gore - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Where there had been smooth skin was torn muscle and blood, as raw as any carcass at the butchers. Halloween may bring more heinous looking wounds but this one was real with the smell the abattoir. The girl lay still, her skin so pale as to make oozing blood more red. Desiree stopped. Her palms sweating in the cold October air. This was her chance to do something right...
Shioban had never been good with gore, not even her own cuts and scrapes. Yet here was an untold number of people all with life threatening injuries. Every face was marked with red splatter and limbs lay at unnatural angles in the soft morning light. Triage with such numbers... better to save the ones with the best chance of survival first, the ones who could still fight the slowing of their own hearts.
The lips he had kissed just last night were torn and still, Evangeline's blood running dark on her skin. Where it was honeyed just yesterday, golden in the candlelight it was grey, ashen. Yet is wasn't the gore that tore him limb from limb, it was that her spark had died, extinguished without even a wisp of silvery smoke.
The gore of halloween is red like ketchup, forever brighter than cherry soda. The real thing changes hue from brilliant scarlet to brown, darker around the edges showing the yellow plasma in dried ripples. That's what I see through Xena's summer dress as she lies on the otherwise perfect grass, her face passive to the sky.
The bullet had entered through the eye socket. It was dark red, pooling with blood, already blackening. Some brain matter had exploded from the back of his skull and splattered on the otherwise white kitchen wall. The body had slumped to the floor like some ungainly life-sized doll. The remaining eye remained open, staring blankly at the detective.
It wasn't that the skin on the face was burnt, it had been burnt off entirely. From the scorch marks on the semi-cooked muscle beneath it seemed to have been done with a blow torch a little at a time.
In one slash from his sword his opponents abdomen opened up. His intestines spewed onto the floor in pinkish brown coils. As he looked down in disbelief the air took the aroma of a butcher shop.
The heart had been cleaved from the body. The arteries, now drained of their life fluid, stuck out like so many rubber hoses. The skin had been peeled back and pinned with iron nails, haphazardly banged in with a household hammer. The ribs cage had been cracked and pried open, the whiteness of the bone shone out in the sea of flesh. The face was now the greyish colour of a cadaver and the detective couldn't help but wonder how much of the procedure the victim had lived through. Certainly their were rope burns on the wrists and ankles. But the mouth wasn't gagged. Maybe the killer enjoyed the screams. If so, this wouldn't be the last victim.