In dreams, his mother came to him, blood flying from her mouth.

Blood flew from the tip and struck the wall to his right.

Blood flew from between his lips in a fine spray.

Carlos's hand reached for it, dark, dead blood flying wide.

Then there was the blood, so much of it, flying like water from a cut hose, getting on your hands and clothes.

Blood flew in a long, shallow cut down her cheek.

Blood flew, and he thrilled at the sight of it.

He laughed again, shaking his head, and the blood flew.

This one was hard enough that blood flew in a thin arc.

The force of the blow whipped his head round, and blood flew across the air, but he didn't fall.