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Offline Alice in Entropy

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Well, since the old thread was lost when the forum crashed, I'mma repost the stuff I had there. This thread is, of course, just for some of the creative stuff I work on -drawings, sprites, prose, or whatever else. Comments are appreciated, critique is allowed but not necessarily encouraged, but please, nothing mean or nasty. ^^;

First up, some examples of my artwork. I won't post descriptions; I think most of it speaks for itself.

Yamato and Mei-Ling
Avalanche Yeti V2
Black Hole RMs - Metal
Black Hole RMs - Bubble
Black Hole RMs - Gyro
Black Hole RMs - Gravity
Black Hole RMs - Pirate
Kitty "Harley" Harlequin
Mei-Ling
Mei-Ling (Colourless)
Tabby in a Bind
Amphitrite
Vanguarde
Mercury (Neo Armour)
Jack Dandy (Castlevania OC)

Enjoy. =3
« Last Edit: March 18, 2010, 02:43:22 AM by Lucky Star »



Offline CephiYumi

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Reply #1 on: November 12, 2008, 08:40:50 PM
nya your art is still cute~ ^^



Offline Acid

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Reply #2 on: November 12, 2008, 10:34:20 PM
I remember your stuff. Even though I just rushed through it.



Offline Asvel

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Reply #3 on: November 12, 2008, 10:51:04 PM
The way you draw eyes is very Katy Coope. :3


She loves the night and all that glitters
Her name in lights across the city
Don't you mess your life up Sunday girl

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Offline Alice in Entropy

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Reply #4 on: January 25, 2009, 11:08:24 PM
The way you draw eyes is very Katy Coope. :3
Aw, now isn't that just a nice little coincidence? I just found a book of hers I purchased a few years ago gathering dust in my basement. XD I'm hoping to use it to better my art, since I have trouble with some parts (eyes, bodies and hands, mainly).

Posted on: November 13, 2008, 20:03:13
Ha! Bet you didn't think this'd be returning. Well, it's back, since I finally decided to get off my ass and get some more stuff done.

Since I'm currently writing a story - which I hope to finish and perhaps get published - I'd like to post it here and get some feedback on it. Still no title. I won't spoil the plot, but here's the intro chapter to whet your appetite.

---

[spoiler]Eli was beginning to get very tired of sitting by his client on the bank and of having nothing to do: once or twice he peeped down the barrel of the revolver he was polishing, but it had no ammunition or rounds in it. "And what use is a gun," thought Eli, "Without ammunition or rounds?"

"I'm really not sure this is the best place to hide, Mr. Faust."

"Eli. Just call me Eli."

"Yes, of course, Mr. Fau-...Eli," the client corrected himself. He was a narrow man, hair grey and thinning, face coated in bristly stubble. His deep-set eyes were baggy and had a number of dark rings beneath them. The light-grey waistcoat he was wearing suggested he was a man of status, but the fact that he was hiring somebody like Eli struck that notion down. Of course, he may just have been a very unpopular fellow that people wanted dead. So long as he got paid, Eli didn't care much.

"So, what's wrong with here?" Eli asked, still cleaning his gun with a silken handkerchief that had the initials "EF" on them in gold.

"Well...are we not...hiding from them?"

"First," Eli said in his usual tone that was both smooth and yet sharp, flicking his gaze to meet the client's, "We ain't hiding. I call it 'tactical self-placement'. Second, who're 'them', anyway?"

"Who are they," corrected Mr. Client, sighing. "They are...well, it's not really any of your business, is it?"

"To the contrary, it's everything of my business," Eli parried, "Howzabout I just leave ya here an' let 'em toss ya into the river? Howzat sound?"

Mr. Client froze and made a mental note to not say anything more that might annoy his hired aid. "I'd prefer not to say who they are, if it's all the same to you..."

Eli shrugged. "Fair enough. I'm not one for small talk, anyhow."

There was a bang like a firework. Mr. Client immediately threw himself to the ground, nearly tumbling down the gently-sloping riverbank in the process. "Good God, they've come for me!"

Eli placed the handkerchief into his pocket and casually got to his feet. There was another firework-bang, prompting Eli to produce a small amount of ammunition from his other pocket and stick it into the gun's chamber. By now, they were starting to make themselves known: three men, all of a similar build and outlaw-style image, had come over the grassy mound behind Eli and Mr. Client. The central figure had a shotgun of sorts mounted onto his right arm (though, really, it was more of a double-barelled bazooka). Their rage reached frenzy point when they noticed Mr. Client cowering at the stream's bank.

"There's the bastard!" the central figure, who seemed to be the leader, ordered, "Get 'im!"

"Don't just stand there, do something!" Mr. Client yelled at his hired aid. Eli cocked an eyebrow and raised his pistol.

"You're the boss."

Three clean shots was all it took to take down the assailants. Their bodies, which now had one extra bullet in the chest, collapsed and rolled clumsily down the hill. The leader stopped at Eli's feet, and Eli just smirked and said, "Hi, Crowley."

Crowley snarled, clutching his heart area, which was now bleeding steadily. "You son-of-a-[sonic slicer], Eli!"

"Hey, don't be like that, my mom always liked you," Eli said, nonchalantly sticking the revolver into its holster on his belt. Mr. Client staggered over to Eli and looked at the bodies on the ground.

"Are they...dead?"

"Dunno. Armour wasn't too thick."

The client was shocked and disgusted, but mostly puzzled. "Is that all you have to say? You just killed three men!"

"Isn't that what ya wanted? S'either them or you."

The client didn't say anything. He just left Eli turn on his heel and begin to stroll off.

"I'll be takin' a nap under the trees. Just leave the fifty smackers in my pocket, 'kay?"[/spoiler]

[Cookies to anybody who tells me what the opening line parodies.]

---

Since I'd like to sharpen my writing skills and get into the habit of writing more, I'll also be taking story requests. So, if you'd like me to write something for you, about your characters or anything you'd like, I'll give it a go. Nothing over short story length, though. I will also be taking art requests.



Offline Dr. Wily II

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Reply #5 on: January 26, 2009, 04:56:35 PM
That was an interesting read...
Can't wait for more.

And shouldn't you change your thread name? 8D


I'm watching you all. Always watching.


Offline Alice in Entropy

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Reply #6 on: February 11, 2009, 04:11:20 PM
Once again, I break up my art drought with delicious works of...graphite. Graphite on paper. Mmmmmmm.

