Sasha's Scribblings

[Shalashaska]

If you've ever wanted to scribble a comment in the corner of a book and shout at a character, you'll know why I'm posting this thread. Also, I'll be posting chunks of a short story I'm writing, based on the Death Note universe. Feedback is welcome, as are your own scribblings! (Not stories, that's my thing. )

Quote:
"You know a bartender at the '21' club in New York invented this?" queried Parker as he pulled the cork from the bottle. "Benedictine liqueur and cognac. It became so popular that the French started bottling the combination themselves. The guy never saw a dime of the profits. God, I hate the French."
Context: Taking a lunch break while attempting to track down a terrorist.
Sasha's Scribbling: DUDE! Talk about the terrorist threatening to kill hundreds of people, not the drink! THE LIVES, NOT THE DRINK! Besides, I like the French.

[Shalashaska]

Well, I've got about 9.5 pages done so far. Here's the first chunk:

The man with the crimson eyes sat bolt upright out of bed. His black hair- very short, as he had recently been burnt to a crisp- was just barely growing back. He had just had a nightmare- not something unusual for him, but this nightmare was new. This nightmare was recent. The flames licked against his skin, and no matter how hard he thrashed, they wouldn’t go away. The flames just wouldn’t disappear. No matter how hard he tried. They were burning him, and he was dying, but he didn’t care! He was going beyond! B WOULD SURPASS L! HE WOULD GO BEYOND THE LIMIT!

But he hadn’t. Beyond Birthday groaned, noting that he was two things: alive and in jail. He had once been told, in another life, that being dead wasn’t an unnatural state at all; for him, being alive was. Beyond had committed suicide, or, rather, attempted it. He wasn’t only trying to kill himself; he was trying to defeat L. He had been raised specifically to succeed L- no, he didn’t even have the privilege of saying that. He had been brought up in Wammy’s House, but he hadn’t been raised to succeed L.

He had been an experiment. B had been Backup; B had been in case A failed. When A did, eventually, fail (the overworked boy had killed himself), B was expected to step up to the plate. Except he wasn’t; he was told he was, but he never really was. B was designed to fail; designed to be a mistake. Well, B would show them all. For once, B would surpass L, and he would do so without killing himself. Although he couldn’t see his own death, he knew that it wasn’t two days ago. He felt confident that it wouldn’t be for a long while, and he felt certain that he could defeat L.

His goal. His objective. His only reason for living. L. He had only seen a single image of L- when the “First Generation” had first been introduced, they had been shown an image of L, and told how he acted, given a vague description of how he thought and who he was. They had been more mysterious with the “Second Generation”, and had left the third and fourth at a total loss as to how L acted or what he looked like. Barring the occasional conversation through a computer screen, of course.

He had carved the image into his chest. Which had been remarkably hard to do, considering he had only his fingernails and lacked a mirror, but he had managed. He had seen L’s name and life force, of course, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember. Beyond actually decided that he could remember it, but neglected to. B could not accept that he had made a mistake and forgotten, and so he substituted an alternate reality; he had merely blocked the memory.

This has all been rambling; back to the matter at hand. B had received a skin graft; he assumed Misora had described his face to them, and the surgeons had done their best. Well, “their best” was amazing- now, he was L, for all intents and purposes. And, as L, he would defeat L. B, assuming his guise of L, would destroy his “goal”. But, that is beside the point.

B slowly stood up, hunching over and grimacing at his bright orange jumpsuit. He knew that he wouldn’t survive for more than a few days in prison like this; he’d have to secure his image as a psychotic murderer. Or, perhaps, he could ally with a big shot. His cellmate- also relatively small and terrified of B- had quickly given him the lay of the land. There was a man known as “Big Brother”, who was widely respected as the strongest man in the prison. B had begun laughing uncontrollably at the man’s initials- and his cellmate had cringed and retreated to his side of the room. Beyond was, apparently, in a maximum security prison with a very corrupt system.

After all, a man such as himself should be kept in solitary confinement. Perhaps a padded, white room. Rather, he was here; in the mid-security section, with a cellmate. He would use this to his advantage, obviously.


The writing is fairly casual; since I did it from the third person, focusing on Beyond Birthday, I had some leniency with the way I wrote. Any thoughts? I hope you lot like Beyond Birthday. I love the guy. This is an Alternate Universe, obviously.

[Shalashaska]

B sauntered out of his cell- he had been napping, and it was still free time in the prison. This meant that all prisoners could consort in a massive common room.

That room was hell, and B would generally have avoided it; however, he needed to act quickly, so he would move today. He needed to secure his safety right away. So, he ambled down the hall and towards the common room. He quickly identified Big Brother- the name still gave him the giggles- by his distinctive tattoo: a large, black raven across his broad forehead. It reminded B of a game he had heard of once- never played, of course, he never did that, but he had heard of it.

B shoved through the men standing around his table and sat down across from him. The general uproar in the room silenced, and a great many eyes turned towards him. Not all of them, but most of them. Big Brother, to his credit, simply chuckled and raised an eyebrow. B decided to initiate the conversation.

