eleanorrb

[eleanorrb]

At the stranger’s comment, Lenny chuckled, now seeing how Olaf the dog truly had carried himself with the same disposition as the eponymous snowman—a little clumsy and soft, but enthusiastic all the same. “It fits for sure, which is why it’s probably best to take him now before he even manages to get in the cage. If he's anything like his namesake, the poor fella will melt out there.” Lenny noted, with only a smidge of urgency as they bore witness to the growing bond. In another life, Olaf might have made for a good herding dog. “And from the look of things, I think Leroy’s got a hankering to take Olaf himself, farmhand’s wishes be damned.”

Jemma looked at the goat, which was now reaching out of the fence, then at the farmer, who remained oblivious to the whole thing (or at least he did his best to look as bored as ever), before she let out a soft chuckle. "I bet they'll return it the very next day." She could picture Olaf loving the farmland, the hundreds of miles he could run down and up, the animals — dogs, cats, chicks, cows. The mud after rain. Oh, what a nightmare it'd be to get it out later. Shaking her head, she tried to push those thoughts away and return to the present. "Yes. Exactly like the snowman. I mean, look at him, he's like a living and breathing snowball! Don't you thinki it fits him?"

#ch. jemma lawson #int 01. jemma lawson

[eleanorrb]

"Where are you from?" - "Victoria" "Where are you really from?" - "I don't know"

[eleanorrb]

They’d decided it was better to deal with Julian Thompson’s shtick than leaving well enough alone, to treat him as if he were a mild zit on their forehead that popped up in the same place and won’t quite go away. They rested their arms on the fence, furrowing their eyebrows as they bellowed, “If you’re going to sell it off, at least show him a little respect. And not look like you’ve just got evicted! It’s not a good look at all!” A pack of smokes was tucked in their pajama pockets and the cigarette smoke still clung in last night’s clothes, but even with their shared vice, she couldn’t help but scoff as the smoke wafted in her direction, the curse of the beach’s westward wind. Is there nothing that Julian Thompson won’t end up encroaching?

Case in point: now Julian’s parsing through a pocketbook—Rupert's pocketbook—whose title they couldn’t quite discern at this angle. Pulpy crime novels had been their shared indulgence and that Julian should quite literally soil the memory with his nicotine-laden fingers (never mind that Rupert had been a smoker, himself) irritated them in no small way. But curiosity won over irritation, as had been typical of her dealings with her new neighbor. “Are you serious? How sure are you it isn’t one of mine?” Was that a good enough excuse? It had been too long since Rupert’s passing; who owed whom? In face of death, did it really matter? “Well, toss it over!” Lenny said, extending her arm and waving hurriedly.

julian surveys eleanor's disparaging face, how a frown can easily make its home amongst their strong features like they'd come out of their mother's womb scowling at the midwife. smoke billows from between his teeth as he leans further back against the chair. he decides not to care at how his neighbor is once again quibbling with what he chooses to do on his own property. "this shit came with the house - the house that now just so happens to belong to me. so by the transitive property of owning things, all of this is now mine to do with as i damn well please." he makes a showy gesture at the table, fingers fluttering for added effect. "and who fuckin' cares? i just need to get rid of 'em. i don't even know what half this stuff is." he hastily flips through an old pocketbook, smatterings of cigarette ash falling between the yellowing pages. it appears to have been a favorite, judging by the creased spine and pencil marks. the cover is black with the title in a big orange serif font. below it, a rectangular box sits in the middle containing an airbrushed photo of the front of a vintage blue ford with its headlights on max — a crime novel, of which rupert seemed to enjoy in abundance. "i'll be honest, some of these look like the kind of kitschy shit you'd be into."

#ch. julian thompson #int 01. julian thompson

[eleanorrb]

They’d placed a name to the woman’s face a bit longer than she’d like. Nothing personal against Hazal, but they’d never quite had the affable charm most people were drawn to—that was more her brother’s thing—so people came and went in her life quite inevitably. “It’s been great so far,” they answered, smile slight, before nudging towards the center of the table to make room, “I mean, not that I have a lot to go on. This will just be my second springtime bash, actually.” She can’t quite call herself a city person. No, that title would require leaving the bookstore and interacting with people, neither of which Lenny does most days—a fact that Hazal, too, noted, to which Lenny replied with a laugh. “Nah, you’re right. This is a bit new for me. I'm not the best with kids. But kites? Kites, I can do just fine.” With a slight chuckle, they continued, “You havin' fun, yourself?”

continued from here.