So, er, here's a few characters I came up with for a cartoon/comic series I probably won't pursue but like to work on anyway. Enjoy. =3

Mimi
Mimi's a catgirl maid who works in the same town that the other characters reside in. At 16 years of age, she's pretty naive, friendly and good-natured, though she's also the voice of reason and one of the more intelligent members of the cast. She's feisty when she gets angry, though, and the others have come to dread her mighty sweeping brush. She's also a bit of a parody of Japanese anime culture.

Lily the Devil Girl
I'm pretty sure this one might be the most popular of the bunch, knowing RPM. =P Lily and her associate, Mike the Angel Guy, appear as manifestations of one of the characters' desires. Lily represents kinkiness and bondage, and is often shown carrying a whip. She's a sultry, sexy succubus who can show anybody a good time~ Oh, and she's also a lesbian. Hence why she and Mike aren't all over eachother.

N.B. I have nothing against lesbians or people who like bondage and that sort of thing. Don't eat me.

Mike the Angel Guy
Mike the Angel Guy, like his associate Lily, is a manifestation one of the characters' desires. In this case, he represents the character's latent homosexuality. He's constantly optimistic and loves to party.

Cookies if you can tell me why he's named Mike.

N.B. Like I said above, I have nothing against gay people. M'kay?

Random doodles
And some random doodles of other characters. At the top-left is Vingo, a cynical chap who's always on the bottom of the heap and is full of get-rich-quick schemes. He's usually paired with his best friend/constant source of annoyance, Flipsy (not pictured; he looks like Vingo, but happier, and has an F on his shirt). Next to him is a picture of another character I haven't drawn yet, a pumpkin-headed attourney. He doesn't usually look that gleeful. That's another doodle of his face below, looking rather more miffed. At the bottom-left is Vingo again, this time in a Dio Brando-style pose. To the right of him is a "character" named Harry the Happy Toast. And beside the toast is Heinrich Hasanose, an evil aristocrat with a huge nose and BoBoBo-style nasal hair.



Offline Dr. Wily II

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Cute characters you have done Groovy.
And yummy graphite on paper is yummy... :P


I'm watching you all. Always watching.


Offline Sniper X

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That's some cute drawings and characters! ^^ :cookie:



Offline borockman

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Heinrich Hasanose is instant fave from me!

The other drawings are also cute. :3


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All of your stuff is awesome.

Can't wait for more.



Offline Alice in Entropy

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The next part of the story is done. Enjoy.

N.B. Please, don't get offended by the character in the following chapter. He is Irish and he likes to drink and fight, but he is not intended to insult people from Ireland; I'm Irish myself, after all. I'm just putting this here so nobody will berate me and say I'm trying to be prejudiced, because I'm not. Don't get offended.

Okay, that aside...enoy.

---

[spoiler]The village was a quaint little one, the kind of town you might see on a postcard. The dry roads of cobbled stone, abundance of mature oak trees and streets of humble stone-and-wood buildings (complete with chimney and signs hanging above the doorway) lent it a certain homely feel. Eli would probably have felt the urge to sit down and drink some home-made apple cider, had he not a job to do. He could get to the cider-drinking afterwards.

Eli glanced up at the sign hanging from the building he was standing by. Written on it, in bold black letters, was: BLACK ROSE BAR.

"This's the place, alright," he mused, and pushed the door open.

The inside of the pub was a cacophony of noise, shouting, cheering and jeering, belching, even the sound of the odd fist smashing the odd nose. Drinks were being served heartily by the bartender, a rotund man with a scruffy beard and suspender trousers, and the patrons gratiously accepted them. Off-key tunes were being chanted enthusiastically, and when somebody got their face hammered in by another fellow's beefy knuckle, the two would quickly laugh and share a pint of stout.

Eli had been to bars before, but none like this one: the ones he was accustomed to were the kind of smoky joints where the bartender was slender, cocktails were served, and nobody said anything for fear of getting a blade held against their ribs. This place was different. There was a sense of cameraderie here, almost a familial relationship. Eli could tell that if somebody outside of this unique clique was to have a go at one of "the lads", one of "the other lads" would be all over him like a pack of angry dogs. Unfortunately, his job said that he had to take one of them down, and that was what he aimed to do.

"What'll it be, stranger?" the fat publican asked as Eli took his seat at the bartable. It was clear from his gaze that the barman didn't trust Eli; that was something Eli had picked up from experience. But he could also tell that the barman wasn't the kind of person who would start a brawl for no good reason.

"Just gimme a Manhattan," Eli stated, avoiding the barman's glance.

"Stout it is." The barman turned to the fellow next to Eli, and Eli's gaze discreetly followed him.

The figure next to him was...well, he was hefty. He was wearing a slightly tattered suit of a muddy-grey colour, pinstripe trousers, hiking boots stained by muck and grass, and a rumpled old fedora on his head that had a shamrock in the band. The hat was pulled well down over his face, obscuring his features. Not that it mattered much, because Eli was too busy studying the man's broad shoulders and tree-trunk arms.

"What'll it be?" the barman asked.

"Pint o' Guinness," the man asked, his voice hollow and coarse. There was something not quite right about the voice, perhaps something inhuman, and it sent a slight chill down even Eli's spine.

While the barman went to fetch the drinks, Eli was idly examining the coaster on the bartable, which had a lovely black rose printed on it, and hoping the big lad would fall for his ploy.

"And who're you, then?" the big lad asked, leaning a tad towards Eli. He had fallen for the old 'feign-no-interest' ruse. Now all Eli had to do was answer him, but be vague enough to keep the big guy asking questions. If you're gonna invite trouble, Eli reasoned, best do it at your own pace.

"Eli Faust," Eli answered. He waited for the big guy to register this and say something.

"An' what's a runt like you doin' in a big boy's pub?"

How charming.

"I'm lookin' for a fella, goes by the name of...Black Murphy. You know 'em?"

There followed a chilling, deathly silence, as though all sense of life had been drained from the room. When at last the ominous feeling came to pass, Eli felt a hand on his shoulder. His head turned cautiously to face the fellow next to him - what Eli didn't expect was the fist that slammed right into his face, knocking him off his seat and causing his cheek to bleed something awful. To an outsider, the fact that nobody noticed would have been strange. The barman returned, leaving both drinks down, not even taking a glance at Eli on the floor.

