So I have started my English/Creative writing degree now, and I will be posting the poems and stories that I am asked to write. This is a story wherein I tried to use the Victorian Literature style and collide it with Shakespearian texts. It is a little bit of fun for the readers.
Poetry is a detestable art, but Wordsworth’s gripe about nature is completely comprehensible. In 1886, the world was always too busy to stop and gander at Earth’s fruits and playgrounds. Very rarely, if ever, would we pull ourselves from grey factories to soak up awe-inspiring browns, greens and blues. In an age where cities saucily pillaged the Earth to erect stone monoliths, few idyllic resorts remained. Each morrow, after grey day succumbed to charcoal night, the Island would resume to clunk and hiss ever on.
It was one such day, whilst the hazy echo of a nights gin overindulgence thumped my brain, that I took the short yomp to Hemel. Would it that I alone populated these patchwork stretches I would have remained unaltered. But I was not alone.
Upon a sandy rock sat a thin cloaked man. A wooden handled scythe, with a silvery blade, lay upon the hugging heather beneath the jutting stone. I marked his garb tattered and fragrant of spoiled milk, was odd and antiquated. His body seemed racked with shivers. The shudders were in fact sobs. Each sob like a hiccup, juddered violently from his body. Awkwardly, for it would not be prudent to engage in the emotions of another, I attempted to slink by. Briefly I pondered within which effeminate pansy garden this beardless waif left his pride.
I was not stealthy for upon approaching the cretin, his head momentarily turned. His face was enshrouded in shadow, and a skeletal hand dabbed a square of white silk into the silhouette which housed his eyes. The figure cut an alien cipher against the serendipitous backdrop; I felt compelled to challenge his anxiety.
“Lo,” I greeted. “What ails you friend?”
“Oh,” a grating whimper replied. “Tis naught, and thank thee for thy cautious enquiry.” I was unaccustomed to his manner, however, compulsion bade me question further.
“But Sir,” I began, “You spoil a summer's day by spilling tears.”
“Sir, tis naught to ail thee. Thine concern is not wherefore I weep, thy quarries be not mine.”
“Pardon sir?” Unabashed was I at how his speech perplexed me.
“Oh,” the whelp moaned.
“Ah,” I concurred.
“If I reveal mine tale, thee would mark me liar and brigand, so I wouldst bid thee farewell.” After careful thought and articulate dissection I replied.
“Oh,” he groaned, “Oh.”
“Speak then,” I ejaculated, “Or hold your peace as I stroll.”
“Tis only that I tire of my occupation. Eternally must I wield this infernal device. Evermore tis my duty to harvest departed souls.” His statement required consideration, so I subtly frowned against the warm breeze.
“Sir I advise you should partake of less laudenum. Farewell sir.” Moving over the yellowing embers of summer I made to leave. The man removed his sack-like hood. I beheld a horror, for beneath a green hairless pate, and above jaundiced lips, two straw eyes glimmered in the depths of two vacuous holes. His nose merely a dangling peach strip of sinew, may not have smelt his own fetid stench. Hallucination, as sure it was, left me frozen.
“Fear not, the bell tolls not for thee.” I finally understood.
“Pray,” I laughed, “For what has Death to be sorrowful?”
“I am not Death. Merely a minion of the reaper. Death is too busy to be a singular entity. I am eternally bade to wield to carry the scythe for my transgression. I was once, a master of quill and stage.”
“What was this heinous crime?” I was transfixed by this imagined creature.
“I ordered the death of a peer, Marlowe he was named, a man of infinite jest.” A deep chord of recognition within was struck at his name. I pursued the topic further.
“For this you are to play reaper?”
“Aye,” he sighed.
“So,” I began tentatively, “Whose soul is next?”
“Ha, there is a mistake. Caesar expired centuries ago.” My hallucination was malfunctioning, the chronology failing.
“Ah, in the eternal world, time is subjective. It is a mere destination, not a linear line. Just prior to this moment I endured the irksome soul of Socrates.”
“He questioned overmuch.”
“Don’t you start.” The reaper shuffled his bony frame upon the dusty rock. “Prior to that, an Austrian, a killer of many Jews. He walked exaggerated, as a lame goose caricature might. Prior to that, an effeminate Canadian bard who is to play reaper for crimes against art. Eternally, in torturous lament must he impress a Beauty and a Beat upon withered souls.”
The hallucination spontaneously wept, “Tis a torrid affair to see fear yet be disallowed quill to chronicle or recreate.”
So today, I stand above the spent and drained figure of Mary Nichols, contemplating the marvellous and interesting figures that I am predestined to interview. The dark cobbles of Whitechapel behold my legacy, and with a million ethereal questions I push a grape into my mouth before walking forth in the tepid summers night.