"Thanks, I appreciate it. These kids are so excited about their kites, it's adorable." She said to her friend in response, taking the scissors from her and peered over at the girl who was waiting for the scissors. After making sure the young girl had everything she needed, Hazal turned back to Eleanor—her smile still in place. "I’m glad to see a familiar face out here."Most of the time, she was left with a sea of new faces. Not that she minded it. Especially when she got to be around children. "Are you enjoying the weekend? I’ll have to say it’s a bit weird seeing you away from the bookstore, but I’m glad you’re getting to come out here.”

#ch. hazal akman #int 01. hazal akman #event: springtide bash 01

[eleanorrb]

A smile flitted through their lips then, unsure at the stranger’s remark. It wasn’t at all foolish to admit that you were not quite an artist’s audience, though the man was insistent in doubling down. But Lenny had never been really one to pick a fight, least of all in such a public establishment. “I think they stopped finding novel techniques a long time ago. Unless you count mixed media, but contemporary’s never really been my thing…” They trailed off, berating themselves internally. Surely, they could stand to lose some snobbery. Instead, they drew focus on the other's next words — “Hold up, you got a bar?”

"I mean," Rhys sucked in an inhale. "I'm all about helping out local artists, you know, and not some big corporate giant." he appeased, meeting them half way. "But, unless you come up with some novel technique to make art, then I'm afraid I stand strong on my belief that a kid could've done it." Rhys explained briefly, although found his gaze shifting to the painting they had pointed to. "See, that one..." he nodded in agreement. "That one I could see in my house. And it looks like I wouldn't have to sell my bar in order to buy it."

#ch. rhys bradley #int 01. rhys bradley #event: springtide bash 01

[eleanorrb]

While still groggy from the previous evening's starlight viewing party, Eleanor would not pass up the early Sunday morning's display of farm animals. Without caffeine, the endless squeals and peals of laughter from children and even adults rang hard against her ears. They pushed along the crowd, anyway, eyes scouring for the famed Leroy the Toggenburg goat whom she first met about a year ago—and was pleased to find that he was in the same spot, same farmer with a mildly disapproving face sitting on the side and all.

Someone shared her interest in Leroy, though. Said someone was a white fluffball of a thing barking so excitedly and—she swore—whom Leroy was eyeing curiously. A woman soon followed, mostly likely its owner, to whom Lenny offered a small chuckle. "No, although if you're not careful, Leroy's farmhand might end up taking a new fella back home with them," they said, tilting her head to the dog and goat, "Sorry, what was his name? Like…" What was it? Olaf? "Like the snowman?"

— OPEN STARTER

location: Animal Acres

"Olaf, get back here!" Jemma shouted, fully aware it'll attract unnecessary attention towards her. But what else could she do when the sneaky pup had taken advantage of the single second she'd let her guard down. Bringing him along was a bad idea, she knew it the second she'd put that leash on him. She knew exactly how overly excited the pup would get around so many people and other animals yet she'd seen it as the perfect opportunity to work on his obidience. But it turned out the joke was on her since she was the one to learn her lesson. "I'm sorry," she was almost out of breath by the time she caught up to the naughty pup. "Did he destroy anything of yours already?"

#ch. jemma lawson #int 01. jemma lawson #event: springtide bash 01

[eleanorrb]

Lily Gladstone as Cam Bentland Under the Bridge - 1x03

#:) #portraits.

[eleanorrb]

They’d hardly a second to themselves before Julian’s annoying cadence carried through the air, bellowing like a bull in his own parlor. Sighing, she pocketed her pack of smokes and prepared to go back inside — that is, until she spared a glance at him, seated smugly on some foldable plastic, in front of boxes upon boxes of…

Rupert’s things? They’d walked over to the fence, pace steady but purposeful. They’re not even annoyed that he’d once again elected to call her by a nickname that seemed to be an inside joke between him and his maker. That, they would bank for later. For now, there was a more immediate concern — and what seemed to Lenny the biggest proof of his callousness.

“Julian. That is not a little sale.” Eleanor argued, pointing firmly at the boxes, whose combined weight would inevitably break the flimsy legs that held the plastic table in place. “Is it yours to even sell—” She shakes her head, all too aware of the answer, before deciding on another maneuver to dissuade him. “No, no, you think anyone would be interested in Rupert’s kitschy souvenir prints and refrigerator magnets someone could grab off Etsy at half the price?” But who was she to talk, really? Not when they'd had a selfish hankering to grab it for themselves, for their house to feel more lived-in, to hold more memory.

CLOSED STARTER FOR @eleanorrb, julian's front yard, morning.

an unlit cigarette hanging loosely between his lips, julian brings out the last box of old records on the lifetime table he'd set up in his front yard. the setup is surrounded by boxes of old clothes and old furniture and old paintings (a lot of which appear to be unfinished) and other little trinkets and novelty items that he has neither the time nor patience to sift through. he scribbles something on a notebook, tears off the page, then tapes the piece of paper to the front of the table. the sign says GARAGE SALE in his poor handwriting. he then pops out one of those small, foldable beach chairs and camps right next to the table as he lights his cigarette, then notices his neighbor stepping outside.

