Original Fiction: let the madame of the house know - it's mister ripper calling
let the madame of the house know - it’s mister ripper calling
If you are lucky enough to even warrant curiosity, stand straight, stand tall. Shoulders back, press them into the wall. If you’re parched, so be it. Mr. Arnold prefers a dry, quiet mouth; best for choking sounds, the blokes from ships say.
original fiction; victorian hookers, matthew arnold, and your friend jack.
1335 words, r
for falseeeyelashes.
notes at the end.
she's not a girl who misses much.
(the beatles) happiness is a warm gun
They used to say if Mr. Arnold comes to call, you best have a few rules.
Betsy sings about the third: no name, no name.
They go to church.
-
The first, if you will -
If you are lucky enough to even warrant curiosity, stand straight, stand tall. Shoulders back, press them into the wall. If you’re parched, so be it. Mr. Arnold prefers a dry, quiet mouth; best for choking sounds, the blokes from ships say.
Your eyes must stay forward.
-
Betsy remains at nineteen. As a small and sullen girl, she loses the virility of the saying, a bonnie lass no more. Her hair takes to fading quickly. And her eyes, to the dark, narrow and slip. It’s quite a poetic charge, she thinks most days, a ghost for all these walls of the city.
“He saw you,” Maggie May is whispering excitedly.
Her mouth turns up, her teeth stained with glue. Yellow and bold, Betsy looks away. It’s an awful sight, but she supposes, when they can, it’s better than eating rats. But her knees are clean, her dress waving from side to side. Ma’ma used to use pretty fabrics. Golds and greens, reds and skinning blues; to match yer eyes, she’d laugh, the potatoes running thin.
Maggie grips her hand. “See.”
But Betsy isn’t paying attention. Head back. Look severe. These English brats really have a curious need for the alteration of social graces. So she picks to the wall, counting the bricks and the wetness and the pieces of shite, if lacking anything else to do. It’s getting colder, the sky swallowing the rest of the day and she finds herself slowing the moment.
“Here he comes.”
-
The second, if you will -
If you are lucky enough to even warrant such curiosity, keep clean. A good girl checks for stains along her mouth ever so often.
Lips are meant to be soft, spoken less and less of. You are to open wide most of the time, still and keep to position. Mr. Arnold is a poet, but a man and men, as he sees fit to tell you, will grunt and roll their hips.
If the cause shall come, and it will, be sure to open your mouth a little wider. The motion of thrusting forward might shock you a bit, just a bit, but steady your hands against your thighs. If soft palms are a concern, do not fret, this is why your dress should still fold over your knees.
-
He’s a married man.
“Your name?”
Betsy ducks at the charity in his mouth. There’s curt daze slipping over his eyes, as if he’s not here, here with the rest of them. A horn sounds. There’s a round of boys cheering street antics.
She keeps a mouth, steady. “I have none, sir.”
-
The third is the most important.
Abide by this.
If you are lucky enough to warrant such curiosity, you have, above all, no name. You are no one but a corner with a means of surviving. If he wants you to know every roach, you will know every roach. If you are to recite the sea of faith with closed eyes, follow a conspicuous blow with, again, the sea of faith was once, too, at full and round the earth’s shore.
He will laugh and you stay safe, a doll.
-
The room, at once, is brighter than she remembers.
Her gaze drops around the stains on the curtains, white roses under yellow and lace. She’s uncomfortable. He can tell; she’s sure, this happened twice the last time.
Betsy moves, a good soul, to the edge of the bed and sits. Her hands fold together, palm to palm, and she stares blankly straight ahead. There’s a rustle, her eyes almost close, and she listens to the zipper up, zipper down.
The string of words never make sense to her, but they spill as always. If. Then. You. And I. She supposes he’s a man that frowns too often, a man of school and words; it’s the times, you know, and girls of Betsy’s stature are suppose to ignore this. But her curiosities are often too much.
“Down,” he says.
Now, of course.
Her lips part slowly, the ample breath of oh lighting the room. He’s closer and she smells the incense and the wife. Oh, ave maria and she’s missing Mum and the dead as he brushes the tip of his cock against her lips. An experiment, the other girls used to giggle.
“Good,” he breathes.
-
There is a fourth and fifth rule, should you make it this far.
If you are lucky enough to even warrant such curiosity, do not answer any questions.
Laugh, if you will, giggle and fold; tell the man, he’s ohsobig and you cannot wait. Tell him that he can save your soul, nurture you instead of his wife. But if anything, if there should even arise;
do not answer the questions.
-
“You’re quiet,” he says.
“I’m fine,” she shakes her head, faking a turn of a smile.
The room is dark. The sheets stay slicked with sweat. There’s blood again, she’s sure, between her thighs and across her stomach. She feels the thumbs of his hands still, pressed right and straight against her throat.
