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Written Commissions Available!!!!!

Writers by Menchieee lilBadge_Commissions Open by AkaTsukiSakuya

I'm willing to write for about $10-20 via Paypal or a few dollars in points, depending on how exactly you get points, per average issue which is roughly 1,250-1,750 words. The exact price depends on the length of commission you would have me write. I am capable of writing on any subject (adventure, romance, mystery, suspense, analytical) and with any age rating. Smut is acceptable, though I have less experience in that field.

You would be paying for a very well-versed author. :) I am a writer/editor of the support-group website Adapt to Anything and have been published in the comic book anthology Womanthology as well.

I am a sophomore in college, so you can all guess how financially stressful that is. Any commission paying me via Paypal or simple donations are highly appreciated!


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
Race: Amestrian
Gender: Male
Age: 28
Hair: Black
Eyes: Gold
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

Mature Content

Other Works:

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.
Miscellaneous PoetryAlone
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.
Christmas morning.
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.

Newest Deviations


Journal History


Cecile McMillan died years ago, or at least that's what it feels like sometimes. I don't think I can ever forgive Dorian for what those dreams did to my brother. Making me of all people torture him. My death was bad enough. Why did he have to endure it? Why can't my turning be the worst thing he had to deal with? Joss can't stand mom and dad anymore. I can't either, to tell the truth. That's why I went away with Patty, because she's like how mom used to be. But, what Joss doesn't realize is that he is just as broken.

When he was being trained as a Slayer, they broke his spirit. But those dreams using my image broke him mind and soul. I can see it in his eyes. I counted the days I was away from him and I did the math in my head. He would have been starting tenth grade the year he saw the new me. I don't even hate that he tried to kill me at first. I wasn't upset that he was too scared to save me. I hate that he looked at me like I was a ghost. I hate that I was wearing the same kind of lace dresses that I had worn in my past life. I hate that I have the same blonde curls and the same cute voice and the same watery eyes.

I ended up taking an interest in vampire movies, the same as Vlad, Henry told me. Interview with the Vampire got quite a few concepts wrong, but the character of Claudia...I'm really starting to get scared that that will be me in roughly twenty years. Except Dorian is dead, so I couldn't take my vengeance if I tried.

Yes, I still have the body of a child, but doesn't anyone realize that time still passes for me? That I was not blissfully immune to everything that happened around me? Joss finally graduated high school, so I've been able to see him every day. He told his friends he was going to college, but I still can't be myself around him. I'm actually only a few years younger than him, after all. By all accounts, I should be a teenager. But when I look at that hollow expression Joss has every time I appear, I only see the shell of our parents.

It turns out that the best quick fix for this was to act like my old self, the Cecile that Joss once knew. "Would you like to ride on my back, Cecile?"

"Yay! Carry me, Jossie! Faster! Faster!"

Every day it has been the same now. "I fixed your Barbies again," he would say. "And don't think I'll do it again just because you ask me!"

"Hmph! Meanie, Jossie!"

We even played tic-tac-toe again. "You cheated, Jossie!"

"What do you mean, Cecile? People never cheat to lose."

"You let me win! I want to win by myself!"

Forget my death. Forget my funeral. Forget my new thirst for blood.

Whenever I act like a child again, Joss gets just a little bit better. There were a few times when I almost forgot that my kind existed. It was almost just us again. I would like to say that we were making up for lost time, but it's more like our old times are on repeat.

I don't want to be sad. I don't want to think about myself when I know that I'm doing this for Joss. He needs a little sister. He needs me to be cute and innocent again. Me and Patty and Joss can be a new family. I don't need to grow up. Not if it means hurting Joss. He isn't ready for me to grow up. Even if I never get bigger, I need to stay the same on the inside too. I'm not a monster. I feed out of blood bags, so it doesn't count. So, I can stay the same. I can do it for him.

But then Joss walked toward me one night and something was different. He was sad, but not broken anymore. Like he was about to cry, but he wasn't empty. "You don't need to keep doing this," he said.

Tears almost poured out of me, right on the spot, but I wouldn't let them. "What do you mean?"

