murder - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Their bodies lay like ghoulish mannequins, the esophagus and arteries sticking out like so much corrugated and rubber tubing. It looked as if a special effects team had worked over time for some Friday the thirteenth movie set, but that smell... That smell could only come from recently slaughtered animals. In this case the animals were human and their corpses were still warm, the blood thickening but not yet dried on their waxy skin. Some cases took a while to decide if foul play was involved, but this was murder all the way.
The knife pierced the tattoo of his baby's name, and went right on through to bleed the heart that beat for his lover. It sliced the chest that had witnessed a million kisses and wrapped its protection around his son in their everlasting hugs. Yet none of that mattered to the knife or the killer, and his blood was as red as any other.
Once upon the shade in totality, I found it to be inclined to warmth now more than its outer coldness. Surprised but, nonetheless appreciative. The beating had reached its crescendo now. The viscous blood that must have been thickly wrapping itself around the many capillaries beneath me, providing the strange warmth. Perhaps mine own blood escaping my grazed knees may intermingle with it.
Even the passage of the light slowed and the sounds became as if underwater. Aside from the beat of my heart, no muscle would move. That pounding inside beat a rhythm to the words of her execution, the cold steel Anya's judge and jury. The bullet entered as if she was nothing, just meat, blood bones, blasting a cavity in her back as it burst crimson into the fading day. Her face, so beautiful in life was frozen, eyes open, mouth slack, as she was propelled backward. Her eyes held mine and in those fractions of seconds she was there and then gone, the warmth of the ages that had been her love simply vanished.
...the real Sam Green was at the bottom of the Hudson River with a knife in his back and a twenty pound block of concrete attached to his foot.
Her red-blond hair was stained and discolored when they found her in the sewer, and her lungs were choked with muck because her killer hadn't bothered to see whether she was really dead when he dumped her body into the manhole, so she had breathed the stuff in with her last gasping breaths. Her face was bruised, covered with great blotches, and three of her ribs had been broken. Her thighs and abdomen had been bruised and lacerated.
Fire doesn't care if it burns wood, pig fat or the flesh from your body. Like this knife it has no preference at all. In all this world it is as blind as you will be just an hour from now, when your atoms are just atoms. Every part of your body is no more than a borrowed element forged in a star, and it's time for you to glow hot again – light up the night with the fat under your pampered skin. Burning can be fast or slow, I'm thinking slow, from your toes. In a house fire the smoke puts you out first, it's a kindness I suppose. I'm not kind. You thought you could reform me, but you see Dr Riley, it is I that will reform you. Perhaps remodel is a better term, or release. I'll give you a few moments to talk me out if it, if you can make yourself understood through the kerosene gag.
In his weather beaten skin was a fine meshwork of red threads. From the depth of his wrinkles Mac put him in his eighties. Even without a blood flow to back it up the skin was tanned. There was fresh dirt under his nails; dark like peat or compost from a gardening centre - certainly not the pale clay around this old junkyard. Presumably he still had been living in a home with a backyard, but it was quite possible he was gardening at an assisted living complex or nursing home. There was dirt on the knees of his pale corduroy slacks, but this was the pale sandy sort from this yard. If he had been wearing a jacket it was gone, in the newly bracing air of fall Mac expected one, it was something else to enquire about. Lying sprawled on his back with the entry wound at his temple no-one could mistake this gent for someone sleeping or a natural death. So many unanswered questions. For now it was a new homicide, an isolated case, but as ever he would be looking for ties to Gregor.
Their throats had been cut and they lay like butchered animals in a waste of blood...One corpse had slipped from the low single bed to the right of the door and lay staring up at her, the mouth open, the head almost cleft from the body. She saw again the severed vessels, sticking like corrugated pipes through the clotted blood. The second was propped, ungainly as a rag doll, against the far wall. His head had drooped forward and over his chest a great mat of blood had spread like a bib.
Now we aren’t talking about Kitty. Now it’s you. I know where you are right now, you know I do and I’ve been paid a dollar to kill you with some cheese wire. A dollar? How silly, not enough money, right? That’s what I said too. I said I wouldn’t consider it for less than ten million. Then I’ll get my cat suit on, pick up a pistol and climb in your window tonight. Just kidding! I could be offered any amount of power or money and you (and Kitty) would be perfectly safe, so stop fading away already, I already told you I don’t like it when you go so transparent. Have some backbone! Plus I said I like you, will you try to remember what I said?
