The other day while suffering through adds on Hulu, I caught a statement that struck me to the heart. It was "one day you will put your child down for the last time and not even know it." 
Just thinking about that made my heart ache, so I poured my pain into the following poem, made up of haikus:

Grown

Up into my arms,
Your weight settled, face alight,
Eyes dancing with fireflies.

I kissed your forehead
And held you tight to my chest
Like part of myself.

You fought me, laughing,
As if you truly wanted 
Me to let you go.

You looked up at me
And placed your hand on my cheek;
I let my guard down. 

My grip on you slipped,
Grinning like a small devil,
You sought your freedom.

When did you grow up,
Learn everything that I know,
And all that I don’t?

You leaped from my arms,
I didn’t know this was the last time
​I would hold my child.

Mist curled around Thomas Bond's grime spattered boots, but it shied away from his hands, smeared with sticky red as they were. The London vapors also avoided the two misshapen piles on the street in front of him. It was like the restless souls of the city had coalesced in the air to watch and rebuke him. He would call it an ill omen, but those thoughts were reserved for folk who still cared, who still saw the gap between sin and salvation. Thomas couldn’t see that gap… not anymore. His hands trembled as he watched the blood drip from the tips of his fingers.

    … will find my observations, concerning the connections between the three cases you assigned me, on the other papers contained herein. All three of the victims in question sustained eerily similar mutilations. My conclusions are disturbing at best. I do not wish to imagine the agony these women undoubtedly suffered as they expired. The parallels to the other two cases I brought to your attention earlier are more tenuous. Although I see alarming correlations, I cannot give a definitive answer at this time. I give further explanation in my reports.

Thomas paused in his letter to the inspector. How much more information could he give without becoming too involved? He wanted his name left out of this, at least for now. He glanced over his notes and observations once more and nodded in satisfaction. After scribbling an injunction for the inspector to keep him in the loop, he signed the letter and rolled it together with the reports. He stood, grabbed his coat and bag, and checked his pocket watch. The ticking hands read 8:15; time was running short. With hurried strides, he left his office for the front desk.

Once in the atrium, he left his papers on the desk with a note for the clerk to have a runner dispatched with the papers in the morning. He exited the building quickly then and hailed a passing cab as it trundled along the cobbles outside. The carriage slowed to a stop nearby as the driver tightened the reins and set the brake.

“I’m almost off me shift. Ho’ far ya going?” the coachman asked angrily.

“Miller’s Court, off Dorset street.”

The coachman spit onto the street and gave Thomas an open glare. “I can’t take ya tha’ far. Tha’s all the way over by Whitechapel, tha’ is. Me shift is nearly done. ‘Sides, nothing goods been happenin’ over there of late. Some say there’s a Ripper taken ‘em righ’ off the street.”

Thomas ignored the warning. “I would compensate you for your troubles.” He produced a wad of rolled bills and held it up.

The man’s eyes widened ever so slightly at the money. He glanced around then snatched the payment and shoved it deep into his coat pocket. “All righ’ then, in ya go.”

He climbed into the coach, which leapt immediately into motion as the door shut. Thomas watched the gas lamps flicker in the growing mist as the coach swayed and bounced along the uneven London streets. Midnight. He must be in position before midnight, or the entire day would be wasted.

The coach stopped in the middle of Dorset street long enough for Thomas to clamber out and shut the door behind him. The coachman tipped his hat and snapped the reins to get the horses moving again. They clopped loudly down the street as Thomas began walking into Whitechapel. He checked his watch again: 10:15. Good. He had time to disappear.

Whitechapel lay in a grim twilight. The flickering light from the gas lamps barely managed to cut through the thick smog. On other streets, more important streets, arc lights seemed to all but ignore the vapor as their industrial bulbs nearly burned the mist out of the air. But Jack the Ripper did not hunt near the arc lights, and Jack was why Thomas was in Whitechapel.

Near the center of the district, he spotted an alley between two tall buildings. It was long and dark. Perfect. He glanced around, and, spotting no curious eyes, he merged into the dank darkness, moving quietly. Just inside the mouth of the alley, but far enough to be out of reach of the weak light from the gas lamps, Thomas found a deep recess in the architecture of one of the buildings. He ducked into it and leaned back out to check his view of the rest of the alley. Satisfied, he settled in for a long wait in the dark.

As the cold finally numbed Thomas’s toes and threatened to begin eating through his coat, a muffled giggle echoed off the smooth walls. He started and moved to watch the opening to the street. Indistinct voices reached his ears through the darkness. His heart pulsed in his neck as he waited, muscles tense. Three brutal murders in Whitechapel, five if you listened to the papers, over the last three months. But that didn’t stop the east enders from walking the streets at night. It probably should.

Two figures, arm in arm, passed the mouth of the alley. Thomas reached for the knife in his bag, but the figures did not turn into the darkness of the unlit side passage. He relaxed and leaned back against the wall, calming his heart with slow steady breaths. The air around him felt charged with energy. Something was going to change tonight; he could feel it.