"You're a teenager, Cecile. Start acting like one!" By his tone he was trying to scold me, but, when he lifted his head, he was smiling, as if joking. "You helped me out a lot. I needed my little sister back. But it's over now."

I ran close to him and held his hands in mine, my hand barely able to curl around one of his fingers. "Jossie -"

"I love you, Cecile. You're my sister and that'll never change. But you don't need to do this for me, ok? I enjoyed it, I needed it, but I'm better now. I need you to get better too. I want my sis to grow up the best she can, ok? Can you do that for me?"

I wanted to say 'no'. I could never grow up, even if I wanted to. I was in a twisted Neverland where Vampires and darkness and blood flowing down my throat reigned in place of Mermaids and Pirates and endless flight into the night sky. Two stars replaced by two fangs. But, when he held onto me, I could only hang on and reassure him that I was happy.    
COVT - Claudia Complex

A short fan fiction of The Chronicles of Vladimir Tod (more specifically the Slayer Chronicles) and the future between Joss and Cecile. Inspired by Anne Rice's Interview with the Vampire.

These characters belong to Auntie Heather Brewer, Supreme Ruler of the Minion Horde. :D
High school had never given me a sense of ideal appearance or a moment of having all eyes on me in a gorgeous, one-of-a-kind outfit. Now, within my dorm, in front of my mirror, I finally have a use for make-up. Disguised as someone else, I feel sensational at last.

Anime, horror, and academics had never melted together so perfectly before my eyes. The characters that some writer brought into this world, with my envious idolization, can be brought forth with the right amount of fake blood and wigs. L from Death Note. Grell from Black Butler. Prince Baka from Level E. Maybe combine looks a bit? L’s hair with Jeff the Killer’s Chelsea Smile? Or just make myself look like a creep for some extra fun?

While visiting my father over Spring Break, the only thing that truly stayed with me was food. In Maryland, you basically had McDonald’s, Arby’s, or you cook for yourself. His new home in Kentucky was restaurant to restaurant to restaurant to restaurant. Ironically, he had been losing weight since he got there.

I wouldn’t be surprised if I lost weight too. He took me to my favorite kinds of places. China Buffet. El Tarasco, with rather plump chimmichangas. Taco Bell. Dairy Queen. My taste buds would have been on holiday all week, if the rides didn’t give me motion sickness.

I was pretty bad at playing video games as a kid. The only system I had at the time was a Gamecube and I could only grab a handful of games before production stopped and I had to switch to Wii. I was out of practice, but I loved to watch others play – not to exclude myself from the experience, but so that I could at least see the story behind games I wouldn’t have played. My Uncle Skip had a Playstation 2 and got me addicted to watching him play Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess.

He was kind enough to let me take the reins every now and then. I just had fun cutting the grass for rupees and going fishing or bug collecting. I tried my hand once at really progressing him in the game. My mission was just to go across the field to get to the town over, to take care of something I could never hope to remember. I kept my eye on the map below, watching the mark on the map move as I did, dedicated to get to my destination. It was roughly an hour later before I realized that the map changed positions like a compass and I had been riding in circles instead of straight across a field that would take less than a minute to traverse.

I wouldn’t go as far to say that I have insomnia, but I’ve had abnormal sleeping patterns for the longest time. It took pride in one thing, though: if I knew I would be up long enough, I would make myself do something productive with my time. One night – October 1st I remember, since I always decorate for holidays on the first of their month – I had gotten up particularly early. Everyone else in the house was still asleep. I still claim my intentions were as innocent as can be; I just figured I would take the extra time awake to decorate for Halloween. It never even occurred to me how different the house would be when everyone else came too.

As I placed sticky, bloody handprints on our bathroom’s full-length mirror, I was also unaware that my father had watched a movie about Bloody Mary the previous evening. He never mentioned it to me, so how could I? What I DID hear about the next morning was how my father woke up soon after I went to sleep and how his heart started on seeing the beginnings of the season. He wasn’t angry – just the opposite; when I woke up again, he was in tears laughing.

