Young Writers Society

It was them- the Lorien members, who were destined to ruin my race's entire existence. The one they call Four, Six, Nine, and Seven. I just know them simply as the enemy. I am a Mongerdorian(Spelled that wrong o.o) soldier, and my parents- they are the leader of our people.
I am out on orders from the two of them. The order "Kill them all." I paced in the small room that I was for now calling my own. What good is this going to be if I can't even manage to do anything. They are managing to escape and evade me, and all of my efforts.
It annoys me how I think that the older, professionally trained soldiers managed to kill One, Two, and Three easily. Do they have the guts that I don't have, or am I just not cut out for the field?
A bang sounded form my window and I got up, and saw the group standing outside. I snarled as well as I could and went to get my weapon, as they headed inside. One minute...two minutes...three minutes...four minutes passed before I heard a bang at my door.
I opened it and I never had time to defend myself against them. All armed with a knife, they managed to end my hunting life forever ended, and left me there, slowly dying.

Idiots. All of them. Morons. Calling me...crazy? No. They are the crazy ones. Me? I am perfect. Perfect! None of them can...what? Change me? Haha! That will never happen. I am perfect. Perfect...I already said that. Right? Wrong. Up? Stop it! I will...what? Oh yeah. Thanks, Kevin. I’m gonna destroy them. Right? Left. Take over the world. Merry go round, spinning. Never ending. Happily ever after. They said I couldn’t do it. I’ll show them. They want a show? Go to the theater! Watch a movie! Or the world exploding, hahaha. Such fun. Good idea, Kevin.
***
It was not a good day for Mr. Perfect. Having finally stolen the last components for his giant robot, he had been minding his own business, struggling to carry his load home, when everything went haywire (as per usual). Of course someone had to spot him on the street, lugging the giant generator. Perfect had been sure to be inconspicuous! Now they were after him again, goshdarnit. Every time he glanced back, Sweet Revenge was still hot on his tail, if not gaining ground. Good thing Perfect had his rocket boots, even though they may have been running a bit low on power. Totally not his fault for forgetting to charge them, by the way. He blamed Kevin.
He tried to stick to the alleyways, but eventually he would have to come out into the daylight, where the cops were waiting, patient for Sweet Revenge’s go-to signal. If Perfect was captured, he would be forced to return to that horrible Asylum, where Kevin would be put in time-out until he escaped again. Mr. Perfect couldn’t bear to part with Kevin. He was his best friend, and he reminded him of the evil schemes he always seemed to be forgetting.
Suddenly Perfect was flat on his face, but not motionless. His rocket boots were still whirring merrily along, successfully dragging their owner’s face along the concrete, bumping at each sidewalk crack. Mr. Perfect cried out in pain, slamming his palm on a panic button strapped to his hip to shut off the boots.
Crack. He dropped to the ground in a heap, and Perfect had a feeling his nose wouldn’t be quite the same again.
A spike of pain ran through his back (not really where he had expected his nose to be, but oh well), and Sweet Revenge’s triumphant voice rang out clear and bright, like those hero voices do.
“Your villainous activities are done for, MP! Never again will you terrorize this city!”
She said that every time. Perfect always escaped. It just took a little time. Although, each time he returned from the Asylum, he noticed Kevin’s presence growing fainter...
Perfect groaned. He wished she would get off of him. Those high heels hurt. How could she run in them anyway?
Sweet Revenge hauled him to his feet, and Perfect resisted the urge to wipe his nose, which was oozing a consistent stream of blood down his chin. Instead, he fiddled with his tool belt. Where was that goshdarned button...Ah!
He wasted no time pushing it. Beep! Out of his toolbelt shot a tiny cylindrical projectile.
Sweet Revenge’s sky-blue eyes widened as they followed the object’s path. She abruptly pushed Perfect away and sped after the small item, all thoughts of arresting him pushed aside in her quest to grab the tiny tube.
Mr. Perfect chuckled his maniacal laugh. Kevin, you dog, he thought with glee as he fled the scene, cradling his crushed nostrils.
No woman, even a superhero, could resist free lipstick.

