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theaterism · 10 months

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Cerise

crimson coats your nails.

you struggled to pick between the polish called ‘poison apple’ and the one called ‘rouge fatale.’ you chose ‘rouge fatale’ in the end — a favorite of yours, a reliable eye-catcher in parties like this. a shimmering coat of translucent polish glossed atop the red makes it gleam with a freshness you adore.

you arrive late to your own party. fashionably late, of course. you glide into the ballroom and guests flock to you in moments, as expected. it’s all gasps and greetings and compliments about the party and the entertainment and oh, the tart is simply divine and oh, what a lovely dress, wherever did you get it? you recognize some guests and pretend to recognize others who greet you with bright familiarity. nearly every guest has invited themself; proper invitees are few and far between, carefully chosen by nathaniel.

you spot your husband amidst fellow businessman in sleek suits, conversing amongst each other. you’ve learned they’re always discussing business even when they’re not discussing business. champagne glass in hand, you sweep up behind him and press a chaste kiss to his cheek, which earns a fond hum and a sidelong smile from nathaniel. you flash a smile to his associates before slipping back into the crowd.

it doesn’t take long for you to join a group of tittering ‘friends’ who share your fondness for gossip. some evenings you start the conversation yourself; other evenings, someone beats you to sharing the first snippet of tantalizing hearsay. this time, you enter the conversation midway through. you catch onto the main subjects of interest quickly enough. hushed voices surround you, rumors tossed back and forth.

isn’t her dress dreadful?

have you heard about margaret?

mr. rosling’s such a gentleman, isn’t he?

you take another sip of champagne and hum, “oh, i wouldn’t say that.” everyone looks at you, eyes bright with hunger, awaiting your words with bated breath, and something within you purrs in delight. you’ve got them wrapped around your finger. feigning secrecy, you glance around, lean closer, whisper, “i heard… he had a tryst with his wife’s sister.”

gasps all around. several guests blurt agreement and begin weaving their own versions of the tale. your smile curls wider. you’ve no idea whether this story is true. you doubt it, since you invented it for a laugh.

this is all a game, after all. you know these people adore a scandal, no matter how adamantly they may deny it. they crave drama. something to interrupt the monotony. so, you sometimes fabricate the drama yourself. your fellow socialites will seize this rumor and spread it like wildfire, embellishing it along the way while you watch from the sidelines, and in their eagerness and excitement, they’ll forget you started it. no one would trace the rumor back to you, so any damage it caused mr. rosling wouldn’t harm you.

you have no personal grudge against the man. a scandal would simply be the most entertaining.

champagne warms your chest, light and fizzling, and softens the evening with a golden gauze. faces and voices blend together like paint across a canvas. music rises and falls, laughter lilts along with it. the glass doors remain open; partygoers drift in and out of the ballroom freely. a cool breeze drifts inside as well. you watch the fire-breather in the garden, the entertainment for this party, as he spits flame into the air. sparks flicker into the darkness like fireflies.

you lean back against a wall to catch your breath after an especially dizzying dance. the remnants of laughter tingle on your lips. you’ve already forgotten the joke and whether you actually found it funny.

as your gaze lingers on the crowd, your imagination runs wild and spins a daydream in which everyone finally snaps, in which instincts overpower etiquette and transform the party into a carnival of unbridled atrocity. champagne glasses shatter; knives once used to slice tarts turn into weapons. you imagine blood speckling your dress like tiny rubies. you’re prepared: your nail polish would match perfectly.

you often slip into such daydreams during parties. desire burns through your veins, insatiable hunger. something bristles beneath your skin, begging to burst free and tear everyone to shreds. most people infuriate you. you long to fracture their facades. you picture fear splashed vividly across their features.

restlessness claws at your throat. ignoring it, you tilt your head upward and gaze at the ceiling. glittering crystals drip from the chandelier. perhaps you could make it fall and crash upon the guests somehow. you imagine the chaos that would ensue. you aren’t tipsy enough to lose your wits altogether — you know such a tragic accident would likely dissuade people from attending future parties. your reputation comes first.

the beast in you twists bitterly.

