Jack the Ripper

 

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Jack: They called it murder but I called it art.

I lurked in the shadows, waiting  for the perfect moment to pounce.  The bevy of beautiful women I selected as specimens were perhaps unsuspecting of my talents.  The good people of London were unsuspecting as well. Yet as that month of September, 1888 passed, after I had skillfully managed to dissect and disembowel four women, leaving their remains to decorate Whitechapel  like human canvasses, it occurred to me; the locals now had great expectations of my work.  I had become a skilled artist in the medium of human flesh.

Why did I do it? Ah, I am quite sure the gentlemen at Scotland Yard would love to know the answer to that. Why indeed? I did it with purpose!  It was sublime and beautiful, this sight of torn flesh.  The rushing scarlet that trickled from their necks as I first pricked my knife. The red river that flowed across their clavicles.  Once the blood began to pour I was insatiable in my creation.  Like a painter’s brush I wielded my dagger, deeper and deeper until I hit solid bone. I could not stop till I’d sliced their torsos clean open.

 

 

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Friend, Foe, or Otherwise?

 

haunted-castle public domain

The wind whipped steady at my door                                                                                                       and the floor                                                                                                                                                   creaked like dead wood. Warped. Rotted in                                                                                              sodden gray light

miasma from a                                                                                                                                     chasm, ringing night sweats.  “Friend, foe, or otherwise?” I murmured to the                            darkness. No answer.                                                                                                                         Silence grinding  a place                                                                                                                  where Poe’s  raven would have been welcome. Dark wings                                                               or anything                                                                                                                                                     I could see.

But no. This guest of a ghost                                                                                                             trickster, lights flickering dim.                                                                                                               And yet.

I welcomed it.

The old house no longer empty.

ghost-of-the-renaissance public domain

This poem is in response to the Daily Prompt Guest