“Hello. My name is… rather, I am called Beyond Birthday. I am here because I executed a string of serial killings in the Los Angeles area. I have a rather unusual talent that I would like to share with you, if you do not mind.”

“Heh. You have a talent, do you? Looks to me like I could smash you wid my li’tle finger. What is it, then?”

“Well, I would much rather show you. In precisely three minutes, that man there- name of Edward Roscoe- will die. I cannot explain how, and I cannot tell you why, but I know that he will.”

Big Brother’s eyes went wide. He seemed to believe B- for a moment. Then he chuckled again, and shook his head. “Look, I’ll watch, ‘cuz I ain’t got nuffink be’ter to do. But if he lives, I fink I may just beat you for lyin’. How’s that sound?”

“Yes,” B said, nodding. “That sounds perfectly reasonable. One minute, ten seconds. Watch closely.” B gestured towards Edward and grinned cruelly. He cracked his neck, leaving his head hanging to the right, and clasped his hands together. He wasn’t sitting in his normal position, but that was only to hide some of his quirks from the people nearby. He couldn’t reveal himself entirely- not yet, at least. He’d be killed, and quickly. Five, four, three, two, one- Eddie suddenly fell to his knees, his face screwed up into an expression of pain. He coughed, blood splattering onto the ground, and suddenly stopped moving. B assumed that he had suddenly hemorrhaged- perhaps he had had some form of underlying medical condition. B was curious, but didn’t care all too much.

As the guards rushed toward him, calling for EMTs and shoving away random inmates, B turned back to Big Brother and continued to grin. “Well? Are you convinced now, Big Brother? I believe that I have a useful talent- or, at least, an interesting one. How about it? May we form an alliance?”

Big Brother frowned at him and leaned forward, as though trying to look through B. “Well, I must admit, I find it int’resting that you predicted that… ‘ow’d yeh do it? Some kind o’ voodoo?” B nearly burst into a fit of cackles- voodoo? Like the Wara Ningyo dolls? He almost lost control, but kept himself in check.

“Hm… let us say that I have special eyes."




Another chunk of my BB story, I'm uploading it in random chunks to produce a cinematic effect. Hope you enjoy! :3

[Shalashaska]

Moi, je m'appelle Madamoiselle Noir.

Probably the only emotional song I've heard on YouTube. This isn't a scribbling, but I figured it counted as a literary work of yours truly because it showcased an interesting thing about me; Je parle francais beaucoup! (with an accent under the c that I don't know how to type!)

[Shalashaska]

"Now, as for my protection…” He trailed off.

“No one in this prison dares cross me. I’ll let ‘em know that you’re under my watch, and anyone what fucks wiv you is a dead man. As long as you keep me informed as to who’s going to die, we’ll make a great partnership.” B blinked, surprised that this man actually possessed the intellect to state his thoughts so clearly. His real name, by the way, was Ronaldo Baker, which B could point out at any time.

“I will keep to my end of the bargain as long as you keep to yours. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to sleep.” B stood up, stepped out from the space between the bench and the table, and slouched back to his cell. Once there, he began to plot his revenge.

Beyond Birthday was sitting on his cot, knees pulled up to his chest. He gnawed on what was left of his right thumbnail and thought. The first step was to get out of this prison; from there on, he could find a place to stay, and decide how to find L. He wasn’t sure whether he would kill him or not; while he supposed that killing L would prove, once and for all, that B was beyond L, it wouldn’t be quite as satisfying as- well, as what? Torture? Imprisonment?

B forced himself to push those thoughts out of his mind. The fun could only come later. For now, he had to escape, and to do that, he would need a plan- a brilliant plan, at that. If L was a master planner, B would have to be an extreme master planner- no, that didn’t make sense. Damn it all. Beyond’s mind was wandering; he’d have to get his hands on some sugar soon. He couldn’t focus without sugar.

He considered taking a stroll out into the common room, picking some food out from the buffet, and maybe finding some sugary substance (preferably jam), but decided against it. He had just caused a rather large stir; best to let the rumors spread unchecked. And so, BB skipped out on his first opportunity for a prison meal. By his watch, it was nineteen-hundred, which left him with two hours until curfew. He had awoken from a deep sleep at approximately oh-nine-hundred, stayed awake long enough to thoroughly interrogate and terrify his cellmate, and then slept until about eighteen-thirty. Now he was restless, hungry, and unable to focus very well.

Amazing. This was going well. Beyond sighed and rested his forehead against the cool prison wall, twisting his neck nearly 180-degrees to do so. He took a moment to consider his jam. He missed it. He knew that there were generally two kinds of prisons; those with “white market” meals, and those with “black market” meals. The former was supplied entirely by the staff; the inmates ate very well, and did so legally. The latter was provided by inmates; the men who worked in the kitchens managed to smuggle things out, and you paid in cigarettes, or (his spine tingled) with your body.

BB would much rather not pay with his body. Because he had no bank account, he couldn’t count on his funds to buy cigarettes, so a black market would make his life more difficult. Of course, if Big Brother liked him enough, he could get jam that way, but he would simply hope that it was provided. And strawberry. Grape jam would most definitely not do. It would reduce his deductive abilities, even, rather than raising them. Perhaps by as much as ten percent.