Scrimshaw skull with human teeth, mid 19th century
Ok, actually I had something else in mind but then I stumbled across this little friend here. This is actually a scrimshaw made from a whalebone with real human teeth. It was probably made on a whaler and could well be a memento to a deceased comrade. It is not unusual that parts of the deceased were used. There were also schrimshawed skulls that were left to the widow to give her at least something of her husband. This would also be conceivable here, even if the idea is rather macabre.
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Rainbow teeth! Had to get one more rainbow weird jewelry post in before pride month is out (though who are we kidding I make this stuff year round).
Resin teeth necklace and rings molded from human teeth, Rabbit teeth are made by hand.
These will debut at the Detroit oddities and curiosities expo (7/15/2023) but if you want one and won't be there, send me a message! If I don't have one I can always make more.
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Join the Cult!
Hello tumblr users! This is a member of the Thomas the Tank Engine Cult here, we are so thrilled to be a part of this community and we hope you welcome us as much as we welcome you into our cult.
This post will contain the necessary information you need to know about our cult!
What is the Thomas the Tank Engine Cult?
We are a cult entirely devoted to Thomas the Tank Engine. We believe that his tank engine-ness is absolutely omnipotent and the media that birthed him is biblical in its nature! For the three years we have been in operation (starting in 2020) we have not been very active, only putting up the occasional poster that didn't even list a contact for queries! We have finally decided to upgrade, choosing this wonderful site as the main outlet for our cult.
Is the Thomas the Tank Engine Cult an Actual Cult?
To put it simply, its a secret! Keeping the fact of whether the Thomas the Tank Engine Cult is an actual cult or not a secret leaves it up to your interpretation, which frankly makes it much more fun!
Should I Join the Cult of Thomas the Tank Engine?
Yes! Absolutely. Joining the Thomas the Tank Engine Cult is a one in a life-time opportunity to be a part of a cult that will absolutely not steal any of your teeth (even though the entry fee to the cult is a bag containing ten adult human teeth, you can take these out on your own accord) and there are also many other great reasons you should join, such as the free, freshly baked cookies by Thomas the Tank Engine himself. Which other cults include cookies baked by their god?
How do I Join?
Well well well dear reader, it's not as difficult as you may think to join a cult like ours, all you need to do is interact with one of our posts or message us, giving us affirmation you would like to join. (e.g. "I am cult member now :)" or "Yippee! Take my teeth!") There is also an entry fee however to this cult, which is a bag of ten adult human teeth. We cannot stress the fact that these teeth need to be adult teeth, as we have had a few confrontations with the tooth fairy about taking baby teeth which are "rightfully hers". Can't argue with tiny, angry fairies after all. Because they bite. We prefer that you clean these teeth beforehand, though it is not mandatory.
Why is There an Entry Fee?
Thomas needs the secret ingredient to his cookies, dear reader. And as we have said before, we only recently updated our methods. With the previous system we had, our members would join free of charge and then try to avoid the mandatory sacrifice of ten adult human teeth. This happened far too frequently for our liking, so we added an entry fee.
We hope that you enjoy your time in our cult and stay as long as you need in order to find enlightenment with Thomas the Tank Engine.
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The Monster's Teeth
cw: human teeth, graphic sensory descriptions
He wasn’t meant to be here.
He knew he shouldn’t touch anything when he was in the Big House, and his mother had told him to stay in the kitchen.
He could hear grown-up voices shouting and calling from all over, some commotion and cries of “Fetch the doctor” and gossip from the parlour maids. The kitchen was too hot, too crowded, and half the staff were rushing in and out when they had no reason to be, just to hear the latest from the cook and the housekeeper, who had repeated their stories a hundred times and had enough tea and biscuits to repeat it a hundred times more. Normal service was suspended.
He didn’t understand what was going on, only that there were too many people.
Nobody noticed when he slipped away into the quiet panelled corridors where he could breathe, and snuck around the grand staircase to the other side of the house. Here was the master’s study, the smoking room, the big, long dining hall, and he crept into the first empty room he could find as a place of temporary solace.
He wasn’t meant to be here.
The study was an avalanche waiting to happen, drifts and peaks of papers and books everywhere, coloured chalks scattered on the bare boards with the rugs rolled up in thick sausages, the grate empty and cold.
He shouldn’t touch anything.
He knew that.
But there was a cabinet full of tiny drawers, none of them labelled – or if they were, the labels were in such tiny, spidery writing that he could barely make out the words. Thomas, said one. Araminta, said another.
He opened the drawers one at a time, and the tiny boxes slid out, contents nested in hanks of wool.
Tiny milk pearls with bumpy ridges, pronged roots embedded in the softness underneath.
He opened others, unlabeled. The contents of these were bigger, yellowed, decayed. Their roots were rusty, stained. He didn’t understand, but he was transfixed.
Each drawer contained more treasures, pitted and ulcerous, pearly and perfect, molar and premolar, cuspid and incisor. They rolled hard and sharp between his finger and thumb, gritty and salted under his tongue, grating under his own teeth as he bit them to test their authenticity, like a man biting coins.
Chips scraped off in his mouth like tiny shards of eggshell, little bits of grit that felt wrong in his mouth.
He explored the bumps and hollows, the points and planes, growing used to the contours and forbidden taste of iron and salt.
He made the collection his own by touch and taste, placing the possessive stamp of saliva on each and every one he could find no matter how his taste buds rebelled, detecting traces of chemicals and cleaning fluids, until the collection was entirely his own.
Sliding the last drawer back in place, he heard his mother calling his name.
“Dicky Pendle! You’re for it, when I find you.”
He snuck himself into a musty corner of the study and waited for the door to open, for the heavy hand of righteous fury to descend on his shoulder and yank him out for a belting. It didn’t matter, when he had a bright new secret to keep.
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