“cerise,” says a familiar voice. you lower your gaze to see your husband smiling at you. lost in thought, you hadn’t sensed him approach. your mouth curves in a reflexive smile in return. nathaniel leans toward you, his breath warm against your ear, and murmurs, “daydreaming about the chandelier falling again?”

a laugh tumbles from your lips, and tension melts from your shoulders. “maybe,” you quip back. your fingers catch his tie and smooth it, your tone almost petulant. “wouldn’t it be fun? i think it’d be fun.”

“oh, certainly.”

“we could get a new chandelier afterward, an even lovelier one to make everyone forget what happened with the old one. i’m sure this one’s dusty anyway.”

he clicks his tongue. “quite true. but i’m afraid it might damage the floor, and i suspect the whole affair might be considered impolite as well.” the sympathy in his tone sounds so sincere that you can’t tell whether he’s merely playing along. you pout regardless, watch as his gaze drifts to the guests. “so,” he inquires, “what’s the talk of the evening?”

you sigh and swish the fizzling liquid in your glass. “oh, the usual, really. terrible fashion, poor manners, secret lovers.” you sip the champagne, then muse, “if you’re looking for someone desperate to make a deal, you may want to check with mr. rosling in a few days or so. i think i might’ve ruined his marriage.”

a chuckle escapes nathaniel. “i’ll keep that in mind. if he doesn’t reach out to me first, perhaps i’ll invite him to our next party, to give us a chance to talk.”

the music shifts its rhythm. like a true gentleman, he offers his arm to you and invites you to join him in a dance. a smile flits across your face. you accept his arm, red nails vivid against his suit sleeve, and allow him to lead you into the crowd. in your mind, you still picture crystals plummeting from the ceiling and shattering, skidding across the floor, coquettes and businessmen losing their composure instantly and shrieking in surprise. if nothing else broke them, surely terror and a chandelier would suffice.

#|☆| stories #|☽| cerise ( actress )#(!!! i posted this the other day and then deleted it on accident!! YELLS)#(fortunately i had it saved elsewhere)#(but yes hello i wrote this at 2am bc something Possessed me agdgdg)#(i just adore writing cerise and i have been THINKING abt her lately)#(she’s wild!!)#(also idk why this demanded to be written in second person agdgd it just flowed better!!)#(ask to tag????)#(it’s a mess agdgdgdgdgdgdg)

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chongoblog · 3 months

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Me, after forgetting to cut the top off an onion before dicing it: “Aw dammit”

The Gordon Ramsey that lives in my head: “Don’t worry there, this mistake isn’t going to ruin anything. No need to be too hard on yourself”

Me: “Wow, that’s…not what I was expecting”

Gordon: “Of course, you ought to know by now that I don’t shout at cooks just to do so. I do it because the people in hit television show Kitchen Nightmares are putting their services out into the public and claim to be good enough to have the title of head chef. You’re just some guy in your twenties making beef stroganoff for yourself and your roommate. I’m kind of a dick, yeah, but I’m not gonna scream at you for a minor mistake like this”

Me: “Oh….well…thanks”

Gordon: “You’re welcome…cunt…”

#based on a true story #im cooking more which is super cool

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who-canceled-roger-rabbit · 8 months

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Some spins on the "mostly male team with a token woman" trope:

The woman is trans and stayed in her old circle of bros even after transition

The woman is the only one in her circle of "girls" who didn't turn out to be a trans man

#of course even in that case i'd still make plenty of other characters female OUTSIDE the main team #there's a they wolf in my closet #gender #transgender #trans #lgbtq+#queer #story ideas #writing prompts

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newlevant · 5 months

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Preview of Sam Long’s story, drawn by the amazing Cynthia Yuan Cheng! (@cynthiaycheng, cynthiaycheng.com)

Becoming Who We Are Kickstarter ends Dec 14! Preorder now to help us fund the book!

bit.ly/becomingkickstarter

#becoming who we are #trans stories #trans kids #trans childhood #queer comics #trans comics #comics anthology #comics Kickstarter #Sam long #Cynthia yuan cheng #middle grade graphic novel #middle grade comics

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foldingfittedsheets · 2 months

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Every sales job I’ve worked has that one item. The white whale. The biggest ticket you can sell. The sale you brag about when you’re chatting with other industry people.

