fishy queen

lydia herring / 27 / she

[ofmourningdoves]

Is it just Wendy's imagination, but is a sad trombone playing with each step the pair takes? She swears she can hear a desolate womp-womp accentuate every little step Lydia trollops behind her like some kind of cartoon character with a storm cloud following at their heels. Maybe it's just in the other girl's nature, something innately...pathetic that resides in her soul. Is that rude to say? Perhaps, but she is a believer that if it's the truth, it's not that rude, southern pleasantries be damned.

The stall is beautiful, filled with little blooms that definitely could not withstand whatever is happening with Lydia's hair -- really, she could bike out to Grampleton for a curl cream, or something -- and Wendy can't stop the defeated sigh that already threatens to leave her lips. What would sit in that mane of hair? Before she could even start to think of the impossible, she glances over to Lydia...only to see that sad, sad crown fall apart nearly the instant it touches the girl's hands. Womp-womp. There goes that damned trombone again. "Okay, so I'll be the one doing the touching," she states, only a mild irritation lacing her words. The patience of a saint, she has, and it's being tested by the Fish herself. Wendy picks up a crown, a base of hearty sunflowers with bright zinnias, and holds it out. Looks sturdy, but there's only one way to truly find out.

"Tilt your head towards me, Herring?"

[herrring]

She shuts her eyes for a few seconds, because she can already fathom the look on Wendy’s face. Annoyed, no doubt, with her already staunch aura of judgement nearing max levels, and Lydia’s about ready to start quaking like a chihuahua in the face of it…

Except, when she finally looks, Wendy doesn’t really seem mad. It’s more along the lines of pity than anything; a double-edged sword that has her stomach taking a flip or two. Sure, it doesn’t seem as if the other’s wrath is only a few seconds away from snapping loose, but Lydia thinks she’d almost prefer that to this. There’s a separate kind of scrutiny in pity.

Still, she swallows it down, especially after catching sight of the crown Wendy picks out, which is perfect. She bends forward and lowers her head, closing her eyes again. Almost a prayer, before her imagination gets the best of her— the image of Wendy dressed as a queen, holding out a bejeweled sword, sternly but proudly knighting Lydia for her fearless contributions to the kingdom. She smiles as if it’s real.

She opens her eyes. The crown hasn't fallen off or flown away or caught on fire yet. It actually seems to fit quite nicely. "Thank you," she says, the sincerity of it as tangible as the petals around them. "Y'picked me out a real special one too, huh?" She notes as she takes a gander in the mirror nailed to the side of the stall. "I owe you one, Wendy! Say, you got a favorite fish? Bet I can catch you somethin' good before the weekend's over!"

[mysteriousbook]

Patty takes the rod carefully, noting the trembling hand and the slight waver in her voice. It makes sense, with Patty’s best friend being a noted Lydia disliker. (She’d heard all about it before moving back to town—she’s honestly really gross, today she ate an entire raw onion in front of me like it was an apple, what the fuck is that about?)

But Patty holds no ill will toward anyone, really, unless given reason. And it’s quite rare that there is reason enough for her to shut someone out completely—she’s a curious person to her core, and unkind people are typically like that because of something buried in their backstories. But Lydia is decidedly not unkind. Just a little odd. And… smelly, at times, but that’s rural life, right?

“Sounds good to me. I’m just here to learn.” And learning is exactly what she’s doing, watching intensely as Lydia grabs a worm barehanded, twists it in two, stabs each piece through the silver hooks. It’s impressive, truly—she moves quickly, deftly, with no disgust around handling a live worm, no fear of pricking herself. It's as natural as breathing.

"Mostly just another feather, although Meemaw would be pretty darn happy if I showed up with a fresh trout." Although she doesn't live in her family home anymore, she still stops by for supper nearly every evening. And even though she would end up eating exclusively sides, seeing as trout is pretty disgusting, it'd be worth it to see Meemaw get all bright and excited, pulling out her recipe cards. (And the sides are always delicious, anyway.)

"It's impressive, by the way. Your fishin', I mean. It's a cool skill for a girl to have, y'know? Feel like you only ever hear about fishermen." She shakes her head. "Always with the men."

And then she's posed with the rod, trying to emulate some of that fearlessness around the hook. "Alright—what now?"

[herrring]

She never expected to find herself in the crosshairs of such a challenge, at least not on this muggy ol' Saturday morning. On one hand, she's never been particularly gifted at talking to any of the girls who are objectively more stylish and popular than she is, and for a seemingly endless myriad of reasons. On the other hand, she could talk about fishing all day, always chasing after that dopamine rush of offering a tip or trick that actually works. Patty's sincere interest has her increasingly giddy.

"I reckon girls are better at it, too," she agrees with a hearty, crooked smile, finding a surprising but welcome familiarity in Patty’s observations. “Papaw’s always stickin’ his fingers ‘cause they’re too big, n’ gettin’ madder than a wet hen when he loses a worm.” Lydia often feels like fishing is the only thing that doesn’t make her go insane sometimes.