"Cheeky little bastard," the burly man spat, getting to his feet and taking a gulp of Guinness. He was terrifying to behold, easily six feet and built with the stature of a brick shed. What was most unusual, though, was his face: it was that of a tough-jawed skull, a fiery red pupil burning in the left eye socket (the right was covered by an eyepatch). "I be Black Murphy!"

"Y'don't say," Eli muttered, wiping the blood from his cheek.

"You're in The Game, then, aren'tcha?" Black Murphy queried, staring down at Eli like the latter was but a stray dog.

"And if I am?" Eli asked, ignoring how it was bad manners to answer a question with a question. His response came in the form of thick bones serving for fingers wrapping around his throat, pulling him up off the sticky floor and dropping him back on his feet.

"Then I jam me fist in yer throat, stick it down yer gullet and rip yer pansy-arse spleen out," Murphy grinned, delighting in the thought of mauling his opponent. Despite being notably brusied, Eli was quick to get back on his feet.

Gun ain't gonna do me much good, he thought to himself. He stood still, waiting until Murphy threw his fist out again - and blocked it with his own hand.

"Huh?" Murphy grunted, unsure of how Eli just did that. His opponent lashed out, cracking the Irishman one in the jaw. Murphy howled and clutched his chin, glaring daggers at Eli. "Oh, that tears it. I'm gonna kill ya!"

"Come get some," Eli coaxed, adopting a combat stance.

Murphy threw a punch, but Eli simply blocked it and, mimicking his previous move, cracked Murphy in the chest. Murphy went for a right-hook, which Eli ducked under. He took a roll to the left and leapt to his feet. Murphy swung his great fist around, bashing Eli to the floor. Eli flipped upwards and kicked Murphy in the face. Murphy snatched at Eli's legs and threw him at the bartable. Bottles fell and crashed. Eli rolled, gripping the edge of the table to he wouldn't fall off. He wiped his mouth and pulled his gun out. With a pull of the trigger, Murphy found a bullet in his shoulder.

"[parasitic bomb]!" Murphy cursed, holding his shoulder; he was undead, so there was no blood. It still hurt like hell. "You cheating git!"

"Sorry, I didn't think we had rules," Eli said dryly. He pulled the trigger again, but Murphy caught on this time - he raised his hand, and let the bullet bounce off one of his knuckledusters. The bullet ricocheted and shot a bar patron in the backside, causing him to leap off his chair. Eli loaded more ammo into his revolver. "I'll pay for that, buddy."

Murphy took advantage of Eli's distraction. He grabbed an empty bottle from a table, lunged at Eli and smashed the bottle over his head. Eli grunted and his finger slipped; the resulting bullet went straight into Murphy's eye cavity.

The blood-curdling howl nearly deafened the bar. Murphy was now holding his "good eye", staggering around like a man possessed, haphazardly sweeping glasses from tables.

"How did that hurt?" asked Eli, hopping off of the bartable, "You don't even have an eye!"

Murphy snarled and grabbed an empty chair. Eli grit his teeth as the chair was cracked over him, shattering into sharrp splinters and jagged pieces of broken wood. The enraged Irishman showed no mercy, continuing to batter his foe with what was left of the chair. Trying his hardest to stay concious, Eli squeezed the trigger on his gun five times. Three shots went astray, but the other two of them managed to shoot Murphy in the foot. He relinquished control of the chair immediately.

Eli pulled the trigger once more, but it just clicked. Damn.

Trying to ignore the severe pain in his chest and shoulders, he held his arms out and struck his wounded opponent with an open palm. Murphy's head was thrown back in a manner that should have snapped his neck. All was still while Murphy, head bent backwards, stared at the ceiling. He seemed to be unable to fight.

That wasn't the case for him. He simply grasped the sides of his jaw - with a sickening, crunching crack, he fixed his head's position. The onlooking patrons groaned, and even Eli frowned. This guy was clearly inhuman.

"Thanks, I needed that," grinned Murphy.

Eli frowned. "What the hell are you?"

"Bloody pissed." Murphy rolled his neck around and cracked his knuckles. "Y'know how I got this eyepatch? Me scar?"

Eli lowered his guard slightly. "I'm listening."

"I was in the Irish Civil War, lad. I was fightin' to free Ireland from the British. An' those Orange bastards...they shot me for it. In the eye! I was killed 'cos I loved me country! That was all over a hundr'd years ago. I'm older 'n your grandpappy, lad."

"So, what's with the...bones?"

"Oh, some bunch o' cultist ponces rose me from the grave. Bastards said I couldn't rest 'cos I was "filled with hatred" an' all that...like I couldn't tell 'em that."

"And?"

"I killed 'em. Snapped their backs, necks, whatever. After that, I came out here, and before I knew it, I was in The Game."

"And that's where I come in," Eli finished, satisfied with the story. He watched Murphy turn around and head for the door. "Where're you goin'?"

"Come with me, lad. Got somethin' I wanna show ya."

Eli hesitated, but decided to follow his enemy. The bar was wrecked, and it didn't seem like anybody cared. The bartender sighed, wondering whether it was good for business to let Murphy keep coming in.[/spoiler]



Offline Dr. Wily II

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Woa, I really liked how you write out the fighting, very detailed.
And this Game, I'm interested...


I'm watching you all. Always watching.


Offline Alice in Entropy

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More story. Optional background music provided. Enjoy.

---

[spoiler]"This is her," Murphy said, gesturing to the grey slab of stone that served as a grave. Delicate white flowers were laid on the soil, but they were withering and old, as though they had been laying there for years.

Eli was at a loss for words; he was never good around dead people. After all, the ones he usually dealt with tended to be carried away in body-bags. Often he was the one who shot them.

"This is your wife, huh?"

"Yup. Eileen O'Connel, the love o' me life. She passed away before I was arrested, so it's been a while."

Eli felt uneasy, but decided to sate his curiosity anyway. "Why are the flowers so nasty-lookin'?"

Murphy explained through action, plucking a fresh rose from the bush beside them and holding it in front of Eli: within seconds, the once-lovely flower began to decay and lose colour, until it was black and withered.

"I bring death with me, lad," Murphy explained, "Whenever I touch a flower, it dies. I can't handle animals without hurtin' 'em. An' everybody that tries to beat me, well...you know."

Eli nodded. They both dealt in the same business. And yet, here they were, two professional killers, engaging in civilised conversation. Something didn't add up.

"Why aren't you tryin' to kill me?"

Murphy glanced at Eli. "Eh?"

