sedona starters

"Okay, question: what is the right age for a sleepover? Asking for a friend and for myself, 'cause we both have no idea and nobody seems to agree." Elliott groaned in frustration, closing the parenting book he'd been skimming. "I'm so desperate I'm not even self-conscious about asking for your opinion."

location: on the rocks

Nearly a month into living in Sedona, Omari had clocked its differences, especially working in the bar. It ran on an entirely different kind of rhythm than he had been used to in Miami. The pace was slower and quieter. No one was shouting to be heard and when there was silence, he noticed people weren't often in a rush to fill it. Omari stood behind the bar, picking up a glass to dry it off, even though it didn't need it. His gaze flickered to someone that had taken a seat at the bar. Noticing them within a split second, Omari set the glass down and took a few steps until he was in front of them. "Have you had a long day or are you looking to make it a long night?" His brow raised curiously, no judgement threading through his words as the corner of his lips pulled slightly upward. "Or something else entirely? What am I working with tonight?"

@sedonastart

It was a matter of time before this happened. At least that was her initial thought when she turned the key to her jeep and listened to the engine struggle to kick on. The car was old and with everything else going on, she'd missed a few appointments.

It took her longer than it should have to see the dash light up with the empty gas light symbol, and then for her forehead to collide with the horn. The sound blasted out in the middle of the spring farmer's market. At least she didn't have daisy with her.

She pushed the car door open and stepped out as she peered around for someone who could help her. The alternative choice was to try and siphon gas from someone else's car, which she doubted she'd be able to accomplish without being seen. "They don't happen to sell gas at this thing, huh?" She laughed self-deprecatingly before throwing her thumb over her shoulder towards her jeep, "—cause a girl ran out. " Her arm went in the air, popping an hip to indicate that she was the aforementioned girl.

it was a busy night it seemed, bodies and bottles between tables and yet, he felt more alone than usual. even when buried in beats and bourbon, too much plagued his mind. the loss of the only parent who'd ever shown him warmth, the finalization of his divorce, the complete shift in the trajectory of his life. he was no longer throne-bound, no longer a competitor in what should've been his, family legacy aside. he'd worked for it, had sacrificed for it. and for what?

"it's open," he called out, head dipping toward the open space opposite of him. he wasn't the most inviting person in the room, but a part of him craved the shared space of another, even if he didn't know what to do with it. "bottle is too," he added, like the expensive label he nodded toward was an invitation if they chose to accept.

Pushing a half-full buggy as she walked down the cereal aisle, Ainsley, unable to deny herself something to nibble on as she shopped for the upcoming week's groceries, brought a bag of goldfish up to the top of the cart and popped it open. She paused her walking to grab a box of Honey Bunches of Oats before her attention turned back to the now open bag of goldfish. Without any further thoughts, she reached in and took a small handful, tossing one up in the air and catching it with a triumphant grin as she began to move once more and continue her shopping.

She'd gone four for four when she realized she'd had an audience. Bashfully, she offered the other person a grin and a guilty shrug. "What?" She asked before continuing, "I'm going to pay for it, I promise. It's just been a long day and I'm starving."

twenty-four on, forty-eight off. it was a schedule he'd long grown accustomed to, a schedule that he sometimes flipped when the next shift was a man down or needed the extra hands, or he just couldn't stand the thought of forty-eight quiet hours to himself. "i never know what to do on my off days. feels weird not to be waiting for an alarm to sound," he chuckled, the confession striking a cord of amusement beneath his ribs. most people looked forward to their free time, but mav couldn't stand it. free time meant quiet, and quiet meant space for thinking he couldn't afford to do. he drummed at the edge of the wooden rail and grinned toward the other. "next round is on my tab. consider it a thanks and an apology for picking the seat next to mine."

open: for anyone (0/4) @sedonastart

Viv's halfway through another paper cup of truly terrible coffee when the doors slide open again. She’s standing at the ER desk, one hip braced against the counter, fingers wrapped tightly around the cup like it’s a hand warmer instead of a beverage. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. Somewhere down the hall a monitor beeps in a rhythm she’s already catalogued and dismissed as stable. Her hair is pulled back, loose strands escaping at her temples, scrubs wrinkled in the way that says she’s been here longer than her shift was ever meant to last.

“Give me two minutes,” she says calmly, not to anyone in particular. It’s the same tone she uses for panicked families and overconfident interns. It's steady, almost gentle, with no room for argument. She finishes the coffee despite the face it makes her pull, then tosses the cup into the trash like a small act of defiance.

Only then does she glance up. Her expression softens into something polite but reserved, a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. There’s a faint smudge of something unidentifiable on her sleeve. Iodine, maybe? Or coffee? Or both. She wipes at it absently and shifts her weight, fully present now.

“Okay,” Vivian says. “What’ve we got?” It’s an opening she offers without flourish, without pressure. An invitation that could mean anything. A patient rolling in on a gurney. A familiar face who shouldn’t be here this late. A stranger who looks like they’re about to fall apart. Whatever it is, she’s ready, shoulders squared, voice steady, already making room for the mess. Because she has to. That's her job.

God, she hated running. She particularly hated the TikTok account that had sworn down that running would be the best thing to clear her head and lower some stress hormone she didn't even really know she had. To Maya, she was convinced that if it was so good for you, she wouldn't feel quite this bored, irritated and desperate for the segment of her workout to be over. She might be many things, but she wasn't a quitter and unfortunately for her, she'd chosen to run through the Yosemite National Park on the little screen on the treadmill.