I never had a truly supernatural experience until coming to Hollins. Even now, I never saw doors opening or heard unexplainable footsteps. The way I’ve come to understand it, I never will. Two friends of mine, who shall remain unnamed, seemed particularly lost in their minds one night. Each had begun to see things I couldn’t. As we walked the campus grounds that night, one claimed to see lights that would follow us. I never saw those lights. Another heard voices when passing a couple buildings. I never heard those voices. Things only got worse when we escaped to the chapel.

We thought, if there is anything, the church was supposed to be a protected and holy place, but still the first friend could feel things, one good and one bad, one over the stage and one near the instruments, fighting each other. The place was a battleground and friend two could no longer stay, her mind becoming foggy. I followed her out as friend one ushered me away to her and she was no longer there. I shook her and hugged her until she came back. I regrouped with friend one and went back to my place to recover. Both of them were curdled into fetal positions, fighting something inside, completely blacking out in front of my eyes. They were fighting their own battles and I couldn’t see any of it. All I could do was try to offer comfort. I held them close and wished more than anything that they would be released. Soon enough, they were back.

I found out later, from a supposedly psychic friend of a friend, one who could see auras, that all three of us were special. The two that recovered were like magnets to spirits, beacons that would bring entities to them, latching on to their brilliant and blinding emotions. I was the opposite. I was like repellant, where nothing every came near me. Apparently, my will had been enough to spread that ability, at least at close range. So no, I still have not experienced anything supernatural at Hollins, if you think about it. My little gift, for the most part, is exactly that.

Homestuck is a fairly popular webcomic circulating throughout the fandoms of the world, a very random SciFi-comedy thing – like a drugged Dr. Who comic. Readers loved to make fan characters (humans and alien trolls alike) and there were tons of cosplayers at conventions. I had never paid it much mind as I didn’t even know where to read it. A friend of mine at this college, Noelle, fixed that in an instant. She sent me a link and was in the room as I began reading the first act. Fairly weird in the beginning. Kids inside a video game to escape that universe (literally) as Earth was being destroyed by meteors. One of the characters either had more humor or annoyance than the rest. I honestly couldn’t say which. “Noelle, the world is ending and all he’s doing right now is rapping.”

“Dave gets useful later, I swear!” she claimed through her laughter. I continued and the ‘server player’ made a mistake and threw a kid’s bathtub through the wall. And then a mistake with the capturing device sent a birthday cake into the commode. “Noelle…there’s a cake in the toilet.”

“Yes, yes there is.” That was the first act. I am now in the third act of act six. To this day, that toilet cake has become our challenge. As we were both accepted to the Hollins Abroad – London program, Noelle has decided to see if a host family will get the reference.

I never liked dolls. Dolls are girly and creepy. Especially those porcelain dolls grandmothers seem to always keep a collection of. Both of my grandmothers tried to pawn off a few to me and I reluctantly had to accept a couple. It was like they were constantly staring at me, plotting something. There was a serious evil inside of those frilly bonnets. I’m not sure if it was a fear born of hatred or hatred born of fear. I locked a couple dolls in a suitcase and hide them somewhere just so I wouldn’t have to look at them. No idea where they are now.

However, there is one kind of doll I can tolerate. There’s a collection called Living Dead Dolls. Very morbid pieces, covered in blood, dark clothes, and gothic make-up. These are the dolls that are said to give people nightmares, encased in coffin boxes. I came across one at a flea market one day, Little Red Riding Hood from the Scary Tales series – a 13th year anniversary edition too. All I could think of was how beautiful she looked, so I had my grandmother buy her. I have another doll in my room too. It was a porcelain doll, much like the kind I despise, altered to fit one of the Otaku girl’s previous costumes: a yandere girl (think psycho-stalker ex-girlfriend). That doll is covered in “blood”, in a dress laced with needles, and has one leg smashed. I named her Mary.

With these, I never imagine evil plotting against me. There is no darkness hidden inside of them. They’re honest. You can already see what they have to offer.

I don’t really trust doctors or hospitals. One could say it’s because of my family history. My mother studied to be a nurse and was a very good student. She took time off when she was pregnant with me and looked for birth control after I was born. Doctors said the traditional medicine wouldn’t be good for her, so they gave her a shot instead. Mom called my grandmother, saying she got hives and my father took her home where she slept and never woke up. An experience like that was sure to kick trust in medicine out of you, right? But I was less than two months old at the time. I was hardly scarred by it.

