Well, I believe there will be some time before the lit portal will make its presence known within these walls, and I've felt that my stories in my userpage were quite cluttered and hard to keep track of. So, I've created an alt account in which I've put all these stories for the convenience of anyone wishing to read my fiction.
And here it is.
It's up to date with all my notable short stories and poems, so enjoy! ;)

Also, while I'm at it, I'll post the beginning to my story for this month's writing competition, the theme "Jungle Escape". My story is called "Dexter's Island" and revolves around a particular being "Dexter" and his realisations of his whereabouts and of his turbid past. Much drama, plot twists and violent/graphic horror scenes to come. If I get time, I'd love to edit/rewrite this, but if not, I'll just go with this. I've got a lot more to go, but here's the first 1.5k words. Opinions and criticisms are welcome.
Dexter's Island

The sweat trickled down his neck in beads, a surefire indicator of his fear. He inhaled deeply, the dust and asbestos invading his lungs as he waited, crouching in the shadows. Footsteps cascaded through the near-empty building, growing louder by the moment and his heart hammered violently against his ribs. They called out his name; "Dexter! Dexter!"

"Dexter!" The doctor was standing above me, trying to shake me awake. I was somewhat lethargic, as the effect of the drugs were taking their precious time to wear off. I tried to pull myself upright, but I was overwhelmed by a throbbing in my head, which sent a searing pain coursing down my spine the moment I attempted to move. I whimpered pathetically.
"Shh" the doctor pressed a refreshingly damp cloth to my forehead. "You've been through a bit of a rough patch, I'm afraid." The cool water drew the sweat and the heat from my head, and slithered down my face with a familiar, yet not unpleasant feeling. "I can't make your pains go away, however they will heal over time, you just need to rest and let gravity pull the negative energy from your body." He left the cloth draped over my head, and I listened to his footsteps carry him out of the room. Then I lifted my arms and peeled the cloth off of my face.

I could have fainted there and then. My head began to spin as I noticed the cloth was dripping with diluted blood. MY blood. I slid one hand under the pink cloth and ran my fingers over my head, navigating their way towards the source of the blood-flow. The dull throbbing persisted as I found no trace of cuts or scrapes on my brow. My fingers wander carefully, tenderly onward, afraid of what they might find; A deep gash? A bruised and swollen cut? A... bullet wound? I could have cried when I felt the warm red substance on my sensitive fingertips. I ran my fingers along the parameter of the the wound, to determine its severity. It was no cut, nor gash, nor bullet wound. It was something immensely worse. At first, I thought the skin from my head had been ripped clean off, but after following the circumference of the wretched wound I hesitantly laid a finger carefully in the centre of my head. No flesh, the flesh was gone. No bone, either, my finger came down onto soft, delicate grey matter. I threw the cloth to the floor and cried out in utter anguish and helpless rage.

I pulled myself to my feet, breathing heavily, anxiety and fear creeping through every fibre of my body. The bench that I had lain on was streaked with blood smears, at the head of the bench, there was a small pool that had overflown and was currently dripping to the floor. Adjacent to the bench was a small, yet unscrupulously cluttered work table, upon which various old and bloody tools lay. And my skull. And another peculiar looking object; a clear skull-like dome piece with intricate circuitry sunk into its immaculate mould. I cautiously brought a hand to hover over, what I had assumed was, the cranial device as I contemplated whether or not to pick up this foreign and potentially dangerous object. I touch.

Footsteps... footsteps growing louder, growing ever louder and clearer, he's coming back to do... things I possibly don't want to imagine. I slide my hand off the dome, leaving a smear of blood, it felt hard as bone, but I shudder to think what sort of experiments he may have planned for me. My hand grips tidily around the handle of one of the various sharp tools on the table. A vicious looking barbed disc, which rotated on its centre. I took a few steps towards the door, the footsteps still making their way confidently towards me. I was at the door, and I crouched in waiting, watching for the moment the handle begins to turn. I redoubled my grip on the disc and raised it above my head. The handle turned, the door opened a crack, and his hand ceased to exist in harmony with his arm.