When I sold mattresses it was a split king adjustable base. That’s two twin extra long mattresses next to each other to make a king, but each side can move independently. They’re insanely expensive and honestly kind’ve impractical but it was the biggest ticket thing to sell.

When I sold sex toys though our white whale was the 20lb ass. It was a female pelvis, a cut out from the waist to the tops of the thighs. It was hyper realistic material and cost about $500. I definitely had bigger tickets but not in one item typically.

In my time at the sex shop, I sold three. Each time was completely different in terms of how the guy acted about buying it. The first man was a little embarrassed and shy about it. I was professional and supportive as I rang it up. Once I handed him the receipt he looked at the box. Then he looked at me.

If you’ve ever wondered how big a box has to be to fit a 20lb ass let me just tell you: it’s pretty damn big. It’s an uncomfortably large armful of box and every side has a picture of the sex toy inside on it. It’s not subtle.

“Could I get a bag….?”

There was no bag that existed that could possibly contain all that ass. “Hang on,” I told him.

I got scissors and tape and covered the box in cut up black bags. Looking relieved he picked up his purchase and left.

The next man to buy one carried it proudly to the counter; self assured and not embarrassed in the least. When I said I didn’t have a bag, but I could wrap it for him he gave a hearty shrug and hefted it into his arms, marching out the door with the butt on full display.

The last man to get one was just kind’ve an odd guy. Not creepy, but eccentric. We got along great, and as I rang him up I said, “Well one guy wanted his taped over, and one guy carried it out. What would you prefer?”

“There’s no bags?”

“No store bags. I think our jumbo trash bags in the back might fit it….?” It seemed rude to suggest putting a $500 item into a trash bag, but he wasn’t bothered.

He considered this then said, “Bring me the trash bag.”

When I delivered it to him he still managed to surprise me. Instead of shoving the huge box into it he opened the box. He took out his new $500 sex toy, and all the little things it came with, tipping them unceremoniously into the trash bag.

“There! Now I don’t have to deal with the box later!”

I was slightly stunned but agreed that I could easily deal with the trash. Then in a move I still think about with delight he flung the trash bag over his shoulder like a Santa with a sack full of ass and sauntered out the door.

If this or my other escapades made you laugh you could pop a tip into my Ko-fi! For more like this check my tag "ffs foibles".

#ffs foibles #funny #story #writing #story time #sex shop #retail #funny story

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breakingjustxn · 5 months

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well i mean, not wrong // credits: @screamingemonight on Instagram

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charlesoberonn · 7 months

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#tweet #story time

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liquidstar · 6 months

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If my mom sees a significant amount of blood she gets lightheaded, and has fainted on some occasions. Once it happened when we were kids, I wasn't there to witness it but I heard the story from my dad. Basically my brothers, around 7 or 8 at the time, were playing outside while my mom was making their lunch, and she accidentally cut her finger. It wasn't anything serious, but it drew a fair bit of blood and she passed out. My dad saw this and rushed over, but he didn't really know what to do so he just sort of started slapping her to wake her up (not recommended, but he had no idea and panicked)

At that exact moment my brothers both came in from playing, and all they saw was our mom unconscious on the floor and our dad slapping her. So, like, without even saying a word to each other they both just INSTANTLY start whaling on him, like, full blown attack mode to defend our mom. Which obviously didn't help the situation, but she did wake up and everything was fine.

Now our dad says that he's actually really glad they attacked him over what they thought was going on, because it means he raised good boys. And I still think that's true, they're very good boys.

