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anotherdayinchuckletown · 3 years

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Crossed Wires, Wonka x OFC (1/3)

(A/N: Hey, guys! This is my first multi-chapter venture on this blog, and I’m so excited to kick this thing off today! Eliza received amazing reception after I made that first post about her! She’s very special to me, and I am forever grateful to all of my followers who supported me and gave me a platform to share her!

I title this as a Wonka x OFC piece, but it’s really only shippy in the third part if you squint. It’s pre-relationship because I’m a slow burn gal, as long as you ignore the fact that I have already uploaded smut between them *cough cough*.

And that’s all I’m giving you lol. Please like, reblog, and comment if you enjoy so that I KNOW you enjoy, and I’ll see y’all in Part 2! Thank you!)

-Kate

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Eliza is yanked from a dead sleep by a long, harsh buzz.

Slate blue eyes wrenching themselves open, she finds that she is not curled up in her bed - rather, she is slumped over her desk. Her cheek is pressed against a set of blueprints for a giant electric mixer, and an empty teacup rests by her left hand.

Mind ever working faster than her body, she is stationary as she analyzes, piecing together her predicament. I…fell asleep while working. Next time…coffee instead of tea. Also…I was awakened. What is the source?

A voice, affectedly jovial despite being garbled by static, pours in through a speaker on the wall, suddenly filling the room. “Hey, sleepyhead! Rise and shine!”

Source located. A voice…my boss’ voice. It’s Mr. Wonka. Does that mean…?

With Herculean effort, Eliza lifts her head. Light does not filter through the cracks in the shades, quelling her initial fear that she has slept through her alarm and is late for work. The only light is the dim glow of her desk lamp, a small model of the moon with a bulb inside, which she made herself years ago.

Alphabet soup sloshes languidly around in her head, only one question swimming to the forefront. “What time is it?” she grumbles quietly. Briefly pawing at a vague glasses-shaped blob on the desk, she picks up what are indeed her glasses. Putting them on and blinking, the shapes and colors around her morph into her bedroom.

“Hello?” Getting no response, Wonka’s disembodied voice tries again, more deliberately. “Eliza? Wakey wakey!”

Eliza stands groggily. Padding across the carpet, she consults the LED clock on her nightstand and squints in confusion.

Five fifty-seven AM.

If memory serves, she made herself a cup of chamomile tea at approximately two thirty AM in a desperate bid to calm her nerves. Factor in time to drink it, plus an estimate of how long I stayed awake subsequently…

Less than three hours of sleep again.

The plans to begin construction on a new electric mixer are expected to move forward sometime this week. The blueprints must be flawless - anything less is unacceptable.

Eliza has apparently spent the entire night prior ascertaining that they are, in fact, flawless, but she still is unable to silence that nagging voice in her head. The voice that insists it is only a matter of time before she messes up. Before she gets something wrong. Before the precarious tower upon which she built Wonka’s trust and respect topples.

Her boss turns his head and addresses someone in the room with him. “Can she hear me?” he asks them impatiently, albeit muffled. “She should be able to hear me. Maybe if I speak louder -”

“I can hear you, Mr. Wonka,” she practically snaps, cursing herself immediately after. It is so unlike her to allow something as trivial as sleep deprivation to evoke an emotional response.

The chocolatier does not pick up on her aggravation - or, more than likely, he picks up on it and ignores it. “Oh, there you are!” Without missing a beat, he is forcing congeniality again. “I tried calling your BlackBerry, but you didn’t answer. It’s a good thing the PA system we had installed in your apartment is working properly, huh?”

Grabbing said BlackBerry off the nightstand, she attempts to turn it on, before setting it back down in frustration. Dead. She’s not surprised she didn’t notice. Certainly intelligent life will be discovered in another galaxy before she receives a phone call outside of work.

Eliza is not in the mood for formalities at six in the morning. Knowing Wonka, she suspects he isn’t either. Not with all the coffee in the world. “Did you need something?” At this ungodly hour…

“I’m glad you asked! I need you to come in early today,” he instructs, barely allowing her time to finish her question. “We’re dealing with a teeny-tiny emergency over here, and I have an important mission for you.”

“An emergency?” She tilts her head, despite Wonka being unable to see her. “At six in the morning?” Factory operations for the day have only just begun. What could have possibly gone so wrong that backup is necessary already?

“Yes. I’m told there’s just been an avalanche on Fudge Mountain.”

Eliza’s eyes widen marginally. That is definitely a first, and a horrific one at that.

