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  | Archive through May 25, 2004 | Chris Scott | 50 | 1 | 5-25-04 9:52 am |
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Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2475
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, May 25, 2004 - 10:02 am: | 
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That guy William's got a bright future too.
Robert |
Bob Hinton
Inspector
Username: Bobhinton
Post Number: 197
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, May 25, 2004 - 3:22 pm: |
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Lets set a real challenge. A Ripper story in 60 words - no more - no less! |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2476
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, May 25, 2004 - 4:51 pm: |
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Jack flung his pen across the room. He had been trying to write a letter consisting of exactly sixty words - and he was still four words short!
He gazed at his letter from hell, increasingly enraged. Then he saw the answer : as usual, he would cut right through his problems.
Next day, a menacing shadow fell across Bob Hinton's door...
Robert |
AP Wolf
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 1117
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, May 26, 2004 - 3:53 pm: |
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Jack was mad enough to think that he had a wardrobe in his head
Not only that, but in that wardrobe in his head was his bloody bed
And bloody sleep therein he bloody found
Surrounded by bloody wall of white sound
In shade of red was well fed
In shade of blue slept right through.
Little chappie, woke happy.
|
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2479
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Wednesday, May 26, 2004 - 4:54 pm: |
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Then poor Jacky got a shock :
Found a kidney in his sock.
Opened wardrobe door with creak,
Stepped outside to take a leak.
Slipped and slid and over did roll,
Plunged down from his own earhole.
Landed in his waistcoat pocket,
Sneezed on snuff and up did rocket
Through ear into head once again,
And convinced he was perfectly sane. |
AP Wolf
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 1118
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, May 27, 2004 - 4:00 pm: |
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Then the dear young chap
Did Himself soundly slap
Twice around his head
Afore he went to bed
But found himself beside Himself
So for the sake of his good health
Covered Himself in ash and soot
And then shot himself in foot
‘Ouch!’ he said. ‘That is sore,
Now I’ll have to slice a whore,
An apple for a core.’
|
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2484
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, May 27, 2004 - 6:16 pm: |
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So he slowly limped to the street
Where he met a certain Nunweek
Who declared he wasn't shocked
To see that Jacky was crocked
But wondered what Jack did there
Without his trusty wheelchair
Wherein he could chase whores
Give them plenty of time to knock on doors
Or relax in bath
While waiting for Jack to trundle up path. |
jmd@nelefa.org
Unregistered guest
| | Posted on Friday, September 03, 2004 - 6:51 am: |
|
9th November, 1888
Looking back on it now, Mary Kelly's poor ruined body must still have been warm when the pathetic wretch, as undeserving of the fancy name of "Jack the Ripper" as any you could meet, barrelled out of Miller's Court, knocked me to the ground and sent my lantern rattling across the street. The man himself, a scruffy individual in a threadbare coat, stumbled and fell over but was back on his feet in a flash, pelting down Dorset Street as though the Devil himself was after him.
I am sure you are already aware that anyone who behaved in this manner in this particular part of London at this particular time was running the risk of being lynched by the local vigilance committee, but the black lacings of blood on this man's shirt were far more damning than his actions alone.
I almost cried out, but thought better of it in the nick of time. The streets were quiet but, even at three o' clock in the morning, they would fill momentarily if the local population had any inkling that the horror that stalked their women had been sighted.
I leapt to my feet and set off after him. The soles of my boots hammered the cobbles, the steel segments in the heels kicking up sparks and making footing treacherous. At the end of Dorset Street, I turned right onto Commercial Street. My suspect had a fair start, but nothing I could not match. He looked back frequently; his eyes wide with fear, his lank grey-black hair flapping out behind him like a crone's pleats.
He sprinted across the street, knocked over an old drunk who was relieving himself on the corner of Flower and Dean Street, and headed up that very road. As I ran, I recalled the geography of the area, to help me pre-empt the fiend's destination. Brick Lane, Old Monty, and the main drag - all were accessible on this route. The main labyrinth of side streets and back alleys lay behind the Whitechapel Road. If he made it there, all was lost. He would vanish like a phantom, as he had before.
I quickened my pace, thankful for my youth, and began gaining on him. The backs of his coat flapped up and down as he ran. The soles of his shoes flapped and clapped, the uppers loose with disrepair. Again he turned, glancing fearfully back, his eyes rolling and frightened, a trail of saliva streaming from his gaping mouth.
He was almost within reach, almost. The stench that poured from his body and clothing was cloying and foul. The man reeked of excrement and sweat and something else. Had I known then the horrid fate of Miss Kelly - had I already seen the monstrous photographs taken of her room - I would perhaps have been less eager to lay Christian hands on that foulest of criminals, to contaminate myself with the fluids on his clothing.
As it was, my pounding heart and roaring chest cried to me to apprehend the man, to bring the exhausting, careering, chase to an end. I reached my hand forward and clutched wildly for the villain's collar. The tips of my fingers brushed cloth, fleetingly, and I over extended and fell forwards. I stopped myself with my hands, my momentum keeping me moving forwards, my legs frantically scrabbling for purchase as I pushed myself back upright. The man had gained a few yards on me, but was obviously slowing. I heard his breath coming in ragged gasps, heard his nonsensical babbling.
Near the end of Flower and Dean Street, the man ducked into a close. Although briefly hidden from my sight, I could hear his feet slapping along the narrow corridor. I turned into the close, pausing briefly at the entrance. The towering slums that formed the passageway hid what little illumination the moon provided. Years would pass before gas lighting was installed in this part of London. I trotted down the alleyway at a slower pace, guiding myself along the wall with an outstretched hand, my ears straining for any sign of the madman. His harsh breathing was clearly audible but the footfalls had ceased.
I walked slowly, a few paces only, and then stopped. The alleyway opened into a small back green, some ten yards square. A high fence enclosed the yard, six feet tall, of sturdy wooden planks. I dare say that, if slightly more rested, the man would have easily been able to scale the fence and make his escape into a neighbouring yard, but as it was he stood panting in the rear left corner, his hands on his knees, his head bowed. I leaned against the wall of the close, my chest heaving, watching the man.
