance, and as the only brother in the trio — and the tallest — he relaxed his shoulders and offered a free hand to the both of them. Petite in proportion, his small hand loped through Atlas’, turning the back of her hand over and commenting wryly, “Den kálypses to tatouáz sou.” A set of matching ones — a significance of their bond and morbidly, a gateway of identification should the stroke of ill fate ever befall one of them as it had claimed other family members, not by blood but by youth. “I’m glad that you decided to come. I’m a mite out of my element when Micah is not around,” Atticus admitted, a fragmenting of Mancunian slang sneaking into his husky intonation. 

❮ @wiithstars​ ❯​

theirs was not a willing presence. indeed, atlas’s attention was fixed elsewhere, upon hues of blued memories, discoloured from a drowning of self-medication. alcohol would not placate their heart palpitations but, fuck, atlas was willing to try.

for in her hand was a bottle of curaçao. they were a present-day van gogh, nourishing themselves with blue paint to match their veins and their sorrow and their heart ache.

the presence of their siblings should have been a comfort. but isolation carved into their sides and removed atticus and annaki from their flesh. no longer conjoint, atlas had been left to spill blood and guts from her open wounds and had done so alone for seven years’ time.

though try as her siblings might「 and, yes, they certainly did try 」to provide support and mending, it took half this year to satiate the hungry ghosts that dog her memories. six months spent embalming the remains of the atlas from prior and embroidering their bodily vessel with a new soul.

this atlas is not known for parties. perhaps, then, she should suggest her siblings seek out her miroir, someone more suited for the glamours of living.

she draws out a sigh through pursed lips, hallowed eyes shifting to the mirrored gazes of her siblings. atlas licks blood from one receding cuticle as she considers her words, tasting them upon her lead-coated tongue. ❝ my love for you both is the one thing i will never hide, ❞ though cracked fingertips do find the inked skin and massage the area thrice.

❝ please remember, i’m only here to support you. my stay this evening won’t be long. ❞

for atlas had transcended beyond the elements. though atticus may feel outside of his own, atlas has sought her own element to be in and found none. hers was a stature of folded arms and impassive glares to the sorry few that spared a glance in her direction. her scowl, too, would not upturn for many; only the daycare children and her siblings.

❝ how do you suggest we spend our time? ❞

[hautelysian]

this is a test

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