Split Second

I sealed my eyelids, but the darkness only made the image burn brighter: Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. Shoulders thrown back, chin tilted towards sky, arrogance vibrating in his voice. My blood brother. An emblem of my stupidity.

Correction: the Boy Who Died. The Boy Who Killed. The Boy I--

Even my throat choked on the thought. Lord Voldemort never pled for mercy. But in the last second of my life, I heard that word--that repulsive word--scrape my airways. "Please."

Please. Wasn't that what Lily had shrieked when diving in front of her son? Wasn't that what Dumbledore had moaned before grass enfolded his body?

Then the spell struck my chest, and all thoughts shattered. Like porcelain. Like my dignity had in that last split second.

They say that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. I'm grateful that I didn't have enough time to relive my past. But then images of a possible future began racing across my brain. Bellatrix's fingers laced through mine. Me unscarred, eyes a warm brown, cradling a beautiful baby.

Harry Potter, please.

177. I watch him as he sits up straight in his bed. His eyes are filled with fear and tiredness. He's the smartest I've ever faced. He knows what happens when he sleeps.

Close your eyes and become mine to toy with, mine to control. If you have ever had a nightmare that you can't remember that was me. If you've ever woken up with a desire to do something dangerous, but you have no idea why that was me. I am the dream made reality. And it's this world's turn to fall.

His eyes flicker shut and he forces them open. Once, twice, three times. Then nothing. He's mine now.

I roam the corridors of his mind freely. Time doesn't exist here. I see every tortured thought, every moment of self-doubt. Every fear and every moment of longing. All his wishes and dreams.

I reach the centre of his mind and begin working, twisting his thoughts. "This world is in danger." I whisper. "The only way to save it's people is to destroy it. The nuclear weapons, you can detonate them. If you want to spare these people from further suffering you will detonate them. Do it now."

His eyes flicker open. He climbs out of bed and rushes out the room. I follow, unseen, no longer in his mind.

His hand grasps the detonator switch. I can see the struggle in his eyes. But in the end I win. I always win. His hand presses down. The world explodes. Number 178.

In the medieval era of Velcros, there lived a knight who protected the King of Velcros, who loved his subjects and treated them with kindness. The people of Velcros respected the King, praying to him with every problem they had, only the King would know the solution to. One day, Atris Carmine, an arch-mage, killed the King and took over the throne, casting a darkness over the land. The Knight tried to protect the king, but was banished from the land before he was able to help the King. Now, the land and people of Velcros live in poverty and darkness.

I stared down at my loyal subjects, who were working in the blazing sun as I sat on my throne, enjoying a cup of water. I turned as I saw one of the people of Velcros, the land I now own, staring up at me. He looked miserable, which made me smile.

"S-Sir Atris, my family needs your help. We have no food. No water." The man pleaded with me with all his strength, but I was never going to obey his request, all because I am the ruler.

"Ha! Like I am going to help a lowly peasant! Get him out of my sight!" The guards took the man away as the man cried and pleaded for my guidance. I smiled, walking towards the window as I saw all of my subjects either working or bowing down to the statue of me.

"It's been 10 years since the death of the King. Ahh, it feels good to be ruler." I laughed evilly, walking to my bedroom as I heard a commotion outside the Throne room. "Hmm?"

The door burst open, causing me to use my shield magic as I try to see who intruded in my kingdom. My eyes widened as I recognized the man who stood by the door. "It's you...!!"

The Knight. The Knight who protected the King 10 years ago. How was he able to come inside Velcros walls? The Knight ran up to me as I took out my sword from its sheath. I ran to the Knight as we both yelled battle cries. We both swung out swords at the same time. I waited. And waited.

"Ugh!"

Until...

I fell on the floor, in my own pool of blood, groaning in pain. My vision was blur, and my body turned cold. Next thing I knew, I was headed to hell.

“That was so fun,” Anastasia gushed as we made our way to the carriage. “I just adore tormenting her!”

And by “her,” she meant Cinderella, our stepsister who had annoyed me since the day we were introduced. After her father died, she became our mother’s responsibility . . . a responsibility she loathed. I think she might even hate Cinderella more than Ana and I.