She mulls over the basics with perhaps a bit too much detail— the correct stance, how to hold the pole, and most importantly, how to cast a line. “It’s allllll about timin’,” she says. “Y’see this lil’ trigger here? You’re gonna want to hold it down,” she exemplifies, “and don’t let go until the second you pull forward, like this.” She tugs the rod back, letting go of the trigger as it whips towards the water, the line flying through the air until the worm sinks with a distant plop. “Go ahead n’ try it!”

She reels in her line, looking over at Patty with a look of both curiosity and encouragement. “Now, the second y’feel a bite, you gotta just jerk his lips off,” she says, repeating the long-persistent mantra that Papaw spouts nearly every time he’s on the dock. She tugs her rod back once more for dramatic emphasis, pantomiming the somewhat brutal advice with a flighty grin. “Then y’start reelin’ as fast as y’can!”

[veticent]

It had been a long shot. And after a moment, the girl does start playing Piano Man, so at least she recognizes the name. She'll take what she can get.

She's been trying her best to socialize more, be nice and polite. Does she hate it? Yes. But so far it has gone a lot better than she would've thought. She's even met a few people she tolerates, or likes, even. And, in those interactions, sometimes, someone will hit Valerie with some insane adage that reminds her she's not in Empire City anymore. Crazier than a soup sandwich, really fucking gets her.

“I mean, there's a lot of harmonica in Piano Man anyway,” she manages after a moment.

Okay, so the woman isn't quite sure what it is either. It's a little odd, but sure. “Well, it's sounding pretty good for something you don't even know the name of.”

“And that's alright,” she shrugs, “it's pretty old. It's just the first song that came to mind.”

Val has to bite her tongue at the sausage comment. Nice, she reminds herself, polite. “It's about the city in Austria, actually,” she says. “But that sounds like a premise for an amazing Weird Al parody song.”

[herrring]

"Well, I sure do 'preciate that. I learn everything by ear! Not many people offerin' zipper lessons 'round here," she chortles, pushing her glasses up and taking a better look at the woman in front of her. City slicker. It's not so much an insult as it is a statement of fact. There's something in the energy and the stance that really tends to set them all apart. The way she's poised reminds Lydia how severely she's slouching herself, and it reminds her to straighten up, even if just for a few moments of conversation.

Except now she's talking about Austria. Is that the place with all the kangaroos? And Weird Al— well, that's definitely not a local, otherwise she'd have heard of him by now. She blinks, fingers stopping, edges of her lips rising into an awkward smile, as if she's not sure whether to just go along with it or admit she has no idea what this woman is talking about. Now, she's not judging her for making references she doesn't understand, but she is a little irritated at herself for not understanding them. Unfortunately she's a bit too rural and phoneless for even a modicum of pop culture to stick in her waterlogged brain. "Where ya from, if y'don't mind me askin'?"

[mysteriousbook]

As a child, Patty determined that it was essential for a girl detective to have a wide range of skills. You never know when it might be necessary to shoot an arrow or fix a broken watch or start a campfire with nothing but your bare hands. But shockingly, despite her close proximity to a lake, she'd never once even touched a fishing pole. Maybe it's something to do with the smell, or her overall dislike of seafood, but twenty-nine years old feels as good a time as any to add something new to her repertoire.

So when she sees Lydia's scrawled note pinned to the bulletin board—a girl she hasn't spoken to since high school, and even then, sparingly—she figures this is a great opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.

It's 11:10 on the dot when she arrives—she headed straight over from Pure Valley, where she was neck deep in piles of terribly inaccurate paperwork. She's still got her briefcase in hand, which she sets down against the worn wood of the fishing shack. The smell has already hit her nose, strong and salty, but she's dedicated to the knowledge.

And there's Lydia, looking exactly the same as Patty remembers. Big, curly hair, well-loved vintage clothing, fishing boots nearly up to her knees. And that same sweet, earnest demeanor. Of course, Lydia was always a little strange, but glass houses, and all that. Besides, weirdness just makes for a more interesting conversation.

"And the big time hit back," she shakes her head ruefully, although there's a bright smile on her face. "I'm back in town for the time bein', so figured I might as well finally learn to fish. And from the best, no less."

She holds out her hand. "I'll try the orange one, if ya think I can handle it."

[herrring]

With a brisk nod, she goes to pick up the orange rod and turns it towards the other so that she can take it by the handle. Her movements are slightly shaky, her heart pounding both from the sudden awakening and the fact that she really was not expecting this. She swallows her anxiety down, and can feel it inching down her throat into the pit of her stomach, relentless and fluttering. "Well, that's mighty kind of ya," she thanks her. Even though she knows she's definitely only the second best after Papaw, he did teach her everything she knows, and she thinks she might just be getting to that same level.

