Blood - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The blood on the floor once flowed in her newborn veins, of one so sacred that her mother would have died that same day to save her this fate. And so the lips that sang sweet carols at Christmas time, the hands that had had gentleness you couldn't help but trust, became greyish and cold. It was as if her dreams had bled out right there on the floor, everything she hoped to become, all that she loved, all the brilliance she would have brought to the world.
With the upward blow of her gloved fist my blood tastes sweet, leaking around my teeth and over freshly cold lips, escaping as if it never knew it was welcome to stay. It has a smell, an odour. The bleeding continues, stark red in the daylight. I wish it would stop; I need it to stop; perhaps this time will be the last.
All that was left of the blood that had once flowed thick and scarlet in her veins was clasped in his callused fingers. A dried patch of brown that had wicked into the hem of her old grey sweater the day she died. Sometimes he would be tending the animals only to almost tumble to the ground with the strength of the flashback. His Cathy lying on the tile in a pool of already congealing blood, the same smell as the slaughterhouse he took their swine to and her unseeing eyes wide with the fear of her final moments. He knew he should dispose of the old rag, stained and ruined as it was, but in the cruel moments when his life with her seemed like a fantasy and by extension their love not only gone but never having existed at all, he would dig it out of his breast pocket. She had been real and she was waiting for him when his time ended. Everyday he prayed to Jesus and asked him to tell her not to worry, that he would come, that his heart would still be hers alone.
The once scarlet blood that had oozed down the butcher's blade in thick droplets now spattered the peeling linoleum and had quickly blackened in the August heat. The blood that had flowed so freely from the severed neck now lay in pools around the corpse and soaked into his light cotton clothing like some garish halloween dummy. But this one was real. It smelled like an abattoir.
Her mangled lip and obviously broken nose were caked in dried blood, congealed and cracked. The now browning blood had drizzled down her face like so much rain down a window pane.
As the life fluid drained out of her in it's garish red, her skin took on the pallor of a corpse. Her stomach felt sick and then one by one she lost control of her limbs until finally her head slumped. She could still hear, but she could control none of her body. Then, like a ghost, she slipped into a coma with death not far away.
It flowed out of the limp body and splattered onto the floor. It seemed into every corner of the room and made the once beauty of the manor was ruined by the gore of the red, flowing blood.
The blood flowed like a lazy river. It flowed like so much red gravy across the slaughter house floor and down into the concrete gullies that interrupted the white tiled floor.
Warm blood gushes out of the exposed wounds. He pressed snugly against his opened wounds to stop the free flowing surge of sticky blood. There laid an expressionless male who rested on a pool of mild cerise substance, which stunned the living daylights out of each being who stood there.
As the flesh splits, mild crimson liquid pops from the barrier and seeps away from the wound. Thick beads crawling as brisk as it travels etching red streaks that crisp with advancing time until pellucid water cleanses it all away
Still, it drips silently.
Fast, it runs in streams.
Wet, it can soak things.
Dry, it can stain things.
With it, comes life.
Without it, comes death.
The girl pressed her palms against the mangled flesh, she once heard you were supposed to stop bleeding by putting pressure on wounds. But, oh, there was so much blood - dark crimson, with a discreet, metallic scent. It cascaded across the man's skin, right through the girl's finger tips.
Blood slid down her arm and soaked the cloth material of her uniform, but yet, even though pain fluctuated on her face, the defiant stance and angry crease through her forehead indicated she wasn't about to go down without a fight.
When I managed to get close enough to see her face I froze. Her eyes were more wild than a deer caught in a trap. There was nothing beautiful about her. Her feet were 3 inches off the ground, and blood trickled down her neck and into her jump suit. The only thing stopping her from plummeting face down on the ground was a spear. Around the hilt of the weapon the blood was dry and hard, but still the red liquid drizzled down the girl’s face like rain on a window.
To Michail blood was no more interesting than any other mess that needed cleaning. Everyday it coated his sterile gloves and sometimes a spurt would catch his disposable gown, but he neither noticed or cared for its smell. It was so ubiquitous and to him no more significant than the smell of the roses in the hospital gardens or the undertone of bleach that was ever-present. But as he sat amid the crumpled metal and broken glass cradling his young daughter, singing her a sweet Russian lullaby, "May there always be sunshine, May there always be blue skies..." The viscous red spread over the sun-bleached tarmac and his voice began to crack. He could tell from the way it flowed in pulsing waves that the bleed was arterial. In his hospital he could save her, pouring in litres of life-saving plasma while he worked to fix her, mend her, heal her. But out here on the rural highway all he could do was watch the spreading crimson and sing, make her last moments peaceful wrapped in his love.