“It was,” I said with a slight smirk, noting how clumsy my sister was walking, with her big, fat feet. I guess I’m not one to talk—our feet are the same size, after all—but I am most definitely the more graceful and pretty sister.

She got inside the carriage before me, sitting across from our mother, Lady Tremaine, who had come out to the carriage while we ruined Cinderella’s dress. Our plan was going perfectly, and in no time at all, I—or possibly Anastasia, though she was so ugly I doubted it—would be selected by Prince Charming as his new wife.

“Drizella, your hair looks horrid,” Mother comments, scowling at me. “What on earth did you do to it?”

“I . . .” Stupid old hag. “. . . trimmed it last night for the ball. Ana said it looked most becoming.”

“Ana lied,” she responded cooly. I blushed.

My dark ringlets now reached my chin instead of my shoulders. I’ll admit they did seem a bit frizzy, but nothing too bad.

Still, Mother’s words echoed in my head. Was she right? Would the prince still select me if my hair was not golden and pretty like Cinderella’s?

Huh. That’s an odd thought. Sure, my stepsister was attractive, but I doubt the prince would’ve ever chosen a doormat like her. Even if she had made it to the ball on time, wearing her mother’s old grown and a string of beads that seemingly appeared from thin air . . .

Or maybe from her little mice. I snickered at the thought. As children, Cinderella would play in the garden and talk to herself as she crawled through the thorny rose bushes, during the rare times she wasn't doing chores. One day, we decided to go harass her.

When we reached her, Ana had wrinkled her big nose and asked, “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

She had looked up at us with shiny blue eyes I had secretly always envied and answered, “My friends, the animals!”

It only got more ludicrous from there. She claimed her “friends,” the birds and the mice and whatever else frolicked in our garden, helped her to make our dresses. Ridiculous!

“What are you thinking?” Ana asked me. I turned to face her, finding her fat cheeks and curled red hair comforting in their familiarity.

“Just that I’m going to marry the prince.”

“In your dreams!”

Of course, I knew I had a much better shot at being chosen. Ana was chubby and clumsy and utterly uncouth. I, on the other hand . . .

Slowly, I smiled to myself. Yes, this was going to be a good night for me. A very good night.

One Day After the Ball . . .

He found her. He found my wretched stepsister.

He slipped her small foot into a glass slipper while Anastasia and I watched. All of this following our attempts to fit into that horrid little shoe—with Ana going so far as to cut off her heel at Mother Tremaine’s suggestion, to no avail. I had nearly chopped off my toes, but then Little Miss Perfect herself had come running down the staircase in her nightgown, porcelain legs shining under the chandelier light.

How had she gotten out of her room? Mother Tremaine most certainly locked the door, as I had been at her side while she did so, smiling with satisfaction. The whole thing had been a delicious saga of pleasure for me . . . until everything fell apart.

Now, I wait outside her room, listening as she packs up her things. Prince Charming waits downstairs for her, ready to whisk her off to the palace for their clichéd “happily ever after.”

Softly as I can, I creep to the door and open it. I see her inside, hunched over her bed as she packs up her bags. Humming.

I approach, my heart thudding loudly in my ears. Thoughts race through my head—how dare she ruin my life, my one chance at being queen! How DARE she!

I look down at the blade in my heads, which I had grabbed from the kitchen while Mother Tremaine spoke with the prince in her haughty, you’ve-made-a-mistake tone of voice. Anastasia had been too busy sobbing to notice me, her cries due in part to the pain of cutting off her heel, and part due to her own disappointment of not being chosen.

Now, I crept closer to Cindy . . . and shoved the blade into her back.

What happened next was a blur. I remember seeing blood, hearing a hoarse cry, and then—silence. Absolute, stony silence.

She lay dead at my feet, long gold hair stained crimson with her own blood. Blue eyes, once clear and sparkling, empty and wide open in lifeless shock.

I drop the blade, taking a few steps back from her with a smile playing at my lips. I step toward the window of her room, where I pause. I lean my head against the glass, a lock of dark hair whipping one of my cheeks as it falls loose from its bun. I did it!