"We're enemies, ain't we? I shot you in the eye, and you nearly broke every damn bone in my body. Ten minutes ago, we were tryin' our best to make sure the other guy didn't walk out in one piece; now, we're talkin' about your dead wife. What gives?"

Murphy paused, and Eli braced himself for a sock to the nose. Instead, Murphy just sighed harshly.

"Back in the bar, you almost got me. If I wasn't an undead bastard, you'd've broken me neck just like that. That made me realise somethin'. I've been in this fightin' an' beatin' crap for years, an' I used to love it. But now...nah. If that's I'm s'posed to do fer the rest o' me life...er, undeath, I'd kill meself. Wait, that doesn't make sense...point is, I'm sick o' singin' these drunken lullabies. I had a...bugger, whatcha call it?"

"An epiphany?"

"Yeah, one o' them. My epi-whatever made me think that you're not like those other gits that come bargin' in, lookin' to empty me boots an' get himself in The Game. Nah, there's somethin' about you that's different."

"Like what?"

"Well, you don't take [parasitic bomb] from no-one," Murphy said, half-chuckling. "Aye. Yer a right oul' prick, but yer the damn finest oul' prick I've ever laid me hollow peepers on."

Eli, for once, was unsure of himself. Was that even a compliment?

"Now, lad. Havin' said that, there's somethin' I want ya to do fer me," said Murphy, grasping his grubby jacket and tearing it wide open. Eli stared at his armourous chest and mentally thanked his lucky stars he didn't accidentally punch that. Murphy looked down at his foe-turned-friend. "I want ya to kill me."

Eli was taken aback, which in his style meant the sides of his frown widened. "Say that again?"

"Kill me, lad. Get me to kick the bucket, push up the daisies, meet me maker, go six feet under...I can go on all day, lad."

"That's crazy," Eli snarled, hand held idly onto his gun, "From what I gathered, you can't be killed. Or did me bustin' your neck make you lose your pot o' faerie gold?"

Murphy ignored Eli's cultural stab and got down on one knee. He uttered a quick "Our Father" - being a strict Catholic - and gently scooped up a handful of soil from his wife's grave. He then raised his fist and threw the dirt into the air, letting it sprinkle down onto him.

"Me one weakness, lad," Murphy explained, little specks of dry mud on his sinister face. "The only thing that'll weaken me enough to let meself get killed: soil from the grave of someone who's pure at heart. Ain't no-one purer 'n me lovin' wife."

"Sounds like an old wive's tale," Eli muttered, pulling out his revolver, "You Irish love your folklore, don'tcha?"

"Aye." Murphy stood tall and proud, head held high, skeletal chest bared for all to see. "Finish the job fer me, lad. Let me go home to me wife. She'll be waitin' fer me."

"You sure you're goin' up there?" Eli asked, almost joking.

"I can hope, lad."

Eli aimed his gun at Murphy's chest and looked at the dirt scattered around him. Knowing it to be Murphy's will, Eli pulled the trigger...

Black Murphy's good eye dilated once the bullet struck; but he was happy. He placed his hand on his heart and smiled, a warm smile that broke past the skeletal grin he was forced to wear.

"Thanks, lad. Thanks..."

Patrick Murphy fell to the ground, laying on his wife's grave, and died happy. Whether to insult him or respect him, Eli knelt into a genuflecting position and performed the sign of the cross on himself.

One down, he thought, A lot more to go.[/spoiler]

---




Offline Dr. Wily II

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Wow...
Epiphany sure works in strange ways...
At least Murphy went happy, and could finally see his wife... *salutes*


I'm watching you all. Always watching.


Offline Alice in Entropy

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Oh, hey, guess what? Yeah, that's right. Art. Breaking an almost five month hiatus on drawing. You lucky people.

Doodles

More Doodles

36
System of a Down - "36".

Lafawna
She belongs to a friend of mine. This was a gift.

Stardust
Another gift for the same friend.

Demon Girl

Aeon
The baddie from my Enigmaverse series. Looks a little like Dio Brando.

Yuki Yurei
An Enigmaverse character - the cute ghostly maid.

Skullivan
An Enigmaverse character - the pompous skeleton.

Dr. von Psycho
An Enigmaverse character - the crazy doctor.

That's it. Not much, but there you go.



Offline Dr. Wily II

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OHMYGOD YOU ARE ALIVE!

It sure has been a while, and great to see these pics here. :3


I'm watching you all. Always watching.


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OHMYGOD YOU ARE ALIVE!
I was just as surprised.



Offline Alice in Entropy

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I was looking through some of my stuff when I came across some poetry I wrote. And now you all get to read it. Lucky you.

The Heron In The Tree

[spoiler]There's a tree in my back garden,
It's just atop the hill,
And whenever I'm feeling curious,
Then visit it I will.

Inside this tree, you see,
There lives a heron wise.
He has a crooked golden beak,
And shiny silver eyes.

This heron's not afraid to tell me things
That others would forbid,
I've come to him to seek advice
Ever since I was a kid.

So one day I pine for knowledge,
And I trudge up my back yard.
The heron is there, but he's quite sad,
He'd lost his Dixons card.

"Oh my," said I,
How terrifyingly foul."
"Indeed," said he,
"It was taken by the owl!"

"The owl?" I asked, amazed,
"But he's such a lovely chap!"
"Oh don't buy that, you fool,
He's completely full of crap!

The bastard stole my card,
And the price for it he'll pay:
Ten thousand euroes, cash,
Now what have you to say?"

Long and hard I pondered this,
I thought of Mr. Owl...
Perhaps it was in fact Mr. Duck,
The greedy waterfowl?

"If to pay me back he fails,"
The bitter heron said,
"Then by all that's good and fair,
You will pay me back instead!"

At this comment I was shocked,
And quite rightly, too.
What would you have done
If a bird said that to you?

"Right, you prick," I snapped,
And grabbed him by the neck,
"I'll just have to cook your goose,
You sorry little wreck!"

In the tree in my back garden,
The heron spoke to me.
Until I took him out and roast his arse,
And had him for my tea. [/spoiler]

Gangsta Seal

[spoiler]My little town's a lovely place,
And everyone's so kind,
They're the nicest folks in all the land,
I think that you will find.

All except for Gangsta Seal,
He's not too nice at all,
He swears and spits and always makes
Prank long-distance calls.

His list of offences is long,
And quite offensive, too,
But nontheless I'll read the list,
In case he tries to get you too.

