i need feminism because when jesus does a magic trick it’s a g**damn miracle but when a woman does a magic trick she gets burned at the stake
fabulous
i mean they did also kill jesus. that was a pretty significant thing that happened. like i understand where you’re coming from here but they very much did kill jesus.
update: the thing I needed to write for has extended its deadline so I can now go look at even more middle eastern fragrances! (I bought a dupe of Drakkar as well as one called Choco Musk, both highly recommended cheapies from Al-rehab)
A circus that only opens at nightfall. The same cast performs the acts, no matter how many years have passed. Individuals who once came as children recognize the smile of the lion tamer or the confidence of the acrobats, wondering if they are the same people from all those years ago. But of course, such a feat is impossible – even for a circus.
When a young woman named Elizabeth enters the circus, she is instantly swept up in its enchantment and mystery. But when a strange man pushes her onto a train that can traverse the world and results in her having no way to return home, she finds herself stuck in the company of the circus. Only by befriending the actors and assistants behind the scenes is she privy to learn the secrets behind éternité – and finally leave the circus.
[Inspired by and fused with the world and aesthetic of The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern. Content spoilers for the book are not present.]
…
This fanfiction is also part of the Ikemen Vampire Big Bang, a fic-and-art fandom collaboration event! Find out more about the event itself and the set-up on Tumblr @ikevampbigbang!
A young woman enters the circus without expectation.
It is a brisk Sunday evening, and the sudden appearance of a circus had been the talk of the town. Some who lived nearby insisted it was magic – an empty field one moment, a fantastical circus erected the next. Nobody had seen the bold colorful tents rise or heard any indication of the construction that must have happened to build the mighty golden fence around the premises.
Previous visitors to the circus and patrons from out of town follow it, swapping stories of their favorite acts and tents. But when the young woman attempts to ask for recommendations – as it will be her first time attending – she is met with refusals accompanied by slight smiles.
Their only advice is: “You should experience the circus for yourself.”
And when she walks into the circus, she finds herself grateful that she listened to their words of wisdom.
Every corner brings about some new fantastical wonder. There are forest-green tents as tall as the highest trees that house acrobats and dancers. A lion tamer dressed in an elegant red and black tames his namesake beast, his dashing smile eye-catching even from afar. The air tastes as sweet as the popcorn and caramel apples she purchases, happily eating them as she continues her spiraling journey.
When it draws close to midnight, she must return to the realm she came from, beyond the tents and spectacles locked behind their gilded fence. When she sleeps, she dreams of the circus. When she works, visions of the acts repeat in the back of her mind.
She returns three more evenings over the next five days.
On her final night, she chooses to wander the circus and admire it from the outside in. Whispers from crowded lines to more popular tents and wistful murmurs from patrons next to her lamented the fact that the circus would be gone by the following morning. It never stayed longer than a week. So with her remaining hours, she only has the time to experience the finest of what the circus has to offer, and wants to take her time deciding.
By walking between the multi-colored tents, rather than inside them, the woman gains a newfound appreciation for the little touches placed upon the circus. She finds foods she has never tried before, missing what the vendor says when they explain the trick to crafting such delicately powdered, doughy delicacies – but they taste of cinnamon and chocolate and remind her of fond family memories.
While meandering down one particularly winding path lined by tents of silver and blue, a statue still as glass catches her attention for a moment. A blond-haired man stands before the pedestal, a sketchbook in hand as he stares up at the figure. He does not pay the woman any mind as she stands a few steps away, his scarf billowing in the light breeze. His full attention is on the living artwork before him. She takes the time to admire it alongside him, thinking that the craftsmanship on the statue is beautiful.
Her jaw drops when the statue then makes the slightest movement, and she realizes that the figure is breathing, just barely. The man is seemingly captivated by the change, furiously sketching something out on an already-crowded page, his stained fingers not minding the smudges they leave in other places.
He is still there when she decides to leave and head deeper into the circus.
A fortune teller’s tent catches her curiosity, but she decides against it, deciding that it was foolish – all she could think to ask is how soon she could return to the circus again.
(If she had entered, she would find that the answer would be “much sooner than expected.”)
One tent finally draws her in. It is golden in shade, the fabric a soft shimmer against the hanging lights about the circus. Where other signs might list the acts performed inside or show times, this one is simple:
Illusionist.
It is a single word, and yet it draws her in nonetheless. She enters the tent, an intimate space with a semicircle of chairs facing a single raised platform that is empty on all sides with no curtains to speak of. Twelve of the fifteen seats are taken. She takes the one on the end, leaving another open next to her.
Two men enter a minute later, their conversation dying at a hush from the taller, dark-haired one. The young woman glances back at the sound, and she catches the way the shorter, pink-haired one freezes for a moment and grabs the coat of the taller man, gesturing to the two remaining seats. Before the woman can rise to offer to move, the taller man shakes his head and urges the other to take the seat on the other side alone. When he comes to sit by her, he murmurs a polite apology in a language she does not catch before sitting down.
Then, she blinks.
It is a mistake that she did. For one moment, there is nobody on the stage. In the next, a man stands upon it. He is dressed in black with glided gold accents on his coat and vest, matching both his fine hair and the fabric that makes up the tent around them. As he steps forward and gives the audience a single, low bow, unseen lights dim overhead. Only a single, solitary spotlight remains, trained on the illusionist.
His performance from there on can only be described as miraculous.
He produces doves from thin air, no cages or boxes in sight. When he throws a small cloth into the air, a shower of glitter passes over the audience, but no evidence of the sparkling flecks remain on anybody’s hair or clothes.