"It's nice to see a familiar face! I was expectin' a city slicker or two, I just wasn't expectin' to know any of 'em," she snorts, bending down and digging out a worm from the flower pot she'd restocked early this morning. "I usually bait the first worm and unhook the first fish for ya, just so you can see how it's done. And sometimes they'll swallow the hook... Um, if that happens, I'll just... we'll worry 'bout it when we get to it."

With a swift motion, she twists the wriggling worm in two, placing the handle of the rod against the dock and pinching the silver curve of the hook so that she can pull it forward and pierce through, once at each end, before doing the same to Patty's. "Now, you wanna make sure it's real on there, or else it'll fall off before y'even get it in the water," she says, wiping her hands off on a nearby rag. "Y'lookin' to catch some supper, or just another feather in your cap?"

[wldngmn]

Everything about the day is dreary and the man in all black is dreary looking too. Even as he tilts the black umbrella to reveal his black hood and the shadow casts black against his partly concealed features like an old black and white film on one of those big retro televisions that your grandfather still keeps in the basement. He looks like he could have stepped out of one, one of those crime flicks or supernatural thrillers, ominous and foreboding. All he needs to do is reach out a hand that looks like a claw and swipe at the screen.

Instead, he reaches up a hand that looks like a claw only because his fingers are incredibly long, and pushes back the hood. A mess of stringy blond hair flops out that looks very undreary and unominous.

Then his mouth parts and out in a very lazy Chicagoan accent that’s deeper than the bassy growl of a monster truck he says, “Ya got dat right, lil crawdad. ‘er crawgirl? Crawfish?” His hand flaps in a very unforeboding way, “I guess it don’t matter. Da fuck tho is a lunker? Is it tasty, precious?"

[herrring]

The way he tugs his hood down, spilling damp-ish blonde locks and revealing to her somewhat of a wickedly curious expression, reminds her of the antagonistic knights she's so used to doodling. Scraggly yet formidable, always donning some weapon simply too cool for logic. She'd always imagined, had they come alive, they'd speak with a flamboyant, pointed drawl. Maybe teetering slightly on the more bone-chilling side. And she fully expects that to be exactly what comes out of his mouth, but then he starts talking.

It's choppy. And too quick, especially compared to Lydia's constant dawdling, and almost nasally. Some subtitles would actually be nice. Did he come here for crawfish? Is that what he's saying? More importantly, does he kiss his mama with that mouth? What kind of crazy far-away land is this guy from?

"A... A lunker, y'know? A biggun," she says, awkwardly shifting the handle of the pole under her armpit and holding her hands a good length apart. "I've had days where this is the smallest I'll reel outta here, so I hope you're ready to bring home some supper," she says, readjusting and pointing towards the other fishing poles with a smile that says I'm totally not freaked out right now! "Why don'tcha grab you a rod and tell me your name, sir!"

[moonlitmontana]

“Oh.” Tanny holds her hand out, waits for the cookie to plop right into her palm before taking it to inspect. It’s a little green – her favorite color. “Thanks, but are y’sure?” She holds it in her hand for a moment, eyebrow raised, before an invisible lightbulb shines above her head.

“I think this is plenty payment,” she says, nodding down to the little green confection in her hand. There’s a little mischievous smirk on her face, the kind that only shows when she’s doing something devious in the interest of someone else. Or in this case, something that’ll short her a few bucks. “Especially,” she adds, taking a quick chomp from the cookie, “one this good.”

She chews for a second, swallows, all while looking at the woman with a smile on her face. Five for two tickets, she thinks. She’ll have to keep an eye on her stomach. “Say, don’t’cha have that grampa…Fred?” she asks, brows knit together in concentration as she searches her brain for the name. It’s hard not to have seen most everyone at least once in a town this small. “I think my daddy knew him.” This girl definitely looks familiar…Lindsay? Lila? She can’t seem to place her quite yet.

[herrring]

What? Tanny's willing to accept a cookie Lydia didn't even make for this absolute paragon of all landscapes? Her breath feels hard to swallow, shoulders tense as she reaches for the edges. But she's still paranoid, as if the second she touches it she'll find out it's a trick, or come to her senses and realize the offer was nothing more than a daydream. But, as she looks up to Tanny, eyes welling up to a near cartoonish degree, there's nothing on her face to indicate that she's kidding around. Lydia can struggle with that sort of thing sometimes, but she's already imagining the perfect spot on her wall to hang it up. "Really?" She makes sure anyway, lips pressing together tightly so they don't wobble as she finally takes hold of the canvas, staring down at it like a child.

And then she's asking about Papaw, and Lydia's nodding quickly, sniffling and pushing her glasses up in an attempt to shield her overwhelm. She thinks about ol' Jacob Buchanan well and often, actually. Always kind when he was around, despite the near-consistent furrow of his brows that might've proposed otherwise. That's just how most of the farmers are around here, but his absence had always been palpable. "Those two never got more than five minutes together without gettin' in a few rounds'a gin rummy, neither," she says, sitting on the fence of a smile, and it comes out a bit awkward but authentic all the same.