He threw an orange at a lady
Who had shopping bags to carry,
Then legally changed her name to Frank,
And her husband's name to Larry.

He made love to a fire hydrant,
Just to have a joke,
He dropped a cigarette in someone's pint,
And said he didn't smoke.

He once made fun of a Cockney man,
Which I think is terribly rude,
He ran through town once on a dare,
Whilst he was completely nude.

He stole a fellow's well-trimmed hat,
The filthy little creep,
Then drew a [ray splasher] on an old man's face,
While the old man was asleep.

He stuck gum under someone's chair,
He kicked a fluffy cat,
He then fell down a narrow hole...
And that's the end of that. [/spoiler]

Seven Deadly Sins

[spoiler]Let the Greedy covet their wares
And heed their possessions,
Their gilded souls, tainted by riches
Shall turn to rust;

Let the Gluttonous have their feast
Upon the table of avarice,
Whereupon they shall consume
And become bloated by sin;

Let the Lustful crave their pleasure
Desiring the love of the flesh,
They shall give into temptation
Their purity will fade;

Let the Slothful rest in silence
Where they speak not the word of truth,
Watch as they mourn for their spirits
Decaying over wasted time;

Let the Envious breed their spite
Upon others more endowed,
Wicked slander dancing on the tongue
Of those never truly satisfied;

Let the Wrathful feel their fury
Defiling that which is precious,
For their hands, stained by blood
Will pierce their own heart;

Let the Prideful wallow in vanity
Immersed in the tainted waters,
Drowning beneath the cackling mirror
That spoke of false glory;

Let the Sinful indulge in vice
Straying from the path of virtue,
Corrupt souls writhing in misfortune
Never knowing what it is to be loved.[/spoiler]



Offline Dr. Wily II

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Yea, lucky me~

Ahem, those are really nice pieces of poetry there.
The heron got cooked, the seal fell to his demise, the 7 sins...
I see a trend here.


I'm watching you all. Always watching.


Offline Alice in Entropy

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I see a trend here.
It means I'm a latent sociopath, doesn't it?



Offline Dr. Wily II

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Nah, I put it as plain coincidence. >0<


I'm watching you all. Always watching.


Offline Alice in Entropy

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Reply #22 on: July 09, 2009, 12:34:32 AM
Oh, hey, more writing.

The Rose

[spoiler]I was walking through a field one day,
When I came across a rose.
A rose? I thought. It was very out of place
Amongst the rest of the flowers:
Dandelions, daisies, buttercups and snowdrops,
But there were others, too.
So I knelt down and looked at the rose.
How red it was! Like the crimson tears
Of a scorned lover, cascading around in a swirl,
A ruby spiral, much like a delicious cranberry whirlpool,
Or perhaps a splendid scarlet gown
Draped over this, the queen of flowers!
This voratious vexation of vermillion vanity!
Enthralled, I leaned forward to partake in its elegant fragrance.
And then I stamped on it because I hate flowers.[/spoiler]

Love

[spoiler]Do you love me? She asked.
Of course I love you, I replied,
You mean everything to me.
I love your soft, round face,
Like a gallery of the finest art:
It displays your splendid cobalt eyes,
Like two pools of sparkling sapphire,
If you will excuse the cliche;
Oh, your mouth, how your lips part
When you smile, and I know
All is well, for it brings joy to my day!
Your hair - has it been caressed
By good King Midas himself?
For even the most wondrous gold
Could not compare to your brilliant locks.
I love all the little things about you,
My dear,
Even the things you don't:
Like how you sleep slightly on your side,
Or how you can't sleep with the lamp on;
The way you stretch your arms when you yawn,
Or how you flick your hair when you're amused.
You are the last thing I think of before drifting to sleep,
And the first I think of when I awake.
Why, even now, sitting beside you,
Listening to a sharp comedian deliver his witty lines,
I take solace in the fact that you are at my side.
So, in a word, yes, I do love you.
And I will always love you.
Oh, good, she said,
Because I crashed your car.[/spoiler]

Writing a Poem

I'm supposed to write a poem,
But I don't know what about.
So I'm going to go watch TV instead.

A Short Poem

Do you ever wonder why people write short poems?
Frankly, it makes me sick.

A Day in the Life of Skullivan

[spoiler]"Curses! Curses, I say! A thousand curses, and then another one for good measure!"

These were the words exclaimed by Sir Edward O. Skullivan as he vehemently stormed down the hallway of his pristine mansion. The corridor ran on for about a hundred and fifty feet, with ornate marble tiles - checkered black and white and polished until they shone, no less - and a veritable gallery of portraits along the walls, all depicted Skullivan himself in a variety of exaggerated poses. The simple reason for his anger was the recurring fact that, no matter how much effort he put into making his schemes fool-proof, idiot-proof and yes, even imbecile-proof, something invariably went wrong that sent his entire elaborate plot collapsing around his feet. To be perfectly honest, there was no real reason for his general villainy: he had simply been raised to believe that people of his social status were above everyone else. In truth, he had twisted this notion to suit his own selfish desires, but that was a fact he was quite willing to overlook.

"Don't be too hard on yourself, sir," said a ghostly butler with a neatly-trimmed moustache and skull for a head, who was trailing closely behind, "I'm sure that you'll triumph some time."

In the blink of an eye, Skullivan had whirled around and was glaring the sharpest of daggers at his butler. "You've said that every week for the past six months, Bubbles!"

The butler timidly interjected, "My name isn't Bubbles, sir..."

"I don't care!" cried Skullivan, on the verge of snapping his own head off in frustration, "I'm in charge of this mansion, and I'll bloody well call you whatever the bloody hell I bloody well feel like! Do you bloody well understand?"

"Yes, I bloody well...I mean, yes, sir."

"Good." Skullivan turned back on his heel and continued his irate march down the hallway, all the while cursing under his breath. "I tell you, Bubbles, it isn't easy being a villain around here. Especially with all that blasted competition."

"Competition, sir?"

"You know! What about Davy Jones, my "beloved" archrival? And that blonde buffoon...the one that throws the knives? Oh, and let's not forget Lord Blackmore." He forced out the name, speaking as if it was a dirty word. "That wretched bastard thinks he's better than all of us!"

"Well, he does have the most successful record out of all of us..."

"Shut up! I don't give two hoots if he's from the chaos realm or whatever the hell it is, he's still just a Chaotic Evil wannabe!"

