Secret Santa Commission:: The L of the Ball
December 21st, Task Force Headquarters
"No, Matsuda!" L raised his voice but was still composed enough not to yell. A blush spread across his cheeks.
"But Ryuzaki! Aizawa said that Misa-Misa is going there as publicity, but her arranged date stood her up! He's not going to come! Imagine the buzz when L shows up to the dance with her!"
Ryuzaki suddenly stood with his face centimeters away from that of the bumbling Task Force agent. Sometimes Matsuda got a little too into his manager job, even if he was technically declared dead. "I am not going anywhere as L; L has no face and therefore cannot be seen publicly despite whichever escort he may have." He sat in his chair with the usual unorthodox posture and turned so Matsuda could not see his face. "And aside from that Ms. Amane would not appreciate my company. Simply have Light go with her instead; I know she would prefer it."
Still, I can't help but imagine what Misa must be going through ri
Contest Winner Commission:: Visiting HoursName: Zolf J. Kimblee
Status: Former State Alchemist
Kimblee is a highly skilled alchemist that specializes in creating bombs out of both living and nonliving matter. While participating in the Ishbal Conflict, Kimblee was known to be the most deadly of the massacre. Shortly after the conflict was resolved, he was deemed psychotic, willing to kill anyone and anything simply for the thrill of an explosion. He was stripped of his title as a State Alchemist and is currently being held in Laboratory 5.
Sheska tried with all her might to stop reading these files, but there simply was nothing else to read. What else would be expected of an avid reader in a military base? Since Edward and Alphonse went to investigate Laboratory 5 as a connected to the murder of Major Hughes and they were the reason she got her job at all, the least she could do was research what may be there. The young bookworm coul
Secret Ranger Commission:: Finances"Kyoya! Kyoya!" Tamaki pranced around the vacant music room of Ouran Academy. "This place is perfect! Absolutely magnificent, I tell you! I want the Host club to be here!"
Kyoya adjusted his glasses. "Tamaki, I highly doubt it's wise to decide so suddenly. This isn't the only available room the school has to offer and this is the first we've looked at."
Tamaki stopped dead in his tracks. He turned to Kyoya, smiling as if coercing a girl, his eyes and hair glittering. "I must say, Kyoya, I'm disappointed. I pride myself in a sense of being and I always follow my gut! This room was meant to be our Host Club!" Tamaki had one foot on a box while he stared at empty space with bravado.
Always with this confidence. Always with everything exactly the way he wants it.
Tamaki jumped down from the box. "This club will change the flow of the whole school. I can feel it!" His smile was so soft one would guess he was in love. He was, with the idea of starting his own group. A club. A family.
Art Trade Commission:: Stein's Gorey DemiseA is for Amber who drowned in a pool
B is for Billy who was eaten by ghouls
C is for Curt with disease of the brain
D is for Daniel, derailed on a train
E is for Eric who was buried alive
F is for Frank who was stabbed in the eye
G is for Greg who died in the womb
H is for Heather who was sealed in a tomb
"Soul what's Professor Stein doing?" Maka looked on to their teacher with absolute curiosity as he was actually singing to himself as he dissected another animal. The song was rather disturbing.
Soul was more frightened than curious. If Stein was singing songs like these, then chances are he had started going mad again. But how? Things had been so calm lately. It just didn't seem to fit at all. "Ugh. Maybe he's singing about his victims."
Maka raised an eyebrow. "Alphabetically?"
Soul shrugged. "It could happen."
I is for Isaac who lost his front brakes
J is for Johnny who was bitten by snakes
K is for Kimmy who was shot in the head
L is for Larry w
The Death of Lady MacbethLady Macbeth had overheard the doctor not too long ago. Soon, there would be no doubt how guilty she and her husband were. It was all because of her sleepwalking spells. If only she had the strength to sleep soundly. If only she could have kept her mouth shut while she was lost in her nightmares, her thoughts. She spilled everything. All she was doing was jeopardizing her husband's position as King.
She picked up a hot needle, already threaded, and held it to her lips. Soon, Lady Macbeth would no longer be able to secrete the bloody secrets that had been collected in their castle. She jabbed the point into her bottom lip, tears streaming down from the sharp pain. The heat would numb the feeling if it weren't for the air breathing through the fresh hole in her mouth. Lady Macbeth would jab herself again and again, creating a perfect pattern sewn onto her lips, sealing them shut like an old ragged doll.