Playing cards fold themselves into hearts and stars, flying about the room without restraint before suspending themselves in a makeshift backdrop behind the stage. Other cards find their way into audience members’ hands, before turning into something else when handed back to the illusionist – the woman’s is transformed into a string of rainbow-hued handkerchiefs, while the man next to her has his made into a fountain pen that is then seemingly crushed into a cascade of ink. It does not stain the illusionist’s white gloves.
The performance concludes when the room is as empty as it started, with only the illusionist and his audience before him. He casts a sidelong glance towards the lady – or perhaps to the man next to her, she is not sure – and smiles knowingly before bowing deeply towards those gathered in his tent.
Then, his feet slowly start to turn gold. It takes a moment for the woman to realize that the illusionist is disintegrating before her eyes, dissolving into a fine golden dust that climbs up his still-bent body.
When he is nothing but a tidy pile on the platform, the lights turn on once more. The act has concluded.
The lady stands immediately, hesitantly stepping up to the stage with a few other audience members. She does not dare to reach across the unspoken, unseen barrier that separates actor from audience, but studies the powder that litters the stage. As a couple people turn away, the air shifts and causes a few specks to sift away from the pile.
She wonders, briefly, if that means the man will never be whole again.
Listen to me. Look me in the eye while I am saying this to you. Listen.
It is of the utmost importance that absolutely no one goes to see this movie now. That is the best and indeed the only way we can end this horrible, brilliant joke. We’re so close, you guys. SO close.
it’s going to bomb twice and that is so beautiful
It is your moral and spiritual duty to ensure that morbius bombs again.
It’s Microbe Week, and we’re getting up close and personal with the wonderful world of the microbiome. The Museum is teaming up with a trio of awesome science shows— @sciencefriday,@braincraft, and @grossscience—for Microbe Week, featuring new YouTube videos and other content devoted to microscopic organisms and inspired by The Secret World Inside You exhibition. Today’s featured video, from GrossScience, is all about the microbiome of the mouth—and how keeping your microbes happy and healthy can help prevent cavities.
8 year old Dick’s third trip to Bruce’s office and being so helpful that he pressed ALL the elevator buttons so that they could shout good morning to each floor
*ding*
“Dick, this is the eighty-second floor, could we please–”
“Good morale is a preeminent factor in all workplace environments. I saw it on Discovery Science, CSPAN, and also Bill Nye. HELLO EIGHTY-SECOND FLOOR!”
25-year-old Dick doing the same exact thing. The people on the floors now yell back.
Ok, but consider-
Dick teaching this to Damian. Using all the argument he’s built up for Bruce over the years and, “Yes Damian this is important to workplace moral”. And Damian has no choice but to believe Dick that, This is just how things are done because everyone yells back.
Jump to Bruce being worried about taking Damian to the office with him for the first time and Damian is just like, “tch, Do not worry Father I have been trained on proper workplace procedure.” Which only had Bruce more worried until Damian proceeds to hit every single elevator button and, when the doors open, in his most proper voice, “Salutations Second Floor.”
There is of course a chorus of “Good Morning"s and “Hello Damian"s
Bruce is so completely frozen in shock that doesn’t say anything as the process repeats on every single floor. and he can only nod and say “Good Job” when Damian looks to him for approval once they’re done.
#damian gets LIVID when tim doesnt do it when he goes in because what kind of morale is he promoting around here?? what kind of boss is he??#and tim is just DESPERATELY trying to get to his office or tam will kill him for real this time (via @overdramaticrobins)
“Damian.”
“Drake.”
“You pressed all the buttons.”
“How astute. Father will be pleased to hear of this mental uptick. Someday, somehow, we’ll get you to college.”
“I have a job. You are literally here, with me, at my job.”
“I concede that you have a job but you are not doing it well.“
“Oh, joy, suggestions from the peanut gallery. So what will it be, public executions for sending the wrong emails to archive? Institute blood oaths at the entrance? Being put in the stocks for leaving your lunch in the fridge for a we—hang on, that’s not a bad idea.”
“Tt. Do not presume my intentions, Drake.”
“—And maybe I can get Digger Harson to finally back off on the Waybucks being open to NFTs, that son of a—”
“Drake. Good morale is a preeminent factor in all workplace environments.”
“Huh? Oh. You know what else is good morale? Not seeing your boss get choked with a stapler by his personal assistant. I know I always feel good when I don’t get choked by a stapler.”
“You don’t understand. These studies were curated by the most trustworthy sources.”
“I bet Lois and Clark also like not being choked with staplers.”
“Drake.”
“What?”
“…We have to. We have to do it.”
“Why?”
“We just do!”
“Damian, I am already late. Do you know how much this will set me behind? Or did you plan this, purposely waiting until my back was turned and you could turn this hell morning into a hell afternoon, because that’s how long this is going to take!”
“Please.”
“…Fine.”
“Thank you.”
“I already said fine.”
“You have to wave at them.”
“At who?”
“Everyone.”
“What do you mea—we’RE SAYING HELLO TO EVERY FLOOR?!”
“Another astute observation.”
“Damian—”
“Smile, Drake. These people are pretending that they’re happy to see you.”
Tim opens his mouth, but the elevator dings open.
“Salutations, fifteenth floor.”
“Good morning, Damian! Hello, Mr. Drake!”
“Oh. Uh. Hi.”
The elevator closes.
“They were…happy. To see us.”
“A third observation that is, once again, astute. You know, Drake, if you keep this up, you may one day grow up to be a detective.”
“Cute. Just for that, I’m telling Tam that it was you who made us late. Something about stopping off for pedialyte, because of all the diarrhea—”
