My first attempt at second person, but I hope it’s not *too* bad. Yet another attempt at experimenting with writing styles from last summer. As I said, a first attempt at second person, so don’t bash on me too much if it sucks ass, please? Also, the title is predictable and lame, I know, but I was paying more attention to getting this little experimental paragraph down instead of making a title and I really don’t have any ideas.
A thick, crimson liquid with an intoxicating smell of iron, invading your nostrils and giving a very, very slight taste off into your mouth. You attempt to not give in to the temptation, red as a forbidden fruit, unable to deny that there is a growing, sickening hunger spreading through your stomach as if a disease, desire running through your body as if it were a plague. You know not what to do, albeit knowing what it is you lust for more than anything else in your world. You cringe with your aching need, your body arching, twisting, and trembling with a peculiar sensation. The scent provides you with a guilty arousal, and all hesitation in your mind and heart leaves your thoughts. As you circle your piercing canines with a slick tongue, you cut your eyes and imagine the savory flavor pouring down your throat. You inwardly scoff, taking position. You now know you are a disgusting, horrific creature. Now bite.
Just a very short story I wrote months ago, testing out different writing styles, about the Ripper, when I was doing my research on the case. It’s not very good, but I like it enough to post it up here, I guess. I’d like to show my progress to SOMEONE, anyways.
It was yet another normal night of autumn in London, 1888 at a lovely little pub we call The Ten Bells. Whitechapel was filled to the brim with gossip and terror surrounding the horrific murders that had been unsolved since the beginning. You were a very attractive man, clean-cut with fair hair and skin, dressed in a gentleman’s clothing and a top hat. Your eyes filled with good intentions, a smile so sweet it could perhaps sweep anyone, man or woman, off of their feet and into the heavens above us. You took a swig of your drink, swallowing it smooth and steady, as you very joyfully conversed with a woman, beautiful with thick hair as black as the heart of the Ripper himself. She winked an eye, giggling with quite the feminine appeal as she batted thick eyelashes towards you. You winked a clear, richly coloured eye at the harlot whom we knew as Black Mary in response to her pass, crossing your legs as she twirled her hair over a thin, lithe finger. I watched absent-mindedly as you bit your lip, whispering to her in a hushed, excited tone, grinning mischievously as you exited The Ten Bells arm-in-arm. I had heard not the ringing bells of a magnificent church’s cold funeral that night at The Ten Bells, as I should have heard in the depths of my mind, the chambers of my heart. I know not your true name, but I know your face, Jack, and I let you walk into the streets that night with a heart of black.