"Now don't you move," I panted. "Stay where I can see you."
The man made no reply, simply stood, slumped against the wall. I remained in the doorway, apprehensive of approaching him. His demeanour declared him to be bordering on derangement and I was well aware of the danger inherent in a cornered lunatic.
"Whose blood is on you?" I asked.
The man looked up, his eyes met mine. They were wild but focussed, boring into my own with an intensity that made me anxious.
"My own," he replied. "Cut myself shaving." He sneered, patently aware of how ludicrous the lie sounded. I put my hand in the pocket of my tunic, feeling the comforting weight of my father's revolver.
"I have reason to believe," I began, my voice shaking somewhat, "that you have been involved in an some form of criminal activity, and must ask you to accompany me to the police station for further questioning."
The man laughed at me, then. Not the loose, shrilling laugh of a madman, but an eerie high-pitched giggle. I took a step into the yard. Instantly, the man pulled his hand from his coat, exposing six inches of wicked looking steel. The blade was serrated along one edge and crusted with drying blood. He held it in front of his face, twisting it slightly to catch the light, his gaze - and mine - drawn to it in fascination.
I stopped, eyeing the blade warily. I had no doubt at all that this man would plunge that knife into me without hesitation.
"You think I'm him, don't you? You think I'm Jack the Ripper." The smile was gleeful. He capered lightly from foot to foot, dancing ridiculously. I held the revolver on him, my hand steady, saying nothing. "Supposed to be a medical man, I am. Some toff down from the west end, having his sport and going back to his nice wife and family and job. Papers say so, so it must be true. You'd have to be a wealthy man, a man of position and education to make such a fool of the police as I have, wouldn't you say? Police think I'm a name, hope I'm a name, because if I'm not, if I'm just another member of the crowd that no one looks twice at, how are they going to catch me, eh?"
"I've caught you," I said evenly. "In fact, I didn't even mean to."
The man grew agitated, his head weaving to and fro, the knifeless hand lifting and pulling at his ear. "Too much of a rush, too much, but ah it was worth it. Your fellow peelers will be finding a little surprise in the morning I think. Oh yes, I'm thinking they will." Again, the high giggle rang out.
I considered my options. There was no way I could call for help without bringing out a lynch mob. I realised that I would have to talk this deranged individual into coming with me voluntarily. As he stood there, his craven head bent to the side, licking the jellied matter from his blade, I knew that this would be an impossible task.
"Gutted her like a pig, I did. Right open. Top to bottom, left to right. She's all over the room, you know."
A knot of fury began to boil in the pit of my stomach. I had only been present at the site of one of the murders - the Eddowes woman - and she still haunted my sleep at night. The poor pitiful creature, lying exposed to the world in Mitre Square. My fist clenched involuntarily and I clearly recall the sight on the barrel of my revolver weaving about in front of the man's chest as I fought to keep it steady. I took a breath, calming myself somewhat, and attempted to create a rapport with the man. God help me, I tried to talk to him as though he were something other than a depraved animal.
"What is your name?" I asked.
The laugh came again. "What does it matter what my name is? No one knows who I am. No one knows who half of this city are, with the to-ing and fro-ing of all those bloody Poles and Irish that come flooding in every weekend."
"If I am to understand... to help you, I must know your name," I pressed.
"If you are to understand me? But constable, you already understand me. Do you not see what I am?"
I did not understand him, could not follow his reasoning, and I said so.
"Whether I am John Smith or Aaron Lipski, it doesn't matter a damn, for I am only the first. I am everyone, constable. Everyone and in everyone. I am in the shilling whores that walk the street, in the punters who use them and the publicans who fuel them. I'm in the toffs with their starched collars and in their wives and their children. I'm in you constable, deep within you, behind your oh-so-gentlemanly appearance, screaming to get out. I have had such fun doing what I do, and I will do it again and again because I can. Mark my words, constable. I can lie low for a few months and the police will go back to protecting the rich, leaving me to my playground."
And mark them I did. Each word fell leaden on my heart and I saw that this twisted, hellish, creature was right. He was not a blemish on society, rather a product of it. He was the direct result of the piety and tightly laced emotional repression that prevented the higher classes from even acknowledging the existence of the lower. Advances in medicine, surgery, and science notwithstanding, we remained, at heart, nothing more than savages hiding behind a veneer of civilised behaviour.
He took a step toward me, his face twisted into a sneer. "I'll be going then, constable. Can't have you starting a riot - I presume that's why you're not using that shiny whistle." I kept the revolver trained on his heart, my hand shaking almost uncontrollably.
"Tsk, you? A policeman? What are you going to do, constable? Shoot me? Shoot me dead in a public place? They'll hang you as sure as they'd hang me, and you know it."
"Only if I am caught," I answered and, God have mercy on me, I shot him dead on the spot, covering the blood of Mary Kelly with his own. I ran then, stopping to pick up the knife. I slipped it into my tunic and I ran, ran through the streets wildly, in complete abandon, leaving him to be found as just another body in an uncontrollable slum.
The knife went into the Thames, still lies there as far as I know. To this day, I believe I did the right thing. History has been robbed of the satisfaction of the capture, the rich ladies of the west end have perhaps lost a little sleep, wondering if "Saucy Jack" was going to begin stalking their well-lit streets, but Whitechapel, at least, was given a temporary reprieve by my actions.
In the years that have followed I have witnessed the truth of 'Jack's' words. Each passing year sees violent crime increase as the injustice of Queen Victoria's society wreaks havoc in the minds of men. I have learned, have seen, what is inside a man, what a man can do when he is so ground down by the heel of stigma and dogma. Even the Ripper's notoriety has been robbed from him, with the popular press representing the poor deranged madman as an affluent, cloak-wearing villain.