Suddenly, the glass breaks with an immense force and I’m pushed forward as something charges inside.

I fall against the wood floor, sputtering out a cough laced with blood. Shards of glass have pierced my skin, but that doesn’t matter. What does matter is the small flock of bluejays circling overhead, looking at me with their quizzical, beady black eyes.

They lunge and all I can do is release a quick scream before they’re attacking me. And I swear I can almost hear them hissing, "Vengeance for Cinderella!"

The moment I heard her ranting on the streets, I knew that this was the girl I was looking for. Red hair, the King had said, and a large frame, and I'd know it's her.
"Dratted wizard!" she yelled, stamping her feet on the cobblestones, "just go ahead and make me walk in circles around this dumb city. Make it so I can't get home to protect my brother! Urg!"
And that proved it. This had to be the Young Lady of Trador, the one the King wanted out of his hair. In fact, he wanted her gone so badly, that he agreed to use her to pay for fertilizer to turn his apples into gold. Of course, he did pay me with a few other things, but the girl was the most important part. Not to mention it gave me a wonderful excuse to dispose of her brother without anyone suspecting me of jealousy. That boy's spells were strong, especially the ones he worked using his garden.
"Ah, I believe I am the one who threatened your brother, Miss," I said, standing behind her.
Her fiery red hair whacked me as she spun. I expected a brawl, or fists, but rather, Young Lady Trador snorted and covered her mouth to giggle. "You?" she laughed, "hilarious. Everyone knows that wizards are supposed to be young men, handsome and fair and completely empty upstairs. You're old, and I doubt you could be all that stupid, Sir."
Not a moment later, I felt the anger rising off my black trench coat, and knew magic steam built pressure under my top hat. Stupid, idiot girl. Insulting a wizard was the worst choice she could have made.
My decision was final. Rather than just conjure her away like I had planned, I would have to take measures to ensure her misery. And not just her, but her brother would suffer as well, and the family of the king who offered her as payment.
"You're a little fool," I hissed, snapping my fingers. Cackling with glee, I watched as she pawed at her neck, gasping for air. Her brown eyes betrayed every ounce of fear in them, and I could barely wait to see what she would do upon waking up.
~~~
Ten minutes after the dramatic teleportation from town, Young Lady Trador awoke. Her form was no longer that of a girl, or even of a female, and I sat on the forest floor nearby, watching her swish a white-tipped tail as she, or rather it, returned to consciousness.
"Whoa," it said, licking its snout, "what just happened to me?" It spotted its flicking tail and pounced like a puppy. "What crazy dream is this?" it muttered, pawing at the white tip, "Or rather, what happened?"
This was the perfect moment. Stirring the underbrush, I walked towards the fox.
"You!" it growled. "What did you do to me?"
Adjusting my collar, I smirked. With the wrinkles on my old face, I must have looked near ridiculous. "I turned you into a fox, idiot. Your king made a bad deal with me, and in order to bring him misery, I have used every loophole possible to get my revenge."
"Yeah that's nice," it said. Surprisingly, it was not as mad as it should have been. "What do I have to do with this?"
"You were part of my fee," I said. Then, with an extravagant flourish of my hands, I disappeared from the forest in a poof of smoke. Watching the fox, as well as the royal family in their pursuit of the golden items they requested, would be enjoyable indeed.

Her brows knitted tightly in a line of confusion and anger, her pencil scratched against the paper angrily. Rushed strokes and made the paper crinkled in protest, I smirked up at her. Knowing that she will not resolved me in time, even though I was just a series of symbols and numbers against a white page. She will buck and howl in vain unless she has resolved me. And I do enjoy watching them, grovelling, begging, threatening, whimpering. It really gives me that sense of victory as I watched her glared at me through watering eyes, clear droplets that simmered dangerously and I tasted triumph as they spilt over and dotted my face.

A knotted scream crawled out of her throat, and she knocked the pencil flying against the wall where a loud crack could be heard. The swish of the chair as it scraped against the carpet hastily and I grinned as her presence left the room, in a swirling of cloud of frustration and rage.

Delicious.