"ynnel!" he calls out from his side of the fence. "wanna come over? i'm havin' a little sale!"

#ch. julian thompson #int 01. julian thompson

[eleanorrb]

#musings. #asdlkagskhaj well yes!

[eleanorrb]

Eleanor had only ever attended the Springtime Bash once, a year ago, but she recognized the appeal of it. While smaller than other East Coast metropolises, Wilmington was still a busy city, and consequently, opened itself to the urban paradox. The more populated a city was, the easier it was to insulate one’s own problems; the presence of people alone, existing outside of yourself, was an acknowledgment of the connections that could be made but remained unrealized. Events like these helped urban dwellers mitigate that loneliness, lest they forget their sense of communality and the ties that bind. Well. Or so people say.

And perhaps that’s why Eleanor also gravitated here in the gallery, having found a setting that struck the delicate balance between socialization and idle lingering. Her pacing was not deliberate, but not quite aimless, either, and their eyes actively scoured the gallery for something that interested her.

In the end, it was not something that caught her attention, but someone, who had posed her with an innocent enough question.

 “A fan. And a prospective buyer, depending on the credit listing,” they replied, halting their pace to stand side-by-side with the other. “Do people hang out at exhibits because they’re bored? There’s our phones for that, don’t you think?” They asked, a brow raised in mild challenge, as if to say, I don’t quite buy it.

idle time is the devil's plaything. those were his therapist's words and although he could make complete sense of them, there's no indisputable guide to keep his mind clear and his impulses under control. he opened a club, remained sober, and yet there's something about being in a beautiful town with no actual friends that drives him right back to the precarious position of overthinking and overanalyzing everything around him. then comes the temptation; the temptation to drink, the temptation to let loose and escape.

attending the 'springtide bash' was meant to do just that. The art displayed around the gallery was like a vacation; a place he could safely travel into the dreams of others. he could experience their desire, fear, love, and their heartbreak. or maybe those interpretations were just projections of his own feelings. perhaps the lone sailboat on a stretch of dark water meant the artist enjoyed being by himself and longed for the quiet. to him, it felt lonely, isolated, and pushed away.

maybe having a drink wouldn't be so bad...

his lapse in judgement was momentarily distracted by another's company. "are you a fan of art or are you just bored like me?"

#ch. ayden hook #int 01. ayden hook #event: springtide bash 01

[eleanorrb]

Eleanor’s artistic merit laid elsewhere than arts and crafts, but they’d made and flown enough kites as a child in Montana’s flatlands to be a fairly decent instructor. Careful not to encroach on the actual workshop demonstrator, they made themselves available to any child who might need some additional guidance, sitting wordlessly at the end of the crafting table with a dog-eared book at her lap.

They had just finished correcting the misaligned notches from a ten-year-old’s kite when a woman, whom she recognized as among the bookstore’s regular patrons, inquired about the pair of scissors left at her side of the table. “Sure. The kid who owned it was too excited about her Captain America-inspired kite that she’s already run off, anyway,” they held out the scissors from the sharp end, chuckling as she noticed the pivot screw decorated with the Captain’s infamous red-white-and-blue shield — “Well, she’s consistent, at least.”

OPEN STARTER

Location: Wind Riders Skyfest (2/4)

Hazal liked volunteering when she could find the time, today she was helping kids with the kite making for the springtide bash. The girl she was helping was adorable. While focusing, her tongue poked out adorably as she tried to keep the scissors steady. It took a few minutes of her turning her back to help another kid, when she felt the hem of her sundress being tugged. The young girl had lost her scissors and needed a replacement. She scanned the crowded crafting tables and spotted an extra pair of scissors nearby. Catching the eye of the stranger sitting there, she gave them a smile. "Excuse me, would you mind if I borrowed those scissors for a minute?"

#ch. hazal akman #int 01. hazal akman #event: springtide bash 01

[eleanorrb]

At his remark, Lenny’s brow arched. Curious and mildly defiant, they leaned over to the painting’s credit listing and found the amount steep though by no means exorbitant. “I’m inclined to agree with you, but at least with local exhibits like this one, you’re sure it’s going to end up in the artist’s pockets,” they replied, a half-hearted defense. After all, Lenny, too, was a struggling artist—if only by the vaguest of technicalities. “You might not just be the target audience for this one. Maybe there are a couple others that move you enough to find the price worth it?” As they spoke, they began glancing over another canvas that had shared a similar motif: “How about that one?” They said, similarly making use of her cocktail glass as a pointer.