Anyway, in the words of Bob Marley, “Life is worth much more than gold, neither can be bought or sold.” I accept that life is sacred and worth more than money, which means that I can’t be paid or bribed to kill either of you. Money isn’t even real, not bank account digits anyway, why would you be worth less than fictitious digits? Crazy, right?! Now we’re back to our last conclusion - if life is worth more than money then it always is. If your life is worth more than a cent, it’s worth more than all the money man can invent. There can never be another you, that's how special you are.
Found in Are you awake yet? - first draft, authored by .
The stench of dried blood filled the air. As Detective Ghost and Detective Toast walked into the house, there was blood smeared on the walls and on the floor. As they walked, they herd a dripping sound. Upon entering the bathroom, they were met with a horrific sight. There was the victim, hung on the wall with 'Want To Know My Secret?' painted in blood. This was not the end of the murders - it had only just begun.
The sickening smell of metal and rotting flesh blanketing the air in a choking aroma. I should have been used to this by now, but the strings these scenes pulled hit me like a wave. It didn't help that the wind whipped around wildly outside, of the house. There was no way we would be able to move the victim out of the house without loosing evidence in the wind. The victim was female with black hair and light brown eyes. Her once lively skin was now dull, gray, and was covered with incects that crawled up and down her stiff corpse. She was staring off into space, but I couldn't tell what it is she was looking at or for. As far as I knew she was cut open from the stomach and the assailant left her there to die, with her womb cradled in her arms.
In the half light of the alley the woman appears small. She brings one knee in to meet the other like some little girl waiting for a gelato, but this is no Italian plaza in summer time. The camera lingers on her, and in that moment I can hear the audience take an extended breath. In the darkness could be any number of dangers, but in the end that won't matter, just one will do.
I should be able to smell the popcorn of the other movie patrons, but instead the only odour is the dank alleyway in which the actress stands, too young to know the movie legend she would become a few short years later. The weak illumination that casts her face into semi-relief isn't romantic moonlight, but instead it falters as old neon signs do. Were she to walk toward the street there would be pawn shops, hotels selling their rooms by the hour and junkies cruising for a fix.
The temperature in this ambient theatre drops without warning, on the filthy ground is the shadow of a man. With steady footsteps it draws closer and, without even a warning noise, the charcoal hand takes out a pistol. The young starlet turns. A male voice tells her "It's time to pay" and a single shot fires. She drops, still perfect: soft cherry lips, hair arranged with every strand in place, ivory skin, angelic with closed lashes of thick black mascara. I know “who done it” of course; this film is older than my father. It was playing in cinemas when no-one knew who would win world war II...
“Who's the kid?” Mac nods toward a teenager, a stringy boy, yet to gain bulk for his bones.
“None of your business... if you know what's good for you.” Every muscle on Jule's face tightens, eyes narrowed, chin jutted outward. He reaches up to adjust his fedora, placing it at a jaunty angle on the back of his head.
“I make it my business. This ain't no place for kids.” Mac slumps his weight onto one hip, bending the other knee just slightly, lighting up a smoke before turning his head to the docks. “Send him home or loose the deal.” Wide-eyed, the kid turns his head from Jules to Mac, taking a step backward and flinching as his boss pulls out a revolver. The moonlight plays only upon the wind rippled water and the steel of the barrel. “I wouldn't do that if I were you, Jules.” A single shot rents the air, echoing through the maze of shipping crates and accelerating into the horizon. A dull flash of recognition washes over the face of the kid's boss before he slumps to the rain-washed dock, a "red carnation" growing on his dinner shirt. “Get out of here, kid. Scram.”
Adrian committed his first murder when he was twelve. It just happened and at the time he didn't think much about it. The man he killed was a junky who was traveling from places to places trying to overcome his heroin addiction. He observed that guy for a few days, walking around the lake shoreline, sitting on the pier looking at the landscape for hours at length. Adrian decided that it was time to get a closer look at this man. From what he could see he was in his early twenties, he couldn't be older than twenty five, he was sure of that.
