Everybody wanted Aston Martins these days; all drinking Martinis, shaken not stirred. But they were missing the point. Seduced by the flash and swagger of James Bond, seeing no further than the bravado and charm. Fleming's character had daring, that much was true. Plucky fellow and all that. But it was born of arrogance and the bankroll to fund it. The protagonist's sense that he was too elite to die; not through any true talent. Bond had just enough intelligence to follow his privileged past into an assumption of immortality. False trail. Shoddy thinking.

His imitators thought hedonism set Bond apart from all those other two-bit classy spies - that seemed everywhere from the pulp fiction piles to the silver screen in these days of escalating Cold War news. Ubiquitous in the background; sparking a backlash frenzy of unimaginative fashionable writers pandering to their half-asleep readership. No, the real thing that elevated Fleming's work wasn't Bond himself, but the gadgetry he carried on him.

And that wasn't Bond, James Bond, at all. That was the truly exciting position held by Q. The inventor(s). Bound by nothing but the outer reaches of his - or their - own imagination; boundless really in its lack of brevity. The creative force behind the flashy tapestry of the spy's rich world. Godlike in that way. So mysterious too, that single letter to denote a being controlling Fate from the background.

Q. Like Quillsh. His own first name. Thrilling to it the first time he read Casino Royale - 'see Q for any equipment you need' - twenty-two and suddenly knowing precisely what he wanted to do. Join the British Secret Service Q-Squad and invent things to save the world.

Only the reality wasn't like that at all. He was in. His family connections saw to that. But there was no Q-Squad in MI6 like the novels promised. Just order requisitions in triplicate; more paperwork than vision could withstand. No figure of Q as strode gloriously withdrawn into the shadows of the movie plots inspired by the books. Merely Quillsh Wammy labouring under the surrender of disappointment with petty bureaucrats (and worse, politicians) dictating his work-life with rigid demands. Tedious in their scope. No room for innovation. No Q. Not even a Bond. Just people who wished they were the latter and thought an Aston Martin purchase, celebrated with a Martini, could cut it for themselves.

The field guys called him Q and thought it funny. Wammy enjoyed the shivery honour of the title, at first; then realised the joke was on him and disdained them for it. People whom Wammy wouldn't trust with the key to the office petty change box given free rein with the treasury of Britain. Most of them raised to start wars, not intercept their onset and divert into harmless channels. Playing at national security as they'd arranged their tin soldiers in childhood. Like it was all a game.

It was the way they were raised. Q mused. Those with the wealth and connections to be here weren't those with the common touch to understand why they should change the world. Improve it. Make it safer. Most of them breed out of brain cells several generations back. Too lacking in much beyond what was and what should always be, in their opinion, immutable; and unfair.

In bitterness, Quillsh tried to tip the balance in his own small ways. Bypassing the limitations of that stack of requisition forms by letting his mind soar into the stratosphere of inventive bliss. Becoming the Creator. Q in actuality, not just name.

That earned him a final warning and quite a few dressings down for wasting public funds. So he did it in his own time. Wasting his hours on wandering through ideas, akin to Da Vinci in their scope, and enjoying them immensely. Then finding and patenting one, then more, that stood out as genuinely useful.

Of all the weird and wonderful, it was a tiny stop-lock that made him rich. In his own right wealthy beyond his uncle's wildest dreams. That sour old man for whom money and its acquisition had always taken the place of feeling or reaching further than himself. Who'd raised Wammy in name only as guardian; the reality being boarding school, held back for the holidays, as his uncle found it too distracting to have a child at home. Except for Christmas break, which was achingly boring and way too formal. Quillsh blocking out droning talk of the stock exchange and investment banking with mechanisms of the imagination, built silently as excitement, or diversion to replace the love lost with his long gone parents.

Uncle William was interested in his nephew now. Fascinated in fact, in his prospects and his bank-account. Lectures on the best stock in which to invest at the present time - naturally brokered through himself - didn't get more alluring with adulthood. Uncle William's interest being solely in the interest that could be due.

While Wammy's remained entirely with the Quartermaster.

The first orphanage founded was to thwart Uncle William, and to teach him something too. A little reaching out in assuage of his childhood; plus amusement. So many startled agents learning that power in riches didn't need to come with Martinis on a yacht; the Aston Martin waiting; an endless supply of fine foods and alcohol; the ladies dripping in all they could grab. Power came best in the adulation of young minds under his control, to cater for and educate according to Wammy's wealth and whim.

