He smelled like a penny because he was rolled in blood and the red dirt of the hill.
The shin of his right leg stung broken plod by crooked plod across the rock into the ocean.
(more) He smelled like sweat and the ocean bathed him in salt as he plunged into the shallow water and began to frantically flap into the waves.
He felt like he would kick off the lower part of his leg along a jagged line and the foot was uncooperative but he felt the need to plunge deeper into the current.
His heart beat against his ribcage, he kicked and swung his arms and thought about being smelled by sharks.
Behind was a winged thing that would swoop out from between the forest pillars, the pine canopy and wander over him.
He had to swim, had to find a place to hide, he thought he smelled like blood to the sharks.
His heart thumped in time to frantic breathing.
He knew it had come out of the trees and was near him and over him. He turned over onto his back and he felt the sharks below him and he saw the winged thing above him and he shot up sweat covered and heart beating.
He waded through the damp blankets into his bathroom and rested on the edge of the tub.
He looked down at the tub and thought of filling it with cold water and thought of sharks and thought of black winged women in the dark of 5 am along the street.
He thought of Beth and was uncertain and horrified and miserable for his inability even to have the courage to let himself go.
John slumped over his legs propping himself up like the thinker and felt himself feel doubt and fear.(less)
His breath reeked of booze and stale cigarette smoke, something clawing at the inside of his chest as he blinked at me again, those soft eyelashes fluttering like the rapid pulse of a butterfly's wings.
"At Thanksgiving, really?"
"Isaac, shut the fuck up," his words rammed into each other, sliding and pushing to get out as fast as they can. His tongue got tangled in his mouth, and then he swore when he nearly dropped his glass, ice tinkling along the edges.
"Fucking cocaine at family holidays, you are a piece of work, Harry, really. You want mom to see that?"
"At least I'm not getting blasted fucking drunk, you prick," there was venom there, but it barely stung because Harry's lower lip was starting to tremor. "You're turning into dad, right? Booze it up some more, have another scotch, some whiskey maybe, and then get all pissed off and call Wendy a dyke like you did last Thanksgiving. That ought to be fun."
"You're bringing fucking drugs into our house," I hissed. Harry's left hand wouldn't stop shaking, and the ice jumped around his glass. "Mom will straight up disown you, that is such shit."
"What about that time that you crashed dad's car on Christmas, eh?" Harry's gone now, words spilling on top of each other, and an ice cube leaps from its cage. "You were fucking wasted, and you totaled that hunk of junk. Do you remember Wendy having to come bail you out? Cause I sure fucking do."
He smelled like old oil paints and cocaine. (less)
he smelled like October the third.
rain dipping down green hills on a cold autumn night, mud and grit squelching beneath his boots. the smell of ozone and dirt, overflowing river and of damp cornstalks, of sun-warmed pavement cooled by night and dark and wet.
he smelled like electricity. t(more)he scorching burnt tang of alchemy, rich with oxygen, with metal, with sparks. he smelled like blood, rich dark and flowing blood, painting a concrete floor, sweet salted youth with flesh torn asunder. he smelled like death, and innocence, and that twisted his gut like the violent wringing of rags.
he smelled like fallen leaves. spice. his hair, warm, faintly exuded the scent of crushed cinnamon, of honey, sweet and light and homey; he smelled like clean cotton, and beneath it all, the subtle notes of oil.
Edward smelled like the October third that was a distant catastrophe, a fever dream, yesterday's perfume. and Roy would not change that. (less)
The smell that was emitted from this one man's body told dividends about him. The scents were that of the most masculine delights. Hints of pine, oak, and the hardest of liquors wafted from the entirety of his person. The liquors that lingered upon him were not too strong, but(more) strong enough to tell that the man enjoyed a nice shot of scotch or bourbon to start the day. He also must have worked in a lumber mill judging by the woodland scents and his large forearms. God only knows what kind of a man he was though. (less)