[ofmourningdoves]

God, it's kind of sad to see just how...excited Lydia is at the prospect of Wendy helping her out. She's practically shaking like a puppy without any control of its bladder, about to go hog wild seeing its owner for the fourth time in its short life. Wendy's half concerned she'll need to put down newspaper around the girl, lest she makes a matching stain on the hem of her dress. Which is the last thing she needs. "Don't mention it."

There's regret sitting heavy in her heart already at exactly what she's agreed to, but it's too late to back out now. Well...it isn't, but despite the smell of Swan Lake wafting off the girl in thick, green lines, Wendy is a woman of her word. She agreed to this, so she must follow through. She motions for Lydia to follow as she's still talking, her eyes on the prize at hand -- her favorite flower crown stand. Almost as beloved as her lemonade man. "I usually end up with a different one at the end of the day, too," she replies with, weaving through the crowd. Granted, hers is because she buys herself a new one, not because she loses them. How does Lydia lose so many? One would think with that amount of frizz, everything from twigs to loose coins would get tangled in. Wendy pauses for a moment at Lydia's attempt at a joke, her brow arching up. "Is he a marigold kinda guy, or is he a more delicate flower type?"

[herrring]

Lydia ambles behind Wendy like a muppet, nearly jumping with every step. She still has half a mind to keep herself from skipping like a stone, because she knows by now that's a one-way ticket to running right into someone else and staining another sleeve. Besides, she’s better off doing everything she can to contain herself, anyway. She knows Wendy’s probably just being nice to her because of her mama. But it’s an invitation she doesn’t have to think twice about before taking, despite checking first.

She doesn't actually know how to answer Wendy's question. Papaw Fred is the kind of guy who'd gleefully put on the frilliest crown at the entire festival just because she handed it to him, but there’s an opportunity to have fun, here. “Definitely a delicate flower,” she chortles, eyes already moseying over the various options. Anything with clover is automatically out; it obviously can’t withstand more than an hour or two in her mane. “Oh, look at this one,” she gasps, almost forgetting they’re not friends who are willingly hanging out as she lifts a rather ostentatious crown of marigolds. However, though she’s as gentle as she can possibly be, a blossom falls and, right before her eyes, it deflates into a sad, decorative string almost immediately. "I... T-That wasn't me, it just..."

[veticent]

It's a lovely day, and Valerie is quietly enjoying the nice, warm breeze as she wanders aimlessly through the center of town. There are more people milling around than normal, and the town is alive with their chattering and a familiar melody drifting on the wind. It's the sound of some sort of stringed instrument, though it's not one she immediately recognizes.

She peruses the market, slowly but surely getting closer to the source of the music, and before she knows it, she spots her. Sitting at a table in the park is a young woman with what she could only liken to a dulcimer. The woman has a wild mane of curls, and while Val doesn't know her, she does look vaguely familiar. Probably not one of the tourists, then.

She clearly has a lot of practice by the casual way she's playing. She's not even looking down at the strings as she plucks out her tune, instead her eyes catch Valerie's, pulling her into an interaction. Howdy, she's still not used to hearing it said sincerely. “Hey there,” Val nods.

The woman puts her a little on the spot, asking for a request. “Do you happen to know Vienna by Billy Joel?” It's the first song that comes to mind, one of the oldies that was in Mari's regular rotation, one that she grew to love. It might be a bit of a long shot, though, as the woman looks a little younger than her. “It's fine if you don't,” she adds. “I've never seen that type of instrument before. What is it?”

[herrring]

Billy Joel. She recognizes that name, right? Isn't that old Mrs. Gertie's neighbor? No, that's Bobbi Jo... With a crumpled expression of deep thought, she forces herself to think before she's grasped it— that one tune, heard time and time again in her little corner of the Stag, somewhere between jaunty and melancholy. Something about a piano man singing a song, heavy on the piano and perhaps even heavier on the harmonica. Probably would've been more apt to name it harmonica man. Or even singing man, seeing as they're asking him to sing. What kind of lyricism is that, Bill?

She starts feeling around for chords. Once. Twice. Then she finds her starting point: a vibrant C major, comfortable against dirt-lined nails. "Might sound crazier than a soup sandwich without the piano," she snorts. "Can't remember what it is, but I know the name Oz called it was real funny," she says, strumming a couple more times before pausing to tap her chin. "A zipper or somethin' like that..." She descends into an amenable rendition that is very clearly Piano Man and not Vienna, but she's trying her best. "I don't think I know the song you said," she murmurs, still strumming. "You're tellin' me this guy wrote a whole song 'bout those little sausages?"

