The Sculptor

The sweet putrid odor of rotting intestinal goo permeates the air. Face down where she was left these two weeks before, her flesh darkens with the insides trailed out between her and the doorway of the room where she was eviscerated and spent her last hellish breath. The sickening sounds made as the vermin and maggots work their way through the sloppy mess that was once a living human being bring great pleasure to the artist. The sculptor, as he likes to think of himself, sits admiring his work, breathing in the thick hot air of his latest masterpiece.