#i think about this story sometimes like yeah I'm proud of them for that too actually. good job baby brothers #they're not babies anymore of course they're turning 20 next year which is crazy #but they're still the type of people who'd do something if they saw something of this sort happen for sure #respectful of women and everyone else too. they're good guys #I'm glad I ended up with them living in my house against my will for like 14 years #anyway i have no idea where i was for all this but my best guess is probably a friends house given the time period #i was always at my besties house lol #i hope she's doing well too actually. haven't spoken in forever...#bestie from greek elementary school... if you're out there... let's get muffins and fanta at the bakery across the street again someday 💜☮️

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smokiedokie · 4 months

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I opened my copy of The Tale of the Body Thief & immediately had to close it again because of this silly little annotation

#yes I spelled channel wrong #but honestly #totbt is just one long get ready with me YouTube story time #the vampire chronicles

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theaterism · 2 years

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INTERMISSION (vela) — the night lessons

Part 1/3 || Part 2

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People whispered about the Chambers family.

Tanova Chambers ensured those whispers never led to anything more. She taught her children protection charms, which they crafted together at their kitchen table. They filled jars with ash leaves, holly berries, broken keys, and moonstones. They fastened the hinged lids and buried the jars around the cottage — to the north, south, east, and west — to ward away unwanted visitors. They freshened them each week. For added protection, they tied together oak twigs with red thread and pinned them to tree trunks.

Only visitors without harmful intentions could find the cottage. Anyone else who sought to badger the family lost their way, and they soon found themself stumbling out of the forest, back where they’d first entered. Even if they attempted (and failed) to find the cottage again, they eventually realized pestering the family took more effort than it was worth.

This gave the children plenty of freedom to roam and Tanova plenty of freedom to practice her craft. The front of the cottage held a small shop, where Tanova sold ingredients best collected in the nighttime hours so other people wouldn’t have to lose sleep gathering them. She offered the more magical items to anyone familiar with her trade who requested them.

Carina, Hesper, and Vela — three of her children — helped her collect these items. They often slept during the day, saving energy to navigate the forest after sundown. It still wearied them and left their feet sore and their eyes sensitive to daylight, and it sometimes felt more like a chore than anything. Even so, they found wonder and delight in their mother’s craft as well. Tanova seized the chance to teach them other elements of night magic at the same time.

Moon pixies guarded their hives and bit unwelcome intruders. They slept in these nests during the day. At night, they were fiercest when the moon entered a waxing phase. However, when the moon waned, they grew forgetful and drifted from their nests in search of food. During this time, the siblings carefully took tiny pieces of honeycomb from the hives. They stored the honey in jars and used the silvery wax to form candles guaranteed to last all night.

Some flowers bloomed only at night. The Chambers children gathered them in baskets and carried them to the cottage, where they moved them into pots or dried them to hang in Tanova’s shop. The delicate night phlox, midnight candy, released a fragrance of honey, almonds, and vanilla. White moonflower blossoms unfurled after sundown and closed when morning dew settled on their petals. Datura — the devil’s trumpet — looked similar to moonflowers, but it was highly poisonous. Tanova tested her children until they could tell the difference. They collected both. Tanova rarely questioned the customers who bought the deadlier type, nor those who sought other flowers for their poisons or toxic seeds.

The children learned to identify bioluminescent mushrooms as well. Panellus pusillus resembled viridescent string lights wrapped around tree branches. The bell-shaped caps of Mycena pura, lilac bonnets, glimmered a soft purple amidst dark green ferns. Panellus stipticus, bitter mushrooms, glowed a dazzling green after nightfall. The burgundy-hued Mycena haematopus, bleeding fairy helmets, oozed red latex when damaged. Tanova knew how to store them in a way that preserved their glow.

On full moon nights, Tanova sometimes invited her children to accompany her in visiting the pond deep in the woods. She bartered with the nocturnal nixies who swam there, trading pearls and adder stones for their shed scales and for permission to pluck the plants that sprouted in the silt beneath the water.

She also taught her children how to catch moonlight. The wide brims of their witch hats had eight small, glass-covered holes. Each lens suited a different moon phase best. The lenses filtered and magnified moonlight into narrow beams, making it stronger and easier to catch. The children held a magicked vial beneath the proper lens when collecting the light.

They also liked impressing each other by catching moonlight in their cupped hands as a show of talent. At first, Vela needed to rub a pearlescent potion on her hands before attempting the trick. It made the moonlight stick to their palms rather than slipping between their fingers. This was considered cheating, of course, so they kept practicing. Within a few weeks, they no longer needed the potion.