Wonka is quick to reassure her. “Now, not to worry, everyone’s all right!” He continues, “Unfortunately, a few Oompa-Loompas are stranded at the top with all the Oompa-Loompa-sized climbing gear,” he explains grimly. “I need you to take my harness and get them down right away! They’re accustomed to tropical climates, you see, they’re not equipped to be up there for very long.”

The sleep-induced haze in Eliza’s mind clears more and more with each word. Assessing all possible solutions, she can’t help but wonder if calling her is the best way to remedy the situation. The factory is across town, and while she has scaled Fudge Mountain in the past, Wonka is a much stronger climber than she is. “Mr. Wonka, wouldn’t you be better suited for -”

“I thought you might say something like that,” he interrupts. “And you’re right! Normally, I would rush over there myself, but I’m handling something even more urgent.”

More urgent…than an avalanche? Still listening, Eliza hastily crosses over to her dresser and begins rummaging around for a change of clothes. Best to avoid a skirt if she’s climbing - leggings and her Oxford hoodie will have to do today. Luckily, no one at the factory is fussy about attire anyway (particularly not Wonka, the king of impractical fashion choices).

“The sugar sand on Dessert Island started shifting overnight - some sugar that wasn’t infused with the anti-solvent must have gotten mixed in somehow, and it’s causing parts of the beach to dissolve,” he rationalizes aloud.

Eliza does some internal rationalizing of her own as she changes out of her pajamas. We will need to take samples of the existing sand and create a formula to determine how much anti-solvent to reintroduce to the beach. What do I need to bring with me today? My blueprints…the materials for Charlie’s lessons…breakfast? No. No time. Coffee will suffice.

“Anyway, the sudden movement puts the molten lava cake volcano at high risk for erupting! So I’m heading over there to start evacuating Oompa-Loompas and draining that boiling hot chocolate right away!” Wonka rambles, oblivious to Eliza’s scrambling on the other end, both outward and inward. “Two natural disasters at the same time! Isn’t that wild?” His question is punctuated with a short, controlled guffaw.

“When it rains, it pours,” Eliza agrees. Now fully dressed, she crosses over to her vanity mirror and debates whether to bother brushing her hair, eventually satisfied simply to pull it up into a ponytail. “I will be on my way at once.”

“No need! I sent the great glass elevator to pick you up a while ago. It should be there in…” He trails off briefly. “I’d say about five minutes.”

Her blood runs cold. “…Five minutes?”

“Well, you would’ve had more advance notice if you had answered your phone,” he quips, a minuscule crack appearing in his cheerful facade.

Eliza is well aware of the dreadful temper lurking behind Wonka’s feigned smile. He is subject to the same tempestuous mood swings as so many creative geniuses of his caliber are. She is thankful to have never been on the receiving end of such a temper.

Yet, just as he can often be disagreeable, he has also proven that he can be exceptionally kind. Especially toward his young heir.

Wonka and Charlie Bucket seem to have an understanding which transcends any ordinary “tradesman and apprentice” relationship. The factory is a corporeal manifestation of that shared vibrancy and imaginative brilliance. Two areas where Eliza, as a woman of unyielding logic and only the most calculated of risks, is painfully conscious of her shortcomings.

After a moment of careful consideration, she simply murmurs to her reflection, “Of course. Excuse my lapse in professionalism.”

“…It doesn’t matter now,” he responds, an odd tinge in his voice. She would call it guilt, if she didn’t know better. “I’m just glad I was able to reach you in time.”

“Indeed. Five minutes,” she repeats, ruling out the possibility of making coffee before she leaves. “I will be ready.”

Wonka offers some curt manner of farewell that Eliza does not quite register, but responds to regardless. The PA clicks, indicating that she is now alone with her thoughts.

The face in the mirror peers back at her, eyes as infuriatingly placid and steely as ever. If eyes are the window to the soul, as she so often hears, her windows surely must be bolted shut. No one is coming in, and no one is getting out. That is the way it has always been, and presumably, the way it always will be.

#sideblog merge stuff #queue

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itsteaveetime · 7 years

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An AU where the Wonka kids aren't completely messed up from the tour and go on to live decent and somewhat fulfilling lives.

[Prompt meme: drop a prompt in my inbox, get a one-shot/drabble]

((Thanks for this prompt, anon! Sorry it took so long.))

He can feel someone’s eyes on him. The man seated next to him is giving him a very long look. And this isn’t really that kind of bar.

