I can’t write descriptions. Well, not as well as I’d like to.

Okay, picture this: there’s this Victorian era park, with a lamp post shimmering gloomy, yellow light on a bench underneath it. The bench is a work of art: It is made of wrought iron and mahogany. A woman sits in an elegant gown and a black and blue hairnet. She sits there, smoking a cigarette. The year is 1888. The location is London. Cholera and consumption are widespread in the city and the only people out and about at this ungodly hour were either prostitutes or lepers. The woman with the elegant gown, she’s a whore, to put it bluntly. she’s waiting for a chariot to arrive; a chariot belonging to a wealthy nobleman (there’s nothing noble about him save for his ancestral roots); a chariot that picks her up from this same bench periodically every Wednesday night.

Dense mist surrounds her and the lamp post, giving off the eeriest aura to passerby’s, if any. Let’s just for the sake of the danse macabre say that there are no passerby’s. She is alone, in the middle of the night, sitting on a wooden bench underneath the lamp post, next to a gravel pavement.

The woman shivers, sensing something creep in the shadows. The grass leaves flutter for the minutest second, giving away the secrecy of the entity treading ever so lightly on them. Even demons leave footprints.

Her cigarette falls to the ground, the burning end of it lighting the hem of her dress on fire ever so gradually. But she doesn’t notice that, nope. The woman is sure she heard a sinister laugh in the dark. The lamplight flickered. She looked up at it, with terror rising in her chest in the form of a scream. A scream she would never get to scream.

She turns her head around almost instinctively and sees a dark figure, brooding over her, uncomfortably close to her. He has no face, or if he has any, its hidden by his top hat.

“Who’re you Mister?” is all she manages to say before the figure takes out a blade out of his sleeve and splits her throat open, gushing out all her blood on the pavement. Her trachea lies ripped apart beside her. Her eyes, growing lifeless by the millisecond, see the gruesome sight of her trachea throbbing like a heart.

Next morning’s newspaper would have the headline: “JACK THE RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN!”


Now that we’ve done that exercise, I wanted to tell you that I feel like didn’t do the description any good. I should have been more detailed. There was horseshit piled right next to the lamp post, where the chariots stopped every half an hour.

I skipped all the important details about the goddamn pavement. And I cannot for the life of me, paint a decent picture of it, no matter how I try. I guess, I should trust in the reader’s imagination to fill in the colors in the blank areas by himself.