WriterJosh
Well-Known Member
I seek opinion yet again. I hesitated to post this because I'm pretty new to these boards and yet have already put two posts up for review. I don't want people to get tired of seeing my name on these posts.
But, I do want to know something specific about this one. This is a short story, and it stars two people of my own invention, however, in these 1200 words, neither character appears, and the "star" is only given mention. I feel like I could cut some stuff here, or possibly introduce the character a little earlier (he's the Professor Ketterly brought up in the third section).
This board has always been good at pointing out where my weaknesses are, so I'd love to know what you think of this.
The horse did not move an inch. The figure astride it seemed to hunch in the saddle. The rider stared down the dark, quiet street.
A distant whistle sounded as a steam engine puffed its way north west from Fenchurch to Moorgate. As the last piping note faded, the air lay heavy with unnatural silence. Commercial Street was shrouded with a thick layer of fog. Hutchinson could barely see his own hands in front of his face, let alone the spectral shape of the rider and his strangely unmoving horse.
He passed by a man standing on the corner of Commercial and Thrawl. Hutchinson kept walking. He would not let himself be bothered by either stranger tonight.
By the light of a gas lamp, he saw young Miss Mary coming his way. She was humming to herself.
“Mr. Hutchinson!” she called. Hutchinson lifted his face and smiled at her. “Can you lend me sixpence?” Inwardly, he groaned. The last of his money had been squandered in Romford. He sadly explained this to Mary.
“Good morning, then,” she said. “I must go and find some money.” He shook his head at her retreating figure. Whatever she could need money for at this hour of the day couldn’t be good, but he decided it didn’t concern him.
Just as he was about to turn back in his original direction, Hutchinson saw the stranger at the corner of Thrawl Street step from the darkness and call to Mary. From what he saw, the man did not belong here. No laborer he; the man was dressed in astrakhan, a soft felt hat covering his thick dark hair and a pair of aviator goggles over his eyes. They did little to hide his appearance. Bushy brows, pale skin, hook of a nose. An aviator?
Mary made nice almost immediately with the stranger, who murmured to her too low for Hutchinson to hear. After a moment they strolled off, arm in arm.
Hutchinson was saddened by this, and a trifle disgusted. Miss Mary was a pretty thing. She could have herself a fine man, if she could ever pull herself out of her squalor and become a fine woman. He turned and headed for his flat. In the distance, he heard three clanging tones of a clock.
The figure on horseback suddenly shifted position. The horse beneath him sprang to life in a screech and clank of old gears. A dull roar sounded from the beast, and a cloud of vapor rose from its muzzle. The mechanical mount and its gaunt, eerie rider began a slow, methodical trot down Commercial Street. The rider held something large and oddly shaped beneath his arm. In the mist, Hutchinson thought he saw the glint of eyes on the object. He decided great haste was required.
He never saw Mary Kelly again.
“And you’re certain of what you saw?” asked the Inspector, smoothing his whiskers. The Kelly girl was the seventh murdered in this fashion. He was slowly growing beyond exhausted.
“More than certain!” said the stout woman. “I’ll never forget that horrible face!”
Abberline’s brow creased. A year ago, he would have dismissed this Prater woman as either lying or insane, but now he paused and wondered. Of the last six deaths, twice prior a figure similar to the one Elizabeth Prater was describing had been glimpsed, but never observed so openly.
“This means I’ll be next, don’t it?” she was wailing. “All my life I been taught you ain’t supposed t’look ‘im in the eye! That means he come for you next!”
“I somehow doubt this…apparition is responsible for the crime,” said Abberline. “Isn’t that right, Dr. Phillips?”
“Aye,” said the stocky physician. “The, ehrm, body, was in bad shape, to be sure, but it appears a common slash to the throat what done the poor lass in.”
Abberline frowned. The body had been in abysmal condition. The girl had been disemboweled, her breasts sliced off, her right arm partially severed, and her genitalia removed. Just like the other six. Clearly the work of a madman, but could he leap to the notion of this fantastic creature?
“…Safe?” Prater was asking.
“Pardon?” Abberline had been drifting in reverie.
“I said, are we safe, Inspector?” Prater still sounded near hysteria, but now also seemed a trifle annoyed.