On that night in November, I put down a mad dog. In every corner of the civilised world, the lapdogs of society are beginning to snap and snarl, to bite the hands of their masters. He was right. The Ripper is in all of us, biding his time, immortal, waiting for the mind's straitjacket to fail. |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2934
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Friday, September 03, 2004 - 9:38 am: |
|
Hi JMD
I thought that was a superb piece. The description of the chase was particularly good. I was waiting for a twist at the end, and I think your shooting scenario was quite a good one. Hope to hear more.
Robert |
Suzi Hanney
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Suzi
Post Number: 1172
Registered: 7-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, September 04, 2004 - 5:48 pm: |
|
Go Bob
Right 60 words!! A challenge!!!!
No fog, no cloaks,no bags,no hats,no witnesses, no refuge,no sympathy,no friends,no warmth,no luck.. for some! Just a comfortable room for the night and into the myths of time
Suzi
|
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2944
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, September 04, 2004 - 6:03 pm: |
|
Hi Suzi
I thought you were going to do a Thomas Hood there - no fog, no cloaks, no bags, no hats, no witnesses, no refuge, no sympathy, no friends, no warmth, no luck, no heart, November.
Robert |
Suzi Hanney
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Suzi
Post Number: 1176
Registered: 7-2003
| | Posted on Saturday, September 04, 2004 - 6:48 pm: |
|
You stalking me???
God I thought I had a good 'un there ..oh well should have spent more time in Eng Lit classes at Greyfriars maybe!..  he he
Suzi
|
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 2947
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, September 05, 2004 - 5:02 am: |
|
Cheer up, Suzi. It was a good 'un. Mr Quelch would have been proud of you.
Robert |
Suzi Hanney
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Suzi
Post Number: 1189
Registered: 7-2003
| | Posted on Monday, September 06, 2004 - 3:40 pm: |
|
Mr Q....
Thanks! am taking to old cheery sir that I found in bottom of my tuck
HM
|
R. Richard Scott
Unregistered guest
| | Posted on Thursday, October 07, 2004 - 12:10 am: |
|
MURDER UNDER A RED SKY
By
Ryan R. Scott
For me, fires were always a source of great excitement. The way the flames crackled with all the ferocity their destructive means could harness, and the way they leapt and clawed against the sky, wildly out of control, flaring upwards with the most brilliant of colours. It almost looked like a choreographed dance, or a visual display of the way evil churns itself in the heart of all men.
"That'll be the gin barrels catching," said the burly, whiskered man who stood at the curb, hands in his pockets, speaking to nobody in particular. He said it just as another wave of flames seared across the sky.
The fire had started at the dry dock warehouses a few hours earlier, in the late evening hours of Thursday. The night had seen heavy rainfall, peals of thunder and lightning ushering out one of the coldest and wettest summers London had seen for some time. Even now, as the early morning hours of the last day of August progressed toward another grey dawn, it remained cloudy, with only occasional breaks through which the stars and the final quarter of the moon could be seen. For the most part, however, the sky shone red with the flickering glow of the raging flames.
Down alongside the docks the firemen had encircled the warehouse with their pumps, and were working frantically to contain the blaze. It seemed almost useless for them to try, but they kept at it anyway. The fire was undying. Its macabre dance was unrelenting. The evil inside man could never so easily be extinguished. Not until it decided to extinguish itself in any case.
I stood on the street corner, leaning back against the damp bricks on the grocer's shop, just outside the hazy circle of light from the nearby gaslamp under which a crowd of spectators had gathered to watch the spectacle. The spectators were wrapped in the precious few garments they owned, huddling close together against the chill night air. Most people in the East End had already heard of the fires and had come out to see them, waking their family and friends - if they were not already stirring - and leading them to any vantage point where they might view the flames. It was a form of amusement for them. A sick curiousity which drove them out in the early morning hours to watch as fires ripped through the dockyards - perhaps one of the few sources of amusement to be found in their otherwise wretched lives. They would talk about it for days, probably even visit what remained of the docks the first chance they got. That was the evil within them: their obsession with the evil of others, be it nature or man.
I had been out for some hours already, and had joined the crowds as I wandered through the busy, darkened roadways of the East End, searching. I'd stopped there, at the corner of Whitechapel Road and Osborn Street, to admire the inferno alongside the others - perhaps admiring it more so than the others. That magical dance! That display of ferocious evil! My gaze was transfixed upon the sight and sounds which brought such awe into all who saw it, and which demanded such ferocity as to set even the sky over the great city aglow with its Hellish hue. Such power - such destruction and freedom to do as pleased - was alive in those flames as they tore across the dockyards. In my eyes it seemed as nothing could stop those flames. They would continue to burn until satisfied they could burn no more.
A sharp wind whistled through the street. I turned up my collar, buring my chin into my chest. My hands sank into the pockets of my coat. With my fingers I anxiously gripped and stroked the newspaper which thinly veiled the long object buried within my jacket.
"It'll be morning a`fore that's out," stated a toothless rag of a woman cowering alongside me. I paid her little mind. She was not what I sought.
"There must be more than a hundred men there fightin' it," said the burly man. "Seems like they might be gettin' control of it by now at least."
"Nothing can stop the fire once it's started," I whispered, but nobody heard.
Another roar followed by a fifty foot tongue of blue flame sent a gurgle of awe over the crowd. My eyes smiled at the spectacle while my fingers continued to eagerly play with the package inside my jacket. A hush fell over the crowd as we watched the flames continue with their destructive dance.
It was at about this time that my eye caught the movement of a figure to my right. It was a small, unsteady figure, stumbling its away down the Whitechapel Road towards the crowd. As she drew nearer I saw it was a woman. At first I thought she might be injured, but realized it was merely the horrors of excessive drink which were upon her. A common sight. She reached out to the glistening bricks, keeping herself steady as she slowly approached, eyeing us with drunken fascination. At one point she stumbled forward, falling against the wall of a neighbouring building. A moment passed before she was able to pull herself back to her feet. Soon she was passing under the gaslight of the lamp, supporting herself against the grocer's shop against which I leaned. I continued to watch this poor creature as she stopped just short of me, weary and trying to maintain her balance. She was certainly in the worst condition, but took care to straighten her bonnet and adjust the reddish-brown ulster over her shoulders with its seven large, dull brass decorative buttons. With a wavering hand she brushed the creases from her shabby and stained linsey frock.