Such things confused them. Which suited Quillsh just fine. For he was an orphan and so was James Bond. A fact that seemed to miss them entirely. Maybe one day a young Bond might pass within his warden watch; and he could be Q.

Ten years was such a long time to be blinked into passing, while Matsuda was distracted by the close-up minutiae of life. Time enough for academic papers to be produced; published across a range of disciplines in peer-reviewed journals and books; the occasional thesis cropping up amidst an avalanche of dissertations; private reports for classified viewing (some only leaked, glimpsed upon Aizawa's desk, or divulged as a result of his quiet, semi-depressed venting with someone who was there; worse still, stumbled upon online due to a hackers' craft in cyber-theft and sharing). Dry facts delivered with seeming objectivity. The endless debates and analyses so complex as to render distant that whole Kira case. Polarizing conclusions losing something in translation from the academe into common sense.

Like emotion. Empathy. Reality.

It was as if Kira and all he embodied has been set behind glass. Immutable. Divorced from true experience. In the process of becoming severed from that through which Matsuda had lived. And Mogi. Aizawa. Casting them all surreptitiously adrift from involvement in that thing that changed, traumatized in subtle ways, still loomed large over everything, all society, the whole world.

Funny the things that got left in or lost; errors perpetuated into pseudo-fact, until reality shifted and tipped them off its plate. Those Who Were There. The steady drip-drip of Kira becoming a legend through credible channels. He'd long since been legendary among the digital, popular and/or vulgar culture moguls, and masses.  Bellwethers of fashion bringing him in and out of consideration according to their whim. Sometimes it was good to approve of his methods, that strange phantom God who came and went and never came back. Sometimes Kira was to be condemned, the papers said, and all their readers spurted rhetoric stating the same.

And Matsuda felt cold. And contemplated that scar raw ancient moral dilemma for the latest in uncountable time. Boring himself with the stab of angst and indecision before any conclusions ever seemed reached. Just his conscience rocking back and forth on the winds of wondering what was right. Honourable. What Soichiro would have done. Said. Ultimately sided with.

The officer shook off a poised lingering now. This moment was already too laden with potential pathos. Tedious the things that unsettled him so far down the road. More distractions. Distraction aplenty. That's what he needed. Him and the world.

And where was Near?

Matsuda's hand stilled en route to lifting his bottle of beer to his lips. The chill coming white-hot this time. That modern L was the aspect in all of this upon which terror or fury could dwell, not at all muted by time. Made worse by the waiting for his greatest fears in context of that strange Wammy to metamorphose into real life. But either Matsuda was wrong - which was great - or Near's silent psychopathy in secret possession of multiple shinigami notebooks, and all the unfathomable power they afforded him, hadn't yet surfaced in the public sphere. Maybe Near was too clever for them all - which was probable - and they would never know what he did with that divine gift in vault, nor how he managed the death gods loitering in his vicinity 24/7. How he kept them from boredom. Enough to explode an imagination and jolt a mind into terrible places.

The young man continued to engineer reasons for some kind of reunion, usually in Japan, often en situ, on the anniversaries of Light Yagami's death.  Matsuda had only managed to avoid three throughout the decade.

Near liked the Yellow Box Warehouse. He knew it. It was a good place for confrontations.  "Lucky?" Matsuda had asked him once, and Near had sneered. Pure evil, Matsuda thought, surveying the foreigner's features. But Mogi had chuckled at the description, shared later, and Aizawa had merely looked grimly on and said nothing. Well, they could belittle him. They'd earned the right. Near had not. Or had. And Matsuda wished he knew which.

He occasionally saw Sachiko Yagami. She was keeping well. Sayu with her. She was not. It used to sadden him for all that lost innocence and glee. You got used to the most messed up situations given time. That they'd had. Yet Soichiro would have wanted him to ensure they were alright. Keep his eye on them. Of course they were alright. Sachiko was steel beneath the mumsy face and apron. What would dare not be alright with her to face it down?

And he hated that she remained not knowing what happened to Light. That she'd never know what her boy became. Nor yet his true Fate. It wasn't her fault. Kira. Bloody Kira.

Had it really been ten years ago?  When the sudden cessation of Kira's regime caused a momentary global hush; as if the whole planet in chaos and ransom awaited with bated breath developments from its tyrant. Then exhaled as one and forgot about him. Overwhelming the void with pretty much a return to everything that had governed before. The Kira case reinterpreted; encased in ways more palatable to the new-old Powers That Be. Plastering over cracks each time the ripple effect marked the smoothness of their political surfaces.

