vomiting - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The nausea clawed at her throat, and she tried to force down the bile, but it was too late. Chunks of partially digested chicken spewed out of her coughing, choking mouth. Her stomach kept on contracting violently and forcing everything up and out. Her face was white and dripping bile, sweat, and tears. She lurched forward and sunk to her knees. The pungent stench invaded her nostrils and she heaved even though there was nothing left to go.
The vomit came up looking like clam chowder and smelling like acidic Cheetos. Leon blanched under the hot summer sun and sank to his bottom, resisting touching his face with his fouled hands. As he leaned forwards the last of it dribbled from his lips and his stomach turned over one more time.
Her stomach contracted so violently that she had no time to reach the toilet bowl. Chunks of food covered in the creamy chyme from her stomach were propelled into the air and splattered the carpet and wall of the hallway. She heaved again and once more the carpet was sprayed. Now she could not move forward without stepping on her own puke and she was feeling weak. She sank to her knees and retched until only clear liquid was coming up. Her throat felt sore from the stomach acid that was layering it and her mouth tasted of vomit. There was no-one to fetch her a glass of water or offer to clean up the mess. The stomach-acid stench of vomit filled her nostrils. She surveyed the mess with watery eyes and her stomach dry-heaved again.
She would describe her vomiting as a kind of purging, she felt compelled to do it. She would reach her fingers down her throat to force herself to throw up. Then whatever she had eaten would surge up her throat and into the waiting toilet bowl. She even had a list of foods that were easier to bring back up that others. When it came to vomiting she was a pro. A foul, disgusting, repulsive pro, who's regular expulsions of stomach acid covered food had damaged her teeth and gums.
The projectile vomit overshot the plastic bag I had hastily prepared for Miranda and hit the passenger in front of her. The vile viscous chunks oozed warmly down the back of her blouse and she jump up screaming at us. Miranda had pallor of an iced vanilla cake and stared at her with tear filled eyes. She heaved again and this time the foul smelling liquid sprayed into the plastic bag. The drive stopped the bus and ordered us off and we were left stranded at the roadside. She couldn't take even a step without retching and the fumes of the passing cars were making her worse.
With one violent contraction the congealed contents of her stomach emerged in the morning light, nothing digested since the evening before. Amy wiped at her mouth, acidic residue forming a shiny patch on her sweater sleeve, and retreated to sit on the low garden wall.
All that could be seen of Jared was his form crouched in the semi-darkness, muscles contracting as if expelling his guts was on the agenda. The bulk of the vomit was already cold on the sidewalk in front but still his innards heaved to bring up only dribbles of vivid yellow bile.
Hayden stopped as soon as he rounded the corner. Elise was there alright but sitting on the wet concrete before her was a large pool of vomit, some if it still trailing from her lips, viscous and opaque. She turned her head toward him, the caustic fluid coating her mouth said one thing, "Water."
Vomiting had become so routine that Charlie did it as efficiently as checking her texts. Eat, drink, drink some more, hit a bar, home to finish the bottles, vomit. She could stop of course, stop and feel the loneliness, the pain, the guilt, or she could keep on going until her liver packed up.
The wave of nausea that hit me was so intense that I hardly made it to the toilet bowl before I emptied my stomach. Porcelain clashed with olive green which only made more vomit stream from my mouth. Vomiting was already a nasty thought but actually seeing it only made it worse. It burst from my throat, practically choking me. Hot tears spilled from my eyes as futile whimpers for help spilled out between yesterday's dinner.