Been skimming through jobs to apply for and felt like doing some creative writing. Here's the result (yes, yes, it is in need of editing):
It was a warm early summer's day. Sunlight streamed through the treetops, onto freshly moistened soil and plants. Birds sang and fluttered among the trees with the enthusiasm they often have after a storm. The air was crisp with the smell of wet dirt.
Of course, none of this mattered to Ben Lindeman as he gripped onto the knife stuck in his stomach. Dying is a distracting enterprise and one has rarely has the inclination nor the time to appreciate the bluebells below when one's blood pours out on them. Indeed, it was so distracting that he didn't even bother to get upset about his now torn and bloodied dress shirt.
Shock, pain, and a little bit of relief (for imminent death is nothing if not fatalistically relieving) prevented Ben's hands from removing the knife. It stung his innards even more as he dropped down to his knees, his hands jerking it slightly due to his less-than-graceful collapse. Seconds after (though they seemed like minutes to Ben's scrambling mind, as he reviewed the highlights of his life and found them...wanting) he fell forward, crushing the blood-soaked bluebells and a patch of buttercups.
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