Decadent Darkness

Within less than a week I gulped down both Gillian Flynn novels. What an amazing writer she is. Unbelievably twisted story lines, mentally mangled characters, twists and turns around every rugged corner...and not to mention her metaphors. I have never read metaphors and similes like this woman's. I'm pretty sure at one point she actually pointed out the irony of the lack of salad at a voluptuous salad bar by calling the lettuce a "greasy, pale afterthought." Speaking of irony, let's take a gander at this morsel of a woman...

Who new that such a cute little thing would produce this:

And then this:

What a creepy little devil she is. While both novels were amazing, I actually preferred Dark Places. But here are a few more bits of her insane writing abilities, all derived from Sharp Objects:

She is explaining the horror that is a pig slaughter house, and she describes it as this: "The smell isn' t like water or air; it's a solid. Like you should be able to cut a hole in the stink to get some relief. You can't."

A couple of paragraphs later, she says of the slaughter house: "Even the idea of this practice I find repulsive. But the sight of it actually does something to you, makes you less human. Like watching a rape and saying nothing."

When explaining the protagonist's psychotic mother, she says it like this: "...she'd parade me into town, smiling and teasing me, tickling me as she spoke with people on the sidewalks. When we got home, she'd trail off to her room like an unfinished sentence..."

The next paragraph begins, "I have one memory that catches in me like a nasty clump of blood."

And lastly, this is one paragraph she wrote that I thought was hilarious, dark, and just brilliant. The protagonist was interviewing a father whose daughter was a victim in the small-town murders, and she described the grieving mother as this: "I was hoping Betty Nash would disappear. Literally. She was so insubstantial, I could imagine her slowly evaporating, leaving only a sticky spot on the edge of the sofa. But she lingered, her eyes darting between me and her husband before we even began speaking. Like she was winding up for the conversation. The children, too, hovered about, like little blonde ghosts trapped in a limbo between indolence and stupidity. The pretty girl might do alright. But the piggy middle child who now waddled dazedly into the room, was destined for needy sex and snack-cake bingeing."

I want to pattern my writing after Gill. I love her darkness and edginess; I crave her sarcasm and repartee. I covet her engaging, plunging story lines....so psychological thrillers it is...

Any ideas of a repulsive, jaw-dropping story line? Cuz I got nothin...