Wanting to make herself look good, I supposed, the corners of my mouth turning down as I watched her approach the crowd of bystanders. None had yet taken notice of her, their eyes still transfixed by the fire. My tongue flicked across my dry lips as I watched her move unsteadily toward the others, tilting her head as though she were interested in what had arrested everybody's attention. I think she took notice of the fires for the first time at that moment, for her grey eyes widened as she peered toward the south, then upward at the reddened sky. She seemed dazed by the sight for a moment. Then there was a movement from the small crowd, and another haggard and poor-looking woman wrapped in loose, dirty garments approached the drunken woman, placing her hands on her shoulders.
"Polly?" the woman from the crowd started.
The drunken woman immediately took notice of her. In a slightly slurred tone she asked, "Why Emily, is it you?"
"Yes. What are you doing out here? Where have you come from?"
Polly, the drunken woman, suddenly staggered, nearly falling to the pavement, but was supported by the other. Polly slapped her thigh in a distraught manner, shaking her head: "I've been at the Frying Pan most of the night, drinking. I have had my doss money three times today, and each time drank it away."
"You're out seeking trade then?" Emily asked in a low, concerned voice.
"I need money for a doss. I'll make one more attempt to earn a few pence, then I may have to return to Flowery Dean to share a bed with a man there. I don't want to, but if I don't then my night will be spent on the street."
As if to warn of that terrible possibility, a chill wind whistled through, forcing the drunken woman to pull her ulster tighter around her shoulders.
The bells of Whitechapel Church began to chime out through the narrow thoroughfares around the Whitechapel Road, indicating the half hour.
"It is now just two-thirty," Emily told her friend. "You're in no condition to be wandering the streets at this hour. Why not stay with me and sober up a bit? Watch the fires with me."
Polly turned her attention back to the spectacle of dancing flames. "Where is it?"
"The dry docks at Shadwell," Emily explained. "The gin warehouse ‘as gone up. Will you stay and watch them with me? I would feel much better."
Polly didn't immediately reply, but stood wavering on her unsteady feet, gazing southward along with the numerous other faces around her. Emily rested an arm around her shoulder, supporting her and holding her close.
I remained in the shadows, now standing erect and away from the wall of the grocer's shop. I kept my chin below my collar, my eyes gazing steadily from beneath the peak of my cap, watching the woman with deep fascination. My fingers now played excitedly at the package in my pocket. The woman was obviously a whore. A poor wretch, forced to hopelessly and desperately wander the streets in search of "trade" to earn the precious pennies needed to buy her a doss for the night, a cup of tea in the morning, and the bottle of gin needed to get her through the next day. She was another of those hopeless creatures, cast into the wilds of London's East End, earning her way through life day by day, not quitting until she had found the money to find her through to the next morning. A defenceless and weak animal with little to gain from life, and less to offer. I eyed her eagerly, my tongue flicking across my lips in anxious excitement. Deep inside me my heart stirred with each passing second that I watched her, my blood flowing fiercely.
The fire continued to rage.
The two women fell into conversation for several minutes, with Emily trying to convince her friend to stay with her, if only for a short while longer.
"I must soon be going," Polly said.
"Return with me to Thrawl Street," her friend insisted. "I'll talk to the deputy, and convince him to take you in for the night."
"He already kicked me out, saying I couldn't return unless I had my money. I'm afraid I must go and find it, or I'll never get my bed." She removed herself from her friend's grip and began to stagger eastward along the Whitechapel Road. She paused a moment, exclaiming over her shoulder, "It won't be long before I'm back!"
Emily, arms curled around herself, watched as her friend wandered out from the circle of gaslight, fading further and further into the surrounding shadows, disappearing down the far end of the dark thoroughfare. Then she quite abruptly forgot her friend, and her gaze returned to the spectacle of the fire.
I stared at the departing figure, now a ghostly shadow staggering slowly into the distance. My gaze, too, briefly shifted back to the raging flames, but soon I found myself peering into the darkness, once more finding the receding figure of the drunken woman. For the next few moments my eyes shifted between the two. In another instant I, too, was shuffling away, certain that nobody had seen me go.
I walked quickly onward, remaining to the left of the pavement, out of the occasional pools of gaslight, seeking comfort in the shadows of the rows of cottages and shops lining the pavement. Glancing to my right I could still see the red glow of the distant flames; straight ahead was the slowly moving figure of Polly. My pace quickened.
The woman made her way gingerly down Whitechapel Road, reaching out to the walls and lampposts to support herself before pushing onward in a staggering gait. It must have been more than twenty minutes later - well past three o'clock - before she reached the adjoining roadway of Baker's Row. Here she stopped under the light of a lamp. My pace slowed, and I pressed myself close to an adjacent wall. She seemed to be looking about, as if confused as to where she should go next. She cocked her head sideways, listening. One look back over her shoulder, as if contemplating returning to the distant crowd gathered near Osborn Street. Then she looked ahead again, and seemed prepared to move onward when she suddenly stumbled forward and fell sharply to the cobbled roadway. She lay unmoving for an instant, then began clamouring to her hands and knees.
Polly gave a soft, startled cry when I gripped her arm.
Her soft, grey eyes peered up at me, the wavering glow of the lamp illuminating us both. There was a flicker of uncertainty in her face, but as I helped her to her feet her lips trembled into a smile, revealing a mouthful of slightly discoloured teeth around the gaps of those that were already missing. In a drunken slur she thanked me for my assistance.