“Didn’t you used to be Mike Teavee?” The man asks, shaking his finger like someone has tried and failed to pull a fast one on him.

It’s going to be one of those conversations.

Mike Teavee turns on his stool and gives the man a close-lipped but not unfriendly smile.

“I like to think I still am,” the twenty-seven year old says.

The man laughs, like they always do, and it only grates a little.

“Man, that Wonka contest,” the man says, shaking his head, and Mike lets him go on, because that’s all people really want, and it’s not like he doesn’t have the time. “I spent an entire month’s allowance on Wonka bars. Can you imagine doing something like that now?”

“Not really,” Mike replies, chuckling politely, even though he never spent a single penny in the first place.

“Still,” the man says, pointing at him again. “You got to see inside. You lived the dream.”

“I definitely lived it,” Mike agrees. “It was a trip.”

“Lucky sonuvagun,” the man says. “Oh, and hey, my little nephew? He loves your games.”

By which, Mike has learned over the years, the man means: he has no nephew and is speaking of himself, but is too embarrassed to admit he still games in his thirties.

“Lemme buy you drink,” the man offers.

Mike waves him off.

“Thanks, I don’t drink,” he says. And then, because he can feel the question of why he is in a bar at all start to form in the man’s mind. “I’m here meeting some friends. But: it’s always great to hear people are enjoying my stuff. I gotta go; nice meeting you though.”

He gives the man a firm but distinctly final handshake, and moves toward a back corner where he has spotted her lurking.

“I think you did not even roll your eyes at this one,” she says, her Russian accent slightly more muted than it was at twelve. “I am impressed.”

“Prozac,” Mike insists.

Veruca laughs, and it doesn’t grate at all. The slender young woman is wrapped in a scarf he thinks might be longer than she is tall, a slouchy sweater, leggings, and well-worn over-sized boots. This seems to be one of the default uniforms of all off-duty ballerinas (and some models). Her blond hair is pulled up into a tidy bun. His own hair, by comparison, is a spiked quiff that is a mess by design.

“It’s good to see you,” he tells her.

“Hug me, you idiot,” she demands flatly.

He does. When he pulls back, a meaty hand lands on his shoulder. He turns to face its owner.

Augustus Gloop looms over him. Augustus Gloop looms over almost everyone. A growth spurt at fifteen that Mike cannot help but envy eventually left the German six feet and six inches tall. It thinned him out somewhat as well, and although he will never not be big-boned, Gloop is no longer as wide as he is high. He retains soft edges, a rounded stomach, a slightly ruddy complexion, and a warm friendly face.

“Hallo Michael.”

Like Mike, Augustus has long since lost his high pitched prepubescent voice, but he has retained more of his German accent than Veruca has. He has also retained his blond hair, but it no longer looks like it was placed under a bowl to be cut. In a flannel shirt and hoodie that his mother did not knit for once, Gloop looks pretty cool.

Mike lets the German envelop him in a nearly rib crushing bear hug that momentarily lifts him off his feet. Once released, he goes immediately for Gus’ messenger bag, crouching down, because Gus wears the bag low on his hip, and running a hand over the soft leather.

“This is one of yours, right?” Mike asks.

The German nods.

“Goat leather. Mother had gotten more orders for them, so she had sent me more hides.”

Sewing, apparently, runs in Gloops’ blood as much as sausages do.

“I have made a batch,” Augustus continues, “and that same shop downtown will take them. But also there is a crafting fair that maybe I will go to if I have the days off at the restaurant to-…”

“Shut up and take my money,” Mike says.

Augustus laughs.

“Michael, you know I never charge you. In black, you will want it?” Gus guesses correctly, because Mike remains somewhat predictable about certain things, and Mike is already imagining studding the strap of such a glorious beast as Gloop embraces Veruca somewhat more gently.

“Do we wait for her?” the blond woman asks, more or less rhetorically.

Mike shakes his head.

“We all know she’s gonna be late,” he says.

They head through a door and down a flight of stairs few people know about. A girl at the bottom recognizes Gus from restaurant circles and ushers them into an intimate space where they take a seat in a comfortable booth with privacy curtains. Gus is only still a rising star on the chef’s circuit, but it’s funny how small New York actually is.

It’s funny, how they all ended up in New York, at least, for the time being.

(It’s funny that they are here at all.)

Well. Not that funny. Each of them walked out of Wonka’s factory exactly as they walked in. It was their parents who were altered (although also: not physically).