Glancing up from the screen, Maya blew out as a breath as she looked out of the window. Her brain short-circuited at what she thought was a familiar face outside and her eyes were glued to the window. "Is that--fuck!" Distracted by who she thought was a real housewife outside, she had lost focus, her footing and gravity had taken over. Falling onto the treadmill, the quick moving belt soon deposited her at the end of the machine. In front of the whole gym. "Fuck my life."

Walking out in a sleek black dress with her arms twisted behind her back as she attempted to tie the strings just behind her neck, Dahlia let out a frustrated sigh as her fingers fumbled with the delicate material. She stood in front of a full length mirror for a few moments, struggling in her own stubbornness before she turned with a defeated expression and almost shy smile on her features.

"Do you mind?" She asked, gesturing towards the untied string with one hand while she used the other to hold up her hair. "Apparently all the yoga in the world doesn't mean I can tie a cute bow. Could you help? Please?"

Normally, you wouldn't find Dahlia anywhere near a cigarette. She didn't smoke, had asthma as a child, and quite frankly despised the smell of it. But here she was, walking down the street wrapped in one of her favorite items of clothing— a vintage leather jacket her brother had gotten her for her 18th birthday— with a lit cigarette in her hand.

"Look, I know what you're thinking but I'm not having some crazy mental crisis, I promise." Bringing the cigarette to her lips, she inhaled slowly, letting out a quiet cough as she exhaled before she kept speaking. "I got the part for this book, it's really good okay, and the author's feedback was she imagined my character to be a bit... raspier. So I'm just trying to achieve that 'smoked a pack a day for ten years' sound by smoking two cigarettes a day for a week." She paused, flashing her companion an almost self-deprecating smile. "Just shows how committed to my craft I am, right?"

location: sullivan's grocery

open to: anyone, capping 0/4 @sedonastart

The bell over the front door rings, though Hank Sullivan doesn’t remember hearing it open. He’s behind the counter, forearms braced against the worn wood as he counts out a register that’s been short exactly once in fifteen years—and that was because Sully gave a kid an apple and forgot to ring it up. The store smells like burnt coffee and warm dust, the kind that settles into old refrigerators and never quite leaves.

He looks up out of habit, not surprise. People tend to pause when they see him, like they’re trying to match the man behind the counter with an old headline or a memory that doesn’t sit right anymore. Hank doesn’t rush them. He’s learned that being dependable is easier than being impressive.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and even, like the conversation’s already started. He slides the drawer shut and rests his hands on the counter, knuckles faintly sore from hauling crates earlier. There’s still rosin worked into his skin no matter how much he scrubs. Some things don’t wash out.

Outside, the sky is burning its way toward evening, that deep Sedona orange the town saves for last. For a moment, Hank feels the familiar pull—like he should be somewhere else, doing something that matters more than canned soup and scratch-off tickets. The thought passes. It always does. “If you’re looking for something specific,” he adds, nodding toward the aisles, “I probably know where it is.” Then, quieter, almost unintentional: “And if you’re not… that’s fine too.”

location: on the rocks

mickey stood by the pool table, almost too confident. his hazel eyes glinting with the thrill as he sank the final ball with a quick, controlled shot. a few cheers went up from the small crowd, while his opponent grumbled in disappointment as they tossed their money onto the pile next to the table. the man straightened up and tipped back his glass, savoring in the win as much as the whiskey

Jacob scrubbed his hands for the third time before stepping out into the waiting room and quickly making his way towards the vending machine he knew carried the chocolate covered pretzels he liked best. Normally, when the ER was as busy as it had been today, he'd stay as far away from the waiting room as possible. With no answers to give the waiting families, it always lead to creating disappointment and Jacob hated doing that. But today had been long and rough and what he really needed was a pick me up... in the shape of chocolatey, salty goodness.

As he rounded the corner, the vending machine came into view, and he felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders at the mere thought of it. Digging out the exact change he’d scavenged from between the couch cushions that morning, he fed the coins into the slot and stabbed at the button, waiting with near–bated breath.

With slow dawning horror, he watched as the bag of chips next to his pretzels was slowly released and fell to the bottom of the machine. "Shit," he groaned, eyes clamping closed as he pushed himself away from the machine like it had personally offended him. "Sounds about right."

It was strange really, how somewhere that had been home for eighteen years felt so strange to her now. She had been away for the same amount of time as she had lived in Sedona, but it had changed so much that even months after moving, well fleeing, back to her hometown, she was still getting lost. It had happened again that morning, on her walk back home from her yoga class at Pulse. She had thought she'd been heading in the right direction before she ended up in a part of town she didn't recognise. That's what she got for trying to stay away from her phone and leaving it at home.

Waiting by the counter at Aroma, Sanvi mentally drifted off, trying to map her route home in her head, waiting for her name to be called so she could finally get her daily taste of ice cold matcha, she was in a world of her own. As she leaned against the wall, she heard the barista calling for Sanvi, but after hearing that name so rarely in the last eighteen years, her brain didn't even register that it was her order.

"Order for Sanvi?" Sanvi glanced around before glancing down to her watch, still not registering that not everyone called her Priya anymore.

location: a local trailhead

Nathan and Rook had just finished a run on a local trailhead, just as the sun was dipping beneath the red rocks. His sweat was cooling quickly with the drop in desert temperatures. As he reached the parking lot, he noticed that it was empty besides his own truck. He doesn't think much of it, moving over to his truck where he pulls out a water bowl and dumps some water into it for Rook before taking a sip out of his own bottle. From across the lot he hears it. The sad sound of an engine trying to start and failing. Unable to help himself, Nathan called out, "Hey, you alright?" To him, it sounded like the vehicle's battery had gone and died, "I'm happy to take a look if you'd like."