The Time James Shot a Deer

This is my story about the time James shot a deer:

Hooked savagely onto a matted, fraying rope, the doe was dangling above a scarlet mark on the shed carpet, that could instantly be recognised as blood. A stained ice cream container lid had been carelessly place underneath the blood-soaked head, trying to catch the drips of glittering, gory insides, shining like a jeweler's shop. The flat lid was overflowing now, spilling like red wine onto the shed floor, staining it like cheese puffs on a gown as white as flour. The open eyes of the doe were as rich as the earth’s soil. It would make an exquisite dinner.