Cementing it in studies too. Kira re-affixed as yesterday's fad; not so much out of vogue now as refashioned into old news - a failed endeavour; a detached legend; a tired topic eased off most fora. Slowly consigned by populists and professors into nothing much at all.

It was in hours like this that Matsuda felt himself falling. Not physically. But inwardly ajar. Survivors' guilt, somebody once said and he'd thought it must be, after a greater period considering it just guilt. Gullible; ineffectual; Matsuda knew he could have done more.

He did all he could. Heroic.

A message from Mogi beeped onto his device. Startling Matsuda into jerking, swept from his darkening reverie into reading it. "Watch that?" Mogi had asked.

Matsuda replied simply, "Yes."

No response to that forthcoming for a good fifteen minutes. Matsuda picked it up halfway to the pub. "Just ignore," Mogi's legend read. It seemed to sum up more. Matsuda didn't answer immediately, stomping bowed and way too serious through night dreary streets that turned suddenly into an onslaught of neon, as he entered the main strip close to his home.  

Bright lights that initially repulsed, then seduced and lifted his spirits tremendously.  He was hailing friends and laughing by the time he crossed the bar to get his drink. Only then he replied to Mogi, "Already have. So should you. Two for one cocktails on special and karaoke being set up. Coming?"

Mogi must have been secretly morose and musing, because his answer came so quick. Less than a minute. Perhaps a mere forty seconds. "Yeah ok. Get them in."

And just like that, Kira was gone; ghost and decades and all.

That last second stretched; a seeming eternity etched in disbelief, lined with indignation. The yawning, screaming chasm of death too easily cast aside. No disbelief so prosaic as all that. I could not die. I lived. Even as Ryuk wrote, my instinct yelped dismissal of the fact. I would survive. For no man with all his clanging faculties ringing - resentment; frustration; raging at their maddening presumption of my defeat - could die like this.
 
Finally the floodgates released on that dammed emotion; overwhelming in the enormity of its hurt.
 
No brain here to match my own. Nothing coming close. Not even Near with his lucky one-off battle win coming courtesy of his back-up, Mello - now dead, consigned to puppetry in pretence of his continued presence. The rest of them laughable. Mute, sheeplike faces staring sullen at my flooring. Coarse feeling showing as life in their expressions, sparked by whatever passed for thought amongst these people. They dared flashes of pity?! Wincing smiles under cringing gazes; standing stock still, stances wooden like scarecrows stuffed into suits. As if this was something distasteful to endure in bearing witness.

It is! It was a disaster for humankind and the world; a precipitant crisis of untold proportions. I was going to save them! I was going to lead them to a better place. A world of security, hope and happiness for all I deemed worthy to continue in my Utopia.
 
Idiots! Fools! Trash! Without the intelligence to see what I was to them; what I could have been!  I had to live amongst folk like this. My entire life crushed, drained and in despair of a decent conversation. None with a mind fast enough for interest; mine weaving waves of association, diversion, endless depths of academic inquiry around the shallow scratching of their deepest considerations. Pre-empting all they would say, as many moves ahead as the keenest chess champion. Bored out of my brain.
 
My parents proud of my achievements. My mother clucking over pieces of paper, like that which named me as the highest ranking student in all Japan. As if it was something good - a blessing and a boon. It was not. It merely confirmed that none of my nation's peers could hold their own in discussion nor debate with me. Too depressing to wonder if that extended to other age groups too. Whether another generation held someone able to speak with me without banality in my own language. And if not, to which country might I travel to engage in a decent conversation, a true meeting of minds worth traversing the globe to seek out?  Such accolades as the best ranked student weren't a blessing. They were a debilitating curse.
 
For an instant, a vision of L dances before my outcast inner gaze, and I scoff. Close, but no cigar. If he was the greatest thinker the whole world could offer, then I was truly sunk. I beat him. I won. Superseded the best into the gaping loneliness of nothing much to divert me. Alone with my intellect and the stupefying craving for companionship. To find someone fit to divert me; inspire, teach, conspire, keep pace with me.
 