I muttered a response, eyeing her closely and eagerly. She would have been pretty at one time, her dark, delicate complexion worn thin and haggard by years of destitution so obvious in her dusty, shallow features. A small, long-healed scar was apparent on her creased forehead. I guessed she might have been in her middle thirties - maybe slightly older - attributing her greying hair to her life of hopeless struggle.
I could see that Polly was eyeing me carefully, her smile growing as she searched me up and down. I moved to the edge of the light's reach. She must have thought I was leaving because she quickly ran her hands over her shabby frocks and petticoats, as if straightening and brushing them clean in a desperate attempt to improve her appearance. She took great pride and care in assuring her bonnet was on properly.
"Do you like it?" she asked, noticing I was watching her.
"What?"
"My bonnet. Isn't it jolly? I just got it. It's straw, and trimmed with finest velvet - it's quite expensive."
I hesitated. "Yes, it looks pretty."
This remark really brightened her face as she fought to remain standing. "Why not come back into the light? You are a handsome man, aren't you?"
I did not answer. I didn't move into the light either.
Her smile faded at my silence and stillness, her eyes darting about while her hands continued to adjust her clothes. "Quite a chilly night," she started, making another attempt.
I nodded. "Yes it is."
"On your way to work then, are you?"
"No." I tried to smile, but my lips trembled.
"Oh." Polly looked to her feet. "Did you come out to see the fire then?"
Once more I turned my eyes from her, glancing past her toward the red glow over the dockyards.
"Yes, I see," she laughed. "Quite a sight. You know, the whole skies have been red over London these last three nights, and tonight it's made red again by the fires. Sort of eerie, isn't it?"
"I guess. I never noticed."
"A red sky must have meaning, wouldn't you say? Somebody at one of the lodging houses told me its was something to do with the atmosphere. Others see it as a warning."
I raised my eyebrows, interested. "A warning of what?"
She shrugged, wrapping her arms around her body against the cold. "Danger. Doom. War. A sign of a coming terror for London. Red is the colour of blood after all."
I made no response, and stood silently, staring at the woman with a blank expression.
Once more she managed a smile: "So, I see you're alone."
"I'm always alone," I replied.
"Out looking for company?"
I slowly nodded. "Perhaps. Yes."
"Looking for a lady then?"
I paused a moment, swallowing anxiously. In my pocket I gripped the newspaper- wrapped package, then nodded again. "Yes."
She came forward, reaching out her hands to me. I removed my hands from my pockets, taking hers. They were soft and frail, chilled with the cold. They felt like a dead woman's hands.
Without a further word we turned up Baker's Row, but had only gone a few yards before she stopped quite suddenly, listening. I, too, heard the heavy, pounding steps approaching over the pavement from an adjacent lane. Quickly we moved into the nearest doorway we could find, ducking into its thick wall of black shadow. She pressed her small, frail body against mine, her hands squeezing at me. The blood rushed through my body. I gritted my teeth.
Across the road we saw a figure emerge from the mouth of the street adjoining Baker's Row. It was a large, caped figure whose hob-nailed boots continued to tramp over the cobbles of the pavement as he turned south toward Whitechapel Road. In his hand swung a small lantern, its dim orange beam shining over the pavement and gutters before him. As he passed under a lamp I saw that he was a patrolling sergeant. He disappeared a moment later into Whitechapel Road, his footfalls echoing off into the distance.
Polly emerged from the doorway, pulling me after her.
"He won't be back for another fifteen minutes, so we'll get some privacy up here. Come along now."
She moved with quick, unsteady steps toward the mouth of a dark and narrow laneway. A sign mounted on the corner of one of the rows of buildings proclaimed it as Buck's Row. We disappeared down this desolate, cobbled street, lined with shadowed buildings with dozens of dark doorways which gaped horrifyingly at us as we made our way further along. Just ahead could be heard the clattering wheels of a train passing along the railway lines running beneath the street. It's whistle gave two shrill cries before it trembled off into the distance. Silence then fell over Buck's Row, with only our soft tread over the cobbles marking any activity within.
Ahead the laneway split around the large building of the London County Council Board School; we followed the left lane, walking onward for some yards further. My chest pounded with anticipation; my body stirred with fiery desire. To our left arose a series of hulking warehouses, and we stopped opposite one such place - the Essex Wharf - and sank to the right side of the street where there was a row of two-storey cottages.
Alongside the first in the row of cottages was a broad gateway leading into a stableyard. Here the light from the lamp at the far end of the laneway was very faint - almost non-existent. This is where Polly, still clasping my hand, pulled me, stopping against the gate. She was now nothing more than a shadowy figure amidst the darkness. I was very nervous and eager by now, and once more my right hand had slipped into my pocket where it gripped and fondled the package hidden within.
"Are you ready, dear?" Polly asked.
I swallowed nervously. "Yes."
"First, have you 4d for me?"
Promptly I handed her four pence which she tucked away in her skirts. She must have seen me tremble.
"Shy are we, dear?" she asked, gently stroking my sleeve. "Your first time, is it?"
"No, but it's never easy to get used to," I replied, my voice low.
She laughed. Her cackle seemed a little too loud for my preference. We were just below the windows of the first cottage, and that policeman was probably still close by. I looked nervously about, but nothing stirred in the windows above, or along the street.
Polly covered her mouth. "Sorry, deary," she said. "I'm not laughing at you."
"You wouldn't now, would you?" I muttered through gritted teeth.
She stared at me oddly for a moment, then gave her wicked, toothless grin.
"Want to start?" she asked.
I nodded, taking a deep breath and watching as she leaned forward, clutching the lower front of her skirts which she began to ease upward. I clenched my fingers, my body tense with excitement; beads of sweat formed along my brow. I watched as she lifted her skirts right up then prepared to brace herself against the gateway. She never expected the fierce blow that followed.
