#palmviewstarter.

[morellofthestory]

Status: OPEN || @palmviewstarters Location: The Book Nook, Seaglass Heights

There’s just something about The Book Nook that makes time feel like it’s slowing down, you know? It’s the soft creak of the old wooden floors, the cozy smell of well-loved pages mixed with the scent of those cinnamon lattes from the café next door—it’s like comfort wrapped up in a book. Honestly, Sienna found herself there way more often than she probably should’ve admitted. She’d settle into her usual armchair by the window, a half-read mystery resting in her lap, and a drink that was more decoration than anything else, just hanging out beside her. So, there she was, reaching for a new title on the “Staff Picks” shelf, when something caught her eye. A little flicker of movement nearby. Someone was standing just a few feet away, their fingers gently brushing the spine of a book. Sienna couldn’t help but smile. “That one’s been on my list forever,” she said, gesturing toward the book they were holding. “I keep picking it up, then convincing myself not to go for it.”

[waitingr00ms]

harrison  stares  wearily  inside  the  building   .  he  places  a  hand  on  some  concrete  beam  structure  work  .  pauses  for  a  second  ,  before  knocking  on  it  and  frowning  deeper  at  the  hollow  sound  it makes .  finally  ,  he  pushes  on  the  plastered  beam  ,  with  the  flat  of  his  palm  .  harrison's  silent  for  a  long  moment  ,  before  exhaling  (  like  a  doctor  ,  giving  a  grim  diagnosis  )  .  "  hate  to  say  it  ,  but  sounds  like  whoever  did  the  work  for  this  might'a  used  some  cheap  materials  .  "  he  moves  his  palm  a  bit  further  up  the  beam  ,  feeling  it  out  .  "  i  can  quote  you  ,  but  it's  not  gonna  be  a  number  you  like  .  "

@palmviewstarters !

[thalassafm]

riley: HELP WANTED!!!! WHAT SONG DO I SING AT KARAOKE!!!!!!! 🎤🎤🎤 riley: THIS IS SERIOUS BUSINESS !!!!!!👊😡 riley: i got told i can't sing the smiths bc it's too...emo...i'm ready to show them EMO and sing down with the sickness riley: OOOOOO WAH AH AH AH @palmviewstarters

[beauregard-less]

location: seaglass gardens status: closed @loversfms

Beau doesn’t make a habit of doing favors without a little bullshittery. His time is valuable, after all, and by valuable, he means he usually spends it doing absolutely nothing. And by doing favors, he means dragging his ass out of bed long enough to hold a conversation in a more social context than asking Slater to pick up more Cheerios on the way home from work. But somehow, in the back-and-forth of his and Major's usual bullshit, he’s ended up here, sitting astride his bike outside Seaglass Gardens, the most charmingly pretentious apartment complex in a five-mile radius.

Helmet dangling from the handlebars, Beau flicks the ash from his cigarette and scans the area, vaguely on the lookout for Major. Kids are shrieking over by the playground, a couple of moms in tennis skirts are power-walking past with the kind of energy that says yoga was too easy today, and some guy with an expensive-looking golden retriever side-eyes him like he’s lowering the property value just by existing. Which, fair enough. This looked like a place where the grass is always trimmed, the sidewalks always power-washed, and the raccoons don’t challenge you for dominance on your own balcony like they do at his place.

The cigarette hangs lazy from his fingers as he exhales, smoke curling through the humid air. “If this dude makes me wait too long, I will be chargin' a late fee,” he mutters to himself, before flicking his cigarette into the parking lot with expert precision.

[ziggywho]

location: oceanview pizzeria who: stardust -> mistakes make the man status: closed -> palmview valentine's event @palmviewstarters

He should've known Slater would pull some shit like this.

Here Ziggy was, thinking he was doing his so-called manager a favor by pushing him back into the world. Give him a taste of responsibility, maybe even a relationship—at the very least, expose him to someone who wasn’t his weirdly co-dependent roommate or that tiny girl who squeaked at him like a chew toy. Y’know. Someone normal. Maybe. Hopefully.

How was he supposed to know Slater would hurl it right back at him? Smack him with the sign-up confirmation sheet, flash that shit-eating grin, and then—right before closing—disappear, leaving Ziggy to just stand there, blinking at his own fate like a fucking idiot.