The butler was going to say something, but thought better of it and decided to change the subject. "I don't really understand why being a villain is so important to you, sir. It's not like you don't have an obscene amount of wealth and a position at the peak of the social hierarchy."

"It's not the villain status that bothers me, Bubbles. It's the manner in which my schemes constantly crumble! No matter how well planned they are, it seems, those twice-damned goody-two-shoes goodies find some way to overcome it!"

Upon reaching a door two-thirds of the way down the hall, Skullivan proceeded to bitterly shove it open and enter. This room was his private study, an old-timey spectacle of a room, complete with wooden walls, a fancy rug on the floor, shelves of intellectual books and tomes and his personal desk, upon which sat all forms of knick-knacks: from pens to paper to assorted miscellanea that had no discernable place elsewhere. Skullivan sauntered over to his desk, kicked the chair out from under it and seated himself on it. He leaned forward on the table, steepling his long, narrow fingers contemplatively.

The butler, who had followed him in, spoke up. "Perhaps, sir, it is not their clever tricks that allow them to defeat you. Perhaps, somewhere in your mind, you hold a secret respect for those good fellows. Perhaps you subconciously want them to win, and so you unknowingly leave a chink in your armour for them to exploit."

Skullivan gave his butler a filthy look that suggested what he had said was the verbal equivalent of spitting on his master's shoes. "And why in the hell would I let them defeat me, Bubbles?"

"Well, perhaps you secretly know that, if they were to fall prey to one of your elaborate schemes to rid yourselves of them, you would have nothing left to do. With them out of the scene, global conquest would be a piece of the proverbial cake for you. Perhaps, somehow, you are aware that they give you a purpose in life, a goal to achieve, and so you always give them a sporting chance. Isn't that what your father taught you?"

Skullivan's look went from filthy to murderous. "That's the most ridiculous pile of tripe I've heard in years! I pay you to serve me, Bubbles, not give me an unrequested psychoanalasys!"

"But you don't pay me."

"Details, details," Skullivan dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. "Now bugger off and fetch me my tea!"

The ghostly butler recoiled and nodded feverishly. "Y-yes, sir," he stuttered, and floated off to get the tea. With an idle murmur, Skullivan spun his chair around and fell to staring intently at his book-shelves.

"Some day, I will succeed," he said to himself. He plucked a small model globe from his desk and held it tightly in his bony fingers. "And then, everything will be mine!"

His wicked cackle rang all throughout the entire mansion.[/spoiler]

The Cutting Genius

[spoiler]Dr. Ivan Salvadore was once the top surgeon in St. Alban's Hospital. His surgical skills, charismatic charm, handsome looks and whimsical intellect made him the proverbial toast of the town: admired by women, respected by men, and confident enough to impress those higher than him. When he was in the operating theatre, everyone followed his command. He was strong enough to give orders to others, but gentle enough that they wouldn't feel forced. The theatre was the kingdom, and he was the king.

As he stepped out of the operating theatre, having successfullly performed a kidney transplant on a patient, he was immediately approached by throngs of his friends and co-workers. They were the ones who had given him the title of "The Cutting Genius", a moniker Salvadore held with great pride.

"Morning, Dr. Salvadore," an intern said as he passed, even though Salvadore had never spoken to him prior; his reputation was widespread throughout the hospital, and to not know him was to be an ignorant buffoon.

"Good morning," Salvadore replied in a manner most friendly. One of his close friends, a one Dr. McMannis, came over and gave his buddy a pat on the back.

"Hey, Ivan! How goes it in Surgeonland?"

"Hello to you too, Bill," smiled the surgeon, "Things are going fine, thanks for asking." He spoke in an exotic Eastern European accent, with a deep voice that was brusque yet warm, mysterious yet inviting.

"Cool, cool." McMannis was quiet for a moment as the two doctors strolled down the halls of St. Alban's. "Hey, you heard Tony's birthday's coming up in a few days?"

"Oh, really?" said Salvadore, deciding to humour his friend, though he had no intention of going.

"Yeah, this Wednesday. He's turning 28. He's inviting a bunch of the guys from work over to the bar for a party. It's gonna be wicked!"

Salvadore nodded. "I can bet it will be."

"So," Bill continued, moving slightly closer to Ivan's shoulders, "You thinking of coming?"

"I'm afraid I can't," replied Salvadore, perhaps a little too quickly. He quickly resumed his normal pace of speech and said, "It's just that my wife is going to a wine-tasting seminar with her friends that night, and I need to be at home to look after little Ivana."

"Oh, yeah, I forgot you have a daughter. So how old is she now?"

"She will be 6 in three months," Salvadore stated proudly, "To think it's been that long since she entered this world...it brings a tear to the eye."

"Mmm, I bet it does," murmured Bill, slightly dismissively. "So I'll just tell Tony you're not able to come?"

"If you would please," said Salvadore, "I would appreciate it."

"No problem, Ivan. Consider him told."

As Bill turned into a patient's room, he gave Ivan a high-five and wink. Salvadore just sighed and walked on.

"I think I'd go insane without people like him."

---

"Natasha, dear, I'm home!"

Ivan Salvadore stepped into the hall of his quaint surburban home, hung up his coat, loosened his belt and undid his top button. His wife, a Slovenian midwife by profession and loving mother-of-one, came to her husband and embraced him.

"How was work, Ivan?"

"I performed a kidney transplant earlier. Nothing difficult at all."

Salvadore looked down the hall and smiled when he saw his little daughter running towards him, beaming.

"Daddy! Daddy! You're home!" She threw her arms around her father, who chuckled and picked her up.

"My, Ivana, you're getting so big! Soon enough, you'll have to lift me up!"

Ivana giggled as her father let her back down. "I wanna be a doctor just like you, Daddy! I'll make people feel all better, just like you do!"

'Daddy' chuckled again and ruffled Ivana's hair. "And what a fine doctot you'll make someday! Now run along, your Mommy and I want to talk."

The little girl nodded and quickly scuttled off to watch television. Natasha glanced at her husband with a look somewhere between curiosity and suspicion. "Would Mommy and Daddy like to talk? About what?"

"Oh, nothing serious," Ivan assured his wife, leaning against the coatrack, "It's just that, Bill asked me if I'd like to come with him to Tony Guilder's birthday party this Wednesday."

Natasha cocked an eyebrow, her arms folded. "What did you tell him?"

"I said I couldn't. You have that, er, wine-tasting seminar, right?"

