One shot :: Daubs of Death
For December, I'm going to attempt to post one (or more) pieces of writing a day. I figure it's a good time as any to work on my writing and hey, maybe I'll have something for the Phoenix by the time I'm done.
So for today's piece... 30 minutes before tomorrow, just a small piece that came to me.
Title: Dabs of Death
Rating: PG
Word count: 285
Every time someone mentioned the smell of death, she chuckled quietly to herself. She didn’t deny there was a distinct smell, but she through it was unfair to lump it into one word. Depending on the situation, there was usually blood. Sometimes faint and adding a light accent and flavor, other times saturating the mixture like an inexperienced cook adding too much seasoning to the broth. Gunpowder was usually a second scent found in the mixture, though more often than not, the odorless plunge of metal lingered around or maybe a dash of poison.
Then there were the other variables; the smell of freshly washed clothing, the faint hints of citrus floor cleaner, sweat, body odor, the many variables that made each situation smell distinct.
Death didn’t have just one smell; death had a whole drawerful.
Eau de Death 29; a base note of blood with a sprinkling of gunpowder and an airy top note of sweat and sex.
Eau de Death 18; A coy layer of cyanide, a healthy spot of apple juice, and two little drops of malice.
Eau de Death 29-ah, a personal favorite; A respectable base note of blood mixed with gunpowder, gasoline, and burning rubber, the perfect smell for those wild evenings tearing down highways.
The list went on.
She supposed she could relent and agree death had a very nice brand of scents and she couldn’t imagine wearing anything else. Though at times she wished she could go out with polite little dabs on her neck and wrists (a respectable lady out for a date of fine dining and polite dancing), not covered in a thick cloud that followed around her, suffocating everyone around her (a whore’s covering).
So for today's piece... 30 minutes before tomorrow, just a small piece that came to me.
Title: Dabs of Death
Rating: PG
Word count: 285
Every time someone mentioned the smell of death, she chuckled quietly to herself. She didn’t deny there was a distinct smell, but she through it was unfair to lump it into one word. Depending on the situation, there was usually blood. Sometimes faint and adding a light accent and flavor, other times saturating the mixture like an inexperienced cook adding too much seasoning to the broth. Gunpowder was usually a second scent found in the mixture, though more often than not, the odorless plunge of metal lingered around or maybe a dash of poison.
Then there were the other variables; the smell of freshly washed clothing, the faint hints of citrus floor cleaner, sweat, body odor, the many variables that made each situation smell distinct.
Death didn’t have just one smell; death had a whole drawerful.
Eau de Death 29; a base note of blood with a sprinkling of gunpowder and an airy top note of sweat and sex.
Eau de Death 18; A coy layer of cyanide, a healthy spot of apple juice, and two little drops of malice.
Eau de Death 29-ah, a personal favorite; A respectable base note of blood mixed with gunpowder, gasoline, and burning rubber, the perfect smell for those wild evenings tearing down highways.
The list went on.
She supposed she could relent and agree death had a very nice brand of scents and she couldn’t imagine wearing anything else. Though at times she wished she could go out with polite little dabs on her neck and wrists (a respectable lady out for a date of fine dining and polite dancing), not covered in a thick cloud that followed around her, suffocating everyone around her (a whore’s covering).