Nothing. No-one. And those that stare down at me now do so with pity?! Or pique - that I understand and glory within - but pity?! No. Understand what you've lost; that you crucified your Messiah this day. Do that before attempting the higher philosophies in deigning to pity me. with your pathetic minds like peasants seeking to substitute finer feeling for thought. You lost me. You lost.
 
Ryuk snarling sentiments about the rejection of Heaven and Hell. No human pseudo-shinigami can pass into those hallowed Afterworlds; those who used the Death Note get only Mu. Nothingness. Emptiness. The unreality of never having existed at all.
 
Idiot. Chattering, slathering idiot.
 
I've already been there. A whole lifetime spent in training for the death. And I can conceive more in a second than you will through all eternity. You lost, and you are going to be so bored in the prison of immortality. I won.

It's only taken months (years...) but there have been some art updates over on the He Moves Me Differently website.  It's not that the art hasn't been there to update, just that Matti hasn't got round to coding the pages to make it so.

Walls Came Tumbling Down and Ghosting the Street now have fan artwork sections.  In the case of the former, that's just about the only thing it has in it!  In addition there's artwork for the smaller stories by MRS Jeevas too.

They include such gems as these:

There are more pieces of artwork inspired by the It Matters series to be added to the website.  Mostly it's a case of tracking them all down from where they've been languishing on-line awaiting this moment of industrious coding on Matti's part.  However, there's plenty more already up there, in He Moves Me Differently Artwork area, from many artists amassed over many years gone by.

There also promises to be much more to come in the future too.

AquaCola has returned to art after a period of enforced Real Life occurring. She appears to be getting back into the groove largely by sketching scenes from Matti's novels.  You can see her works in progress over various threads in the forum, alternatively find her on Tumblr.

Meanwhile, Chiroptera is on her fifth read-through of Matti's Mello and Matt fan-fiction novels.  The muse has most definitely taken her, with the three pictures above, another two artworks in progress AND a thread asking for requests from the rest of the readership.  You can catch up with Chiroptera (and glimpse even more works in progress) on her Tumblr account.

In fact, during the time it's taken me to write this, she's sketched another - fairly risque - image of Mello and Matt, which would certainly hold resonance in the Death Note Matti!Universe.  Hurrah!

So you think you've read (and probably own) every book about Death Note? Check out our store, you might be surprised.

We certainly have been.  During a whole weekend of hunting down errant manga and other literary Death Note works, there were tomes we'd never heard of, let alone read.

And coming from a gang of such Death Note obsessives, that's quite saying something.

For example, did you know about L: File Number 15?  A canon book of short Death Note cartoons created by Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata.  Half of our team did not.

Or what about Notes of Reasoning, the Chinese novel by Zao An Xia Tian? Which may or not not be a canon work taking the Death Note universe and adapting it to a Chinese setting.  Or it may be an elaborate and published piece of fan-fiction.  We don't know. None of us speak Chinese.

How about the hardback special editions of Death Note manga that exist out there in the English language?  Some of those even took us by surprise, missing our radar entirely.

As you may have surmised, this weekend has been a time of skipping interesting things and putting our nose to the grind of finding, collating, formatting and arranging  Death Note books everywhere, in various languages, across the board of genres.

All now beautifully arrayed in the Death Note News book shop.

It's worth nipping inside, if only to discover what you may have missing from your own library collection.  But also to purchase a volume or two to help with the costs of running this website.  Enjoy!  And if you buy, thank you.

In addition the anime/movie Death Note store has been tidied up, hence will be easier to open, load and navigate.  While the music merchandise has had one or two updates too.

Since then, the kittens have a travel case so lovely that they doze in it all day in the house and enter it willingly for any journeys out. They've also been to the vets and had their first immunisations, plus flea and worm treatment, and an appointment made for them to be micro-chipped.  Two thirds of that was paid for in Mello and Matt fan-fiction commissions (give or take the couple about EHC members).  Thank you all!

(And this is still on-going.  There's still the neutering/spraying to happen, and the boa constrictor needs a larger vivarium. *sobs*)

I've also been really touched by how many people, in donating to the cause and providing me with a remit for their tale, wanted it set in my own Mello/Matt universe.  I didn't expect that.  I'll be honest and say that it made things a lot easier in terms of speedily getting these stories written and out.  But I anticipated all kinds of AUs and/or alternatives from the canon.  Not so much Matti!Canon, coupled with (so far) unanimous permission from all commissioning tales, for those stories to be shared with everyone else.