Combining moonlight with pure water and powdered moonstone created liquid moonlight, a substance that Tanova sold often. Kept in bottles, it served as illumination, though it went stale and faded by the next new moon. Poured into a dish, it helped with astromancy. Mixed with other ingredients, it allowed the creation of various elixirs, tonics, and potions.

Tanova mixed one such potion regularly. It was an ointment that, when rubbed on the eyelids, improved the user’s night vision for a few hours. Invaluable for nighttime exploration. It reduced the danger of stumbling over roots and falling down slopes veiled with darkness. Using light sources risked luring certain creatures who prowled the woods at night.

The children also memorized constellations and the myths behind them to gain a deeper understanding of the night sky. A way to get closer to the night, Tanova would say. She offered them leather-bound astronomy books to study, as well as books on night flora and the nocturnal beings who found homes and hunting grounds in the darkness. The children flipped through star-speckled pages and thicker, handwritten pages adorned with dried leaves.

Sometimes, they slept in the soil when Tanova’s night lessons left them too exhausted to drag themselves back to the cottage, or when the allure of the stars and fresh air tugged them outside. They liked making beds of moss between the roots of oak trees. Their mother’s charms brought them safety, as did Tarak, Tanova’s familiar. The massive dog — golden-eyed with pitch black fur — accompanied them on their lessons. When the children slept outside, he curled up beside them and guarded them — asleep, but still alert to any sign of danger. His presence alone warned threats to stay away. He provided better security than any protection charm.

Under Tanova’s guidance and Tarak’s protection, the children found freedom in the night — to explore, to dance, to sing, to laugh. They learned when to stay silent and adhere to their mother’s rules as well, though. Never wander alone past nightfall; don’t breathe too deeply around certain flowers and plants; don’t step in mushroom rings; don’t chase voices or sounds of music; don’t follow the trails of wispy lights that lead deeper into the woods.

Rules like these dissuaded Noelle, the youngest, from joining them. She also feared darkness from a young age. It haunted her. She imagined monsters lurking in every darkened corner. Past sundown, even with a nightlight in her bedroom, night terrors often dragged her from sleep. Only Tarak’s warm presence and a steaming mug of honey milk could soothe her.

Despite her mother’s encouragement and her siblings’ support, she couldn’t venture far from the cottage at night without crying. She stayed home with their father instead, whose steady presence reassured her. Though she couldn’t embrace her mother’s craft, she found joy and comfort in her father’s, and he welcomed her company.

Arthur Chambers could not catch moonlight, but he specialized in producing light of his own. It danced at his fingertips and swirled over his palms. His magic was warm and honey-hued, and it possessed a comforting quality. It felt like wrapping oneself in a blanket and settling into an armchair with tea and a book on a rainy autumn day. He didn’t consider himself a proper witch and instead called himself a light merchant. He traveled to sell magicked goods in darker places, where electric lights didn’t reach or didn’t suffice, or places where lighting a match could prove dangerous. Mineshafts, the polar circles. He even did business with deep sea divers at times.

His flashlights and lanterns required no batteries. His string lights and nightlights required no outlets. He also tucked light into spherical lockets he’d designed himself. When opened, the lockets glowed and illuminated the wearer’s surroundings. He wove light into scarves and stitched it into clothing as well.

Between business trips, Arthur stayed in the cottage. He entertained his family with stories about his travels, stretching the truth in places for the sake of drama. Shakespeare plays inspired him, and he sometimes invited Tanova or his children to join him in acting out tales. His family enjoyed the theatrics. Their laughter chimed through their home.

They were an odd family, and other people knew it, but they also knew better than to bother them. The Chambers kept to themselves in their cottage in the woods. They never caused much trouble.

… Most of them, at least.

#|☆| stories #|☽| vela ( stargazer )#(!!! hello hello here is the first part of the vela drabble bc naturally it got too long and i needed to split it up agdgdg)#(it’s a little all over the place tbh but!! i did enjoy writing it aaa)#(tanova had some Questionable teaching methods but they were very effective)#(vela’s sleep schedule is STILL messed up tho agsgdg)

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