I smashed my fist across her right jaw, causing her to drop her skirts and stumble backward. I gave her no time to recover from her dazed stupor, seizing her throat in both hands and squeezing with all my strength, nearly burrowing my fingers right into her flesh. It took her several seconds to respond, but by then she was unable to cry for help. When she opened her mouth only soft gurgles of hopeless fear were released. Her bloodshot eyes bulged, staring at me with horror. Her hands came up, scratching at my sleeves, desperately trying to pull my hands free. It was useless. I was locked into a frenzy, sweating and shaking, licking my lips over the sensation of my fingers around her throat. Eagerly I watched the life slowly begin to pass from her wretched body. Her widened eyes turned upward slightly and the choking gurgles began to fade as her fingers relaxed on my sleeves before slipping away completely. Her very soul slipped away to Hell with them.
Even though I knew her to be dead I held her by the throat for a short time longer, savouring my empowerment over her. Then I eased the thing to the ground.
I laid her out like an animal in the market, once more reaching into my jacket. I quickly retrieved the package therein and unrolled it on the pavement beside me. I removed my knife, its seven inch blade shimmering like a tongue of flame as it reflected the distant glow of the gaslamp. Immediately I set to work.
Crouching alongside her right flank, I reached across her body, pressing the cold steel to her neck below the left ear. Holding her chin in my left hand I drew the blade slowly across, feeling the sensual ripping of her flesh and tissue, the thick blood oozing darkly and trailing behind the blade, spilling on to the stones beneath her. Having drawn the blade in a half-circle around the neck I drew it out, watching as it streamed with her blood before reaching back across and once more burying it deep into the left side of her throat, this time thrusting deeper and with greater ferocity. I could feel the end of the blade sawing into the bone of her neck, and for some moments I struggled, trying to cut through it so that the head might roll free. I wanted the pleasure of kicking it away. It was too difficult to cut. I was taking to long. I thought of the sergeant on his beat.
I withdrew the knife, and resting on my haunches I looked about, cocking my head for any sound of approaching steps. All was silent in Buck's Row.
My heart pounded with enormous excitement. Panting, I wiped the sweat from my brow with my left sleeve, then moved down by the feet of the woman, pushing her legs upward and out, slowly easing her skirts over her stomach and drawing down her stays and flannel drawers until her whole lower torso was exposed to me. Hesitating for a moment I then pressed my left hand to her skin, already going cold, and slowly and gently drew my fingers across her abdomen, and along her smooth, clean thighs. I drew my fingers across the mound between her thighs and through the tuft of coarse hair covering it before quickly pulling my hand back.
I glanced over my shoulder, then without further hesitation started into my business.
I plunged sharply into her, holding myself steady a moment so as to allow the sensation of the penetration warm itself through my veins. I gasped with deep satisfaction as my skin crawled warmly with excitement, then pulled the knife free and plunged it into her once more. I began on the left side; a long, jagged cut which ripped down through all the tissue. Her blood bubbled out warm and thick around the long, hard shaft of my blade as I worked it across her cold flesh. I quickly drew it free, not wanting my excitement to end too early. I took a moment to catch my breath, once again peering about and listening for any footfalls. The air was still. Overhead the sky continued to shimmer red with the glow of the raging fire. I thought of those dancing, destructive flames, and plunged my knife into her again, slicing down through the right side of her abdomen, three times in long, jagged slashes which seeped forth with her blood. I tried not to touch the blood. I only wanted to look at it; however, as I buried the blade deep inside her, some of it spilled on to my hand.
Quickly I pulled my hand back, at first startled by the sensation. Then I found myself gaping with great satisfaction as the slashes across her stomach split apart, her intestines bubbling to the surface, oozing forth more blood. I held the knife away from her body for a moment, my hand trembling with great arousal. I again looked about, then lowered the knife between her opened thighs, giving two swift, fierce stabs between her legs. A rush of deep, warm satisfaction filled me inside; my jaw gaped, a gasping moan escaping my throat. I leaned back from the body, peering over it in the dim light, watching as her warm blood trickled from her throat and the wounds to her torso, spilling on to the stones beneath her.
The sight was enormously gratifying. The wretch had been conquered - I had both dominated and destroyed her. A sense of relief now filled my veins as I continued to gaze over the work I had done. But there was still more to do! I needed a part of her to take with me - something to hold and fantasize over, if only for a little while.
Just then, however, footsteps started from the far eastern end of the laneway, and my sense of satisfaction turned into a sudden panic.
Lowering my knife I scrambled to my feet, snatching up the large sheet of newspaper. I wrapped up the knife before shoving it back into my jacket, and without further opportunity to peer over my work - to admire my conquest - I staggered back and turned on my heels, fleeing into the shadows of the night.
Disappearing down the opposite end of Buck's Row, I made sure nobody was about before heading back down to the Whitechapel Road. Soon I was watching the fire again. It burned so wickedly beneath that red sky, completely inextinguishable.
A similar fire burned within me. Inextinguishable. |
Jim DiPalma
Detective Sergeant
Username: Jimd
Post Number: 106
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, October 07, 2004 - 1:02 pm: |
|
Hi Ryan,
Was it Colin Wilson who once referred to the Ripper's work as "rape with a knife"? Your story captures that aspect of the Ripper's possible psychology very well indeed.
Very vivid imagery as well, gives the reader a sense of "you are there".
Very nise, as the man himself might say.
Jim |
Robert Charles Linford
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Robert
Post Number: 3168
Registered: 3-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, October 07, 2004 - 3:32 pm: |
|
Hi Ryan
Yes, I thought that was very good stuff indeed - told in great detail, and it even had a touch of black humour (Jack's nervous because it's his first time killing a prostitute). I liked the fire symbol too. The murders, like the fires, became entertainment.
Robert |
AP Wolf
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Apwolf
Post Number: 1382
Registered: 2-2003
| | Posted on Thursday, October 07, 2004 - 4:51 pm: |
|
I don't know Ryan, although I enjoyed the effort and much of the story - even though my gin burns a different colour - my final impression is that you were trying to breed giant pandas at Regent's Park zoo, and everyone knows that giant pandas don't breed at Regent's Park zoo, they do that sort of thing in China.