The murder happened in the morning, but when thinking back about it, it would be more accurately described as manslaughter. Adrian did not have any deliberate purpose to kill this man, his mind was rather blank actually, and it was a slaughter allright. He went to the barn where the man was staying, it was early morning. He saw the man lying on a blanket laid on the ground near a bale of hay, already awakened. He greeted Adrian and told him he didn't think he would have such a visit in the morning. While Adrian was coming closer to what would soon to be his first victim he noticed a spade lying against the barn wall no more than two yards from where the man had set his makeshift bedding.
It what seemed a carefully choreographed but was actually a completely improvised move, Adrian reached out for the spade, grasped it and with a perfect circular motion hurled it towards the head of the unsuspecting man. The blade of the spade hit the man's face with such violence that the impact produced a dull snapping noise. Adrian was feeling elated as he looked at the face of the man, blood streaming out his poor victim's crushed nose.
Driven by a newly found instinct, Adrian completed his deed and crushed the man's skull with his makeshift and deadly weapon.
He'd watched the latest action, horror movie with a seventeen plus rating. Weeks afterwards he was plagued by the idea of how to commit the perfect murder, drawing up a long list of ideas: throwing a body over a cliff, poisons that took days to kill, degrading brake pads, mustard gas and mashy spike plates. He loved to come up with ways to kill, he probably came up with more ways than most people. One of his least favorite questions would be "where to hide the body?" He thought of making it into a soup with the muscle but that would leave the bone and guts; he thought of stuffing it into a freezer he would dump on a mountain or a snowy area, but that would involve too much driving. He could feed it to a hungry tiger or lion, but where would he find one in the city? The only place with a big cat would be the zoo with its many ever-watching security cameras. This left burying it and burning it, but burying could leave the corpse intact for years. That's the problem with murder, if they find the tiniest hint they'll latch onto it until some more information spills lose. Plus burning it would be problematic, attracting attention. He knew that the cops would be on his back in no time, there would be always one fingerprint, DNA left behind, a footprint or a witness. So for now he kept the murder inside of his head, until something made him snap…
The older woman glanced down at the body as if it were a rug out of place, tutting at the blood that poured onto the white carpet.
"You really mustn't play around with murder, my dear." She said, addressing the younger girl. as she adjusted the straps on her smart, leather handbag. "It isn't civil."
The girl twisted the bloody knife in her hands, a playful look on her face.
"But, mother, it is ever so fun." Her creamy white dress was stained deep scarlet and spots of the victims blood speckled her face, but she was completely indifferent to the fact that the body of an innocent woman was at her feet and the weapon that killed her was in her very hands.
"Well look what you've done to the carpet, Eliza." Her mother said sternly, fixing her daughter with a hard stare. "You must stop with this nonsense, it's probably not healthy for you, I'm sure there are studies that confirm this."
The girl raised a blood splattered eyebrow. "Oh, mother, I do contradict your statement." She glanced over at the next victim, who was trembling uncontrollably and had skin as pale as a corpse. She gave him a terrifying, shark-like grin with a dangerous glint in her eye.
"How can it be dangerous when it feels so. . ." She clutched the knife in her hands as if imagining slowly, agonisingly sinking it into the gut of another innocent person. "So satisfying?"
"Eliza, get rid of that peasant!" She spat at her daughter, throwing a jerky nod filled with contempt at the stranger sitting in their posh living room, staring wide-eyed at the body as if it were the only thing that existed in the world. Eliza noticed and shook her head, a threatening grin still plastered across her face. "Even when she is dead, he still only has eyes for his beloved wife." She whispered, her eyes staring icily at him. "How sweet."
Donald spoke with a coldness she'd never heard before. “I don't just want to kill you, I want to put you in a pit and add the shovels of dirt slowly until your God damn mouth is full of muck. I want to hear the suffocation of your cries. I want to know the second you don’t exist anymore so I can savour it. I don't care if you're sorry anymore; I don't want to hear it. You should have told me all that crap back when it could have made a difference, back when I loved you. You took what was beautiful in me and made it into what it is today. I hope you're proud; it's all your handiwork.” Donald grinned showing yellowed teeth amongst the stubble, his eyes wide and unblinking. He ran a bony-hand through his thinning hair, his thin lips turning upwards into a smile, one hand fingering the gag in Sophia’s mouth, the fabric a scarf given to her by her mother only days before. He pulled out the knife she'd bought him for their tenth wedding anniversary in Rome, a letter opener, and let the tip rest on her nape, watching her eyes for the fear he’d longed to see, feeling a sick sense of joy rise within him.