#seastarts

Things around the shop had been sleepy at best during the morning —  not as though Corbyn anticipated anything else, she didn’t know many people who liked a tattoo with their breakfast tea — the sluggishness rounding out into the afternoon as well. Her shift’s beginning to edge towards a close without any sort of customers coming to her chair for ink, a slight disappointment but a slot of free time to pause for a snack and work on whatever she desired that she appreciates no matter when it happens to fall in her lap. Corbyn’s black sketchbook sits open in front of her as she goes about resuming her work on either what was going to be an incredibly intricate next-tattoo, or a glorified doodle that had yet to find its direction, lying stomach down on her chair. She hums along quietly with the radio, the noise leaking from the small speaker she has set up at her station while she draws, occasionally pausing to reach over for a grape out of the plastic bag close to her. The sound of a door opening from the outside steals her attention as it pierces the mood she’s created, Corbyn glancing over her shoulder in that particular direction before sitting up, adjusting herself so she’s facing the doorway properly. “Hi,” she greets softly, absentmindedly fixing her glasses for a quick moment and then letting her hands fall into her lap. “’S there something I can help you with?”

        “so what do you think about the thirteenth doctor?” charlie asked, unable to wait for the other’s reply and added her opinion immediately after. “i for one am possibly the most excited brit there is about it. besides mum perhaps. i never thought i’d see a fifty year old woman as giddy about something than she was. it’d have to one day rival her reaction if i ever have grandchildren.” charlie took a sip of her coffee, wondering if she really needed the extra energy from the caffeine. 

her camera stands as tall as she does, directed towards the horizon. to the naked eye, it is a midnight abyss where sea blends to sky. during the morning hours, the sun would illuminate behind the water, and distinguish the land from the atmosphere. immediately before dawn, maya navigates her way to the sand. her goal is to capture a starry night turned purple and orange hues. with her finger on the fire button, one eye closed and the other focused through a microscopic lens, she coincidentally snapped a silhouette figure strolling past during her long exposure. she is not phased by an unpredictable subject, she enjoys capturing others in action. but it is not even morning, the sun is just starting to show its face. curiously, maya calls out, “what are you doing up so early, huh?” her extroversion forcing her mouth open and words out. long nails still gripping the edge of the camera, she appears from behind the viewfinder. 

he tugs a camel from his pack and tucks it between his lips. long digits slip into his back pocket to find it empty and wet. he lets out a quiet curse. no lighter, no life. he flags down the next passerby with a slick grin.             ‘   hey-- gotta light ? ’ 

It hurt, when he fell, it’s not that it didn’t. In fact, for a second, he even thought he saw cartoon birds rotating his head and stars shooting to the front of his eyes. It hurt, but the shame somehow hit him tenfold, his pale face turning red as he lifted his hands to his face to cover them. “I’m sorry,” He managed to groan out at the person he’d fallen against before forcing his body up, his head immediately throbbing in protest. “Are you okay?”

unrelated entirely to what she’s about to ask, morgan’s drawing up a design of a tortoise, which will later be inked permanently onto someone’s skin. in all honesty, she’s grown quite attached to this little fella, especially after already having to redraw him twice --- a detail she doesn’t actually mind; she’s quite grateful when clients tell her they’re not perfectly happy with what she’s drawn up. for reasons unknown to her, she’s named the tortoise hector, and as she can’t remember who exactly hector is for, she can’t say prefers hector to his future owner, but that’s the case entirely. without looking up, she asks a monotone “how do you know when a turtle is sick ?” as if the person on the receiving end is some sort of turtle expert which she assumes is safe to say, they are not. 

            plenty of people come through the flower shop every day. plenty of people that nicolas can’t keep track of. names and faces that pass through that people expect nicolas to remember. it’s harder than it seems. but, there’s a face that walks through the front door of the flower shop and he squints, focusing on their details before standing up straight from the counter, moving around from behind it.  he was confident he’s seen them before. and recently, too.  he extends a finger in their direction before speaking out.   “ weren’t you in here yesterday?  what brought you back so quickly? “   he crosses his arm, leaning against the counter with a smile.  he confident he’s seen them before, however, that doesn’t mean he’s right. there’s plenty of faces that come through this place. he wont always be right in assuming.   “ was it our fast and friendly service? “

             ‘   look,   no offense but i am not a fucking shrink ---  ’