This is not harsh. Believe me.
I just never saw Jack getting any sort of pleasure or emotion from what he did.
It were just something that he did.
Like you would boil an egg.
Totally emotionless is how I would have this Jack.
But hey, we all see different things, and maybe you right. |
NC
Unregistered guest
| | Posted on Friday, October 08, 2004 - 12:53 am: |
|
Can't resist a challenge from Bob Hinton - be it several month ago. 60 words is tough!
The only good fing about walkin all these miles back from bloody Romford in the soakin rain is it giz ya time to fink. A bloke spends is last farving on that bitch the uvver night 'n she tells me to bugger orf when I tells 'er hows I really feel about er. She'll get it like the uvver two! |
ex PFC Euan Wintergreen
Unregistered guest
| | Posted on Monday, February 14, 2005 - 9:26 am: |
|
I just wrote this now, I hope you all like it.
JAX
William Bury was a large gruff looking man and when he slammed his glass down on the bar there was a considerable shake. “And another,” he sneered.
“Now Bury, you’ve really had quite a few, maybe it’s time you stopped,” said Vic the wise old barman
“No,” growled the tired merchant “I need all I can for my work tonight,”
“Oh,” said Vic mopping up the mess Bury had spilled “And what are you working on tonight that requires this much drink? You getting paid to piss on the homeless? Because I once considered that mysel-”
“No you old coot,” cried Bury “I’m gonna be out a murderin’ tonight,”
“Murdering?” queried Vic “Well you wanna be careful, you might be confused for that Jack the Ripper fellow,”
“I am that Jack the Ripper fellow,” barked Bury
“Oh well that’s alright then, if you get confused for him it won’t be such a miscarriage of justice,” smiled Vic.
“Greetings all!” sang the harmonic American voice of a large moustachioed fellow “A fair evening I must say, barkeep a tall glass of bourbon to be sent my way,”
“Ah Dr Tumblety,” said Vic to the man who just came in “Young Mr Bury here was telling me how he was Jack the Ripper, isn’t that right?”
“Yeah, and wacha gonna do about that yankee?” spat Bury
“Well I have to say I’m quite aghast at the suggestion,” admitted Tumblety “And I simply don’t believe you, you see it is I who is the real Jack the Ripper,”
“What!?” cried Bury angrily “Don’t be so bloody ridiculous!”
“I can’t be ridiculous,” remarked Tumblety “I am a doctor,”
“Well blow me down,” said Vic jovially “Two Jack the Rippers? I never thought I’d see the day,”
“Yes and you’re still yet to see it,” nodded Tumblety “There can only be one Ripper, this fellow here is just making it up,”
“I’m afraid you’re both making it up,” said a voice from behind Tumblety, both advocators turned to see an incredibly scruffy gentleman who had a definite pong about him. “I’m the real Jack the Ripper,”
“Who do you fink you are, you prick!” swore Bury
“Kosminski,” said the very man as he munched on a piece of bread he had previously wrestled off a rat “I’m Kosminski, and I’m barmy and I am the real Ripper and I’m off soon to slice some whores up good and proper,”
“What do you mean off soon?” cried Tumblety “You’ve got a good few hours before you have to strike,”
“Nah,” said Kosminski “I’m off to Berner Street in about ten minutes,”
“Berner Street?” cried Tumblety “Jack the Ripper’s not going to Berner Street, he’s going to Mitre Square next!”
“No,” cried Kosminski “He might do that later but first it’s off to a cosy little spot called Dutfield’s yard,”
“He’s right actually,” said a weedy ineffectual man with sleeked black hair who up to that point had sat quietly on the other side of the bar “Berner Street is the next spot for Jack,”
“Yeah,” cried Kosminski
“But I don’t want to upset anyone,” said the weed “But it’s me who is Jack, I’m MacNaughton’s number one suspect,”
“Oh it’s Druitt I suppose?” cried Bury “Well listen here Monty, Jack was a big bastard, how could a pissy little guy like you kill a whore?”
“That’s why I get them drunk,” said Druitt “Even George Hutchinson said that Jack was unlikely to harm another man,”
“Yeah but to be fair I did make the whole thing up,” said George Hutchison as he walked up beside Druitt “You see I’m the Ripper,”
“No, no I’ve always believed your story to the utmost word,” smiled a newcomer who was dressed rather well. “You see I’m the toff you saw,”
“No I’m the toff!” cried Tumblety
“Oh please,” said Kosminski as he gnawed on the wood of the bar “You’re fifty-five, way over the hill to be Jack.”
“Well quite,” said the newcomer “But I have proof I’m this Ripper you talk about, you see I’ve been writing this diary.”
“Is this you?” cried Tumblety taking the book from the man’s hands “James Maybick? There’s not even any dates for these references! It could be set at any stage of the year!”
“I’m just not a dates person,” said James
“Well this is a fine pickle,” smiled Vic “Fancy all those Rippers,” he walked down to the end of the bar and addressed the two men at the end. “Another cherry, gentlemen?”
The two men who had been quietly conversing looked up at Vic. “Oh yes, thank you very much,” said the younger of the two. They waited for Vic to leave again before returning to their conversation.
“Okay so it’s settled,” said the older gentleman “Elizabeth Stride will be the next one,”
“Yes,” cried the younger “How dare that bitch spread those rumours about me?”
“Okay I’ll meet you back here in about ten minutes,” said the ancient getting up to leave.
“Wait where are you going?” asked the young man
“I’m to kill Elizabeth Stride like we said,”
“You’re gonna….? I’m the one that’s going to kill Stride,” said the impatient younger man.
“But your majesty, you can’t do it, I’m the Ripper,”
“Don’t be a fool Sir Gull,” cried the Duke of Clarence “I obviously the Ripper, everyone knows that he’s about my age,”
“Yes but you have no anatomical knowledge,” pleaded Gull
“There’s no proof to suggest that Jack does,”
“Of course he does!”