Mrs. Salvadore shook her head. "I'm afraid not. Sally and Judie had to cancel. Something came up."

To the trained eye, which Mrs. Salvadore indeed possessed, it could be observed that Salvadore's eyes lit up a little. "Oh! So...you will be able to look after Ivana, then?"

Natasha blinked. "Of course, dear. But...I know that crowd you hang out with all too well. They'll probably end up getting drunk, and you'll either join them, or have to drive them home. You'll be up all night, and lord knows what assignment might crop up the next morning."

"I can assure you, I will remain as sober as a statue," Ivan declared, as though his honour had been wounded, "And I'll come home early. Let someone else be designated driver for once."

His wife stared at him hesitantly, then at last sighed and shook her head slightly. "Alright, I suppose I don't mind." Her gaze took a sharper, sterner look. "But I'll take your word as a promise. Please, don't disappoint me."

Salvadore nodded. "I promise." His wife smiled, and the two shared a hug.

---

Tony Guilder's party, held at Finnigan's Bar & Grill, was a resounding success. Most of the male hospital staff had turned up, it seemed, and many had abandoned their worry regarding work and decided to live it up a little. In fact, it was Salvadore alone who kept his alcohol intake to the bare minimum; this was to the chagrin of his friends and co-workers, the man of the night in particular.

"C'mon, Salvie," Tony chirped joviously, struggling to keep his speech interpretable, "Lighten up! It's a party, after all."

"I assure you, I'm fine," 'Salvie' protested, taking a sip of his Manhattan cocktail.

"Suit yourself," Tony replied with a shrug, and downed the rest of his beer. The crowd cheered and another round was immediately ordered. Salvadore sighed and idly stirred his drink.

He glanced around at the other party-goers. They seemed to be having a grand old time...perhaps one beer? Yes, that would be fine. Surely one beer would do him no harm. And so he ordered a glass of premium Dutch lager, at a volume high enough to ensure the others heard. A few of them cheered in jest, taking Salvadore's order as a message saying: "I'm having a good time."

Salvadore shrugged and took a swig of his drink. With a smile, he raised his glass. The others followed suit, and they all clinked and took a drink.

And for Salvadore, something remarkable happened: he finally felt like he fit in. He was so often praised and admired at work that he almost forgot how to socialise, like he was on a pedestal far elevated above his co-workers. It felt good to be like this, to just be "one of the guys". It felt right.

Ivan Salvadore went home that night sober, as he had promised his wife. And yet, there was a certain tinge of melancholy to him: he knew that, tomorrow morning, he would go back to being "The Cutting Genius" again, and the night would just be a memory.

---

As it happened, the night before was something less than a memory. Salvadore awoke, dazed and confused, with little to no recollection of the party. He wearily gazed at his alarm clock. 6:30 AM. He had plenty of time to get to work. But as he got up and put on his work clothes, the question that lurked in the recesses of his mind was simply, "What did I do last night?" He remembered going to Tony Guilder's birthday party and ordering a drink. He was sober when he returned, he knew that much. But for whatever reason, he didn't feel great this morning. Maybe he was just what his colleagues might term a "lightweight"?

He entered St. Alban's Hospital, feeling slightly unwell, but nothing severe. The first thing he saw was Bill McMannis and a number of other medical staff rushing down the hallway, pushing a stretcher.

"There he is," McMannis called, detaching from the group pushing the stretcher and running over to Salvadore. "Ivan, get over here! This girl needs your help!"

This was one of the few moments McMannis called him by his first name. Perhaps there was a serious problem with this patient?

"I'm on it," Salvadore declared, hurriedly following McMannis and the other doctors into the operating theatre. There, the doctors threw the sheet off the stretcher and helped the patient onto the operating table: it was a little girl, no older than five. Her breath came in short, harsh wheezes, and she struggled to keep her eyes open.

"She has a severe lung infection," McMannis explained, "It's eating away at her lung, hampering her breathing. If we don't get that organ out and transplanted right away, she could asphyxiate." He looked at Salvadore, his face stern as stone. "Can you handle it?"

Salvadore hesitated, but nodded. "I'll do what I can, Bill." As he gathered his tools and donned his surgical mask, the other doctors stepped back, allowing he and his fellow surgeons to examine the little girl. She took a painful breath and looked up at Salvadore.

"Am I gonna be okay, Mister Doctor?"

Salvadore managed a small smile, brushing the girl's hair gently. "You'll be fine, my dear. Just fine."

"Doctor, we need to start the operation," another surgeon stated. Salvadore nodded. The surgeon placed the mask over the girl's mouth and administered the anaesthetic. The girl smiled weakly at Salvadore.

"Thank you," she wheezed, giving a little wave. Salvadore waved back, and she fell asleep. He took a deep breath and looked at the scalpel between his fingers. Once he had mustered up his courage, he started the operation to remove the infected lung.

As the operation dragged on, time seemed to slow to a crawl. Seconds seemed like minutes; minutes seemed like hours. Salvadore began to lose his nerve. Sweat dripped down his brow, his scalpel-holding hand shaking visibly. He didn't feel well; perhaps it was the alcohol kicking in. Whatever it was, he seemed to be losing his confidence. His usual deadpan determination was fading, to be replaced with the uneasy sluggishness of a young intern.

"Doctor," one of the surgeons said, "We need you to make the incision!"

Salvadore nodded. This was a delicate incision; one false twitch, and it could sever the child's windpipe. Unfortunately, that's just what happened: for Salvadore had made an uneasy jerk of his wrist, and the child's air supply was immediately cut off.

Beep. Beep. Beeeeeeeeep...

Her heartbeat flatlined. She was dead. Salvadore stood deathly still for a moment, then looked at the scalpel in his hand. He pulled his surgical mask down. In front of all the other doctors, he broke down and began to weep on the operating table. The Cutting Genius had made the fatal cut. McMannis hesitantly took a step towards him.

"Ivan?"

And Salvadore sobbed, "She looked like my daughter..."

---

Dr. Salvadore was unconsolable. He had to break the news to the parents that their precious little daughter had died on the operating table.

"You did what you could," the mother said, choking back tears. But it wasn't good enough. He had failed to help the little girl, and now she was dead. It was all his fault, or so he kept telling himself. Even his closest friend, Bill McMannis, couldn't make him feel any better.

"It's my fault," he kept saying, "Her life was in my hands, and I let her down! I'm not fit to call myself a doctor..."