No magic spells, no potions: just as the Candy Man promised, but one thing Wonka certainly was, was an illusionist. And he had seen immediately who needed to be shown the error of their ways, and few things are as motivating to a parent as the idea of their child in peril.

“I was barely in the chocolate,” Augustus had been the first to explain, the first time they all reunited. “I fell through a bottom. I was not in a pipe at all. It was, I think, a doll to look like me. The falling in was still startling.”

“Yeah, the bloating was not fun,” Violet had said. “But those Oompa guys gave me some antacid and it went away. I got no idea what my dad thought was me that exploded, or what he medically thinks is inside of people, but, uh, thanks for groovin’ on a bop while y’all thought I was dying.”

“Also doll,” Veruca had told them. “How could I call for my pappa with my head removed?“

“…V.R.,” Mike had reluctantly admitted. “I thought I seriously got shrunk and teleported inside the internet, but then it went black and I was just down a trap door with a V.R. headset on. I was kinda bummed, honestly. But on the plus side: I did get a eight inch remote control replica of myself. That was pretty awesome.”

And they had all watched as their parents had reacted to their apparent untimely demises. Had realized the peril their parenting (or lack their of) had placed their children in.

(It had taken Mike slightly longer to realize that his mother had not really been happy about the idea of him being shrunk; that the idea of seeing something like that done to her son and not being able to do anything about it had actually driven his mother temporarily insane, which is probably the strongest and most negative reaction it is possible to have. But he had gotten there.)

After the factory, things had been…different.

None of them had been punished (because none of them had been truly to blame), but all of their parents had certainly changed their tunes.

And somehow it hadn’t been so difficult to get used to after all.

They sit around a table now, well adjusted young men and women. Or: woman, at the moment.

Augustus Gloop has been making a steady name for himself as a gourmet chef. He is working under a celebrity at the moment, producing the epic tasting menu’s the Swiss establishment is known for, but he has headed his own pop-up’s and food carts to great success and reviews.

Veruca Salt is currently a soloist at ABT, after training and dancing at the Bolshoi and the Vaganova. They have all seen her perform: she is generous with her comp tickets. She is also undeniably talented. There have been rumors circling that she may be promoted to principal next season.

Mike Teavee designs video games. Because of course he does. Immensely popular games that require strategy, and critical thinking as much as hand-eye coordination. Some of them have won awards for serving educational purposes. These games, along with several well-received apps have left him unexpectedly wealthy. His first apartment is in San Francisco, but he likes the vibe and the weather in New York so much so that he has a residence in the city as well.

And Violet Beauregard is always late.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” She says, breathlessly, as she joins them. “A thing. But you all know. I don’t even gotta tell you.”

Violet is a celebrity hair and make-up artist. She made her name on YouTube, but she’s as legitimately trained as Veruca and Augustus are. She’s in high demand from both companies and clients.

She frowns at Mike’s hair.

“What happened to the blue?” She pouts.

Mike runs his hand carefully over his ‘do.

“It faded really fast and I didn’t wanna rebleach,” he explains. “It’s fine.”

“I know you’re punk rock as all hell, but seriously: let me do it,” Violet insists. “I will do it in yo’ bathroom sink for the sake of your authenticity if I gotta.”

He eventually agrees.

“Your mothers are having the good time,” Veruca says, with a smirk.

Both Mike and Augustus freeze, because it is their mothers she is talking about. Mrs. Teavee and Mrs. Gloop have long since struck up an unexpected single lady friendship and enjoy taking vacations together. They are currently on an Italian river cruise making the most of Italy, Italian food, and Italian men in a photograph that is burned in both Mike and Gus’ mind that neither of them are sure they were meant to receive and both are afraid to ask about.

“Yes,” Augustus says, smiling a little more rigidly than usual. “…jah.”

“Did she drop a new post on Instagram?” Violet asks Veruca.

“I will never get over the fact that you follow my mom on Instagram,” Mike says.

In her retirement, Ethel has joined Instagram. Instagram is very about her retro aesthetic. She has been interviewed for ‘Racked’.

“She is crushing it,” Violet tells him. “Did you teach her hashtags?”

He maybe guided her in her hashtagging.

“Annnnnnyway,” Mike says, changing the subject and turning towards Veruca. “How’s what’s-his-face?”

“We do not speak his name,” Veruca hisses. “Ballerinos! все мужчины сосать. All men!”

She looks pointedly at Gus and Mike, who know better than to argue with her.

“Yeah, speaking of,” Violet says. “No more 3am Teavee specials?”

“What is this?” Gus asks.