Instead, I just hated how clean everything was supposed to be, yet somehow I could still feel and smell the odor of the sick and dying. No, it was a fairly smaller incident that broke my trust. I had found out that, in my family history, people had been allergic to penicillin and I thought it would be smart to be tested for an allergic reaction. And what do I hear? Oh no, I had already been given this substance quite a few times. No harm done, they said. Maybe not, but what if I was allergic? Was that not something to look into my family about? It’s a common allergy! I would have been dead without a clue in my head. I didn’t know if I was scared or angry.

It was embarrassing how deep I was in the closet during high school. I looked at boys just like any other girl would be expected to, and was attracted to a few, but the overwhelming majority of them were mindless, bullies and I was a target in that area for thirteen years by graduation – yes, I was bullied from kindergarten to 12th grade. By the same people for a different reason each year. So I didn’t think much of it when I wasn’t interested in any of them. My dad would ask, “You have a boyfriend yet?” “No.” “Girlfriend?” “Dad, I’m not gay.” – (communicated through a punch in the shoulder). I thought I’d look for someone in high school. Someone who didn’t target others or act like an animal.

Someone who would be beside me every day, like my best friend Leah. Smart. Kind. Beautiful. I wouldn’t mind being with her instead of anyone there and – WHAT DID I CATCH MYSELF THINKING? I had made a reputation for myself, at least to my few good friends, for being into guys, going as far as enjoying guy/guy material as I would shamelessly tell them. When I figured out that I liked my best friend, why, I could never admit it. I did research online, trying to disprove the theory set in my head, trying to rationally find an alternate solution. I even asked her, “If I wanted to be a relationship with a girl, but wasn’t even thinking about sex with her (specifically) or anything, would that still make me gay?” Funny how such a rational approach can also be so panicked. And that’s not even broaching the subject of realizing I was genderfluid. That was a whole other can of worms.

I never did have the ability to make plants grow. I think my oldest memory was of a chia pet my grandmother had. The seeds on Tweety Bird’s head never grew. Around the same time, during elementary school, every Earth day we would be given a baby tree to plant in our backyards. Thinking back now, I think most of the trees I brought home were dead just from the trip back to my home, roots tangled and torn and placed in refrigeration in towels soaked in water until they could be planted. But I still urged on to do it and was disappointed when they never grew and seemed to become one with the grass instead. Dad had also bought a biodome out of a magazine with a couple other educational toys that would allow me to grow carnivorous plants. But, all that was in that dome, through weeks of instruction, was soil and the decorations that came with it.

Between high school and Hollins, there were a couple volunteer events where we could buy plants or just adopt them for a few nights before planting them during a get-together a club was holding. A community garden my grade created in middle school flourished, at least from last time I saw it. More recently at this university, a group offered mint and lemon tea, or some such beverages, for the planting. Even in the Edible Poetry class we worked together for our own garden. I can’t help but think that, if I can only plant when others help, then they just never notice that the ones I happen to plant die immediately.

Music is an epic escape. It became ever vital in high school, which was the most torture my life ever was. Every semester I signed up to be in the choir and take at least one art class so that I wouldn’t feel so stressed between classes and the wall that was crumbling between me and my tormentors. The happy, energetic beat of a good song would pick me up in no time. But then, as I spent more time on YouTube and watching different shows, I would find AMVs of what I had been watching and suddenly the music I was listening to had a whole new meaning to it.

The “Cell Block Tango” was now about deadly Disney Princesses. “Accidentally in Love” was suddenly about Edward Elric and Winry Rockbell from Fullmetal Alchemist. “Mother Knows Best” from Tangled became and controlling exchange between Haruhi Fujioka and Kyoya Ootori in Ouran High School Host Club. Then, I began to make some of my own.