Generally people think that the universe consists of good guys, bad guys and wolves in sheep’s clothing. I tend to be the last one. My handsome face never lets them into my world, so they create their own idea about me. Usually a nice, caring good-guy image. They lead themselves on. I play with them a bit, test them, experiment, have fun. I like to see their reactions. After turning the other cheek time and time again, they finally open their eyes…

In the end they tend to ask me unbelievingly „Why do you do this?”
I just stay silent, plaster on my evil condescending smirk and act all superior, because I couldn't really let them know, could I?
If they’d get to peek inside my head, they’d see that in my mind the good guys finish last.
Still, at least they finish. We, the “bad ones", don't.

The pale blue mist curled around him slowly as he sat in his slightly translucent chair. The end of his long cap billowing out around his legs. For a moment it's existence faltered and the corner passed through his lower leg. It created this numb tingly feeling running all the way up his leg. The blackness surrounding him deepened for a moment, until the feeling passed and he relaxed again.
The mist in this cavern of blackness was the only thing that gave any hint to the fact that there might be walls. It's tendrils reach down the black corridors, and stopped abruptly at walls and other such disturbances. But the floors and roof on the other hand. Those where a different matter altogether. They were extremely reflective, in their own black and eary way. This always created problems for guests - which is one of the reasons why guests were rare. There was patches in the floor that would often flicker between being and not being. If someone were to accidentally step on one of these patches when it flickered out of existence, they would find themself falling down to the next layer. Which proved to be a problem to anyone who didn't know where these patches where.
Nero Aemilianus was not in a good mood. And his secret layer - known as Reinhold - showed it. This castle of nothingness reflected it''s masters mood. And as Nero grew angry, the mist thickened, the iridescent light that came from the mist dulled, the blackness took on an even darker and slightly red hue, the air grew moist, and the flickering grew worse.
Nero stood and walked to the other end of the chamber where a small dark mirror stood. He had a gash running from the middle of his forehead, above his right eye, and to his cheekbone. It was right above a slightly smaller scar following a similar, but much more jagged path. Yet another mark from his arch enemy.
Honorinus Hartwin - often referred to as Honor the Heartful - was the bane of Nero's existence, or semi-existence. After a magnificent battle along the banks of the Pyril river Honor had banished Nero to an existence pocket, and not a very big one at that. Honor had claimed Nero had "Ruthlessly attacked the innocent, meaninglessly revealed The Truth to several pockets, and attempted to take over The Center." While all of this was true, Nero had an excuse for it all. But no one had waited to listen to him before his banishment.
At the time Nero had been attempting to enter a relatively large pocket that called itself something along the lines of "The Milky Way" or was that just the name of something inside the pocket? It really didn't matter that much. He had been intending on hiding on the only inhabitable planet in that pocket, known as Earth. But Honor had intercepted him at the entrance, the Pyril.
Nero picked up the old washcloth from the table that had just materialized in front of him. He dipped it in the small bowl of water next to it and began dabbing at his injury.
The particular pocket he had been banished to was rather new in it's development. That meant that it's laws were still a little iffy. Most of the time that was a nuisance. Having gravity suddenly change directions, something you thought was solid dematerialize, and other such nonsense. But on occasions it was useful. It made magic much easier. So an already skilled wizard like himself could easily do whatever he pleased with very little cost. Like, for example, create Reinhold. A semi-void inside a void.
The wound burned slightly as he healed it. Washing it before hand wasn't necessary, but he liked the feeling. And besides, even though it had an easy fix, get a bit of dirt stuck inside your skin when you healed it was quite uncomfortable.
Nearly 1000 years he had spent in this prison. He had just returned from his first attempt at escape. He'd almost made it. But then the guard had called on Honor who appeared to have developed some new abilities since their last battle.
This was a villain suffering from defeat. Hidden away in his fortress. All alone but for the things he creates himself. The only thing to hope for is an escape, that looks futile.
But as a villain that is not the end of the story. No, that is the beginning. This is how hate grows. This is why The Center will soon have to face a foe much worse then the one they inprisoned. This is when anger takes over.