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Why you shouldn't expose your children to Clive Barker at an impressionable age
Because otherwise, one day they'll end up writing this:
From the current WIP. To set the scene: the protagonist, a movie star, is in his hotel room with his P.A. Perry
The thing exploded from the corner of the room.
It was as if the wall itself gave way, or buckled or blossomed. As if the very fabric of the building came undone and twisted, defied physics gravity. The plaster, the wallpaper, the wood, the rug on the floor, the lamp, the chest of drawers, it was all sucked into the collapsing, rushing, exploding shape from the wall. And there were bones, there were pipes, there were jags of metal and wood. There were claws. There were teeth.
God, there were teeth.
It tore into Perry. Stuck a floorboard through his chest. A spraying water pipe punctured his guts, dragged ropes of intestine into the room. The room turned itself inside out, and it turned Perry inside, took apart his skin, his bones, his organs. Made them unnecessary. And then too those flayed pieces of flesh were incorporated into the rolling animal thing the room had become, and it smashed out of his window and down, down, in a cacophony of sound, violence, animal snarls, teeth, and teeth, and blood, and teeth, into the crowd of screaming fans
And then later:
It jumped. Leapt back up twenty stories, casual as a cat. It landed next to him and the room shook, seemed to vibrate like a bomb going off. It was bigger now. Viscera was strung between it’s teeth, along the row of chairs that sprouted like vertebrae from its back. It dripped crimson on the floor. It opened its vast mouth. Row after row of broken bathroom tile, jagged and stained.
It purred. It crooned.
From the current WIP. To set the scene: the protagonist, a movie star, is in his hotel room with his P.A. Perry
The thing exploded from the corner of the room.
It was as if the wall itself gave way, or buckled or blossomed. As if the very fabric of the building came undone and twisted, defied physics gravity. The plaster, the wallpaper, the wood, the rug on the floor, the lamp, the chest of drawers, it was all sucked into the collapsing, rushing, exploding shape from the wall. And there were bones, there were pipes, there were jags of metal and wood. There were claws. There were teeth.
God, there were teeth.
It tore into Perry. Stuck a floorboard through his chest. A spraying water pipe punctured his guts, dragged ropes of intestine into the room. The room turned itself inside out, and it turned Perry inside, took apart his skin, his bones, his organs. Made them unnecessary. And then too those flayed pieces of flesh were incorporated into the rolling animal thing the room had become, and it smashed out of his window and down, down, in a cacophony of sound, violence, animal snarls, teeth, and teeth, and blood, and teeth, into the crowd of screaming fans
And then later:
It jumped. Leapt back up twenty stories, casual as a cat. It landed next to him and the room shook, seemed to vibrate like a bomb going off. It was bigger now. Viscera was strung between it’s teeth, along the row of chairs that sprouted like vertebrae from its back. It dripped crimson on the floor. It opened its vast mouth. Row after row of broken bathroom tile, jagged and stained.
It purred. It crooned.
:)
Other people might. But I wouldn't.