“I kept getting these late night texts from him, and I’m all jazzed because I think Teavee’s got some serious tea for me that can NOT wait and instead I get bull. What was the last one?” Violet asks, while scrolling through her phone. She stops and reads:

“‘Treasures in disguise as monsters’. What in the Dungeons and Dragons is that supposed to mean?”

Mike has buried his face in his hands, but he’s laughing behind them.

“It was the Ambien again, I swear,” he swears. “I got off it. At least I didn’t buy any more non-refundable plane tickets to Shanghai.”

“That was fun, though,” Augustus points out.

“Yeah, it was,” Mike admits.

Off of Paxil, it turns out Mike likes to eat. Like, a lot. And still has the metabolism to mostly deal with it. Gus had been very willing to join him on a tasting trip through Shanghai, lest the tickets go to waste. The trip had left both with fond memories of Ci Fan Tuan, and You Dunzi, as well as up a pants size, but that’s what vacations in your twenties are for.

Gus, Violet, and Veruca order and then sip cocktails. Mike sticks to ginger ale and truffle fries. He has never had a problem with alcohol, because he has never let himself have one, and he knows himself (and his family history) well enough to know that he too easily could.

Things are too good to wreck like that, you know?

He checks his phone.

“Hey, it’s time,” he says.

The others put their drinks aside, and Mike…unfolds his phone. The palm sized device becomes twice its size, then three, until it is a twenty-inch tablet with an extendable stand that Mike places in the middle of the table, and then taps on.

An app connects. A screen pops up. A hand reaches through the screen. They all help Charlie Bucket until he is sitting in the booth with them.

Bucket is thin, for a chocolatier. He is only a little taller than Mike, who is short. He has the same boyish grin he had back when he and his family had nothing.

Mike refolds his device, until it looks like just a phone again. He spends the rest of the evening wedged comfortably between Gus and Violet. Plans are vaguely made for another trip like Shanghai, and more concretely for a sort of pub crawl that consists of, instead of drinking, eating dollar slices of pizza until they have located the best one. Veruca refuses to take part, but will still come along. Charlie cannot make it: he has a factory to run, but they promise to send him a winning slice.

It’s just one of many good days in a more than decent life.

#charlie and the chocolate factory #catcf broadway #fanfic #mike teavee #Augustus Goop #veruca salt #violet beauregarde #a lil' adulting

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whimstories · 7 years

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Camp NanoWriMo Word Sprints

Summary: Three prompts, three sprints, following the story of Bella who fell from her dimension into an alternate 19th century Britain.

A/N: It’s an idea I’m still fleshing out but it was fun to just throw some scenes together. The word count was the amount I finished in that time but i played around after the time as well. Feedback is always appreciated, enjoy!

“I can’t do this.”

(10 min//227 words )

Bella scrunched her nose, looking down at the gaudy outfit.

“What is this.” Her voice sounded so despondent she realized it was rude, but she could not describe this mess of fabric in front of her to add to the shock of being in an unfamiliar home.

The female to her right cocked her head in confusion.

“Your dress for the evening, Miss. Do you not like them?”

“This is a dress? Why does it look,” she made an upside bowl shape with her hands, trying to think of a proper word. “like a circus tent?” The servant looked more confused, if not amused.

“It is part of the current fashions, Miss. Though our Mistress does not commonly partake in such grand garments, we like to keep our wardrobe updated for convenience. I assure you, it is very common in the higher circles.”

“Do they have a problem with gravity in the higher circles?” Bella mumbled. She picked up a white article of clothing that was very stiff and had holes and lacing on one side. She almost felt afraid. “I can’t do this “current fashion”. Do you have anything plain? I noticed your Mistress wears pants and a shirt, I would be very comfortable in that. Please.”

The woman’s eyes went wide for a moment, shocked at the proclamation, which was confusing.

“I suppose you do not know, but it is not common for women to wear such things as the mistress. But I will fetch you plainer dresses, if you wish.”

Bella sighed and slumped her shoulders, feeling tired.

“I understand. Thank you, again.”

“I don’t want you.”

(20 min//438 words)

Yve was sitting outside behind the house. She was lounging in her high waisted tan pants and a white blouse, holding something delicate in her hands, twirling it around. When Bella turned the bend and saw the item, it was a flower. Yve tilted her head and smiled at the flower then began plucking the pedals one at a time.

“Who knew our beloved mistress could be so cruel to nature.” Bella announced. Yve jumped in her spot and turned her head towards Bella, her eyes wide.

