silver thimble


A chatelaine is a decorative belt hook or clasp worn at the waist with a series of chains suspended from it. Each chain is mounted with a useful household appendage such as scissors, thimble, watch, key, vinaigrette, household seal, etc. They were very popular from the 1860’s until the end of the century.

The top photo is a cabinet card circa 1880 that shows a well-dressed woman wearing a needlework chatelaine, a rarity in posed photographs.

The bottom photo is a A sterling silver chatelaine complete with a whistle, folding buttonhook, coin purse, vinaigrette, and thimble bucket.

What’s In Her Pocketsessssss?

Seven items Kitt would have in her bag at all times:

1. Small leather journal, miniature diamond ink well & quill

2. A goodly sum of gil … no woman should be without the means to see to herself

3. A silver thimble {a talisman}

4. A small pouch of dried fruit and nuts - a power snack

5. A flask of water

6. A small pot of honey lip balm

7. A much read, old love letter

tagged by @poe-lhyzeal - thank you lovely xx

tagging - @zurri-xiv @ishgardianskypirate @olisnark @porcelain-and-blood

@rihqa @sinfulxaela @spartanivwarsol12343  and any other of my fine fine followers that want to play :)

Браслет с кольцами и наперстком. Серебро, стекло, монеты; гравировка, чернь. Украшение замужней женщины. Конец 19-начало 20 века, Дагестан. 

Bracelet with rings and a thimble. Silver, glass, coins; engraving, black. Decoration of a married woman. Late 19th-early 20th century, Dagestan.

anonymous asked:

for the ficlet meme: akafuri, 10, F, ❤ or ★. i love your writing and i reread your Designation: Miracle fics like every day!! keep being amazing!!!!

There is a beast in the palace, as everyone knows.

Deep in the woods, where no one dares to go, there is a palace covered in thorns. Do not go into the woods alone, for you might not come out again. Beware of silence, for when the forest is silent you know you are close. The animals do not travel where the beast lives; the birds will not sing. There is a silence in the forest that only brings death.

Furihata Kouki walks in the woods alone.

It is silent. Ever so silent.


Clutched in his right hand is a silver thimble. It is the only silver his family owns anymore. They lost everything in a shipwreck. Now Furihata works as a tailor’s apprentice, trying to support his ailing father. The silver thimble had been a present from his mother, before she died.

“For good luck,” she said, because she died in prosperous times, and could not have known her son would one day have to mend clothes for a living. (His father, ailing, his brother, with no useful skills. He must support them both, meager as that income is). She only knew he liked to embroider (feminine habit though it was) and she wanted him to have something nice. “And to keep the demon’s away. Silver is the only thing that will ward away devils, Kouki. It is a shield in dark times. Keep it near you at all times.”

Furihata clutches the thimble and thinks about shields. Dark times came, and he was not protected then. He was not protected from the shipwreck that sank all his father’s goods, he was not protected from the fire that burned down their house, he was not protected from his master, the drunk who hit him when sales were slow. He was not protected from the rich lord’s son, who took offense at the way Furihata accidentally bumped up against him and demanded compensation.

“Either in gold or flesh,” the young lord sneered.

Furihata had no gold. He did not want to give himself to the young lord’s whims.

So now he is alone in the woods that are ever so silent, with only a thimble as a shield.


He finds the palace covered in thorns. He takes a deep breath and walks inside.

He is shaking all over. Jitters, his father used to tease, in happier times. “Jitters’ seems like such a friendly and wholly inadequate word now. Furihata is terrified out of his mind. He thinks he will go mad with fear. But still he walks forward into the palace, to find the beast that lives there.


“You must be a very stupid creature,” a voice says from the darkness. “To walk straight into my domain with such a tiny amount of silver to protect you.”

Furihata stops in his tracks and quakes. The voice is soft, rich, and utterly inhuman. The voice sounds regal, commanding, but also dangerous. It is a voice of shadows and dark promises.

“You don’t look like a hero,” the voice continues, “those fools who think they can slay a demon and make a name for themselves all at once. They come with silver swords and silver armor, not silver thimbles. They come for battle, without fear in their hearts. I eat them all the same.”

Furihata swallows. His heart beats so fast he thinks it might burst at any moment.

“No, you are certainly not a hero,” the voice assesses.

Furihata shakes his head, agreeing. He is not a hero. This is not the tale of the brave little tailor, who went into the woods with a thimble and slew a beast and married a princess at the end. That sort of tale is not the kind of thing that Furihata could ever belong in.