[torimae]

Tori Mae can't help but snort at Lydia's joke. It's silly and unexpected, though not really that unexpected comin' from Lydia. She always had something unexpected to say and it was one of the things Tori liked about her friend. Her life was the same day in and day out with nothin' much beyond shop talk - literal auto shop talk. So the silly jokes and out of pocket remarks were nice, as insignificant as it seemed. "Guess we'll have to watch and see if we can spot any."

As Lydia looks back at Tori Mae with her question, she finds a tender smile settling across her lips. Lydia seems surprised at Tori's offer, genuinely touched. "Well of course I really wanna!" She proclaims with a nod. "I think we'd make quite the dancin' pair." Her gaze lingers on Lydia for a moment longer before turning back to the bottles before them, Tori Mae's last ring clutched by the fingers of her free hand.

"Alrighty, lemme see what I can do." She presses her lips together and her eyes narrow for a moment as she's formulating her plan to get this stupid ring around one of those bottles. Then she flings her wrist to give it a go because she actually has no plan. The ring immediately bounces between two bottles and falls to the cobblestones with a thud. She looks at Lydia again, fighting back a laugh. "Okay, so I actually suck at this game so maybe we need to find someone who can actually win us a prize after our dance."

[herrring]

Lydia doesn't have a car and probably never will— that's not how she's familiar with Tori. Taller, older, prettier... It actually took her forever to muster up the guts to even so much as wave to the other girl and her dad from across the lake, and even though that was forever ago now, she just can't seem to shake that certain trepidation that she's going to say something wrong. And even if she did, Tori Mae would be too sweet to say so, which makes it even worse. Well of course I really wanna! It's immediate and cheerful and increases Lydia's heart rate to the point where she's starting to feel like a hummingbird has taken residence within. She's staring up at her, hands clasped together, grinning like a dang loon.

She should be focused on the ring toss. Or at least pretending to be. Instead, she's admiring the way the string lights bounce against Tori's skin, the casual but sincere dedication in the furrow of her brows as she aims, the slight quirk at the edges of her lips. Her lips. Lydia clears her throat, eyes aiming instead to other dancers floating around fiddle music for about as long as she can stand before she's gazing back to Tori. "A-After our dance, right," a skittish laugh trembles out, and she subconsciously smooths out her dress. "This song's one of my favorites, too! Real pretty. Not too fast n' not too slow..." She shudders in a breath and tells herself now or never before sticking out a hand. "Y'ready?"

[torimae]

Lydia's effort to land one of the rings around a glass bottleneck is enough to keep Tori Mae playing herself just to win her one of the prizes. Her attempt is meaningful. And she can't help but laugh herself as the ring smacks the guy working the booth right on the head. Tori winces herself but is grinning. "Sorry!" she mouths before shaking her head.

Her gaze lands on Lydia again as she responds. Tori Mae's own head shakes again in reply. "I haven't managed to do so myself either." And now she shrugs a shoulder, "I've got two left feet, as my mama would say. But she ain't much better than me so I guess I get it honestly."

But she can't help but want to keep up that sparkle in Lydia's eyes. Maybe it's just the reflection of the string lights illuminating the games but as she watched her kiss her fist before tossin' that ring, Tori Mae figured it was a real shimmer. "Wha'dya say we we try to win you one of those prizes and then maybe make a fool of ourselves out there together?"

[herrring]

Two left feet. It's not that funny, but Lydia laughs anyway, like it's the most hilarious thing she's ever heard. "Wonder if anyone out here's got two right feet, even things out a lil' bit," she snorts, shoving her glasses up and pushing against the edge of the booth. She couldn't care less about this game, winning one of these prizes, or even finishing out the round. What she's hanging onto is the last thing Tori says. Make a fool out of ourselves out there. Together. She swallows in a gasp, and it makes her chest feel like it's caving in on itself just a little.

"...Y'really wanna?" She asks, more awed than incredulous, though both are present. She's been around long enough to know that Tori's not one to make a big spectacle of herself, not on a regular day and definitely not during a festival. Frolicking around in the town square? While Lydia aches for the courage to even ask, it makes sense the other would willingly sit it out. Still, her elation is palpable, knees bending ever so slightly as if she's about to take off straight into the sky. "I, um... I'd be mighty fine with lookin' like a fool out there with ya."

[ofmourningdoves]

There hasn't been a stain on Wendy's clothes since she was a toddler, despite her Mama's best efforts to corral her into the kitchen. Her little dresses, still tucked away in a drawer for sentimental reasons, have remained perfect and pristine over the years. So, she's trying her best not to have a little hissy fit at the Fish in front of her. Lemonade can't stain that much, right? It's a mantra she'll repeat over and over in her head until she can find a way to leave Lydia in the dust to find her friend.

