Author’s note:
I have many, many stories on my desk and my laptop, and I think it’s time to start gradually releasing them into the world. It terrifies me, but I realise that as much as I like writing stories, people like reading them.
As for short stories, I’ve never been much of a fan of writing them, since there is only so much immersion that a writer can indulge in. But over the past few months I realised that they were great ways to practice my writing.
So in honour of this, here is the first short story that I am choosing to share. It was published in The Rome Review, and is a retelling of Jack the Ripper. You see, we never did find out who exactly this notorious serial killer was. This reimagines the murderer, and is rooted in real-life cases that littered the streets of London. I hope you enjoy it.
- maariya
It was deep into the night when they all finally settled down at the tavern. The sun had set that day without celebration, with scarcely a noise. Sombre clouds and a red horizon still hung over the dusty, sultry streets of Whitechapel. The night was soft as a poem and the company as demanding as one.
A piece of paper, battered, folded, stained, was slammed onto the oak table by a callused hand. That hand had worked many days, had been scarred, bruised, burnt, had fought, had caressed his daughter, had won many a card game, and now, it gestured angrily.
“He’s taunting us,” one of the men snarled.
George - or Jack or Arthur or James, whatever guise he was in the mood for, really - was the first to reach over. The other men watched as he pried open the letter, seeing it busy with scribbles. “A letter?” He asked indulgently.
The other men shot him looks. He tried not to smile and took a swig of the beer that had been placed in front of him sloppily by a tired waitress. His company’s impatience and desperation leaked from them and he had to resist the urge to bask in it. He began to read aloud. “I know you look for me,” he started, scarcely resisting the urge to shoot the company another smile. “I work by night and watch as you scour for me by day…” A pause. “Good God, whoever wrote this had horrendous writing.”
“Can you shut the hell up with your jokes for once and please read?”
“It isn’t his fault he doesn’t know how,” one of the other men heckled.
“Give it here,” the one next to him grumbled, tearing it from his hands before he could protest. He continued to read it in his gruff monotone.
George had heard the letter countless times. It was cunning and relentless, entirely playful. Its handwriting - the insouciance of the strokes, the blotches of black ink - leaked with brutality and, worse: power.