Lots of happy tears here.  Reading compliments and requests, feeling so honoured to be entrusted with long-treasured plot bunnies and witnessing readers of my work wanting to add their own chapter in my voice to the MelloxMatt Matti!canon.  Absolutely thank you all. 

Shadow Riso EHC symbols, inspired by MRSJeevas One-Shot Laughter in the Darkness

These stories belong to those who bought them.  However, everyone so far asked that they be shared.  They are supposed to be drabbles (or one-shots), but since when was I able to be that succinct.  One is currently in the process of becoming a novella. 

As one-shots, they usually first appear in the relevant sub-forum at He Moves Me Differently:  Matti!Canon Mello/Matt One-Shots  Those with an account registered at the forum can subscribe at the top, in order to be notified of any post updates.

My stories eventually turn up in the library too.  That may be located on my MRSJeevas fan-fiction website, also called He Moves Me Differently.  It could be practically simultaneously.  It could be days later.  All depends on when I log into my ftp server and upload them there too.

However, I will link you directly here to the most recent additions, as posted onto the forum:

Ever wanted to see what MRSJeevas would do with your plot bunny? Or how she might write your pairing, if she could ever be persuaded to slip off the Mello/Matt 'ship? Well, here's your big moment!

For a limited time only, MRSJeevas will write to your specification in return for your contribution to her pet fund.

Call it a dollar a drabble; more for a story; riches for research; you'll need to take out a mortgage for a full-length novel. Send your donation and idea(s) for delivery of your very own Death Note fan-fiction. It's yours. Post it where you will, or keep it private, just for you. Stick your own name on it, if you wish. Your personal ghost-writer will never let on that you didn't write the poem, prose or whatever else resides inside.

And it's all for the good cause of needful kitten torture and the rehousing of a boa constrictor.

Tinkerbell is a teenage boa constrictor, currently going through a growth spurt and plagued by kittens.

She's precisely the same height as Matt from Death Note, according to How to Read, only Tinkerbell does it horizontally. (If we're insisting upon vertical, then she's about 2 inches, with a 5ft 5" waistline. At the same level as her head.)

She's also got much the same interests as Death Note's Matt. Here she is joining Anonymous.

Though perfectly fine just now, she'll need a new vivarium early in the new year. Just so she can stretch out and do snake-y things. Like parties. Or preparing for her part-time job as a boa worn during lounge-room renditions of Shirley Bassey songs. (It's been known to happen.) Or whatever else Tinkerbells do. Flutter to Neverland and stuff.

Or, as she's doing right now, curling up, blind and asleep under her basking lamp, while she sheds her skin in order to grow some more.

New vivariums to fit - as she heads upwards towards 6ft and over - cost between £200-£345, depending upon how fancifully it's fitted, and if it includes a fully stocked bar, high speed laptop, en suite bathroom etc. One mod con that we would love is a stand to get her off the floor, where it's cold and prone to kittens.

Talking of which.

Yow needs his balls cut off. Probably to a given value of 'need' and not one subscribed to any male, least of all Yow. But apparently its fashionable to do so to baby boy kittens before you let them play outside.

He also - along with his sister Jiji - needs to have all his inoculations, and be dewormed and deflea-ed (if such things are necessary), before Christmas. So he can come on a nice car ride to Matti's Mum and Dad's house, where turkey and being spoiled rotten will be a thing.

They also need a travel box/cage/thingie, so they don't run wild around Matti's car in a wild panic over moving so fast and far from home. Thus forestalling an horrific car-crash when they claw the driver to death.

In addition to the above vaccinations, travel kit etc, she needs to have her uterus ripped from her body. Coz babies. Brother. Coming of Age. Things like that. I don't know. I'm just told these things by Orangepunch and really should question them more.

Either way, all this costs money for the vet which we haven't got. So a dollar a Death Note drabble anyone? Contact me privately to find out how.

- All of the owners of these Death Note fan-fiction stories have given their permission for me to make them public. They've all been written by me over the past two days.

* Bubbles, Storm Blown
* Big Sleep at the Speakeasy
* An LA Fantasy Tagged Matty
* Laughter in the Darkness

Platinum End - the new manga by Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata, Death Note's creators - launched today with its first chapter simultaneously appearing in Japanese and English translations on opposite sides of the Pacific.

Readers in Japan may find it serialized in Jump Square magazine's December 2015 issue 12 (Nov. 4th 2015), while English readers can download a digital version from Viz Media's Weekly Shonen Jump website.