Slowly, he unfurls his fingers around the silver thimble and carefully puts it on the ground. Then he rolls the thimble away, watching it disappear into the darkness.

“I’m not here to kill you,” Furihata says. “I’m here to die.”


“There are easier forms of suicide,” the voice says, sounding intrigued in the dark.

“I—I heard you make b-bargains sometimes,” Furihata says, his voice finally breaking as his last bit of courage flees him.

“I do,” the voice acknowledges. “Although, I think you will find that those who make bargains with me usually live to regret it.”

“I won’t,” Furihata says.

“Regret it?”

“Live,” Furihata says. “I want—I w-want gold. For my father and my brother to live. In return, you can e-eat me, or whatever.”

There is a long pause, where Furihata is alone, shivering in the dark.

“Are you so filial? Does your life mean nothing?”

“I angered a rich man’s son. I’m not going to live anyway. I thought—if I was going to die, I’d rather it be for a good reason. To help my family, and well—to help you, I guess.”

“Me?” the voice says, in baffled arrogance. Who is Furihata to dare think that he could help such a creature?

“If you’re hungry,” Furihata rushes in with, “I would rather feed wild beasts with my death than die for a rich man’s pleasure. If not you, perhaps I would find wolves.”

“I see. And what is your name?”

“Furihata Kouki,” he replies, feeling bold. “Do we have a bargain?”

“Kouki,” the voice purrs.

And then the beast steps out of the darkness.


He is a surprisingly human looking beast. He has pale skin, and cherry red hair, and one gold eye and one red eye, but other than that he is a very human looking demon. Furihata is a bit disappointed. He expected wings and claws, at the very least.

“I do think we can bargain,” the beast says, stepping forward. “I am Akashi Seijuurou. But you can call me ‘Master,’ if you’d prefer.”

He keeps walking, so that he ends up very close to Furihata. Furihata backs up instinctively and ends up against a wall. The beast keeps moving until he has one arm around Furihata’s waist and he’s pulling him forward. He looks very much like he’s about to devour a feast.

Furihata braces himself to be eaten. “You’ll pay my family? You’ll make sure they’re safe?”

“Yes, Kouki. I can do that,” the beast says.

“OK.” Furihata closes his eyes and readies himself. “Please do it quickly, so it won’t hurt.”

But instead of being eaten, he is kissed instead. His eyes fly open and he pulls back.

“You—you’re supposed to eat me!” Furihata exclaims.

The beast lets Furihata go and smiles smugly. “Your exact words, I believe, were ‘you can eat me, or whatever.’ I choose the ‘whatever.’ I need a servant. This palace gets very dusty.”

Furihata blinks rapidly, trying to figure out what just happened.

“Oh,” he says. “OK then. I can do that.”

“Good. I will show you to your room. You will live here from now on.”

Furihata trails after the beast, wondering if demons sealed bargains with kisses. That had never come up in any of the books he’d read.

A/N: Thank you so much, Anon, both for your prompt and your kind words! I am so happy you enjoy my stories!! The words here were “palace, jitters, thimble or shield” so I, naturally, landed on Fairy Tale AU. Yet another thing I might have to make longer someday.

London : the labor of ambiguity/ dartboard city/ fawn-skinned  lace/ urchin slang/ a quid, a pause, a paperweight/ tandoori nights/ alien teeth/ nautical smog/ a half-tucked lily in his sidepocket/ the mezzanine of arctic/ chess-jive/ rentals dangling like a beehive/ tomato hued buses/ baked fish the size of both my fists/ the cherry hem of half lit cigarette/ fishbelly white/ nights of illegal liquor/ the dust of tobacco/ factory fur/ i, swallowed bait /– bubble blower’s silver thimble/ a key with no lock/

Madrid : monarch of museums/ the gutted ground of bullfight/ mornings sweeter than crabmeat/ the last-minute tango with Goya’s ghost/ spindrift butter/ scorching the skillet of yr body/ tejas and barquillos/ siempre mañana. mañana. mañana./an anatomist of astronomy/ taurus-leather and sheepskin sundowns/ oolong & croissants/ sacré-cœur/ yr face - a collage of wildflowers/ a boy with a heart like a haversack of hardened honey/ the synagogue in the old man’s pocketwatch/ my hair- a storm of blackbirds/ yr hands - telling stories of shipwrecks/ he is the summary of -/