“I daresay ‘safe’ is not a word I would use to describe the Whitechapel area as a whole at the moment,” said Abberline. “But all the same, try to put this from your mind. Stay indoors tonight, lock your doors, latch your windows, and heed no noises. I should advise your neighbors of the same.”
Without waiting for her reply, Abberline returned to the steam-carriage. Lowering his motoring goggles into place, he fired the ignition and blared the whistle. He guided the carriage to H Division Precinct.
“You cannot seriously be suggesting what I think you’re suggesting,” said Arnold, coughing as he waved away the smoke from his calabash.
“I would not have mentioned his name if I did not think his services were warranted.” Abberline stood solemnly before the superintendent’s desk.
Arnold rose and frowned at the Inspector. “Out of the question,” he said. “We are not in the business of employing frauds at H Division. Perhaps you became too accustomed to not having your methods questioned at Whitehall or the yard, Inspector, but here we practice genuine police work.”
“Professor Ketterly is no fraud,” said Abberline. “He comes with recommendations from Oxford and Cambridge, and is a celebrated member of the British Order of Alchemists.”
“The British order of…!” sputtered Arnold. He stood and paced to the window and back to his desk as he spoke. “We shan’t explore my opinion of the esteemed Order of Charlatans. Godley, tell the good Inspector that we simply cannot tolerate…”
“In point of fact, sir,” said Godley, rising from his chair. “The professor has a solid reputation in numerous past cases. His methods might be…unconventional, to be sure, but I would hardly call him a fraud or a charlatan. And as the Inspector has observed, it is not merely the Prater woman who saw this apparition.”
“Yes, well, Whitechapel is renowned for its lushingtons and opium-addled dollymops! Who can trust their word? Are we to believe our murderer is a ghost?”
“I’m not certain the being described is our suspect,” said Abberline. “But there does appear to be a connection. As to what, I admit that this falls outside my purview. That is why I believe it would be prudent to retain the good professor to investigate this matter. The principle case would remain with H Division, but it would be folly to ignore such a striking connection.”
“Folly,” repeated Arnold. “Folly is what I face from my seconded chief Inspector. Nonetheless, Abberline, if I’m unable to put a cap on this foolishness, then hire the fellow. And be it on your head.”
But, I do want to know something specific about this one. This is a short story, and it stars two people of my own invention, however, in these 1200 words, neither character appears, and the "star" is only given mention. I feel like I could cut some stuff here, or possibly introduce the character a little earlier (he's the Professor Ketterly brought up in the third section).
This board has always been good at pointing out where my weaknesses are, so I'd love to know what you think of this.
Comes a Dark Horseman
A figure on horseback stood at the far east end of the street, silent and shrouded by billowing clouds of steam. There was something wrong with his appearance, but George Hutchinson did not wish to stare too long. He only wanted to get inside before the rain started.
The horse did not move an inch. The figure astride it seemed to hunch in the saddle. The rider stared down the dark, quiet street.
A distant whistle sounded as a steam engine puffed its way north west from Fenchurch to Moorgate. As the last piping note faded, the air lay heavy with unnatural silence. Commercial Street was shrouded with a thick layer of fog. Hutchinson could barely see his own hands in front of his face, let alone the spectral shape of the rider and his strangely unmoving horse.
He passed by a man standing on the corner of Commercial and Thrawl. Hutchinson kept walking. He would not let himself be bothered by either stranger tonight.
By the light of a gas lamp, he saw young Miss Mary coming his way. She was humming to herself.
“Mr. Hutchinson!” she called. Hutchinson lifted his face and smiled at her. “Can you lend me sixpence?” Inwardly, he groaned. The last of his money had been squandered in Romford. He sadly explained this to Mary.
“Good morning, then,” she said. “I must go and find some money.” He shook his head at her retreating figure. Whatever she could need money for at this hour of the day couldn’t be good, but he decided it didn’t concern him.
Just as he was about to turn back in his original direction, Hutchinson saw the stranger at the corner of Thrawl Street step from the darkness and call to Mary. From what he saw, the man did not belong here. No laborer he; the man was dressed in astrakhan, a soft felt hat covering his thick dark hair and a pair of aviator goggles over his eyes. They did little to hide his appearance. Bushy brows, pale skin, hook of a nose. An aviator?