Blood began to flow from her wounds, Lady Macbeth's only thoughts on keeping their se
The DumpMy family is a bunch of toys, lost in a junk yard:
Uncle Skip is an old teddy bear, battered and broken,
too many wounds for him to move forward.
Uncle Sam is a determined Jack-in-the-Box,
ready to get everyone out, no matter unlikely it may seem.
Dad is a cuddly doll, doing his part to help,
though what he truly contributes is trust and memories.
I am the beloved Christmas present, thrown away by accident,
the one toy they all work to get out of the accursed dump.
Alone in a room where there is no light,
Others are afraid, but that isn't right.
Why should what you can't see be scary?
Why should every sound you hear be nary
Your friend who was clumsy nor a visitor friendly?
Why should it always be a monster, for you to be wary?
I sit alone in the dark, no longer wishing to shirk
The love that may come from the monsters that lurk.
A shocking pain through my core,
Something I know I can fight no more.
I see the gun's barrel pointed to my head,
But I cannot stop what has already bled.
I can see my end drawing near,
But I have no tears left to show my fear.
A baby's laugh.
A wedding ring.
The angels sing.
A life that's saved.
A dove's spread wing.
These are the few things
That make a blessing.
Help me see the kindness which does surround
The good people, the popular, that inhabit this town.
Help me to see how intelligence is bad and sports are cool.
Help me to see how the love o
2013 Writing Tournament I: December 21st, 2017The doctor shook his head in exasperation. His colleagues just weren't getting it. "We have to put her down. It would only be merciful."
"We don't know that!" another exclaimed, this one a stern woman. "The victims don't usually show symptoms until after biological death!"
"Biological death." The doctor behind her laughed cynically, wishing more than ever for a beer bottle in his hand. "Death is death. This isn't something any medical office can handle. It's supernatural. Plain and simple."
The man in front of the dying girl spoke again. "There is a cause for everything. As scientists, it's out duty to think logically." He glared at the other examiners. There is nothing logical behind the concept of zombies."
He turned to elaborate, stating only the bare facts of their situation. "For the past few years, Mad Cow Disease has mutated rapidly. Since the incident in Florida where delinquents crystallized drugs using contaminated beakers from a research lab, there has been a j
2013 Writing Tmt II: The Raven in my SanctuaryOnce upon a midnight dreary
while I pondered, weak and weary
I tossed my notebook to the side. I had no idea where I was going with that. My writing assignment for school was due in a couple of weeks, but I always tried to get a head start on it. Especially if the topic was open to creativity. I sighed at my failure. I had hoped that reading the works of Poe would inspire me, but I already knew that it wasn't going to work.
I'm ashamed to say that I fell in love with his works while watching The Simpsons. My father had the Treehouse of Horrors DVD and "The Raven" was featured in the first special. Bart Simpson was a horrible bird. It wasn't until I was much older that I began to like the animated humor behind the cartoon family, but it was that first impression that made me wonder - are older works of horror always so subtle? I could comprehend what was happening with Homer, so would it be just as easily understood when written? What would it feel like without the comic r
2013 Writing Tmt III: Power of the MindMerlin's Illusionary Summer Camp
It seemed ironic to use a supposedly real wizard's name for a camp of beings without true magic, perhaps even dishonorable. Illusions were only illusions, after all. But there was no cheesy Lass Vegas magic either. The students admitted there were truly gifted magicians.
Contrary to its name, the magicians were not always illusionists either. Some practitioners studied wicca, alchemy, or voodoo. These actual manifestations of magic were included in the cirriculum to appeal to a wider audience. Such a kindly name to gathering had, too. It was not so much a summer camp as it was an instructionary institution. A camp is something children went to for canoeing and hiking. Merlin's was more or less a boarding school only open those select few months.
No one so young was admitted. Often, the attendees were either exploring college students or professionals looking to expand their horizons.
Of course, every crowd has its outcasts. More obviously, despit
ArtistWhat skill with your hand you do lightly draw,
connecting lines to form dazzling dreams,
without being able to make a flaw.
Sparks fly in your magic, persistant eyes,
creating a new world in your image,
with confidence that reaches new highs.
Your efforts always seem unrewarded,
the public turning a cold, blind eye,
with nothing to keep your ego fed.
But what dif'rent message is seen in scribes?
Nothing but a meaningless textbook here.
A school's reading has no creative vibes.
A generation that does not read out,
only wants to see words in the pictures,
though there are those who read Poe's works about.
Though literature can only use words,
it paints on an extravagent canvas.
Just as expressive as the art on boards,
followers of each artist come in hoards.