Creative Writing: The Smell Of Blood

A single drop of deep crimson blood fell onto the pristine, alabaster sink in the home of Thomas Milburn. In his peripheral vision, he could see another one slithering down his cheek into the basin. His hands were shaking again, he had noticed the tremors only yesterday, and yet they were already worsening. He looked down at the silver razor in his hand, the white splotches of cream were now tinted with a red hue. “Damnit,” he said, under his breath.

Dear Mother, It’s has been indisputable here in the trenches, I’m in dire need of new socks. The doctors say they might have to amputate my foot if my trench foot gets any worse. Also if you could provide me with some next time you send me a package I would be beholden to you. In addition to the already gruesome situation, the rats have begun to eat the dead in no man’s land, and steal my bread when I’m not looking.

He develops superior senses, like the sense of precise vision. He describes the veins on the leaves of trees and the grey color of the eye that is taking aim at him. If he was truly trying to escape would he take the time to look around at trees and leaves? This is an example of the story being a fantasy in his mind. The final foreshadowing event is when he starts to lose the feeling in his legs and confusion sets in.

By obeying Robert and closing his eyes while drawing, the narrator enters another realm inside his mind and gains the ability to see past the outside and ponder inner beauty. In a way, his mind can be compared to the cathedral he is drawing; though plain on the outside, there may be incredible magnificence on the inside. Robert shows the narrator how to look past the plain outer shell of his mind and look within. The narrator states: “My eyes were still closed. I was in my house.

The power station was heavily guarded, three snorpians and nine servants were there at all times. Brock had so far failed to get close enough to it to determine how it worked, but from what he could see he doubted it had been built on Morpheus. The only thing he knew for certain, was that it was the sole source of power for the barrier and the stunners the snorpians carried. He had deduced that the power that it produced was limited, there were no lights or other powered equipment in the entire compound.

Blood. That’s all I see as the cold water runs down my back, rinsing out the blood in my hair. I look down at my hands and all I see is more blood. As I turned around to wash off the rest of the blood off, I looked at the light red water swirling around my feet turn to a dark red. The smell of blood was so over powering I could feel my heart thumping, the blood pumping through my veins; I needed more blood.

The whole place is filled with the stench of blood. The moon is personified as being compassionate enough to show the way in the night to the people who are searching for their near and dear ones. The whole world has become upside down. The living people experience an eternal sorrow, danger and death. Whereas the dead and the departed souls ‘are blessed with an instant death.’

that day he smelled like dead bird all afternoon, living sin, reds and purples staining the open bleeding nest as if unmixed, straight from the tube. Insert chipped blade of jack-knife here. Insert feel of the flesh— how he cuts even himself. Wound boy.

The narrator’s eyes are closed and he is being led by a blind man, yet he is able to see. Carver never explains what it is the narrator sees, but there is the sense that he has found a connection and is no longer detached or isolated. The narrator is faced with a stark realization and glimmer of hope. Hope for new views, new life and probably even new identity. Even the narrator’s wife is surprised by the fact that her husband and Robert really get along together.

~ I was running. Running for my life. They were gaining on me. I had to escape somehow. “AHHHHHHHHHHHHH”, I scream as I tripped over a root.

Blood was everywhere. Splattered across the alley walls, streaked down the dumpster, pooling on the ground. None of it was mine. It belonged to the dying man at my feet, an icicle lodged deep into his heart. ‘The icicle,’ I thought.

Los Angeles, 1957. The bone crypt that cages my veins feels of something rotten. It was as if during my sleep, my veins were lined with lead and the air weighed with a rare darkness that felt strangely familiar. I descend the staircase but halfway down, I stop.

It was a prayer interrupted only by the sound of inbound rotor blades beating the air and jet engines roaring into the valley. “Come on Two Six Romeo, get the hell out of here. Over to the L.Z.,” the Sarge called with a pleased grin on his face. With ordinances exploding all around, the ISIS fighters disappeared. Choppers on their heels blazed away with heavy automatic fire.

Then one day, across the barnyard flew a giant eagle. He swept lower and lower until the strange awkward little bird on the ground lifted his head and pointed his crooked beak into the sky to see what it was. The misfit creature then stretched his wings out and began to hobble across the yard. He flapped his wings harder and harder until the wind picked him up and carried him higher and higher. He began to soar through the clouds!

Late last night yet another incident has occurred at High Bridge. Joshua Mayhew was travelling late last night when he decided to take a shortcut across High Bridge Road by himself. Joshua states “I have no idea why I did. My family practically forbids me to drive over the bridge since it’s a death trap.” Before he was about to cross the bridge he said, he became distracted, and he believed he saw something in the river