*yawns*

[keire_ke]

I had another of my productive nights yesterday. Sure, I planned to go to sleep early, but before I knew it the muses jumped me and I ended up doodling the life out of at least three pages. >___< Given enough time I might actually finish some. o__O

There's...

• one 1x2 fanart, lineart done.
• one half-finished coloured pencil prize thingie.
• one picture for Asy.
• one sketch for Keara's commission.
• outline for yet another of my two-or-so-paged doujins.
• a heapload of random-and-rather-tiny sketches for various purposes, but mainly action ones.
• the ongoing original manga (*cough*outline of first page*cough* But I do have the script done, which is progress, considering my usual manner of work).
• and this, luckily finished:

Kinda big, but otherwise the lettering would be hard to read. I was playing around with this sketch, to see what can be done, mostly. That, and I always wanted to make a pic with that quote in it. Did I mention I think the man is a god, for thinking that up?

This might as well be a fandom drabble. Insert a manical murderer, and you're all set. *grins*

The sound that flowing blood makes, is silvery-white. I can hear the droplets sliding down the dull steel of the machetes I’m gripping, my eyes still closed. I can feel the rivulets slipping down, lower and lower, until the very tip of the blade – then, as unexpected as the sunrise, a drop tears from the metal and falls down, onto the ground, with a silvery chime.

The peal startles me. I blink and all of sudden the darkness around me starts to shift. I sense shapes emerging from the fuzziness, I feel sounds dancing on the edge of my perception, I hear the crimson – so much crimson – splattered all around. With a sudden intake of breath, I suddenly am aware of all of my senses. My fingers loosen on the coarse handles of both weapons, allowing the razor-sharp tips to droop and etch themselves into the ground, when I release them. The sound of their descend is surprisingly dull and empty, amidst the overwhelming grey sparkling of falling tears.

My hands are warm. I raise my arms high into the air, against the blue sky, taking in the rich red staining them. I watch, fascinated, as the hollow of my palm fills with liquid and overflows, floating down, over my forearms. Only then do I look around. My eyes slide through the red springtime meadow, moving ever so slowly, taking in every detail. Flowers are blooming here, I notice with joy. I walk to them slowly and kneel, reaching out to touch the pristine white petals. “Beautiful,” I breathe – white petals surrounding a golden heart. Pretty, pretty daisies, blooming in a field of red.

Comments

[ashenskies.livejournal.com]

just goes to show you really *are* a damn good artist. *beams*

yeah, I like the idea too. using it in your murderer thing brings out the fact that he's, well, not normal.

as for commenting, no problem - it's what I felt, upon reading it, so I just put it down. glad you didn't mind. ^_^

[keire-ke.livejournal.com]

*blushes* Thank you.

Not normal? Why, tearing people to pieces is a socially acceptable behaviour! *grin* No, really. I was wondering, since I cannot stand much blood in the movies, how would a person cope with causing this much bloodshed. *watches everyone inch away* Yes, I am a sick little kitten.

I am very grateful. *hugs*

[ashenskies.livejournal.com]

a mark of a good writer is how he/she tries to get into people's head and dissect their brains. *grins* so far you're on the right track! of course, you'll get funny looks once in a while, and find yourself washing your hands in the middle of the night trying to get the spots out...