But this is a great man, she tells herself, a sad man and lost. Rationalizing it is what Betsy has left, not the how or why or maybe even, this and where it came to be. His kind is supposed to save them all. But her stomach churns and she peeks to the ceiling, listening to the moans and whispers that swallow them.
His fingers brush her stomach and her eyes close, following them down to her thighs. He shifts closer, his mouth pressed against her throat. There is a saint, you know, a saint of throats and flames and oh the Irish, the good ones and the old ones, a song for years. She sways and he’s muttering about again, his hand against her thigh. There are nails and you and i sinners and brooks and god as his thumb skips a mark.
His laugh simmers.
“Are you safe?”
-
For the fifth rule, irony must commend you.
There have been others, he is such a curious man with a curious idea of the heart. You know his schools are empty and you know, for him, they’ll stay that way.
However, if you are lucky enough to even warrant such curiosity - and please, do consider this for charge - walk straight and never look back.
-
“They were going they were going to call me Jack,” sighs the poet.
Betsy shies away from the long form of her customer, not the poet, and rubs her eyes too quick for chance. Something smears against her hands, but she has no attention. On goes her dress. On follows her boots. Her cross stays and sways between her breasts; she’s lucky, a Catholic or so she lies, and Mr. Arnold has let her pass yet again, another time.
Her teeth press into her lip. Skirt. The skin starts to peel. A swallow, she burns her throat; Betsy rises away from her knees, straying to think about a place to stay. There are other girls for now and she reaches, quietly for a thin coat.
Be good, be wise: “Jack’s a strong name, sir.”
He laughs softly.
-
For early April, the paperboy wants a spot of money.
“Master Arnold died, you know,” he whispers, “Heart failure.”
There will be a boy too, you know. Betsy and her rules, life arranging to pay off. She is never completely off the streets, but he might try to save her, buy her a pint and some bread. Kiss her forehead and shake a little, the word of Christ, Betsy-dear as she tries not to smile.
He will be kind, of course, and never a poet.
Betsy frowns, cold for April, and pulls her cloak a little tighter.
It’s August, really, when they start sharing Jack.
(she’s known all along; the other girls whimper louder)
-
a scramble -
matthew arnold, forever the bane of my existence and yours, wrote dover beach from which the lines about the sea of faith come about. he died at 66 on the 15th of april due to heart failure. a few months later, jack the ripper started hanging out with the hookers.
you decide. *g*
If you are lucky enough to even warrant curiosity, stand straight, stand tall. Shoulders back, press them into the wall. If you’re parched, so be it. Mr. Arnold prefers a dry, quiet mouth; best for choking sounds, the blokes from ships say.
original fiction; victorian hookers, matthew arnold, and your friend jack.
1335 words, r
for falseeeyelashes.
notes at the end.
she's not a girl who misses much.
(the beatles) happiness is a warm gun
They used to say if Mr. Arnold comes to call, you best have a few rules.
Betsy sings about the third: no name, no name.
They go to church.
-
The first, if you will -
If you are lucky enough to even warrant curiosity, stand straight, stand tall. Shoulders back, press them into the wall. If you’re parched, so be it. Mr. Arnold prefers a dry, quiet mouth; best for choking sounds, the blokes from ships say.
Your eyes must stay forward.
-
Betsy remains at nineteen. As a small and sullen girl, she loses the virility of the saying, a bonnie lass no more. Her hair takes to fading quickly. And her eyes, to the dark, narrow and slip. It’s quite a poetic charge, she thinks most days, a ghost for all these walls of the city.
“He saw you,” Maggie May is whispering excitedly.
Her mouth turns up, her teeth stained with glue. Yellow and bold, Betsy looks away. It’s an awful sight, but she supposes, when they can, it’s better than eating rats. But her knees are clean, her dress waving from side to side. Ma’ma used to use pretty fabrics. Golds and greens, reds and skinning blues; to match yer eyes, she’d laugh, the potatoes running thin.
Maggie grips her hand. “See.”
But Betsy isn’t paying attention. Head back. Look severe. These English brats really have a curious need for the alteration of social graces. So she picks to the wall, counting the bricks and the wetness and the pieces of shite, if lacking anything else to do. It’s getting colder, the sky swallowing the rest of the day and she finds herself slowing the moment.
“Here he comes.”
-
The second, if you will -
If you are lucky enough to even warrant such curiosity, keep clean. A good girl checks for stains along her mouth ever so often.
Lips are meant to be soft, spoken less and less of. You are to open wide most of the time, still and keep to position. Mr. Arnold is a poet, but a man and men, as he sees fit to tell you, will grunt and roll their hips.