There's still a look of sheer annoyance plastered on her face. That she can't wrangle back. She's not perfect, after all. But, clearly, neither is Lydia. What is she yammering on about, something about maps? If the Good Lord knows what's best, He'll find a way to strike down the pair before she finishes the rest of the sentence. All Wendy can do is stare down at her with a blink, hoping her eyes aren't fully glazed over in boredom. "I'm sure you'd win." Not like Wendy thinks she'd have any competition.

Well, at least that conversation is done. She looks over her shoulder, trying to look for that shock of red hair in the crowd...Oh. Lydia isn't done.

Wendy looks back to her, simply nodding along and half listening to Lydia. She pauses for a moment, head tilting to the side. Wait... "You've lost three crowns already?" She asks, her tone maybe a little too accusatory for the situation at hand. A sigh escapes her lips, already regretting the words she's about to say before they even leave her mouth. Damn her good, kind-hearted nature; Wendy really is a saint sometimes. "I can help you find a new one at one of these booths."

[herrring]

Wendy’s staring at her like she just grew an extra nose, and for a second she’s expecting the other to excuse herself away without a second thought. But instead of that well-worn sting of rejection, she’s perking up at Wendy’s unanticipated offer, a hearty dose of excitement rearing up within her as she clasps her hands together. “Really? Wow, thanks!” She’s mystified, truly, and it shows in the way she doesn’t even know what to say.

It’s hard to live that princess fantasy when she can’t even keep a crown longer than half an hour, but for Wendy it seems effortless, even with a newfound lemonade stain on her sleeve. With her help, Lydia should have no trouble finding the perfect one, right? Wendy’s the kind of girl who’s good at everything she’s not, which probably includes finding some flowers suitable enough to stay on her frizzy head. “I think this festival’s one of my very favorites, but I can never seem to end the day with the same crown I started with…” Might have something to do with the sheer amount of frizz, but she digresses. “Y’think you can help me pick one out for my Papaw, too?” She tacks on, immediately cracking herself up.

[vespcrtines]

location: town square/happy apple stall (rain of petals parade) status: closed for @herrring

Oh, Misty does love this festival so much. Sure, she’ll gripe about the heat and the crowds and the glitter she’ll still be finding in her hair come August, but deep down, this is her kind of chaos. Folks milling about, music in the air, and enough sugar in the square to send the whole town into a collective toothache. Her kerchief has been swapped for a green one printed with little leaves, or as she’ll proudly declare, her “leafkerchief," and the Happy Apple stall is downright swamped. She just isn't getting the goods out fast enough, hauling trays of flower-shaped shortbread and marigold apple fritters by the stack, her arms dusted in flour and her cheeks puffed through with it too.

“Hold on, sugar, let me grab you a fresh one—don’t you take the last fritter off that tray, that one’s got a burnt corner!” she calls out to a passing teenager, already reaching for another tray beneath the counter.

And she spots that telltale explosion of wild, curly hair just a little ways off, bouncing through the crowd like a beacon.

“Lydia! Sugar, get on over here!” Misty hollers, waving the girl down with a grin twice as bright as the yellow gingham of her swishy dress. “Try this—come on, now, before some fool grabs it.”

She's already sliding a warm fritter into a napkin, holding it out to lure Lydia close.

“Did you put on sunscreen? Don’t you lie to me, I can see that nose startin’ to turn. It’s a scorcher today, honey, you’re gonna peel up like a tomato,” Misty scolds, but it comes out wrapped in affection, her voice moving fast enough to keep up with her hands. She grabs a jar of honey off the counter without breaking stride, drizzling a touch over the fritter before Lydia can answer.

“There,” she declares. “Now it’s proper.”

[herrring]

Golly, this line is long.

It makes sense, though. A freshly baked treat from Misty Apple on a festival day is like knowing you're about to win the lottery. A lot of love (and elbow grease) goes into a fritter like that... And Lydia's nearly jumping up in down in anticipation as she eyes the booth where she can see it between high-up shoulders.

And then Misty's calling her name. With intention, even. Lydia's eyes widen, quickly adjusting her glasses and unsuccessfully biting back a giant smile. It takes her a few seconds to elbow between a family and a group of younger boys, hands flying forward to fold around the napkin. It's just another part of the ebb and flow for Misty, who is fully in her zone right now. But for Lydia, it makes her heart swell about ten times too big for her chest, taking in a measured breath before all but inhaling a bite in the hopes that she doesn't explode.

And then, she's nodding profusely, chewing on perhaps the most divine fritter on this entire town square, trying her best to swallow quickly. "Yes, ma'am!" She assures as the warmth hits her stomach, eyes hooked on the honey as if it were pure gold. It's not a lie, but it was not nearly enough. "Hoo-wee, I'm fixin' to float up to heaven right here n' now," she beams, taking another bite and nodding again, slower and with satiated fervor. "It's... It's perfect..."