I heard “Blood” by In This Moment and made it into a love story between Sebastian Michaelis and Ciel Phantomhive of Black Butler. I flipped “Bring Me To Life” into a relationship between Misa Amane from Death Note and Beyond Birthday from its prequel, Another Note. Every time I hear “Savages” from Pocahontas, I think of Vlad and Joss from the book series The Chronicles of Vladimir Tod – or I even used “You’ll Be In My Heart” to think of Joss and his younger sister, Cecil (in a more mournful, familial way). Now, every time I listen to music I am conducting videos, more AMVs, in my head. Music isn’t even about escape to me anymore. It’s just more storytelling.  

So in high school, a year or two before it was time for me to move away for college, I needed some extra cash. I had already been writing stories and posting them on and had recently migrated to With a Paypal account now in my possession, I thought I’d offer to write short stories for $20 each issue. I didn’t have a degree or anything, so it wasn’t like I had room to be picky on the price. Writing came relatively easy. Each issue was about 1,250-1,750 words long, the average for my one-shot stories at that time (unless a muse was screaming in my ear). And for quite a while, it worked. I was even paid regularly for editing a person’s articles for a humanitarian website. It was spare cash, at least.

One commission in particular was kind of fun to work with. Someone had their own picture of how Alice in Wonderland would work, more dark and complex, looking more into choices in Alice’s mind. At the time was happy to get the money as well, because I had to submit the $400 enrollment deposit for Hollins, and I only had $100 so far - and my uncle gave that to me. I expected the usual $20, but instead he gave me $200. I messaged him, asking if it was a mistake, like taking note of my usual fee and missed a decimal point or something. But, no. He thought it deserved it. And then he wanted me to write a follow-up issue. Getting into Hollins had then become a lot easier.  
A assignment from my creative writing class last semester - essentially a dozen drabbles about your life linked together randomly, in no particular order.
“Moving Forward”

Music in each beat
With five small dancers
To hold upright
All that sways above
In an unconscious state.
A course outer coating
Will either pass over each obstruction
Or add aching rudiments to your days.
Either way
Each beat will be a routine risk.


A jab to your face,
To your stomach,
To your chest,
To push you further away.
A simple bend and fold
To be my ultimate defense.
I don’t want to hurt you
But what else to do when provoked?


When something smells off
You adjust soon enough.
To keep you closed,
So much taste is lost.
You are needed to be your
Flexible yet sensitive self
Because when eyes and ears
Are not enough
Your honest perceptions
Will tell me so much.

“On My Own, For The First Time”


she traced along the side of the river, with its
subtle crash of an orchestra in place of collapsing waves
only for it to bore her, giving her many silent fits.

You know these kinds of fits, right? For when one craves
any fight, any ghost story, any sense to make the entire
trip more amusing, but that person alone misbehaves.

Her feet fell on rock in an invisible path, light as wire
only to be interrupted by thoughts of before she left,
before she could escape the home’s accusing fire.

Her lungs turned black each time her granny would heft
and test her strength and resolve with every Why would
you leave us?
and then just go on about the growing cleft

between our society and theirs, how even one state could
mean the difference between the life she had always imagined
and the one fantasy that draws her in with dreams that should

end up with her in a body bag one day. Should? She chagrined
to the torturous motherly figure. Why should anything happen
to me? Taking a risk is not failure, not 100%.
And there at the bend,

When her foot found place on a sewer grate, only a short walk to a den
of a tunnel that housed the most shallow end of the river, a sprig
of a flower she did not know was by her toes, dried and dead, but then

She thought, Now isn’t this beautiful? Her mind venturing to a big
secret that the flower may pose, a ghostly sign or message, perhaps a
Treasure Island forgotten, but no: just another pretty little twig.

A resident of thought, her grandmother said, This is how you play?
You say you work here, but even your walks turn to a need for
disaster. Why go out looking? You have enough trouble for the day!

To this she had no reply, small, brown bouquet still in hand, and poor
Granny thought she knew what was coming. She walked closer to the dark
tunnel’s end, felt its beckoning chill, and then did not open that particular


"Your How-To Guide to Taking Off the Mask"

Step One

See the world as a perfect, beautiful place.
Most people achieve this step by their early toddler years.
It is a most crucial start.
In order to lose, there must be something you have already gained.