And what was he supposed to do? Clean up the men’s bathroom, grumble the whole way home, and come to terms with the fact that he didn’t even like the pizza at this stupid pizzeria? It was greasy, the teller was his roommate, and now, apparently, he had a date here.

Well. At least he cleans up okay.

And Slater, bless his dumbass heart, didn’t notice when Ziggy pocketed one of the flowers he’d prepped for his own date. Couldn’t show up empty-handed, after all.

He drums his fingers against the edge of the table, cheek resting in his open palm as he waits. The nametag is stuck to the side of his sleeve, turned out so whoever was coming to see him, would be able to make out the S T A R D U S T scribbled in sharpie. Man, how embarrassing would it be if he got stood up? Kinda funny. Not for him, obviously. Well, maybe a little. At least it’d free up his evening.

…Was that cynical?

And there he goes, spiraling into his own thoughts again, secretly hoping something—anything—would knock him out of it.

[ziggywho]

location: tide & thyme status: open

"Too dry, and they crumble. Too fresh, and they won’t hold," Ziggy mutters under his breath, fingertips grazing the bundles with careful precision. It’s all about balance. If they’re too brittle, they’ll turn to dust in days. If they’re too supple, they won’t hold fragrance the way he needs them to.

Then, he finds them.

A bundle of larkspur and yarrow, their colors still striking despite their dried state—blues and purples deep as dusk, yellows clinging like the last stretch of sunlight before night takes over. There’s something poetic about that. A bloom that refuses to dull, even past its prime.

Ziggy pauses. God, listen to yourself. He exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. This is exactly why people roll their eyes when he starts diving into the poetics that come from being so engrossed in cinema. Not everything needs to be a metaphor, dude. Sometimes a flower is just a flower.

Still, the colors are nice.

He lifts the bundle closer, inhaling softly, flipping it in his hand for a minute, upside down, right side up, pulled apart and all but stripping it down to the stem before carefully setting it in his basket. It’s only when he hears the faintest shift of movement that he registers—ah. Right. He’s not alone in the aisle.

Ziggy exhales, a little embarrassed at himself, before finally glancing sideways. "You ever notice how some colors hold better than others?" he muses, still considering the florals. "Like... blues and purples? They fade slower. Reds? Yellows? They go first. Makes you wonder if some things are just meant to last longer."

[beauregard-less]

location: ocean view pizzeria status: closed

"Goddamn it."

Beau’s palm smacks against the side of the computer like that might somehow undo what he’s seeing. His other hand is still gripping the mop he just used to clean the entire space—because it was the end of the shift. The end of the shift. The chairs were up, the line was closed, and there was absolutely no way he was staring at a delivery order clocked in one minute before the ovens shut down.

He could pretend he didn’t see it. Could claim he’d been in the back, shutting everything off, and it was too late. But, God, this stupid system made refunds such a nightmare—

"Georgia!" he calls, snapping his head toward the dough counter, where his coworker had better be scrubbing down the last of the flour. "Georgia, judgment call!"

@dcrkcloud

[beauregard-less]

location: nautical food truck park status: open

With one last, doting drag of his dying cigarette, Beau watches at the butt slips from his fingers onto the floor, crushed beneath the worn toe of his boot with an indifference that seemed almost practiced. It was the growl in his stomach that finally outshouted the hum of the evening air, too loud to ignore any longer than he'd already had. And if he had to suffer through one more lunch of garlic knots and watered-down fountain soda, it might be curtains for him.

He lifts his head to survey the lineup of food trucks with the same deadpan expression he gives the world spun around him: a disinterested stare that only the human equivalent of a stalled-out car could muster. The neon menus flicker in the dimming light, some bulbs shot here, some bulbs stuttering there, but nothing really jumps out at him. When does anything, though?

Christ. That was depressing, even for him.

Still, standing around wasn't going to fix his empty stomach, and so, with a sigh, he begins his zombie shuffle towards the least crowded truck. His hand fiddles with his hair as he pauses just before a chalkboard menu, scanning the options with an air so slow, so heavy-lidded-- Beau looks like a man desperate for a distraction.