Paris : vinyl afternoons/ the dirty kiss of dusk/ barge lights  buskers twinkling like homeless comets/ avoirdupois - milk-weight voids/ the stone-ballast of yr fist/ a hunger breaking bread in yr eyes/ sorbonne’s sleep-whispered study halls/ yr teeth caught in chandelier earrings like plum grapes/ empty ice-trays/ frozen arias/ dew snailing up vines/ dregs of laughter peeling wallpaper/diesel cauterized clouds/ cold-water grottoes/ moroccan belvedere/ knees - buzzing with bottlebees/ forehead crests, dents/ time is a tree in the train window / in backward motion/

New York : a map’s origami/ the stolen lightning of my anklets/ baby boy, yr rabbit-breath/ telegram-gaze/ promises pinned to pendants/ tranströmer’s oath/ “open not empty”/ the ache of an written letter/ the letter of an unwritten ache/ arrival’s lounge/ ………….

Scherezade Siobhan©

anonymous asked:

Prompt: monopoly

“You must think you’re sitting nice and pretty, don’t you?” Carol murmured, sitting across the dining room table. “I’ve fought for everything I have, but you…ugh…You were just in the right place at the right time…Don’t sit there and pretend that you’re better than me because of dumb luck.”

The light in the ceiling fan burned above the quiet battle, though the blades didn’t turn, didn’t cut through the thickness of the air. The others hadn’t lasted long…They couldn’t handle it. Even Daryl had retreated after a bad turn of events, heading out onto the front porch to smoke. It was just Carol now…She was all they had left.

Across the table, in the other trench of this battleground, Eric did look like he thought he was sitting nice and pretty. He hadn’t broken a sweat since they started…hours ago…God, night had fallen outside…The sun had been up when this war began.

His team hadn’t lasted any longer than hers had…They’d all gone home…no sense of pride in them. Aaron was curled up on the couch in the living room, trying to be supportive but too exhausted to stay the distance.

“Big talk,” Eric spoke around a cigar that Carol didn’t remember him lighting. “Make your move.”

Carol sighed, wiping the sweat from her temple as she took stock of her situation. He had all the ammunition; the board in front of them was littered with little red blocks, boasting his dominance. The pile of money in the center of the board was just sitting there…waiting…drawing her in…

She needed that cache in order to survive. She wouldn’t make it another round, not with these odds stacked against her.

Eric watched her pick up the two red-colored dice. She rolled them around in her fingers, feeling the dimpled surfaces of the cubes. She blew gently on them, hoping to impart any remaining good fortune that she had left…and it wasn’t much. She had gone into this battle feeling like any other veteran geared up for war…She hadn’t been prepared for Eric to come flying out of the gate like a horse at the derby, gunning her teammates down with a ruthlessness that only came from an extensive and bloody history with this game.

Nine. She needed that nine. Every one of those nine steps between her little silver thimble and that corner square was a step toward life…to continuing to fight this fight against Eric’s iron fist.

Breathing slowly, she glanced toward the window onto the porch, where she saw Daryl, exhaling smoke and holding the cigarette at his lips, watching them. He nodded slowly, trying to give her strength.

She cast the dice across the board. The first die fell still at the corner of the board: three. Together, they watched the second die roll to a stop at…five.

They both exhaled. Carol in horror, hanging her head and closing her eyes as the truth crashed over her. Eric in triumph, making a fist and biting his lip to stifle a hurrah.

Never let it be said that Carol did not meet her end with grace and dignity.

Taking hold of her thimble, she painfully stepped the piece those final eight steps, coming to a stop just shy of salvation…landing on the orange slate of New York Avenue, where one of Eric’s red hotels waited.

With only $150 to her name, Carol folded.

She looked dangerously across to Eric, who sat back in his seat with a shit-eating grin.

“Monopoly,” he chimed, smugly sticking the cigar between his teeth again.

Aaron groaned from the couch without opening his eyes. “You don’t have to say the name every time you win, Eric.”

Carol put her elbows on the table and her hands against her face. All those hours…all that time and effort…She knew that Glenn wouldn’t be speaking to her tomorrow after how heated things had gotten…maybe not Rosita either…

Daryl’s hands touched her shoulders, rubbing her gently. “C’mon,” he whispered. “You fought bravely, but it’s time to go home, sweetheart.”

Carol let him steer her to her feet, and she cast a dark look in Eric’s direction. “This isn’t over. I’ll be back.”

Eric watched her go, tipping his invisible hat. “I’ll be waiting.”