Young Writers Society

Clementine - 157 Willowood avenue. Apartment 3E, 1 PM

To Clem's ears, the wood creaking under the group's weight was reminiscent of a waltz. She withdrew into her jacket, praying the jacket's size would swallow her whole and allow the group to simply forget her existence. Perhaps they would. Perhaps they were lost in their own thoughts too. What did they receive in exchange for their souls?

She sold hers quite cheap - passed it on in exchange for dancing, for her hearing. To perform pas de bourrées and allow the piano's deceptive lullabies to consume her attention, her existence, her consciousness.

And when she shut her eyes she could feel the cold ivory under her fingertips, light as fluff and cold as ice; sense the wood wail under her leaps as she performed the Nutcracker; and most importantly, hear the thunderous applause of the audience. No excuses.

This was what she wanted, and she'd gotten it all back.

She remained quiet, her breath stolen by the magnificent idea of becoming the grandest prima ballerina the world had ever seen. Silence fell over her, the clapping crowd forgotten and tucked away in some corner of her mind, so she could live for the moment.

Because now she wasn't Clementine Fabian, the upcoming ballet prodigy. No, she was Twinkle Toes at the moment, a despised and unknown girl who'd sold her soul to the devil if only to gain some measure of success. Hate stirred within her and directed its roar at the offensive lout who believed himself leader of the group.

She didn't enjoy his presence at all. No, she didn't even wish to acknowledge the existence of several people around her. The man who first complained of the dagger's screeching remained by her side, as if some higher power had explicitly ordered him to stay by Clem's side no matter what.

"Do you see - hear -" he winced, "that?"

Clem raised an eyebrow, cocked her head to the side and concentrated on the stale air. Nothing but the repetitive dance filled her ears.

"Why? What do you hear?" she asked.

"I'm not sure either, but it sounds like humming."

It was then that their self-appointed leader chose to reveal to the group that he was, in fact, paying some measure of attention to them. He stopped suddenly, not minding the others behind him who tripped. "Humming? Damn, bastard must have installed some alarms. He knew we were coming for him."

The leaky pipe downstairs replaced the wooden waltz with a more staccato beat. Almost like a march.

"Alarms? What kind?" asked one of the others. "And so what if we trip them? It's not like he can run -"

"No, but if you wanna risk dying go ahead and trigger them." His portrayal of the devil's advocate was admittedly good. "Who wants to go first?"

No response. Clem's own breathing strangled her lungs, although she wasn't quite sure how. Every breath simply hurt. Now what? Would the devil discard their useless souls into some bottomless pit?

"There has to be a way," she said in a soft voice. Only the man beside her heard, and he granted her a somewhat sympathetic smile. Almost patronizing, as if he didn't truly believe there was a way for them to survive this.

Oakley | 157 Willowood avenue. Apartment 3E | 1pm

Oakley had be biting her lips for the past hour now, sore and puffy she decided to start cracking her knuckles. She frowned at their odd, self-appointed leader when he mentioned her twitches. He was pale, deathly so which looked frightening on his hardened expression. She decided to take a look around, glancing at each face of her puzzled companions.

"So, what did this person do?" she said after clearing her throat.

"Absolutely none of your business. Now will someone do something about the alarms?" he snapped.

A couple people offered strategies, varying from James Bond inspired to maybe possible. Without any equipment, we couldn't climb over it or somehow shut it down. She looked around, alarm panels were usually in a hidden place near the door, for example the coat closet. Turning to a little sliding door by the entrance hall, and carefully unlatching it. Inside were a couple of dusty coats, and - exactly what Oakley was looking for - a grey panel.

"What are you -"

"I found the control panel." She interrupted.

"Oh, well. Turn it off then! What the hell is taking so long?" he hissed.

Flinching away, she pressed a button and the buzzing faded.

"Let's get going, quietly."

Revival effort!Let's take it from the top...a bit differently. Not like we can make it get worse than dead lol

Milo Davis| 7:00PM| Wednesday | Devil's Office


"Ah, hello David!" The devil cried. Contrary to belief he was not, in fact, a giant red, covered in flames, goat man. In fact he looked rather cheerful, if not douchey. He has bright orange skin, from a fake winter's tan, and piss blond hair, styled like a mane of a lion. He wore a business suit, with nor a single wrinkle or stain, or imperfection. And while he was not flaming, he did look rather gay.

Milo walked in, choosing to ignore the fact the Devil had purposefully called him by the wrong name. IN front of the office were a pack of people. For the mot part they looked rather frightened. Milo assumed they were still having SMSS. Sold My Soul Syndrome. First step was shock, second fear, third denial, fourth fear, fifth embrace, sixth caution and lastly fear. No one ever really got passed fear, it was always there. Working for the man that wanted to send you into a pit of fire did that.

One man was looking at Milo extensively. Milo smiled weakly. He had his work cut out for him with this bunch. The last ones were all soft, which had let them slip into hell when they had refused to kill that guy. Poor guy was scarred for life when the Devil came, sucked them all to Hell, and then took the sacrifice to his house for the night. MIilo, however, had shrugged it off, got a beer, and won the bar's pool for the super bowl. Good night.

These ones, they seemed soft and frightened as well. Like little puppies. But puppies usually made it, they would be cute ickle guard dogs for him. Bleh. "Well, David, I am off to France for the day. Got a few loose ends to tie up with their president. Milo laughed at this.

"Come on pups, we got your first mission."

A cocky looking guy came up, he sneered at Milo. He gave a snooty head-into-the-air face and asked what they were doing. Milo answered by taking a twisted knife from his belt, made of twisted bones and a fiery jem in the middle. The air above it swirled like a miniature tornado, little cries coming from it.

"We got to find your offering for the Devil," Milo pulled a phone book out of his pocket. "Let's go see you....Herald Granger."
“...Offering?” Another one of the pupes came up to Milo. A Twichy girl, looking rather stressed, but as if it wasnormal for her.

“Yes, Offering Twichy Mcgee,” Milo pulled out a small book from his back pocket. As he opened it itbegan to enlarge to the size of an atlas, and as thick as adictionary, with every language. “Let’s see...Ah, there is the scrafice clause.” Milo pressed a line of text and the book morphed again, into a single page of text.

“right here: To para phrase it.’Those who sign away their sould embark in the deppest form of sin. As a result, blah blah blah, tto keep the Devil protecting you from your creaotr one must give reasdon tothe devil...blahblah blah. By sacrificing in his name his empire grows, giving him a reason,” Miloslipped thepaper back into his pocket. “Basicly, kill or be killed, painfully.”
Twitch Mcgee gulped and sunk away. The pups were freaking out. Milo sighed to himself He was in for the full SMSS expierence right now. The pups were freaked.