Kallemort's image had a point, but yours really didn't, so he made up for his terrible art skills, whereas you didn't.
Also, elaborate on how that response would be ridiculous. To me that sounds like THIS WOULD BE A PERFECTLY VALID RESPONSE BUT I WILL TRY TO APPEAR TO HAVE PREEMPTIVELY COUNTER IT AND HOPE NOBODY CALLS ME ON IT.

oh ophanim, always good for a laugh.

i drew this in free period.

wellsaid

I drew Gyroman from Mega Man 5.

Can I post writings and ♥♥♥♥ here?

Writings? No.

Visual art. Only.

Then where the hell am I supposed to dump my shortshort stories while I'm banned from deviantART?

Art is relative, so I'd say go for it

Probably just as low quality as this entire thread.

Writing is art, I guess, so sure?

A Fate Worse than Death

It only took seconds. Three, to be exact. I remember them perfectly. Every nanosecond, in perfect detail. Such terrible detail. I remember the sounds. Oh, how I loathe the sounds. I remember the snapping sound of my bones, the bones of others, I broke six bones. I counted the snaps, though it could have been six breaks and any number of bones. I remember the incessant screaming, the screeching mettalic tear of twisted steel and car horns. Funny, the sound of a spine snapping, how all it takes to destroy a life is to tear a tiny bit of flesh. How that little scrap of skin is all that stands between life and death. I remember the smell. It smelled like gas, fire and blood. I remember the taste, blood and metal. I remember her sounds. I remember the sound of her screams, the sounds of her bones being crushed and snapped. I could hear the rest of my family. Their insufferable screaming, the unending screeching of my siblings. I could feel my life fading. I could feel my emotions crumbling I could tell my time was up. How sad, that I was brought back from the brink of death. How sad, how I've been sitting here since. Stripped of every shred of dignity I've ever had. Every shred of humanity I've ever needed. I sit alone, trapped in thought, my mind will not rest. It will not stop. Imprisoned in knowledge. I used to think that this was all I wanted, solitude and peace. Time to think, to be alone with my thoughts and mind. I did not want this. I do not want this. I do not need this. But I've no way out. I sit alone, in the hospital to which my care was charged. Isolated from everything I ever had. I've had decades to think, all alone. I've become a grand philosopher. I know why we're here. I know what we're destined for. How cruel, fate is. I know all the answers yet I cannot speak, I cannot move. I cannot scream.

_________________
Maria

For two weeks, Maria had been living off the six-pack of water bottles and box of granola bars she had salvaged from the crash. The crash that doomed her to eternally ride the rollercoasters that are the savage currents of the Pacific Ocean. It had been three days since she had last seen land. She was within three miles of a large tropical island, when a merciless current had torn her away from her chance at survival. She was without hope. An island of suffering in the constantly shifting waters of the relentless Pacific. Her only possession was her memories. Once in a while, she would raise her head from the seemingly endless waters, to the sky, living off the weak hope that there would be a plane, a helicopter, a boat, anything. Not once had she seen anything of the sort. Until today. A brilliant orange helicopter soared overhead. Maria could almost feel the heated cabin of the aircraft. She could almost hear the comforting words of the rescue workers, almost taste warm food, fresh water. She gazed in wonder at the great metal angel that hovered above her. She could see the pilot, her eyes met with his, their eyes stayed locked, even as he maneuvered the rescue 'copter in the direction opposite to her. Her hope dissolved in that instant. She knew he wasn't coming back. She slumped down into the raft, and gave up.

_________________
Utter Perfection

A single perfect mind - of all the universe, that's all there is, now - that mind, though, is all but perfect. A single flaw remains, and that is purpose. The lack there of, that is. In all of it's perfection, it is flawed. It is not a flaw of body, a flaw of mind. It is a flaw of the universe. It is without purpose. it's goal was to become perfect. Now that it has achieved that, it is flawed. How terrible, a paradox. It is a single mind, trapped in a cold steel shell. It is perfect, in every aspect. Every way. In every crevice, perfection. It's goddamned perfection. It is all too perfect. Because now, with a lack of meaning, it has no reason to live on. But it is perfect. It cannot die. It will not die. It cannot end. It will not end. Please make it end.