[moonlitmontana]

“What’s that?” she asks, gaze flickering down to the cookie just as she takes the last bite of it. She’s been hankering for a treat all morning, and judging by the way she shoved it in her mouth, it was at the very least edible. A little laugh escapes Tanny’s lips at the woman’s comment. “That’s real kind,” she says, even though the little quip about the Inn maybe wasn’t so much. Still, it makes her stand a little taller, raise her chin up just an inch.

“It’s more for decoration than anythin’,” she adds, crossing her arms and leaning on them. She’s sold a few pieces, sure, but they’re mostly gifts or creative exercises for her own sake. Her blue eyes study the woman before her slowly. “Lotta time,” she answers her question with another shrug. “Anyone can do it.”

Maybe she’s been possessed or lost her mind completely, because the next words out of her mouth are “Y’want it?”. And she doesn’t mean as a purchase – clearly this girl is struck by the scene, or perhaps she’s putting on an amazing act. Either way, Tanny doesn’t mind parting ways with it in favor of someone admiring.

[herrring]

“Hm? Oh, pistachio cookie, it’s from, um—“ she points somewhere off, six or seven o’clock, as she rifles for another one that she knows she has here somewhere, brushing it off and handing it over with a crooked smile. “If y’like it, the fella with the curly mustache gave me five of ‘em for two tickets. That’s a bargain if I ever seen one!” She reminds herself to cool her jets a little, but it's hard not to let enthusiasm get the best of her when she's surrounded by such cool stuff. It must look even worse next to Tanny's unfettered nonchalance.

She bounces on her heels, slow like the rocking of waves, and seems to blank at Tanny’s question. Surely she’s not… No, that would just be ridiculous, wouldn’t it? “Oh, I don't think I can," she sighs, eyes flitting around at the other paintings and perhaps any price tags she might be blind to in this current moment. Either way, these are definitely worth more than her own weight in marigolds. "Well— how much is it?" She considers briefly, wondering if she can talk her into maybe some sort of monthly payoff situation...

[torimae]

location: festival games area, Rain of Petals Parade status: open!

Tori Mae wasn't much for dancing and pageantry but she did enjoy the occasional event to people watch. The Springs came alive every spring with the Rain of Petals Parade and the looks of pure joy on the faces of festival goers was a nice reminder that there still was a little magic left in the world, even if none of it belonged to Tori Mae.

She should've listened to Miss Fortune all those years ago when she told her to expect a big change in her life, but truly, she should'a listened to her mama telling her she had no business putting any trust into what that woman had to say. Tori ignored the instructions to steer clear of her tent then, but had made up for it by avoiding it entirely for the last fifteen years. That counted for something, right, Mama?

Instead, she wandered the festival grounds, savoring the smells of freshly baked teats, hand picked flowers, and honey sticks. She greets local artisans with a big smile, promising to make another round to actually purchase something and sends her Pop's regards. He hated missing the festival but promised Tori Mae's mama he'd rest this year and let Tori take care of the shop talk.

Now, she's clad in high-waist denim shorts, a muted golden-yellow floral button down, tied in a knot just above her exposed midriff, and flower suede platform Doc's with a freshly squeezed lemonade (and gin) in hand. Her eyes are trained on the ring in her friend's hand as they play ring toss, or maybe attempt to play would've been a better way to put it. A chuckle escapes from her lips. "So, did'ya ask anyone to dance yet?" She inquires with a quirked brow, bringing the straw to her lips.

[herrring]

Ever since a few years back, where she'd spent all twenty of the tickets she'd had to her name on ring toss right away and spent the rest of the night pouting about it, she swore to herself to forever ignore that Goddess-forsaken booth for her own sake. But that was before she saw Tori Mae standing next to it tonight, her outfit simple, her presence a mere delight. She doesn't need to dress like a princess; her radiance alone casts shadows over any elaborate gown. But she'd muck that up out loud, so she greets the other with an inhibited, but earnest "that color sure looks pretty on you, Tori Mae!"

And, suddenly, she's ten tickets in, too giddy to make a shot that she likely wouldn't be making anyway. "This'll be the one, I can feel it!" She says, kissing her fist before flinging one of the rings towards the rows of bottles... And, much like all the others, it ends up clinking disastrously against the glass bottlenecks and onto the cobblestone below, this one nearly smacking the guy running the booth straight in the forehead on the way down. "Ope— sorry, sir!"

Her cheeks are thankfully too sunburnt for her blush to show, but Tori's question has a laugh hesitantly vibrating through her, as if she's not sure whether to unleash it, and it sits stuck in her throat, not sure where to go. No, I haven't. Would you like to? That's what she would say if she didn't feel like she had a ton of bricks on her chest. "I... haven't gotten 'round to it yet," she blurts quickly. "Are you, um, thinkin' of askin' anyone in particular?"

