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is the working title of a piece of vaguely ripper-based fiction i too am unfortunately toying with inflicting upon the world in general, and JtR afficianados in particular. here is a little (rather obvious) taster, if anyone is interested.
all the best,
'arry
The East is Red (or: Poor Polly)
See this. It is 3.20 a.m. on Friday August 31, 1888. A short, stout, shadowy figure teeters down Buck’s Row – a dark, drab lane crammed between sleeping cottages and dank industrial buildings. She is heading East, as if drawn by a dull but insistent glow expanding across the sky: a red promise of warmth, maybe even solace, on such a dismal night. Yet it is too early for dawn: this is not the red of the rising sun, a fisherman’s warning – this is the bright flare of night flames consuming Shadwell Dry Dock, which is blazing, steadfastly being consumed by fire, in spite of the steady, cold rain and the efforts of sweat-drenched men, stripped to the waist, straining every wiry sinew with heavy buckets and hoses. An inviting crimson flare spreads across the heavens, as if the sun had suddenly remembered its summer duties at long last, and was flaring up in a final, cheerful, mistimed swansong to make amends for the long, lousy months of chill and rain. 1888: the wettest summer anyone can remember. Even the hop-picking was rotten this year.
The air is chilled, in spite of the glow, and our little figure, huddled over and hugging her sides, would shiver were it not for the remnants of gin still just about warming her guts, and dulling her senses. Swerving around the biggest puddles – the damp still seeps through the holes in her boots and threadbare stockings – she totters and staggers onward. But where? The Roebuck, at the end of the street, is closed, its windows black but for the dirty reflections of ruddy flames licking at the heavens. There will be no more gin tonight. And no lodging neither, unless she can find some doss money soon. Her new black bonnet hasn’t brought her much luck. It is so quiet tonight. Everyone tucked up in bed, hiding from the dismal weather. And she is heading away from the streets more likely to throw up a rewarding rendezvous at this late hour.
To add insult to injury, a wind gets up and starts tugging at the flimsy bonnet, flinging the tatty black ribbons up into her face then lashing them back down, tangling them around her neck. She pulls her shawl tighter, fighting to stay upright in the bitter squals. Water seeps up over her ankles. This narrow, pitted street used to be Ducking Pond Lane, and the ghosts of drowned witches and dead Jews from the nearby burial ground clutch at her, dragging her down, trying to hold her here, make her share their miserable fates: rotting away, forgotten, in the soggy ground for all eternity. It’s enough to give anyone the shivers, and now she does. Quickening her pace, she ignores the puddles now – plunging straight through them, she heads pell-mell for the light and the warmth of the red sky in the East; she looks up, a russet glow washes over her, briefly giving her back the apple-cheeked complexion of a country girl, promising something: warmth and comfort or hellfire and destruction, it matters little to her now – she bows her head and rushes headlong into the wind, as it huffs and puffs and tries to blow her back down the street. Back to Whitechapel, to the dosshouses, to the cold and the damp and the aches and the pains and the moaning and the misery, the struggle and the strife, the toothless mouths that scold and the drooling mouths that leer, the calloused hands that grab and the clammy hands that paw, the little knocks and buffets, the moments of reprieve and the relentless grinding degredation... But suddenly, bang! What’s this? It is no longer the wind that impedes her progress, but a solid, warm, unyielding presence, a broad physical being, flesh blood and muscle, barring her way: a veritable Titan standing here, astride the narrow pavement, shutting off the plucking wind. She lifts her eyes to meet a dark face, rough – or maybe just rugged, it is hard to say in this flickering darkness – shadowed by a peaked cap, surrounded by a glaring halo of deep, dark red; dark eyes that seem to smoulder in their black recesses; a cragged mouth that opens in a crooked, yellow-toothed smile below a straggly moustache. She straightens her back and looks coyly into those deep, dark, shadowy eyes. “Hello luvvy. You startled me. Where you going to, this late? Ain’t no weather to be out in, is it?” She reaches out, placing her small hand on the broad chest, playfully toying with a button hanging loosely from the dark coat. “Someone should sew that back on.” The crooked smile broadens. The eyes blaze. The red sky in the east explodes, sending rivers of red blazing down all the wet streets and lanes, avenues and malls of this godforsaken city. Red rivers run. Even the mighty River shall run. Run red. Rivers of blood.