_________________
Bug

Seven days, now. He had sat upon his candlelit throne for a week. That is one hundred, sixty eight hours. Ten thousand, eighty minutes. Six hundred four thousand, eight hundred eighty three seconds, as of now. Numbers are nice. He likes numbers. They are regular, organized. Unlike people, unlike animals, unlike nature. It's all chaotic. He can't have that. He must be timed. Perfect. Like a clock. Everything about him must be organized. It must be perfect, effecient, flawless. He mustn't see error. That results in anger. He does not like anger. Anger makes things worse. Anger is a chaotic emotion. He dislikes chaotic emotion to a limitless degree. He always kept notes of everything that happened to him. Especially things involving numbers. He recorded numbers in the highest detail possible. He'd taken twenty seven steps, that day. Taken fourteen thousand, three hundred sixty breaths, since midnight, today. He's become paranoid. He has secrets, and they must stay hidden. He likes to sit in the dark. People can't see him in the dark, unless they had some kind of technology. He doesn't like technology. He had purged himself of it, last week. It's too easy for people to get your secrets when you're around technology. Even lightbulbs. He uses candles, now. He hasn't seen another human being in sixty seven hours. He is contented with this. He has only seen three living things: A spider. A widow. He killed it, without hesitation. A bird, he saw it through a tear in his curtains. And a mouse. The mouse was a curious incident. He heard scratching in the dark. It was the first time in three hours, thirty three minutes, and thirty nine seconds he had heard anything. (He likes silence, it is orderly.) When he concluded it would be in his saftey's best interest that he search for the source of the disturbances, he rose from his seat, and crept into the wall of shadow. The source was a small mouse. Large eyes, gray fur, long tail, timid in nature. It was scratching at the wooden floor. He stepped on it, in disgust. Mice were dirty creatures. Filthy, disgusting. He hated filth, and all bearers of it. He retreated to his throne, and relished in the silence. Only after three hours, twenty minutes, eleven seconds later did the thought cross his mind: What if the mouse had listening hardware on it? People could be spying on him. Knowing his secrets. He can't have that, he has too many secrets for that to be acceptable. He swiftly rose from his chair, marched boldly to the dead mouse, bent down and inspected it. It didn't look like it had any computing software in it. He did notice, though, that it had dragged itself two feet, three point four inches across the floor. There was a small trail of dried blood. It was not surprising. He had probably only mortally wounded it. He couldn't care. He had to be thorough. Spying was unacceptable. He didn't have the patience to get a knife. He had to be quick. They could discover secrets about him at any moment. He picked up the carcass, and tore it in two. He was mesmerized, how the light of the candle reflected off the droplets of blood, now sprayed all over him. He had to be clearned, soon. But only after he's assured that there is no spying going on. Spleen, heart, stomach, liver, intestine. No metal. Content with his findings, he hurried back to his kitchen and washed his hands. Vigorously. He had to be clean. Rodents are dirty. Their blood must be, too. He scrubbed his hands clean. Steel wool does wonders for cleanliness. He rubbed his hands with alchohol, just to be sure. With a smile, ever so slight, he returned to his grand throne, to gaze down upon his kingdom of order.



Critique encouraged. I'd like some harsh criticism. No paragraphs because that ♥♥♥♥ it up and/or I can't find a decent place to break it.

hey man, i resent that. its the majority, not the entirety of this thread that is low quality.

I'd want one of those if the rear wheel didn't look so ridiculous.

I made a birdiiiee, but it's not done, the colouring on the body apparently looks like vomit, I just haven't figured out how I'm going to colour it, so everything besides its head is basically a placeholder.