The doctor cried out in agony and tumbled through the door. Adrenaline and hate coursed through my body and I brought my foot down on his face. He whimpered as I applied pressure on his head. He tried to nurse his stump of an arm, but he knew there was no point, his hand was still gripped tightly to the door handle behind him.
"Answers!" I yelled "Give me answers!"
"I am sorry," he struggled "but for me to provide you with answers, you need to first ask me the questions." A pathetic grin crept across his face.
"Don't give me this shit!" I spat "what have you done to my fucking skull?!" I tried to take deep breaths, I tried to keep my composure, but I was hovering dangerously close to boiling point, and in fact, I had little control over my temper.
"Ah yes, that." He still put in the effort to maintain his authority through intellectual advantage. "I performed that rather tricky piece of procedure in order to fix the little pickle you've gotten yourself into."
"What... what pickle? And what was so important that you needed to remove my skull and leave me to figure it all out for myself?" A bitter swelling was blossoming in my stomach. I eased my foot off the doctor, and allowed him to get up.
"It wasn't smart, what you did. You almost got yourself killed, not to mention the dozens upon dozens of people you actually succeeded in killing." He dusted himself off with his remaining hand and gave a narcissistic smirk.
"No, that was just a dream. I remember... things, in my head. I didn't kill anyone." Self-doubt crept into my mind, I couldn't believe such a morbid reality could exist within myself.
"You cut my fucking hand off, didn't you?!" He said, begrudgingly. "You're a murderer. You've killed before, and it's only a matter of time before you kill again. And I think it's safe for me to assume that I'll be your next victim."
"Jesus fucking Christ! You cut off my fucking skull, give me one good reason why I shouldn't do the same to you?!" I brandished my disc threateningly, to which he laughed and pulled his surgical cap from his head.
I paused and stared in astonishment, light bounced of the translucent dome fixed to his head, and underneath the dome, his brain, visible as clear as day and coursing with nervous energy.

"It's amplifying my brain waves, Dexter. It's improving my hand-eye co-ordination, it's enhancing my senses, it's increasing my short and long-term memory capacity, and you... you will be able to remember how you got here." His chuckle sent a chill cascading down my spine.
"Yeah, thanks but no thanks." I spoke with utter disdain for the doctor, and I did bring the disc down on his head, shattering the dome and embedding the razor sharp barbs deep into his brain. His last words burned deep in my mind, revolt spread through my body... I was going to be sick. I rushed out through the door, stepping on the crystal shards that littered the floor and flung the door open in the process (the doctor's hand was sent soaring across the room) and I stumbled myself along a narrow hallway with mirrored walls, before I was on all fours retching and heaving my stomach contents onto the floor.

"You know, it's probably not a good thing leaving your brain exposed like that. It could get infected." I wiped my lips of the putrid bile and looked up into my reflection.
"I'd rather that be than to wear that infernal contraption" Great, now I'm talking with the voices in my head. Fan-fucking-tastic.
"Well, if you weren't a murderer before, you sure as hell are now. What have you got to lose?"
I held my hands against the wall, in an attempt to steady myself. My head was spinning and I knew it wasn't going to get any better. I heaved the rest of my stomach contents up before me and proceeded to convulse and dry heave. My throat was burning and I could barely steady myself. I stared again at my reflection, in defeat.

I began the slow crawl back down the hall to the confines of the doctor's... laboratory? And to the table where the cap rested, waiting for me... begging me to come and wear it. And I answered its calls with a desperate salivating whimper, as I had been robbed of my energy, and without it I would surely die, my brain screaming for protection and my body yearning for death. I crawled back through the door, past the crumpled body of the man I had murdered out of frustration and anger. I smacked my lips at the sight of the dome, and basked in its glorious presence when I touched its surface for a second time. I grasped the dome like a greedy child grasps a lollipop and I stuffed it over my brain with a sigh of relief. Slumped on the floor, stained with blood and vomit, I drifted off into a restless slumber.