Step Two

Keep that innocence into your later years.
Allow it to wear with age.
The world is still wonderful,
but not as bright.

Step Three

Add more reality to the mix, of which there are two types:
Your Reality, your life, stresses your brightness little by little.
The Media Reality, the TV and Games uncensored
allows the brightness to be released with each gunshot and alien attack.

Step Four

Let it simmer.
Let the brightness intertwine
with the darkness
until you can no longer tell them apart.

Step Five

One little push is all it needs.
If you don’t do it, someone else will.
It’s that easy.

And then, you are finally free.

What? You don’t see it? How you were never you, all this time? They never do. But, don’t you see? Why is step one even necessary? Because, you never begin with that innocence. Your brightness is taught to you. You are taught to hide yourself. You are taught to put on that mask and what others call madness and monstrosities we call beauty and release.

Because, you see, Alice,

We Are All Mad Here.

is like an unknown poison,
a lowly insect that eats from the inside out;
it cracks and breaks the barriers of heart and mind
with joyful hatred to consume it
fully for friends cannot fathom the freezing
fall into a shallow coma where dark seeps into light
with the cracking, quitting contants of the core,
strong and fragile and solitary and social -
lonely, spiteful, overpowered, overwhelmed -
and taken for a blessing in a shroud it is,
breaking you down and deconstructing you life blood
for the radient of your spirit to glow a bright black:

after Mary Ruefle

I'm sorry to say it,
but angel wings would stand out if you came back.

Did you cry
when you had to leave?
Did you see
so many people mourn?
Did you want
to make breakfast for us again?
Did you catch
the finale to Smallville?
Did you watch
as I reached for my future
in a flowing, golden gown?

Did you stop
having bones and joints of glass?
Did you get
a full life after life?
Did you notice
your husband and parents waiting for you?
Did you get torn apart
choosing  between living and paradise?
What would you have
to say to me now?

If the gates were open,
then you surely walked through.
If you could walk back out,
then you would entertain me with your tales.

"Appendage" (long)

Red and pepper white
you, the mirror image.
Five soldiers in a hole,
scratches and creases.
A blanket of skin,
flexible joints.
White on hard, pink nails
and skulls across the pit.

You say, "write."
You say, "stop."
You say, "crack."
You say, "scurry."
You say, "fight."
You say, "play."

Often ignored when you cannot write.
Having to watch as the arm is slashed
and scarred while it is out of your reach.
Nails bitten and protection diminished
while wild insects feasted from your blood.

Yet joins with others of your kind
and know true connection through it.
Some day to roam further,
some day to find bliss,
though today you can only join with your twin.

But so chubby and rough,
so masculine and gripping,
and yet you hold no strength.
Though I may not be woman,
you speak too much of a man.

Constellations in your palm,
your fortune may be for me.
What could cause this?
A touch of stardust?
You caught a falling
meteor, asteroid, star -
a constant mystery inside.

Turning pages of Spider-Man, Deadpool,
Vladimir Tod and other treasures,
you would never click the channel to
Jersey Shore or Twilight. Instead,
you surf the web for anime with me.

I went outside and you were bit.
I went to school and you were overloaded.
I played in the snow and you began to freeze.
No matter how many times I regret it,
the same pattern repeats.

You are in constant need of a stretch.
You want me to move, as you are tired of
sitting there, useless.
You are more spirited than I let you be,
which you change.

Metacarpel? No, a reemadul.
Proximal phalange? Try cocoma.
Distal phalange? It's a nanuca.
Silly, silly people.

You know what you are.  

"Appendage" (short)

A body of pepper white and red
where horried talons are turned pink and soft.
To play and to fight
are two sides to the same coin
as in the mirrored twin.
To move when it cannot move
is inherently necessary.
Doppelgangers are a part of the hidden history natures mixes with the supernatural. It is said that meeting your own doppelganger is an omen for misfortune or death. Abraham Lincoln is one of the few famous enough to note such an account. It is said that while he was running for his second term, he rested uneasily one night; he saw his own double from the mirror, standing at the other side of the room, watching with a sickly expression. His wife knew what this meant. As we all know, he never finished his second term in office.  