“Bella. I thought you were out today.” Bella sat beside Yve on the lawn, wrestling with the flowing fabric twisting around her ankles.

“My business was finished fast. I know a thing or two about being precise. So, what are you doing to the flower? You looked pretty intense.” Bella asked, a smile on her face.

Yve’s face took on a rosy hue and she cleared her throat. She turned the flower faster between her fingers.

“A silly game. Have you heard of a flower oracle?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“You take a flower, customarily a daisy but it is no matter, and choose something you wish to know. Such as…what do I want to eat today?” Yve dropped the flower next to her hip and reached for another nearby. “You begin with either a positive or a negative and pluck the petals until they are gone. I want,” Yve plucked a flower “I don’t want” Yve plucked another. She continued until the flower was at the end. “Once you reach the last, that is the answer you seek. Here, you try.”

Yve placed a purple flower in Bella’s hands and Bella thought for a moment.

“Does it matter if someone else hears? Like when you wish upon a star, it’s bad luck if someone hears the wish?” Bella asked. Yve huffed a laugh.

“I don’t believe so, but perhaps truth is louder without language.”

Bella hummed an agreement. After her meeting with the grimy “gentleman” at the shops today she was still thinking about her future in this world. She glanced at Yve’s face, kind and expectant. When she first met her she always thought her uptight and arrogant, no different from the rich cads in her world. Getting to know Yves was a new experience in a million ways. She was intelligent, fun, and spontaneous. She never saw quiet strength without condescension, but Yve showed kindness and passion. She never let her status undermine her morals and obligations. Bella never admired someone so much. Bella never wanted to be with someone so much.

Bella looked back at the flower and plucked a petal. I want you. I don’t want you. I want you. I don’t…

This was the first admission she had to identify her feelings toward Yve. A type of person she had never experienced.

Her chest felt light; she tucked her chin and smiled. She continued plucking. It did not matter what the flower said for she knew what this feeling was. It was new and something she did not expect but, glancing at Yve, she was willing to take a chance.

She was holding the last petal between her fingers, staring at Yve.

“What was it?” Yve asked raising her brows.

“I don’t.” Bella laughed and smiled. Yve smiled in return.

“Is that a good thing?”

“It’s good because actions mean a hell of a lot more.”

A/N: AND THEY KISS

“Is that my shirt?”

(30 min// 558 words)

“Hey, Yve. Do you know what chocolate is?”

Yve sat at her desk, her left hand hovering over ivory parchment. She looked out of character, but Bella was still unfamiliar with Yve’s usual nature to make a comment. Her hair was down and messy, Bella saw the same pants from yesterday, and her shoulders were hunched into a slouch. She barely glanced at Bella when she asked the question.

“No, I must say I am unfamiliar.” She responded carefully. It was quiet for a moment and Bella refused to move from the door. The servants mentioned Yve’s sudden change in behavior, whatever that amounted to, and, as a guest, they suggested Bella should try to keep her company to repay the kindness of being allowed to stay at the castle. Bella agreed it was a small price to pay in respect to crashing an 8-foot solid metal pod into guest quarters then receiving room and board as a consequence. For the worst luck in the world, she would say she is doing well.

Yve shifted in the silence and shuffled the parchment away from her to glance at another. Her shoulders were raised tightly and she looked determined at her papers. Perhaps this isn't the best time, Bella thought. Bella opened her mouth to speak again when Yve dared a swift glance and spoke.

“Perhaps, you could elaborate on this “shocklet”. Is it common where you are from?”

Bella grinned and walked to the chair in front of Yve’s dark oak desk. She looked at it briefly to consider the beautiful, symmetric style in such an archaic era.

“Yes, very common. It’s a bitter food that can be mixed with sugar and cream to make a sweet treat that melts in your mouth. It’s the bomb. Or, um, it’s really delicious, is what I meant. I’ve been here a month, yeah? I’m having massive withdrawals. If you ever saw me on the floor, groaning and flailing like a pubescent toddler, chocolate is the culprit. You know, chocolate is made from cocoa beans, which can only grow in areas with high humidity and a lot of rain. Which for me means, I couldn’t grow a single seed on 90% of the planet. That form of cruelty only loses to being thrown into another dimension, you know?” Bella knew she had a knack for pointless rambling, that’s what happens when you don't partake in enough social interaction, and there was a fifty-fifty chance it won her favors or got her kicked out of the county.

Yve smiled down at her papers. Point to Miss Withdrawl-Syndrome, Bella cheered.