If the cause shall come, and it will, be sure to open your mouth a little wider. The motion of thrusting forward might shock you a bit, just a bit, but steady your hands against your thighs. If soft palms are a concern, do not fret, this is why your dress should still fold over your knees.
-
He’s a married man.
“Your name?”
Betsy ducks at the charity in his mouth. There’s curt daze slipping over his eyes, as if he’s not here, here with the rest of them. A horn sounds. There’s a round of boys cheering street antics.
She keeps a mouth, steady. “I have none, sir.”
-
The third is the most important.
Abide by this.
If you are lucky enough to warrant such curiosity, you have, above all, no name. You are no one but a corner with a means of surviving. If he wants you to know every roach, you will know every roach. If you are to recite the sea of faith with closed eyes, follow a conspicuous blow with, again, the sea of faith was once, too, at full and round the earth’s shore.
He will laugh and you stay safe, a doll.
-
The room, at once, is brighter than she remembers.
Her gaze drops around the stains on the curtains, white roses under yellow and lace. She’s uncomfortable. He can tell; she’s sure, this happened twice the last time.
Betsy moves, a good soul, to the edge of the bed and sits. Her hands fold together, palm to palm, and she stares blankly straight ahead. There’s a rustle, her eyes almost close, and she listens to the zipper up, zipper down.
The string of words never make sense to her, but they spill as always. If. Then. You. And I. She supposes he’s a man that frowns too often, a man of school and words; it’s the times, you know, and girls of Betsy’s stature are suppose to ignore this. But her curiosities are often too much.
“Down,” he says.
Now, of course.
Her lips part slowly, the ample breath of oh lighting the room. He’s closer and she smells the incense and the wife. Oh, ave maria and she’s missing Mum and the dead as he brushes the tip of his cock against her lips. An experiment, the other girls used to giggle.
“Good,” he breathes.
-
There is a fourth and fifth rule, should you make it this far.
If you are lucky enough to even warrant such curiosity, do not answer any questions.
Laugh, if you will, giggle and fold; tell the man, he’s ohsobig and you cannot wait. Tell him that he can save your soul, nurture you instead of his wife. But if anything, if there should even arise;
do not answer the questions.
-
“You’re quiet,” he says.
“I’m fine,” she shakes her head, faking a turn of a smile.
The room is dark. The sheets stay slicked with sweat. There’s blood again, she’s sure, between her thighs and across her stomach. She feels the thumbs of his hands still, pressed right and straight against her throat.
But this is a great man, she tells herself, a sad man and lost. Rationalizing it is what Betsy has left, not the how or why or maybe even, this and where it came to be. His kind is supposed to save them all. But her stomach churns and she peeks to the ceiling, listening to the moans and whispers that swallow them.
His fingers brush her stomach and her eyes close, following them down to her thighs. He shifts closer, his mouth pressed against her throat. There is a saint, you know, a saint of throats and flames and oh the Irish, the good ones and the old ones, a song for years. She sways and he’s muttering about again, his hand against her thigh. There are nails and you and i sinners and brooks and god as his thumb skips a mark.
His laugh simmers.
“Are you safe?”
-
For the fifth rule, irony must commend you.
There have been others, he is such a curious man with a curious idea of the heart. You know his schools are empty and you know, for him, they’ll stay that way.
However, if you are lucky enough to even warrant such curiosity - and please, do consider this for charge - walk straight and never look back.
-
“They were going they were going to call me Jack,” sighs the poet.
Betsy shies away from the long form of her customer, not the poet, and rubs her eyes too quick for chance. Something smears against her hands, but she has no attention. On goes her dress. On follows her boots. Her cross stays and sways between her breasts; she’s lucky, a Catholic or so she lies, and Mr. Arnold has let her pass yet again, another time.
Her teeth press into her lip. Skirt. The skin starts to peel. A swallow, she burns her throat; Betsy rises away from her knees, straying to think about a place to stay. There are other girls for now and she reaches, quietly for a thin coat.
Be good, be wise: “Jack’s a strong name, sir.”
He laughs softly.
-
For early April, the paperboy wants a spot of money.
“Master Arnold died, you know,” he whispers, “Heart failure.”
There will be a boy too, you know. Betsy and her rules, life arranging to pay off. She is never completely off the streets, but he might try to save her, buy her a pint and some bread. Kiss her forehead and shake a little, the word of Christ, Betsy-dear as she tries not to smile.
He will be kind, of course, and never a poet.
Betsy frowns, cold for April, and pulls her cloak a little tighter.
It’s August, really, when they start sharing Jack.
(she’s known all along; the other girls whimper louder)
-
a scramble -
matthew arnold, forever the bane of my existence and yours, wrote dover beach from which the lines about the sea of faith come about. he died at 66 on the 15th of april due to heart failure. a few months later, jack the ripper started hanging out with the hookers.
you decide. *g*