Unique and disturbing examples of historical doubles followed in the young lady’s presentation. However, Janet was surprised when the other girl finished her PowerPoint with a sheet being passed out to the rest of the class. It was a simple white piece of paper with the words “Draw Your Double” written on the front with a blank template in the middle. It was a simple form with absolutely no features, giving Janet the impression of a naked Son of Slenderman, seen from the shoulders up.

When the school day was done and the little activity remained in her folder, she told herself that she wouldn’t make the thing uglier by drawing her face on it. She never cared for her looks. Her body looked decent and she had no complaints about her hair or her eyes. Once in a blue moon, she even felt proud about the clothes she wore. Yet, somehow, whenever Janet looked into a mirror she was disgusted by her own face. It was round and always looked so serious. People said that she looked just like her mother, but all she could see was her father. In her eyes, she was mismatched as having a normal body with the face of a man. No one else mocked or teased her to make her come to this conclusion. It was just what she saw.

In a way, she loved looking at the blank template – not even because it was a fresh start and an opportunity to create a face she loved, even if only fictional; no, she thought that the fact the figure had no face at all made it more beautiful, lucky even. Why did mannequins in the mall have no faces? So the customers could envision themselves in those clothes? She doubted it. Having no face would have been a leap forward in beauty, a leap above becoming a stick.

Janet dismissed these thoughts and went to bed that night, the picture on the nightstand next to her. She fell asleep almost instantly, pleased for no reason apparent to her. What she hadn’t counted on what a particular ability humans possess – even while sleeping, they can still sense when others are watching them. It could have been used in the past as a way to protect mankind from predators, but nothing is so certain. When she woke up, she didn’t open her eyes. She could still feel it. She could still feel someone in the room with her. Her roommate had moved away some time ago, so it couldn’t have been her. Janet felt a shift in the air as it moved around her and she dared to slip her eyes open, heart beating ever faster, to gaze into the mirror across from her.

It was a completely white figure with no discernable features.

She slammed her eyes shut again, hoping it would go away. Would this creature, this thing, bring her misfortune? Death? Did it count as a double when it didn’t look like you? Seeing it in real life, the template was far less majestic and beautiful than she had imagined it. All it did was stand there, staring at her like the possessed of Paranormal Activity. Janet thought, perhaps, that would be all it would do. For a moment, she felt safe.

She then felt cold, moist hands wringing her neck, squeezing the life out of her. She gasped and wheezed for breath while her eyes shot open. She only saw the blank expression that told how horrifying nothingness can be compared to sharp teeth and sunken eyes every ghost seems to have. Janet couldn’t bare more than a glimpse of it before she forcibly shut her eyes again.

Whatever it was became more violent. It shook her as her neck was gripped and she used all of her strength to fight back. Janet couldn’t breathe at all now and would die in seconds if she couldn’t get some air.

Miraculously, she was able to suck in the most she could and filled her lungs in desperation. With her eyes wide yet again, the apparition wasn't there anymore. The Draw Your Double paper sat as it already had on her nightstand.

And Janet’s hands were no longer gripping plain white hands, but her own neck.
Draw Your Double
Uploading written works from college last semester...this is somewhat of a fail draft version of a creepypasta I did for Creative Writing class one week.


Pirate Among Ninjas
Artist | Student | Literature
United States


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vampirewarrier Featured By Owner Dec 31, 2014
PigeonCage Featured By Owner Jun 3, 2014  Hobbyist
hello fellow stuck! would you be interested in this group by any chance??
Hania-chan3 Featured By Owner Dec 8, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Hellow! Im new and i would lobe for you to read my l x reader stories and may be give a little advice :) by the way your stories are amazing!
Zeldaomega14 Featured By Owner Nov 12, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
oh my gosh i just read ur fai x reader and i loved it please finish!!!!
Drache-Lehre Featured By Owner Nov 5, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist

I see that your day has not long passed! :woohoo: On behalf of all of us from %CakeXtravaganza we would like to wish you a very HAPPY, *belated* BIRTHDAY :party: We all hope that you had a marvelous day with lots of wonderful smiles and presents! :iconpresentplz:

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