“Am I to believe you’re describing some form of narcotic mass produced into an innocent sweet treat?” Yve penned another stroke onto her paper, her eyes less intense on the task.

“What, no! Well, if we’re being hypothetical, maybe. I’m but a sheep to the corporate conglomerate of Willy Wonka bars.” Yve laughed, covering her mouth with the back of her hand and eyes glittering.

“Willy Wonka? You say many strange things, but I can not believe that is an acceptable name in any time or place on this planet.”

“But it’s such a beautiful name. Can you not imagine the grace of entering a room with such a name?” Bella sat up straight in her chair and plucked a paper from Yve’s desk and pretended to read in a pretentious tone “‘I now announce, forthwith and hither, The Infamous Sir Duke Grand Duchess King Willy Wonka of the Oompa Loompa Society.’ Yes, I think he sounds dreamy.”

Yve had leaned forward on the desk, her pen and papers placed well away from her sight. Her eyes were focused on Bella’s face, glittering like a grand joke was before her and she tried not to laugh. Bella felt her neck flush and she touched the spot in nervousness.

Yve continued to stare. Perhaps Bella’s silly antics were bordering on insulting.

“What is it?” Bella stammered. She began fiddling with her hair to distract from Yve’s eye contact.

Yve squinted down at Bella for a moment and her almost smile descended into a grim line. Bella thought she heard a clack, like teeth clenching together.

“Where did you find those garments?” Yve asked.

“Well, my usual clothes are rather unique compared to yours, but “male fashion” is the best equivalent. Though the dresses are beautiful! I’m grateful, but I like to see my limbs when I walk. At least, usually.”

Yve’s hands clutched together in front of her face so only her gaze was seen.

“I understand, but I am curious to where the staff acquired it.” Yve pressed the question like it would solve a grand investigation.

“I’m not sure. They were pretty happy handing it to me, so I assumed it was something they had to wait on. I’ve never had something so nice, by the way. The texture of the fabric is really something.” Bella began to rub the fabric around the collar between her fingers. Yve continued to look disgruntled.

Okay, what the hell. I thought we were getting somewhere for barely two seconds and now she sees another female wearing “forbidden male clothes” and she shuts down. Is it a crime for two women under the same roof to be comfortable? Shit, why does that sound so probable.

#camp nanowrimo #word sprint #writing #drabble #writing prompt #original #storytime

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memorabilia14-blog · 7 years

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"Give freedom to money ..."