“I agree with the Duke,” said Joseph Barnett popping into the conversation.
“Come on fellahs it’s brand spankingly obvious,” said Dr Neil Cream in explanation to Druitt and Hutchinson “I’m a doctor and a murderer, what more do you want?”
“But you’re in prison right now in Chicago,” said Hutchinson “You can’t possibly be Jack,”
“Well some experts believe I had a double in Whitechapel at the time,” smiled Cream
“Doesn’t that still mean that it can’t be you?” pointed out the ever observant Druitt
“Hi,” said a stranger who breezed up to the bar “Just a pint thanks,”
“Well actually there’s a special on tonight,’ explained Vic “If you’re Jack the Ripper you get the first pint free,”
“Really?” said the man “Because it’s quite funny that you mention that. You see I’m Jack the Ripper,”
“Well be sure to tell all your friends about it,” smiled Vic.
“I recognise you,” snarled Tumblety “Sickert isn’t it?”
“Yeah you’re quite right,” smiled Sickert “And who are you?”
“Dr Francis J. Tumblety, and don’t you be forgetting the “Dr”,” sneered Tumblety “Now are you the Masonic conspiracy Sickert or the Patricia Cornwell Sickert?”
“Yeah because either way you can piss off,” murmured Bury
“Well as of this moment, I’m the Patricia Cornwell Sickert,” smiled Sickert “I’ve been DNA tested and everything,”
“Yes well the Patricia Cornwell Sickert belongs in the realms of fiction,” said Kosminski
“Oh dear,” said Patricia Cornwell’s Sickert and he disappeared in a puff of fantasy.
“DNA testing,” shivered Kosminski “How pop-cultural-ish,”
“Aaron Kosminski I presume?” said another one
“Yes and you?”
“Nathan Kaminsky,” smiled the very same man “I believe there’s been a bit of a mix-up,”
“So I suppose if you’re going to be Jack the Ripper tonight,” said Hutchinson “You’ll be cutting off the ears,”
“I haven’t quite decided what I’ll be cutting up,” said Druitt “But I could be,”
“Right because when I, being Jack the Ripper in all, sent a letter to the Central News Agency I said I’d be sending the cops the ears,” bragged Hutchinson. “If you don’t know that you can’t possibly be the Ripper,”
“Balderdash!” cried Tumblety from across the room “There’s no proof that that letter is genuine! Tom Bulling wrote it!”
“No it was me!” cried Hutchinson “And you can tell, cos Catharine Eddowes does have her ears cut off!”
“But they were never sent to the police!” yelled Tumblety
“Well maybe I lost them, or ate them or something,”
“Okay!” cried Tumblety standing up on a table “I want a show of hands, of all the Jack the Rippers here, who sent the Dear Boss letter of the 27th of September?”
Six hands shot up.
“I said out of the Jack the Rippers, Bulling,”
“Oh sorry,” said Tom Bulling pulling his hand back down.
“Alright,” Tumblety continued “And out of the Rippers, who didn’t send it?”
He counted thirty-eight.
“Screw all this,” muttered the surly Bury “I’m off,”
“Where are you going?” queried Tumblety
“To kill a prossie,”
“You mean Stride?” cried the “Doctor” “But that’s impossible, it has nothing to do with Jack,”
“Well follow me and I’ll show you how much it has to do with him,” said Bury and he left the pub.
“Alright then,” said Tumblety and he followed after. Slowly another forty-one men and one woman filed out behind them. All of them chatting amongst themselves.
“So what are your thoughts on Martha Tabram?” asked Hutchinson.
“Well I never cancel her out completely,” said Kosminski “But I’m careful about how inclusive I get with her,”
Vic wiped the bar down and after butting Tom Bulling out onto the street he locked the door to his public house and blew out the candles. “What a crazy night indeed,” said he.
Then he grabbed a piece of chalk and ran out onto the streets.
Euan
|
Chris Scott
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Chris
Post Number: 1892
Registered: 4-2003
| | Posted on Friday, April 08, 2005 - 12:01 pm: |
|
Hi all
Thought this story (not one of mine!) might be of interest -
http://www.bewrite.net/modules.php?name=News&file=article&sid=1664
The title and author are:
Mary's Story by Andrew J. Müller |
Suzi Hanney
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Suzi
Post Number: 2309
Registered: 7-2003
| | Posted on Sunday, April 10, 2005 - 4:54 pm: |
|
Oh God Just re- picked this old Chestnut ('Ello Mrs P!) again ... sorry NC has to be done!.....ok 60 words
.......
Dear Boss,
From the start things started to go wrong,
First I fell over a tarpaulin in Bucks Row and had to have a few days off.Dallied in the Bells and along Hanbury street only to be turned down again..Should never have gone 'clubbing ' twice in a night,Then..was that door set or locked?
Yours truly
59 (I think!) or close!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Suzix |
Natalie Severn
Assistant Commissioner
Username: Severn
Post Number: 2636
Registered: 11-2003
| | Posted on Tuesday, November 22, 2005 - 5:16 pm: |
|
It was a dark night,the fourth day of the new moon.
Outside it was still raining and bitterly cold.
Inside the room the only light was from a fire in the grate and it was beginning to fade so that the walls of the tiny room seemed to be closing in around this solitary couple.
The girl lay in front of a young man,she was quite still ,her long hair falling from her face like shafts of shadowy silk.
He looked at her for a while,her flesh was still warm...but with no trace of a heartbeat! She looked young and very still.
Plump wrists, pale skin.
Just a young man and woman , alone together in the quiet of the night.
He glanced over at the fire-might need to get it going a bit soon.Get some proper light.
He took off his shirt and began.
______________________________________
Mary Kelly was found later that day,November 9th 1888, mutilated beyond recognition.There was little evidence of struggle and no evidence of sexual activity.
No one ever found her killer but it was believed she was the fifth victim of Jack the ripper.
_________________________________________
Just trying to imagine a scene of such intense intimacy and shocking carnage.
Natalie |
|
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