Naturally a copy of the first chapter of Platinum End has been grabbed here, so we can see what it's all about and how the Death Note fandom might possibly receive this latest manga by Ohba and Obata.

However, sensible of spoilers, all thoughts in review of the chapter will be hidden behind a read more mask.

Ever puzzled on how to pronounce a Death Note Wammy kid's name?  Worse still, there is no anime to fall back upon if you're stuck on how to say the name of an original character from the Wammy House.

A few individuals from the He Moves Me Differently forum (Mello/Matt fan-fiction community) met up in Skype last night.  That was the subject which soon emerged, particularly from Lua, who understands a dozen languages and therefore is quite keen on getting these things right.

The upshot was a video guide, which has just been uploaded onto YouTube to take the mystery out of pronouncing Wammy House names. At least as they appear in the It Matters series, though a fair scattering also turn up in Death Note, whence they were lifted in the first place.

Even if you don't know the stories wherein many of these characters derive, you may be able to correct the pronunciation of their names, particularly if you speak Congolese-French, Azerbaijan, Greek, Croatian and one or two more.

Ready for Halloween (or L's birthday, as we like to call it in these parts), Paper Kawaii has produced a free tutorial on how to create decorative Death Note origami.

The art of paper folding (ori = folding + gami = paper) seems quite fitting as a craft through which to master your homage to a Japanese manga.  Itself culturally being so thoroughly linked with Japan.

Paper Kawaii's origami Death Notes are miniature affairs. Perfect for stringing together ornamentally, scattering about the home or presenting as Halloween Death Note gifts to friends.  Not to mention making unique Trick or Treat tokens to hand out when folk come knocking at your door.

However, these origami Death Note decorations are functional too.  The pages do turn and names can be written inside. 

The larger of the two sizes demonstrated - in the Death Note origami tutorial - could be turned into a fandom photo album too. Preserve picture mementos for Halloween or whatever other time of year you choose to use it!

Embedded above is the origami Death Note tutorial, as created by Chrissy PK of Paper Kawaii. However, you may be as well to visit her own website - where not only will you find extended instructions for crafting Death Notebooks, but plenty of other origami tutorials too.

Like this adorable Pikachu origami 3D figure.

You can't believe how tempted I am to enquire whether she'd create an origami for Deontic. I know I'd give that a go! But how would I even explain what that might be?  Any ideas, those of you who know what I'm talking about?

Happy October!  For those of you here solely to keep up with the news about my fan fiction, there's a big bit of news for you to kick off the month.

The latest instalment in the It Matters series has just seen its epilogue posted on the He Moves Me Differently forum.

Ghosting the Street is the sequel to Walls Came Tumbling Down, though it takes place two years after that story finished. 

This time, the only walls truly crashing are those around Matt's psyche.

We finally get to discover the secrets he's been keeping all this time. And it might alter the way you view every novel which went before.

At the moment, the forum is the only place that you may read it. This is because the chapters are still very much in draft form. They have been posted still filled with typos, and very much missing Sarevya's expert touch.  If only to maintain continuity.

What happens now is me starting from the beginning, correcting glaring spelling mistakes, checking continuity, answering comments left upon each chapter, updating the website/timeline/wiki for each new element, then gathering the completed version together for publishing in all the usual places.

In short, this is your big moment to influence the content of the latest MRSJeevas Mello/Matt fan-fiction novel, merely by commenting on chapters before I've had chance to amend them.

Thanks to all who've provided such wonderful beta service thus far.

Apologies in advance for whatever is on these Annals of Fear audio files. I haven't actually listened back to them.  It's been four years, so I can't remember what was discussed in and between the readings.

Might be safe for granny; might be one long, sordid expletive fest.  What can I say?  Chaotic Neutral, according to all who know me.

Just to let you know that we are aware that He Moves Me Differently - MRS Jeevas and other Mello/Matt fan-fiction authors' site - is currently not loading. This is occurring our end, not yours.

Obviously I'm working on fixing it. But I also believe it's not an issue here either. It's further up the line with the hosts of my server.

Their website is also down.  I've Tweeted them for more info.  You'll get it as soon as I do.

Hopefully all will be back up and running soon, so we can gabble away as usual on the forum.

UPDATE:  And there it is fixed.  The company hosting my server reported a small issue affecting the DNS. It's now resolved and we're up and running again.

They thanked us for our patience.