" When she needed inspiration, she would watch them dance.
In and out they weaved, taking different positions in the ritual, moving their feet according to whatever music happened to be live in her mind.
She loved them, because they belonged to her.
Thus, it was dismaying that she never truly saw them for what they were; their costumes, you see, were finely woven.
Silken suits accentuated with patterns that depicted timeless stories adorned their thin frames. Bulky, ornate masks served as barriers against cognizance; stoic expressions were etched into ivory, painted with what could only be the finest oils.
They were beautiful.
But they were fake.
At the end of every song, they would always bow to each other, nod, and disappear into the rising darkness of thought.
She always thought it was poignant, because they never truly knew each other.
'What would happen,' she mused, 'if they were to speak? Would their masks be broken? Would they die if their masks were ever harmed? Could they safely know each other, or will this trend persist for eternity: dancing, dancing, and never understanding?'
One day, during a lengthy and haunting tune, where their gilded toes nearly floated on air, she interrupted, unable to bear the curiosity of their fate:
'Why?' she cried, though the dancers did not cease. Instead, they continued on with fervour.
'Why do you dance? Won't you speak?'
No reply.
'Speak, dancers! Shed your names!'
No reply.
A hand reached out (her own, she later realized) as if to touch--ensnare--the pair just beyond her reach.
Just like that, the masks shattered.
Millions of pieces flew everywhere, dirtying the immaculate shadow that posed as their perpetual stage.
A scream rang out. To this day, she does not know who made it; however, she has her suspicions.
Faces marred by broken facades were seen after the masks were destroyed.
Their movement stopped; their mouths fell open soundessly.
And then one of them fell.
And then the next.
Finally, the darkness was the only thing that remained, disfigured by shards of pale white.

Never again was her muse fancied by the intricate patterns of dance.
Never did she manage to acquaint those who were never meant to see.
Hence is life. "

IN-PROGRESS STORIES:

Amoeba: This is a compilation between Mahri Lellan (from this site, in case you didn't know) and I. He played Matt and I played Mello, and basically it covers all the way until the two die. We also did a prologue to it, from when they were in Wammy's, and we've just now started an AU derivative of the plot, but we don't plan posting either of those any time soon.

Hydra: This one has me stumped! I know what I'm planning for the next several chapters, but from there on it's pretty hazy. Unfortunately, my laptop is down, so I won't be able to update anytime soon (and I haven't in forever, I know), but hopefully I will be back in no time. Don't give up on me, guys!

COMPLETED STORIES:

Superficial Fascia: This one was my first fanfiction. It's a pretty general retelling of Matt and Mello's life after the explosion, but I added in my own little twists so that it isn't completely conformed to the norm. It was a present for dear Mahri.

Ephemera: This, too, has an interesting background involving my friend Becky (enyogreyfell; check out her drabble piece, it's AMAZING). There's really not much I can say about it other than it's my only smut piece.

Whatever: Hahaha, I promised myself no songfics, but this was born without my consent--from the keys to MS Word. Really, though, I was pretty pleased with it, though it probably isn't my favourite.

Words to Live By: I really like the psychological aspects of this one, and the symbolism I managed to include. I wasn't lying when I said that this was born at two in the morning. I couldn't sleep and the idea just hit me, so I recorded it before it could get away. All in all, this is one of my favourite one shots, besides the Wammy's House one that I haven't finished yet (and probably never will).

BEDLAM, A DEATH NOTE ROLEPLAYING FORUM:

A doctor’s pledge is to save lives... or, perhaps, assure a human’s right to live.
But what would one say to their right to die?
Could a person be given the choice to live or die, without any attached strings?

Dr. Yagami thought so-- assisted suicide wasn’t a crime, it was mercy.
Upon hearing the first cries of salvation from his patients,
he was sympathetic, and it wasn’t long before he began to grant their wishes.

Another doctor, by the name of L Lawliet, grew suspicious of these increasing deaths.
Lawliet, convinced that something foul was happening in the institution,
went to discover why patients were dropping like flies around him.

Yagami Raito, and L Lawliet.
The two men, who used to be such cooperative workmates,
were now restricted to stay within a yard-radius of one another--
and never step under that line, for they knew
that if they did... there was no assurance that the heart meter would line even beats.

Soon, two clearly defined lines are formed within the confines of the asylum:
Those who support Yagami, and those who support Lawliet.
The definition of right and wrong has become blurred;
sanity is a concept only dreamt of.

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