"Ivan, we all make mistakes," McMannis assured him, "It's just part of being a doctor."

"She was only five years old, Bill! Just like...just like my little girl...if you were a father, Bill, maybe you'd understand."

And Ivan Salvadore left the building, never to be seen again. The Cutting Genius was gone.

---

After that incident, and despite constant reassurance that it happened to the best of them, Ivan Salvadore was overcome with crushing despair and sank into a deep depression. He refused to come to work, didn't eat, shave or sleep; he just sat on the couch all day, attempting to drown his sorrows with alcohol. He had gone from being a handsome, well-toned gentleman to a scrawny, dishevelled vagabond, his eyes bloodshot and sullen, his firm physique reduced to an emaciated mess. He couldn't muster the energy to move. The guilt was too much for him to bear. Once or twice, he had contemplated suicide, but he couldn't even bring himself to do it. There was the scalpel on the table beside him, but he ignored it. Instead, he decided to waste himself away, until he was nothing but a crushed heap that was once a man.

His wife had left him. She took his daughter with her. "A bad influence," she called him. "You're overreacting. You've gone insane, Ivan." Insane. That word kept pounding away in the dark corners of his shattered psyche, refusing to leave.

Insane.

Insane.

You've gone insane, Ivan.

He took a look at the picture on the table next to the couch. It showed himself, in his glory days, with his beloved wife and daughter. They had gone. His little daughter wouldn't see her daddy. Mommy took her away.

"Ivana," Salvadore wept, thinking of his precious little girl. She was named after him. He just wanted to hold her in his arms...but he couldn't. His wife would never think of coming back to him. He was barely human anymore. Cold, bitter tears trickling down his narrow face, he hung his head over, letting his greasy hair hang loosely; it used to be tidy and well-kept, but now it was dishevelled and unkempt. Just as he had become. All because of one little accident on the operating table.

But then he stopped weeping. He raised his head and glanced about. Was he hearing voices? There was definitely something there; something saying his name. "Ivan Salvadore..."

He swallowed a gulp and nervously spoke up. "Wh-who's there? How do you know my name?" He was surprised to see there was another person next to him: a tall, thin man, dressed entirely in black, with a wide-brimmed hat hiding his face. He sat smugly at the other side of the couch, head tipped forward.

"Hello, Ivan. Nice to see you."

Salvadore tried to speak, but no words came out. But for some reason, he wasn't afraid. He felt strangely comfortable around this mysterious man. He managed to whisper, "Who are you?"

"Who am I?" The man in the hat tipped the brim of his headwear down slightly. "Let's just say I'm a friend. I'm here to help you, Ivan."

"Help me?" Salvadore closed his sunken eyes, bending his parched lips into a frown. "I am beyond help. Please, leave me here so I may rot..."

The doctor slowly opened his eyes again, and saw the phantom figure raise the brim of his hat upwards: he revealed to him his face, a hideous, ivory-white mask that was somewhere between a skull and a demon's face. Pupils dilated in fear, Salvadore edged back and grabbed the scalpel next to him.

"Oh, put your little toy away," the phantom said in his hollow, devilish voice, "And listen to me. Your wife and daughter have left you, and your friends will think you're just a sick waste of a human being in this state. You know what you should do?"

The doctor lowered his scalpel and stared in awe at the phantom. "What should I do?"

Though he was wearing a mask, one could tell the phantom was smiling. "Kill them."

"Kill them?" Salvadore repeated in a hushed breath. Ordinarily, he would have deplored the idea of taking someone's life - but in his weary, addled state of mind, the thought of murder didn't seem like such a bad thing. "Kill them..."

"Exactly. Kill the ones who made you suffer."

"Made me suffer," he whispered. Who had made him suffer? It was the patients. If not for that little girl, he would never have lost his confidence. He had devoted his life to helping them. But why? What did they ever do for him? Nothing. They deserved to feel his pain. They were already ill - he would just be doing them a favour. He would kill the patients.

With his goal carved firmly into his debilitated mind, he painfully raised himself from the couch and lurched his way into the bathroom. He took a look at himself in the mirror, and was ashamed at what he saw. He looked at the scalpel in his hand. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he shakily managed to pull his mouth into a deranged, sinister grin. He looked at himself in the mirror again, raised the blade, and swiped it across his face. He fought back the urge to scream; the pain was now his friend. The thin blade had left a long gash across his face, though it wasn't deep enough for their to be any blood. Raising the scalpel again, he continued to etch the gruesome pattern into his tormented face, until he was scarcely recognisable anymore. But even so, that would not do. He would need a proper disguise.

When Salvadore returned to his living room, the phantom man was gone. The man who had saved him from the depths of sorrow and personal oblivion; the man to whom he owed his very life. But he could be thanked later. There was business to attend to.

---

St. Alban's Hospital had to be closed down for good. A number of patients had been found dead, and their families sued for malpractice. None of the doctors had even treated them; but they all shared similar wounds, like that of a blade. It was a mystery.

"One of the surgeons must have gone mad and stabbed 'em," Bill McMannis said to Tony Guilder. Tony nodded in agreement.

"It's sad when someone just loses it like that. They call it 'going postal', I think," he said. "It's a pity ol' Salvadore isn't around anymore. Whatever happened to him?"

"Beats me," Bill said with a shrug, "I heard he went nuts and jumped off a bridge. They never found his body."

"Wow. Some folks, eh? It's a pity. He was a cool guy."

"You said it. C'mon, Tony, I'll buy you a drink."

Nobody ever knew what really happened. Nobody would have suspected that the one responsible for the murders was Ivan Salvadore himself: now wearing a crudely-stitched sack over his face, and kitchen knife in his hand, he had become a new person. Killing became his passion. He was no longer Ivan Salvadore, the renowned surgeon; he was Dr. Scarface, the St. Alban's Killer.

And they say that you should never go to St. Alban's Hospital. For they say, amongst its abandoned hallways, Dr. Scarface still lurks, waiting for his next victim...[/spoiler]



Offline Dr. Wily II

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Reply #23 on: July 09, 2009, 07:32:33 AM
Hehe, nice to see your 2 stories at the bottom there.
As for the poems, lawl at Rose and Love endings, you seem to always be able to turn a happy main, into an unhappy ending. >0<

Also, huge LAWL at Writing and Short. XD


I'm watching you all. Always watching.


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Reply #24 on: July 09, 2009, 08:23:47 AM
Woah. I'm impressed.