Features! :D

I've always wanted to do a feature, but have lacked the membership (which makes it more convenient to display images) and I didn't realize we could use thumbs even when we had the free journal skins.. :3
In short: I'm taking advantage of this!

First, my friends! </b>


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:thumb199614588: The Perfect MonsterThe mirror is your gurney. Your instruments are laid neatly before you: concealer, powder, blush, shadow, liner, eyelash curler, mascara, and lipstick. You are as precise as a surgeon; your brush is a scalpel and your pouf, stitches. Beside you sits a magazine, flayed open to display the glossy, ethereal portrait of a young woman. Your effort is that of mimicry, for hers is the face of perfection. Each feature is flawlessly plumped, plucked, smoothed, and tinted. You stand back to admire your handiwork. What stares back at you, however, is not the face of an angel, but that of a grotesque monster.  Just as Victor tried to create the perfect man in Mary Shelley's novel Frankenstein, today's society "Frankenstein's" its own ideal of beauty.
Victor Frankenstein had an all-consuming obsession. It was a simple ambition: he wanted to play creator to a perfect being. He thought to himself, "A new species would bless me as its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures woul











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People With Knives"Do you want a cupcake?" she offered, smiling sweetly.
"Uh, no, I-I'm good."
 She set a vanilla cupcake on his plate anyways, the yellow sprinkles arranged in a smiley face. He looked at his friend irritably. "I said no."
"But your stomach said yes," she replied perkily, taking the unoccupied seat across from him.
"Actually it didn't."
"Well I won't charge you for it."
He looked nack at the disturbing smiling cupcake. Still grinning, were it a person it would be ear-to-ear, but since it wasn't... Well he didn't know.
"I thought you could use a smiley face."
"No. No thank you," he repeated.
"C'mon Carl. It won't kill you."
"Of course it won't," he sighed. "It's a cupcake, Sherry."
"And it's smiling, like you will after -"
"I cut it up under my knife," he picked up his butter knife, "and dissect it."
"It's routine Carl," she growled.
"And eating isn't?" he stabbed at the smiling face experimentally. His butter knife sank through the moist, yielding cake,  the icing no prot Wardens"Al-Alexan?" he called hoarsely, looking through the rubble desparetely. His brother had to be here, somewhere. He knew he was. There was no way that that... THING, had gotten to him. Alex was clever enough to avoid him, he had to be. He'd already defeated one... If Alex was gone too, he didn't know what he would do.
"C-Christian?" came a weak call from somewhere to his right.
Damn all this smoke! He thought, hurriedly running towards where he'd heard his brother's voice.
"Christian!"
He froze, looking around a moment before he spotted his kid brother. He was leaning up against the remains of the well, a shallow gash along his forehead would leave a nice scar. In his hand he held a cleaver. Dimly, Christian could recall his brother grabbing it and chasing after that thing that had shown up.
"You okay?"
Alex nodded weakly, the knife falling to the ground past numb fingers coated in blood. Obviously the thing that he'd gone after had met the same fate Christian's prey had.
"C'mon, let's Patient"Wha-what do you mean?"
"Exactly that."
"But that... That can't be. I don't believe you."
"Well, you don't have to, but it's more prudent to your safety and life if you do."
"..."
"Is something wrong?"
"Of course there's something wrong! You-you're completely insane!"
He scoffed, "That's what they all say."
"Maybe you should listen to them huh? Huh? Ever thought of that Mr. I Know Everything."
He shook his head, "Nah. I'm not a conformist like you."
She winced at his words, clenching her hands together. "Well how about this then? I refuse to believe you."
"The body over there not proof enough? The mystical scary scratches on your face not enough for you?"
"No," she growled, glaring through the glass that divided them.
"Hmm, interesting."
"What?!"
He glanced up at her, his blue eyes lit with amusement. "If I told you, it would defeat the purpose of writing down your behavior Irene."
"Doctor, please... This is too much. You never said that things would keep on going like this."
"Well I d ReaperThat piece of fabric flaps in the wind,
The only warning that he descends,
That he rides his black horse into town.
But maybe the scream of the banshee,
Or the washerwoman's reflection
Was what warned the one destined to die,
That the reaper was on his trail.
He keeps his hellhounds at his side,
Leashed on a chain of blue fire -
Which some call hellfire,
But the name isn't what matters here.
Try to run or hide
His hounds shall sniff out their quarry,
And rip it to shreds,
Dragging it screaming if not dead,
Back to their master.
Master of the grave and death,
He is the reaper,
With death in his hand. Its Hunting YouIt's a small house
No different than all the rest,
But that's only if you're lookin'
At 'er from the outside.
Inside there's a strange smell,
Like the floor's been washed
With a strong perfume,
And the odor just won't leave.
If you're lookin'
Inside out
Then the only thing you see,
Is a neighborhood,
Too dark to view anything
Beyond their own driveways.
So when you hear the noises at night,
Close your eyes and don't be afraid,
'Cos you don't know what's out there
And it might be hunting you.
It's a small house
In an apathetic neighborhood
With a beast outside,
Ready to eat you.
And if you scream
For help,
The only thing you get,
Is a black heart,
And a bleeding cut throat.
So it's a small house,
Downtown with a dark driveway,
Tinted windows so you can't see anything,
Inside or out. Thank YouI handed you a gun,
Looked up at you pleadingly.
I was born to this curse,
And I will pass it on.
Don't let me infect them.
I ask you this,
You who knows so much of this world.
Take my curse from me,
Stop the spreading of this disease.
Don't let me live a half life.
I ask you to shoot me,
Confidence lighting my voice.
Your eyes soften sadly,
You start to shake your head.
I grab onto your shoulder.
I won't live like this,
I tell you that.
Your eyes fill with tears,
I close my eyes to stop myself from crying.
Please.
It's the sound I hear,
Not the pain I feel.
Thank you.








I was in Writer's Craft with Laura, and I loved reading her story!  If you're looking for a good book to read I really recommend it! Fantasy/adventure genre.
Preface: The EleventhPreface: The Eleventh
War was life to the kingdoms of DeBal and Weland. It drove them. It filled them with angst and determination. The people lived each day with a desperation to conquer. War gave them a purpose.
King Luthais was the ruthless ruler of DeBal, the land of the Darks. His kingdom dwelled in the absence of justice. Women were shared and beaten to the point where death was a mercy. The ones who did not partake in such fortune were guarded and hidden in their rooms by selfish husbands for the sole purpose of providing them sons. Men were the lucky ones: they were able to survive the streets that were blanketed in filth and shame, and yet their only burden was their birth right. With wealth came power, but the poorest, the Rots, were granted a chance at honour by joining the King's prized army. The Guard had nearly as much power as Luthais himself. The streets were their kingdom, the battlefield their castle.  Punishment was not out of justice, but out of pleasure a

Apparently I exceed the limit so it's a LOT shorter than it was.
Might post another journal later with the rest.