Tweak

InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "It's alright."

Username: 
Password:    
Remember Me
  • Create Account
  • IJ Login
  • OpenID Login
Search by : 
  • View
    • Create Account
    • IJ Login
    • OpenID Login
  • Journal
    • Post
    • Edit Entries
    • Customize Journal
    • Comment Settings
    • Recent Comments
    • Manage Tags
  • Account
    • Manage Account
    • Viewing Options
    • Manage Profile
    • Manage Notifications
    • Manage Pictures
    • Manage Schools
    • Account Status
  • Friends
    • Edit Friends
    • Edit Custom Groups
    • Friends Filter
    • Nudge Friends
    • Invite
    • Create RSS Feed
  • Asylums
    • Post
    • Asylum Invitations
    • Manage Asylums
    • Create Asylum
  • Site
    • Support
    • Upgrade Account
    • FAQs
    • Search By Location
    • Search By Interest
    • Search Randomly

Doors Verse ([info]doorsverse) wrote in [info]doorslogs,
@ 2013-10-18 21:51:00

Previous Entry  Add to memories!  Tell a Friend!  Next Entry
Entry tags:plot: halloween

Who: Everyone!
What: The Halloween plot
Where: Passages → The RMS Mauretania
Notes: This is a group log, so anything goes as far as adult content. Please provide locations and warnings, whenever appropriate, in subject lines. Characters may only be in one place at a time, not in multiple threads simultaneously, and you must post using the “doorsween” anon account. This post is anonymous; no names, accents, or defining fonts, please. Lastly, comment with "dibs" on threads you intend to hit, and feel free to exit your characters from threads at any time.



The Mauritania is a ghost ship.

Launched in 1938, it's been decades since she sailed the oceans, and yet the doors of Passages open onto the night-darkened deck of a ship that is barely afloat. She tilts, she lurches, and she is cobweb-lined from her deserted bridge to her silent deck. There is no land to be sighted from any railing, and no light save that from the stars overhead. The promenade winds around the upper level in ominous silence, and haunting music can be heard beyond the doors that lead into the ship's interior.

Promenade; Elevator: It's a curious thing, this ghost ship's elevator. Opulent and splendid, it takes up the entire center of the grand entrance, and it is meant to carry passengers down into the belly of the ship. But it doesn't work just right. Sometimes, the elevator drops impossible lengths. Sometimes, the elevator stops altogether for hours at a time. Yet somehow it's always empty and awaiting new passengers.

First Class; Baths: The upper-level, with its height and distance from the ocean, feels safe and bright. Classical music can be heard in these halls, though there is no orchestra and the ballroom is ominously dark. Laughter leads passengers to the one mostly-lit area in first class, where a swimming bath leads to smaller, more private Turkish bath. The lights here are quiet, flickering and barely there, and shadows dance elusively in the depths of the pool, while ghostly laughter can be heard in the private bath stalls.

Second Class; Theater: Down a level, the second-class floor is louder than the elite first-class floor. Here the air is thick with cigar smoke, and glasses can be heard clinking from the open doors to the smoking room. But it's the theater that draws passengers on this floor. It is cramped and entirely dark, save for the monochrome film on the screen, hauntingly devoid of sound, where a collection of terrifying collages and darkly sexual imagery fill the screen.

Third Class; Dining: Claustrophobic stairs lead down to the narrow passages of the cramped third-class rooms, where the air is heavy and thick, and where the lights flicker and cast the hall into windowless darkness. Here, the ghostly gears of the engine room can be heard sputtering dangerously, and the sensation of the ship's tilting is most pronounced. At the end of the hall, the dining area gives the illusion of windows where none exist. Chairs are pushed aside to allow for dancing to soulful and intimate music, while ocean water teases shoes and heels.



(Read comments) - (Post a new comment)

Re: Third class, dining.
[info]doorsween
2013-10-20 07:30 pm UTC (link)
The little mime didn't care about things like wrinkles. She wasn't even old enough to worry about the white paint settling into lines and making them more pronounced. The mime just thought the woman looked hysterical when she frowned. It was funny to see that stern and beautiful face looked doooooooown. It was her turn to frown when the woman's face smoothed out. Boring. She frowned, and she sighed an exaggerated and soundless sigh. Her hand went beneath her chin, the white-gloved palm holding her up in her newfound boredom. Even that ugly crease of rose in the corner of the woman's mouth didn't make her less bored.

