Blood On Canvas Novels & Stories

She needed to clean it up immediately while the rest of the house could wait till tomorrow. As she cleaned, she noticed the beautiful, life-like paintings of her that Marcus had created. She had seen them all before on the day she left his house. It was strange that he didn’t sketch or paint anything new. All the blank canvases had her name written on them in red paint. She walked closer to take a look and staggered backward with shock. It wasn’t red paint at all. It was blood, Marcus’s blood! She blinked with horror as realization dawned on her. Marcus had written her name on the blank canvases with his blood. But why would he do that? She sat down on one of the chairs, looking dazed. Then

I don’t know if it’s the sight of blood that scares her or the thought that I might have just killed someone. Letting go, the body falls over Danilo, and Chase withdraws to go stand guard at the side, I walk around the chair, kick the body to make space, and sit back on the now empty space. Standing in front with his back to me, Carlos Cancio faces the room, a gun in one hand, a bloody knife in the other, and the blood of his fallen enemy dripping from his clothes and skin. “Who would like to be next?” I ask still smiling.

And then we used the rope to climb down to our parents’ room and entered the room unaware of the fact that, it was actually a theatre of real life R-rated film. Madarashi entered there first followed by me. When I entered I saw, because of some reason Madarashi froze there. And soon, I found out a horrible scene! I saw my father was standing there with two daggers in his hand and our mother was lying on the ground covered in blood, cuts and bruises. This scene had two different reactions in me and Madarashi . He started to scream out loud like he had gone berserk and for me, I couldn’t even move, my senses went numb. Because of his scream, father knew that we were there. He, with a daring fa

The previous night, after being shockingly stabbed by a machete, Ben was left gasping for air and bleeding heavily. How could he have underestimated that b****** Mapulanga? He cussed himself. He had never being this stupid. If only he could be given a chance to kill that fool, he would but looking at how things stood, he would be dead in a few minutes if the blood flow wouldn’t be contained. Damn, life flashed on his face. The k3 million wasn’t going to be spent. If Devi could play the game right, he would get it all. Screw Devi, he gasped for air even more. He was his bestfriend though. One only friend in crime. One chance, just a chance, he begged looking at the heavens.

"You are bleeding." "I am?" "I can smell your blood strongly." She frowned. She bathed and made sure she washed all the blood off. "But I washed it off." "You are probably bleeding again. Your malnutrition would not let your blood clot well, and now I'm the one suffering." "I am sorry your highness. I should leave." Luciana stood up, but when she walked past Raziel, he grabbed her arm and pulled her back. "Where do you think you are going little girl?"

he sighed, a sound of genuine, disappointed resignation. He pressed down. The blade tore into the flesh of my left forearm. A gasp of pure, unadulterated agony tore from my throat, my body violently jerking against the heavy metal chair. The thick leather straps bit mercilessly into my wrists and chest, holding me pinned, offering no escape from the searing heat of the blade. Hot, crimson blood began to well up from the deep, clean line he had drawn, spilling over my skin and dripping slowly, rhythmically, onto the pristine white tile floor. In the blinding brightness of the room, the blood looked unnaturally dark, almost black.

He was covered in paint—black smears on his hands, grey splatters on his shirt. "Cale?" Elion asked. Cale didn't answer. He was in a trance. Slash. Scrape. Smear. Elion walked around to see the canvas. He froze. It wasn't a painting. It was a blueprint of chaos. The canvas was covered in a web of black lines. Thick, oily ropes that twisted and coiled around each other. They looked like snakes. They looked like veins. They looked like cracks in reality. And in the center of the web, trapped in the mesh of black and grey, was a single, tiny dot of gold.

Investigations: The patient’s initial work-up included a full blood count, type and cross-match for transfusion, and X-ray imaging of her head and lateral cervical spine. The X-rays were both performed at the primary medical facility. Head X-ray was of poor quality but did not reveal any obvious injuries. Cervical spine X-ray imaging was lost on transfer, and repeating the cervical spine X-ray at the tertiary hospital would have delayed operative treatment. Cross-sectional imaging was not performed, as CT scanning is not available at the tertiary hospital. Her full blood count was notable for a hemoglobin of 11.3 g/dl and platelet count of 202 (x106 u/ml).

I slid a single, crumpled business card across the battered wooden table, My fingers trembling just enough to make the red ink smear slightly. My heart thudded unexpectedly—curiosity, mixed with a strange flicker of unease. I reached out and carefully lifted the card, eyes narrowing at the bold, blood-red letters that seemed to pulse with life: Bloodmatch. Beneath the name, a smear of fresh-looking blood still glistened, as if it had just been spilled moments ago, and Shelby’s fingertips had left their mark. “What is this? I asked, voice barely above a whisper, my eyes darting from the card to Shelby’s tense face. His voice cracked, softer than I’d ever heard it, as if he was offering an ol

Jonah’s still at the table, drawing now instead of eating, his pencil moving in quick strokes across the page. I sit there with him for a few more minutes, neither of us saying anything, just existing in the same space while Mara’s music pounds through the walls from her room. Then he turns it around so I can see. I go still. It’s a drawing of a car. Not just any car. Two cars, actually, twisted together in the middle of the page like they’ve collided, metal crumpled and glass scattered everywhere. The lines are dark and heavy, pressed so hard into the paper in some places that it’s torn through.