If you are like most people, you probably have a lot of material desires. For example, many people have a great desire to travel, but they can not afford it because they do not have the financial means. Your plans can not be realized without money, and you feel disappointed and depressed. However, money has a different meaning for all. How do you feel when you think about money? What value do you attach to money? Imagine that you dress in the morning and go to the bank. You go to the window, and the cashier tells you that your account is completely reset. She says that in the whole world there is no more money, which means that everyone in the universe can afford everything that he wants. You listen, nod and say: "Yes, I knew that money would ever end." Most likely, you are now grinning, but in fact there is a profound meaning in this. Tell me, do you never feel anxious about money or think that money will run out and you will not be enough to live up to your salary? Let's imagine that you went to the tap to pour a glass of water. Do you have a sense of anxiety or panic that you will not get anything done? Do you think that there is not enough water in the tap and you may not have enough? No, of course not. You calmly stand and expect the flow of water from the tap, as a matter of course. And do you know that there is a universal law: what do you expect, you get. Money is the main cause of health problems, and they often cause a rupture of relations. For example, look at a young married couple, a woman wants to go on vacation, and her husband wants to build a house. These two completely different positions cause disagreement in the pair. They will debate, argue, take offense. Probably, each of you experienced such tension, stress, anxiety and worry about money. Financial pressure can cause chaos and adversely affect the physical condition. For example, you suddenly received a notice that you should pay a fine of $ 2,000. Naturally, you are angry, angry, stressed and disappointed. The first stage of stress is the reaction of anxiety. Your brain transmits a message to the endocrine system "fight or run." Your body begins to function at a stress level. Changing the chemical state of your systems and organs. The longer you complain and get angry, the longer you stay in this condition. Stress continues, your body tries to adapt to stress, consciousness strongly resists. Muscles are constantly tense, body temperature changes, heart rhythms are wrong. Every cell of your body shows how upset you are. You are in a state of nervous exhaustion and your health is deteriorating. The stress reaction of your body works as if you were facing bears in the forest and must survive. Before you choice: to fight with a bear or to run away from it. There are several ways to ease your stress and improve feelings. First, write down all negative thoughts about money, and secondly, start to stimulate the flow of cash and change your financial thinking. Here are seven easy steps: 1. The law "as if". Start to study people who are financially successful. How do they walk? They say? What are their thoughts about money? What books do they read? What lectures are listening? What kind of people are they friends with? I spent a very long time studying people with good financial performance. They are mostly focused on the positive and see life as a bunch of opportunities. They are self-confident, harmonious and full of energy. They clearly know what they want and detail their goals. If they need help, they ask and receive it. 2. Put yourself first. Morning successful people begin with physical exercises, eat healthy food, read good books, watch smart transmissions, expand their horizons, communicate with people who are pulled up. The more they take care of themselves, the more energy and confidence they have. They took responsibility for themselves and their lives. If you improve yourself every day even by 1%, over the year you will improve by 365%. This is a huge figure! Make a list of simple things that you can do to get better every day! 3. Concentrate on what you want. Successful people know exactly what they want and are ready for a long time to keep one desire in their head. Imagine that you went to the store. You want to buy and trout, lobster, parmesan, cream, yogurt and much more. You run from the counter to the counter and you can not decide what to buy. Your mind is like this store. Decide what to choose. What do you really like most? Set priorities. Concentrate on one desire. The brain does not like emptiness, and you do not want anything, then automatically you will attract poverty. And when you just choose from the catalog of life what you really want the subconscious will start creating methods of delivery.4. Be grateful for all that you already have. The best way to attract more opportunities and prosperity to your life is to have a developed sense of gratitude. Have you watched the movie "Chocolate Factory" of the inimitable Willy Wonka? Remember the little girl who screamed about wanting to get a golden egg? Right now! She sulked and complained, and no matter how much she received it was always a little. When a little girl cries, parents do not know how to enjoy it. Now imagine another girl. Her eyes catch fire, even when she is given a small candy. She is sincerely grateful even for a small crumb. Would you like to give gifts to such a baby? Oh sure. So the Universe also gratitude gives pleasure. Remember how Charlie behaved in the movies? He was subject to many tests, but he was grateful. Putting yourself in a state of gratitude raises vibration and energy level. You become more attractive and pleasant to others. People want to share, help and work with other people who are grateful. When you see your life through the eye of abundance, you are open to receiving all that the universe can offer you. 5. Give freedom to money. Imagine that money is a rush of the ocean. Are you able to delay the tide? Can you tie waves to yourself or should they stay in constant motion? Do not become attached to money. The more you let go, the more money you get back. Be grateful for your bills! When you pay bills, as soon as you receive them, you release money back into the universe for someone else to use it. You ensure the prosperity of someone else. Money is like the ocean, and you can enjoy the waves on your or the neighboring shore. 6. Think outside the box. There are many positive ways of generating cash flow into your life if you become a little more creative. Very often we are accustomed to think and see only one way, and this limits our possibilities. We sabotage ourselves, taking an old approach to the situation. We focus on what does not work, which failed the last time. At heart we understand that the method is a failure, but we continue to fight. There are tons of ways to make money, but see only one way. The trick is to come up with your own way. Take the paper, the pen and enjoy the creative thinking. Your ideas can not be wrong, some of them may not work, some will be better, others worse. I am confident that you will come up with an excellent idea and be pleasantly surprised. There will come a time when your ideas will start working, and you will see that there is no shortage of money in this world. 7) Money is energy. What energy do you give to money? Money is a resource that provides the need and experience in your life. Creating a love relationship with money will help you evaluate it and treat it with respect. Negative feelings will only close you, and push money away from you. Identify your emotions for money. Do you feel fear, anxiety or depression? Can you improve your emotions with regard to money? Take a bill of $ 100 and put it in your wallet or wallet. Do not spend this amount, it will help you feel more confident, and the brain will be calm. Every time you see a money bill in your purse or wallet, you will stimulate a subconscious thought: "I do not need money. There is money in my wallet, and my financial well-being is improving every day. " Do not you like the amount that is in your bank account? Are you small or are you completely bankrupt? Write yourself a check for a decent amount and put it in your wallet. Give your brain the idea that your financial well-being is improving day by day. Start to feel good. Look at money as a way to improve the quality of your life and perhaps help someone who needs your help. Money offers a choice and creates opportunities, if you treat them with respect. Money does not guarantee happiness and success because it is completely up to you. Choose rich thoughts and emotions, and you will be one of the richest people you know in every area of your life.

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