LOCATION: Retro Nouveau Gallery, Springtide Bash

WITH: open starter (currently no cap)

"I know art is supposed to make you feel all sorts of euphoric shit but," Rhys paused to take a sip of his drink. "All this is makin' me feel is broke." he pointed his coffee cup towards the price on one of the paintings, which made his heart fall through to the floor. "Kinda makes me want to take some shrooms, paint somethin', and see how much I could sell it for as art." he mused for a moment.

#ch. rhys bradley #int 01. rhys bradley #event: springtide bash 01

[eleanorrb]

SUMMARY

a literary could've been who had vague aspirations for writing, only for their dreams to be dampened by the perceived smallness of their existence. left their reservation in montana to follow in the footsteps of their far more accomplished brother and to soar through great heights, only to drift in and out as they struggled to keep their footing in the city. picked up a degree in english, found temp work, and slowly began to build a life independent of their family. that is, until family tragedy came in full force and forced her to confront the last two decades of missed opportunities and mistakes. for two years, she has lived in wilmington — where her father, her last remaining immediate family member, settled with his second family — and bought the independent bookstore in wrightsville beach. spends their days still drifting, but now aching for real purpose and a chance in fulfilling her unrealized dreams. ( full bio )

VITALS

NAME: eleanor robertson

NICKNAME: goes by eleanor or lenny. on occasion, nora. + give them some :)

GENDER & PRONOUNS: genderfluid / they/she

AGE: 38 / november 3, 1986

OCCUPATION: owner of read it n’ weep

NEIGHBORHOOD: wrightsville beach

SEXUALITY: lesbian

CHARACTER INSPIRATIONS: sameen shaw (person of interest), cam bentland (under the bridge), joan watson (elementary), wendy carr (mindhunter), kim wexler (better call saul), tbd.

PERSONALITY AND HEADCANONS

i want to say that they're cool but honestly it's probably just that they tune half of whatever people are saying half the time. not quite bubbly, but not quite serious, either — most days they're just the ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ internally.

can appear a bit scattered, but is genuinely just unable to bring their focus onto anything if it is not within their sphere of interest. that being said, their literary interests include detective fiction, pulpy lesbian novels, and poetry. outside of it, they're probably engaging in their 101st newfound hobby of the year. (in season: knitting)

does not have any real patience for people who are too serious or emotional for their own good, and likely withdraws from any sort of emotional outburst. which could appear as if they were disengaged from their friends/family, but really, they just don't quite know what to do with feelings, what with flight being their primary coping mechanism almost their life. but points for trying yk!!!

WANTED CONNECTIONS

FAMILIAL: i'd love some paternal half-siblings — their last name is robertson — or cousins from their father's side of the family (whom i've hced as living as wilmington/broader nc area). on their maternal side, relatives, or people who may have resided in the blackfeet reservation and in the greater montana area.

PLATONIC: acquaintances. neighbors on wrightsville beach. people who frequent/lurk around the bookstore. people they might have encountered on their usual haunts (fit and toned, tric, cinema, the boxing room, lincoln park, the vet clinic).

ROMANTIC (they're a lesbian): exes/flings. flirtationships. the 30something equivalent of a crush.

PLOT-SPECIFIC (might entail further plotting/oc creation): people who may have known their brother. their ex-fiancée. a local benefactor whom they've tapped to help keep the bookstore afloat. someone who pushes them to finally finish their manuscript T___T + anything and everything you see them fitting with your char!

#wnc.intro

[eleanorrb]

“When we are young, the words are scattered all around us. As they are assembled by experience, so also are we, sentence by sentence, until the story takes shape.”

— Louise Erdrich, The Plague of Doves

#musings.

[eleanorrb]

Hello! If you'd like, can you please do a web weave about being scared of the pain and nostalgia that comes with a phase of your life ending and a new one beginning?

I suppose all you can really do is look forward.

Sorry for using Up the Wolves in another one of my webs. It will... probably happen again.

You Don't Have to Like Me: Essays on Growing Up, Speaking Out, and Finding Feminism, Alida Nugent | The Handmaid’s Tale, Margaret Atwood | The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupérry | @/nobodysflower | Miriam Adeney | The View Between Villages, Noah Kahan | @/shhhitsfine | The Milk Train Doesn't Stop Here Anymore, Tennessee Williams | The Painted Drum, Louise Erdrich | Up the Wolves, The Mountain Goats | And the Mountains Echoed, Khaled Hosseini | This Book Will Save Your Life: A Novel, A.M. Homes

[text transcription and image ID in alt text]

#musings.

[eleanorrb]

@roach-works // Melissa Broder, "Problem Area" // Mary Oliver, "The Return" // @annavonsyfert // Koyoharu Gotouge, Demon Slayer // Haruki Murakami, Dance Dance Dance // David Levithan, How They Met and Other Stories // Tennessee Williams, Notebooks

#musings.