all the best,
'arry
The East is Red (or: Poor Polly)
See this. It is 3.20 a.m. on Friday August 31, 1888. A short, stout, shadowy figure teeters down Buck’s Row – a dark, drab lane crammed between sleeping cottages and dank industrial buildings. She is heading East, as if drawn by a dull but insistent glow expanding across the sky: a red promise of warmth, maybe even solace, on such a dismal night. Yet it is too early for dawn: this is not the red of the rising sun, a fisherman’s warning – this is the bright flare of night flames consuming Shadwell Dry Dock, which is blazing, steadfastly being consumed by fire, in spite of the steady, cold rain and the efforts of sweat-drenched men, stripped to the waist, straining every wiry sinew with heavy buckets and hoses. An inviting crimson flare spreads across the heavens, as if the sun had suddenly remembered its summer duties at long last, and was flaring up in a final, cheerful, mistimed swansong to make amends for the long, lousy months of chill and rain. 1888: the wettest summer anyone can remember. Even the hop-picking was rotten this year.
The air is chilled, in spite of the glow, and our little figure, huddled over and hugging her sides, would shiver were it not for the remnants of gin still just about warming her guts, and dulling her senses. Swerving around the biggest puddles – the damp still seeps through the holes in her boots and threadbare stockings – she totters and staggers onward. But where? The Roebuck, at the end of the street, is closed, its windows black but for the dirty reflections of ruddy flames licking at the heavens. There will be no more gin tonight. And no lodging neither, unless she can find some doss money soon. Her new black bonnet hasn’t brought her much luck. It is so quiet tonight. Everyone tucked up in bed, hiding from the dismal weather. And she is heading away from the streets more likely to throw up a rewarding rendezvous at this late hour.
To add insult to injury, a wind gets up and starts tugging at the flimsy bonnet, flinging the tatty black ribbons up into her face then lashing them back down, tangling them around her neck. She pulls her shawl tighter, fighting to stay upright in the bitter squals. Water seeps up over her ankles. This narrow, pitted street used to be Ducking Pond Lane, and the ghosts of drowned witches and dead Jews from the nearby burial ground clutch at her, dragging her down, trying to hold her here, make her share their miserable fates: rotting away, forgotten, in the soggy ground for all eternity. It’s enough to give anyone the shivers, and now she does. Quickening her pace, she ignores the puddles now – plunging straight through them, she heads pell-mell for the light and the warmth of the red sky in the East; she looks up, a russet glow washes over her, briefly giving her back the apple-cheeked complexion of a country girl, promising something: warmth and comfort or hellfire and destruction, it matters little to her now – she bows her head and rushes headlong into the wind, as it huffs and puffs and tries to blow her back down the street. Back to Whitechapel, to the dosshouses, to the cold and the damp and the aches and the pains and the moaning and the misery, the struggle and the strife, the toothless mouths that scold and the drooling mouths that leer, the calloused hands that grab and the clammy hands that paw, the little knocks and buffets, the moments of reprieve and the relentless grinding degredation... But suddenly, bang! What’s this? It is no longer the wind that impedes her progress, but a solid, warm, unyielding presence, a broad physical being, flesh blood and muscle, barring her way: a veritable Titan standing here, astride the narrow pavement, shutting off the plucking wind. She lifts her eyes to meet a dark face, rough – or maybe just rugged, it is hard to say in this flickering darkness – shadowed by a peaked cap, surrounded by a glaring halo of deep, dark red; dark eyes that seem to smoulder in their black recesses; a cragged mouth that opens in a crooked, yellow-toothed smile below a straggly moustache. She straightens her back and looks coyly into those deep, dark, shadowy eyes. “Hello luvvy. You startled me. Where you going to, this late? Ain’t no weather to be out in, is it?” She reaches out, placing her small hand on the broad chest, playfully toying with a button hanging loosely from the dark coat. “Someone should sew that back on.” The crooked smile broadens. The eyes blaze. The red sky in the east explodes, sending rivers of red blazing down all the wet streets and lanes, avenues and malls of this godforsaken city. Red rivers run. Even the mighty River shall run. Run red. Rivers of blood.
Thanks Ruby! The end is, in a way, just the beginning of course.
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