The Fiend  (Prose Poem) 

Whitechapel District 1888.

He came out of the foggy night
With a vengeance,
His knife gleaming
Beneath the yellow gaslight.

Wearing a top hat and long cloak
He waited patiently in the alleyway
For the whore to pass by
Ah, there she is, he thought, alone and tottering
From  cheap drink.

His beady grey eyes glared at her
The whore that had given him
The incurable disease
He knew he was rotting
And he vowed to take out as many whores
As possible before he died

She draws nearer and nearer
Click! Click!
Her shoes clicking on the wet
sidewalk.

He took in a deep breath as
His gloved hand tightened
On knife’s handle

As she came abreast
He reached out and grabbed
Her by the throat and pulled her into
The dark recesses of the alleyway
Her stockened feet kicked the empty air

She tried to scream but it was too late
With a deft stroke he slit her throat.
She fell heavily on the filthy ground

Her warm blood splashing around in streams
As he began to mutilate her as he did the
Other three – gutting them expertly
From pubis to throat in frenzied madness.
He took out her intestines and began
Caressing it, delighting in the gurgling sounds
it made as he ripped it out of the body cavity

The foul deed done. His breath gasping
From his unholy exertions
He disappeared into the foggy night
Jack the Ripper had struck again!

Post Script: Jack The Ripper was never caught and speculations as to his identity goes on even onto this day.