Mary made nice almost immediately with the stranger, who murmured to her too low for Hutchinson to hear. After a moment they strolled off, arm in arm.
Hutchinson was saddened by this, and a trifle disgusted. Miss Mary was a pretty thing. She could have herself a fine man, if she could ever pull herself out of her squalor and become a fine woman. He turned and headed for his flat. In the distance, he heard three clanging tones of a clock.
The figure on horseback suddenly shifted position. The horse beneath him sprang to life in a screech and clank of old gears. A dull roar sounded from the beast, and a cloud of vapor rose from its muzzle. The mechanical mount and its gaunt, eerie rider began a slow, methodical trot down Commercial Street. The rider held something large and oddly shaped beneath his arm. In the mist, Hutchinson thought he saw the glint of eyes on the object. He decided great haste was required.
He never saw Mary Kelly again.
#
“More than certain!” said the stout woman. “I’ll never forget that horrible face!”
Abberline’s brow creased. A year ago, he would have dismissed this Prater woman as either lying or insane, but now he paused and wondered. Of the last six deaths, twice prior a figure similar to the one Elizabeth Prater was describing had been glimpsed, but never observed so openly.
“This means I’ll be next, don’t it?” she was wailing. “All my life I been taught you ain’t supposed t’look ‘im in the eye! That means he come for you next!”
“I somehow doubt this…apparition is responsible for the crime,” said Abberline. “Isn’t that right, Dr. Phillips?”
“Aye,” said the stocky physician. “The, ehrm, body, was in bad shape, to be sure, but it appears a common slash to the throat what done the poor lass in.”
Abberline frowned. The body had been in abysmal condition. The girl had been disemboweled, her breasts sliced off, her right arm partially severed, and her genitalia removed. Just like the other six. Clearly the work of a madman, but could he leap to the notion of this fantastic creature?
“…Safe?” Prater was asking.
“Pardon?” Abberline had been drifting in reverie.
“I said, are we safe, Inspector?” Prater still sounded near hysteria, but now also seemed a trifle annoyed.
“I daresay ‘safe’ is not a word I would use to describe the Whitechapel area as a whole at the moment,” said Abberline. “But all the same, try to put this from your mind. Stay indoors tonight, lock your doors, latch your windows, and heed no noises. I should advise your neighbors of the same.”
Without waiting for her reply, Abberline returned to the steam-carriage. Lowering his motoring goggles into place, he fired the ignition and blared the whistle. He guided the carriage to H Division Precinct.
#
“I would not have mentioned his name if I did not think his services were warranted.” Abberline stood solemnly before the superintendent’s desk.
Arnold rose and frowned at the Inspector. “Out of the question,” he said. “We are not in the business of employing frauds at H Division. Perhaps you became too accustomed to not having your methods questioned at Whitehall or the yard, Inspector, but here we practice genuine police work.”
“Professor Ketterly is no fraud,” said Abberline. “He comes with recommendations from Oxford and Cambridge, and is a celebrated member of the British Order of Alchemists.”
“The British order of…!” sputtered Arnold. He stood and paced to the window and back to his desk as he spoke. “We shan’t explore my opinion of the esteemed Order of Charlatans. Godley, tell the good Inspector that we simply cannot tolerate…”
“In point of fact, sir,” said Godley, rising from his chair. “The professor has a solid reputation in numerous past cases. His methods might be…unconventional, to be sure, but I would hardly call him a fraud or a charlatan. And as the Inspector has observed, it is not merely the Prater woman who saw this apparition.”
“Yes, well, Whitechapel is renowned for its lushingtons and opium-addled dollymops! Who can trust their word? Are we to believe our murderer is a ghost?”
“I’m not certain the being described is our suspect,” said Abberline. “But there does appear to be a connection. As to what, I admit that this falls outside my purview. That is why I believe it would be prudent to retain the good professor to investigate this matter. The principle case would remain with H Division, but it would be folly to ignore such a striking connection.”
“Folly,” repeated Arnold. “Folly is what I face from my seconded chief Inspector. Nonetheless, Abberline, if I’m unable to put a cap on this foolishness, then hire the fellow. And be it on your head.”