[ofmourningdoves]

Lavender lemonade is the world's finest delicacy, and the Bleeding Hearts Journal can quote Wendy Apple on that. When her camera hangs simply around her neck, she strolls leisure through Town Square with a cup in hand that seemingly refills on command when she hears the rattle of ice at the bottom. Her trick? Befriending the local vendor you have your sights set on a month in advance for this very moment. All the stars will align, and all is...perfect, sans the full bladder. Truly, her head's in the clouds, she's walking on sunshine -- well, she's walking into someone.

The half-full drink cup sloshes, splashing onto her fluttering sleeve, Wendy's eyes widening just for a moment. Shit, on dry clean only? Who could possibly do this to her?

She shuts her eyes at the sound of that voice, lest she's seen rolling her eyes at someone her Mama told her to be kind to. Of course it's her. They open, slow, her eyes landing on one Miss Lydia Herring. Looks like she's been busy sucking on bottles of Red Forty dye judging by her mouth, which might actually be a downgrade from all the raw onions this girl houses. Wendy instinctually takes a step back.

Is she making a stank face? It's a possibility, Wendy's hand flying up to touch the crown on her head -- dried baby's breath, reminiscent of the tufts of blooms Mama Ivy stuck in her hair come Mid Summer. "Just like this one?" Her stomach sinks at the thought of the pair wearing matching crowns. "I don't think the stall I got it from had anymore like this one. But they had other ones." She cranes her neck, her eyes peering at all the stalls lined up. "Do you, like, need a map or something to look around?"

[herrring]

Lydia's eyes widen at the spot on Wendy's shirt, fingers curling into her palms to prevent herself from reaching out and ferociously scrubbing at it in an attempt to undo her mistake. But it's no use. The damage has already been done. And it's not like the stain is really all that bad, anyway. Lydia has plenty worse stains on some of her own clothes, and that's obviously a reasonable comparison, right?

"I— I don't need a map," she laughs nervously. "I'm workin' on one of my own, actually. One day here soon, there's gonna be enough outta-towners 'round here for 'em to need to hand out every year, anyways, so I figured I'd get a head start on the competition... If they end up holdin' one..." Who is she kidding? Wendy doesn't care. So why can't she seem to just shut up and walk away, then?

It's half politeness, half taking advantage of a rare situation. As often as Lydia's in the Happy Apple, she always seems to come in when Wendy's too busy in the back to talk. "Anyways, that crown ya got there is real pretty." Kill them with kindness, Papaw says in the back of her mind. "I just lost my third one. Y'ever hear that if ya lose one it's not meant for ya? Or is that crystals?" She scratches her head, brows furrowed.

[moonlitmontana]

Tanny's got her chin nestled in her hand, eyes half-lidded and watching passersby, when she hears the exclamation from the woman before her. Does she mean her painting? She stands up a bit, craning her neck to see around the front of the paper. Oh. It is one of her finest works – but she’s no Picasso. “Thanks.” A little smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.

“Felt like it,” she answers with a little laugh, her shoulders rising in falling in a single shrug. Her new easel, courtesy of one Mr. Hiro Uehara, aided her greatly with this one. With the help of a vertical place to hang the paper, she was able to work longer, in a place she wouldn’t normally.

“Y’really like it?” she asks, wondering if something in particular is drawing her in or just the sight of art itself.

[herrring]

“Well, a’course,” she stuffs the rest of the cookie in her mouth and plants her hands on her hips, leaning in further as she chews. If she had any less couth, she’d be trailing her slovenly fingers all over it, but she’s doing pretty well on the self control lately. Wouldn’t wanna muck it up in front of Tanny, who’s undoubtedly cooler and an objectively better artist and gets her name in the journal all the time. “This ain’t one of those borin’ ol’ landscapes they got up in the Birchwood Inn, neither,” she says, words muffled around pistachio. “Looks like ya caught the whole town in the end of a rainbow.”

She swallows slowly, one hand moseying around in her dress pocket. She’s got about 10 tickets, 6 dollars, and 87 cents. Her sigh escapes in a pffff of her lips. That’s a borderline offensive offering, if she’s ever seen one, so she chews at her lip instead. “How’d ya get so good at gettin’ everything to look so real?”

[herrring]

location: rain of petals parade status: closed @veticent

Sitting on the edge of a rinky-dink park picnic table, Lydia’s strumming out a (thankfully to all in the vicinity) wordless account of Little Boxes, though her eyes are watching everyone else. Pals, old classmates, and strangers alike, all doused in marigolds and ready to be set alight with what remains of Spring. Next to her, her zither bag is propped open, with a scrawled ‘taking requests!’ sign bending in the breeze.

Pausing to stretch her fingers, she emits a loud yawn and blinks around, waving at a woman she’s never seen before. “Howdy,” she greets, slouching forward and adjusting the instrument in her grip. Lydia has no pets (unless you count all the fish in the lake), and she doesn’t get out much, so to say Val is unfamiliar is an understatement. “Got anything ya wanna hear, miss?”