But the spraying water fixed everything, and the grossly divine woman stumbling made everything even better. When the woman stumbled, the little mime shoved her hard. Then that gloved hand went to the mime's mouth again, and the little black lines did nothing to hide the very obvious tittering.

That felt much better
than anything
so far.

The mime pointed at the fatale's impractical shoes, then she tugged her suspenders proudly with her thumbs and lifted her own practical tennis shoes. One foot. Two foot. Splosh. Suddenly, things seemed better for the little mime. What did it matter if her face looked sad when she wasn't sad at all? She kicked up some water for good measure. Spray. She stomped like a child in a puddle, and only the rain boots were missing. Splash.

She looked at the bedraggled starlet, and she pouted in mock sympathy. It was an exaggerated pout, and even the little black lines at the edges of her lips had trouble keeping up with it. Her eyes were bright and gleeful in defiance of the downturned lips.

Poor, poor starlet she'd
never get
a man
now.
(Not ever!)

(Reply to this) (Parent) (Thread)

Re: Third class, dining.
[info]doorsween
2013-10-21 01:54 am UTC (link)
It was the work of two seconds and she’d not been born when the talkies came in (and that didn’t work, it didn’t line up but nights like this never did) and when exaggeration happened on screen. The starlet’s heels skidded in the puddled brine water and her back twisted beneath the heavy sodden fur, weighted down with water. It was ruined now but it hadn’t been ruined by her and there was no merit at all in having something ruined if you didn’t tear it up with your own hands like a bad script. Her heels slid sideways and her brightly shellacked toes clenched in the sandals but no one ever bought shoes that fit.

The starlet went down, and the water spread through the floral of her dress, seeped in and stained white cotton and splashed flowers and shock. The starlet had not been shoved in a decade, a decade of bright lights and people telling her where to stand and the starlet telling them where to stand right back (and where they could put their scripts for good measure). The water was cold and it was stagnant and it smelled the way seaweed stank on the shore. And the little mime who’d run her eyeliner down to nothing trying to look anything but miserable, that little mime looked anything but just then. Her suspenders cracked against her chest and the starlet watched, drops of seawater clinging to her eyelashes as plosh! one foot, then another was shown off.

She hadn’t stomped in puddles either for a very long time, even with the exaggerated fun the mime was having, and the starlet let the fur slide heavily off her shoulders, soak up some of that water like a heavy, dead sponge. “I can do it too,” the starlet said with the certainty that would never make it into the magazines, and her hand came out, impractical nails and all and SPLASH.

(Reply to this) (Parent) (Thread)

Re: Third class, dining.
[info]doorsween
2013-10-21 02:37 am UTC (link)
The mime was busy waving a gloved hand in front of her nose, very emphatically explaining that the wet fur stank like wet dog. She was about to crook her hands in front of her face in an approximation of paws, and she was about to stick her tongue out. Actually, she started to, her imitation of a little dog as exaggerated as everything else about her. But then the yuckily pretty woman declared that she could do something too. The mime gave her a cocked head and a thoughtful finger to her lips as the fur fell into the water, and she stepped back with long and dramatic steps, giving the woman room for her solo performance.

The water sprayed everywhere, and the mime hated it. That was her trick. It was childish, but then almost everything about the little mime was childish.

She stomped over to the big bag that the fatale had discarded as unimportant, and she jumped on it. She stomped with both feet. STOMP. She stomped until the bag was flat. She didn't like women that showed her up. She didn't like that at all.

She hated it
more than
any
th
in
g.

After one more good stomp, the little mime turned to the woman. She crossed her arms over her chest, and her pointy chin was severe and down. She turned her cheek, giving the woman her profile. I don't like you, and then she turned.

She stomped out of the dining room with as much noise and sploshing as she could.

The woman had been very ugly anyway. She didn't matter at all. That made the little mime feel better. Soaked through as she was, she reminded herself that the woman in the dining room hadn't been pretty at all. Then she reminded herself that the woman had looked very silly all wet. Lastly, she reminded herself that the woman smelled like a wet dog.

She giggled, and she snapped her suspenders gleefully as she disappeared down the narrow and tilty hall.

(Reply to this) (Parent)


(Read comments) -


Home | Site Map | Manage Account | TOS | Privacy | Support | FAQs