A shadow passed silently by him in the alley. He nearly yelled out but caught himself. Soft footfalls and the swish of loose cloth came to him now. He smelled a strawberry perfume mingling with the musty smell of mold and mildew from the alley. She was still too close, so he waited for her to move farther into the darkness. More footfalls, heavier this time, warned him of another approaching body. He willed the night to enclose him, not that it listened, as the newcomer slunk past. Thomas saw the man’s broad shoulders and Top Hat even in the gloom. The stranger held a long, slim object in front of him.
​
Thomas slipped his hand into his bag and gripped the knife as he waited for the two figures to move just far enough into the alley. He wondered idly how much blood the alleys of London had seen through the ages. Probably more than enough; how much more would it take before the city broke? The alley refused to answer his thoughts, so he held the knife tightly in his hand and crept out to follow a fresh trail.

Too late. Thomas lowered his quaking hands and looked at the bodies. He was a surgeon, this shouldn’t bother him. But it did. He had tried to prevent this. Hadn’t he? Tried to fix Whitechapel. In the end, his efforts didn’t matter. He was too late. Too late for the girl with the strawberry perfume, too late for the man in the Top Hat, and too late to help Thomas Bonds. He turned away from the bodies and quickly vanished in the mists as he hurried home. He realized now that it had always been too late to help anyone.



Thoughts: This short story was born out of necessity. I was participating in a teacher training, putting together an intensive unit for my eleventh grade English classes. I wanted my students to experience the wonder of creative writing while completing an assignment they had never even come close to before; hence came the historical fiction unit. The only problem was that I couldn't find any free and appropriate historical fiction shorts stories to show my students as the core text. 

It wasn't long before I simply decided to write my own exemplar text. We read "A Whitechapel Night" early on in the unit, and I have students research all the details to see how much I actually altered the story. They always find some interesting tidbits related to my story that I didn't know before, like Thomas Bond's mental issues and suicide later in life. My favorite moment of the reading is when they are discussing whether Thomas is meant to be Jack the Ripper or not, and I promise to tell them the answer the next day after they do a bit of research on their own. Someone always asks me how I know the answer. 

"Well, I wrote it," I say.

After a moment of silence, their eyes go wide and their mouths drop. Even though I have some of my published books sitting at the front of the class, they still can't believe their teacher wrote this story. I am still not sure if that is flattering or insulting.

So, do you want to know what I intended for Thomas in the story?

As I tell my students, I don't know. I wanted to leave the mystery of the story ambiguous, even for myself. The plot comes close to showing that Thomas could be Jack the Ripper, but it is never explicit and other options exist. Thomas could just as easily be a vigilante, since in real life he was a proponent of behavioral science and investigation. So, when I wrote it, I forced myself not to decide. I know, the students hate that answer, too.

I still enjoy reading this story. I hope you did as well. 

Thanks for reading!
Zach Larson
Author at Living Words Press

Have a question you want to ask? Leave a comment below or email me at Zach@livingwordspress.com. I want to know what type of post you would like to see from me next.

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Flavius dies, tossing handfuls of shredded paper across the stage like blood spewing from a severed artery. The shards scatter slowly in the silence.

Brutus and his fellows conspire to kill Caesar, their friend and leader. As they discuss their bloody deed, they each grab a section of the script itself and twist it in their hands; each crumpled piece molding itself into a personalized blade, the pen and the sword together as one.

The conspirators surround the great Caesar, paper daggers held behind their backs. Quick as snakes, they stab him, rending his body literally with his own words. 

That was it, watching an adaptation of Julius Caesar, the moment I knew what my next book had to be about, the power of life directly correlated to story, to words on the page. I spent the rest of the day running the scenarios in my head until a new plot solidified and began playing itself out every time I closed my eyes. Just like my tagline states, words have power, they grow and change; they are living. But how important is story, anyway? Do words hold any tangible power over us, or are they only as influential as the latest hashtag?

When I was very young, I slept in bed beside my great grandma Ruby. She was already gravely old then, with wispy white hair and shriveled legs that could barely hold up her frail body. I remember vaguely the oxygen tube always draped over her ears and that she loved a bowl of bread and milk (which I have tried and cannot recommend). My fonder memories are of her stories. I asked, nearly every night, for a new story as we lay in bed. Grandma Ruby would think for a while as I attempted to wait patiently. Finally, she would breathe deeply and begin:

Jonny and Jimmy were tired of playing inside all day, so they begged their mother to let them go play outside by the pond. 
“Yes,” she said, “but be careful.” 
“We will,” and off they would trot, with old tom cat following closely behind them... 

Jonny and Jimmy played out a new scenario almost every night. I can’t even remember ever hearing the same story more than once, but I loved hearing them no matter how long I had to wait. Those nights of childhood fancy cemented in my heart a love for story that has only strengthened with the years.

Oral traditions predate any extensive writing by millennia. Any major events or learning in ancient history had to be passed down verbally between the generations. Modern language experts have studied societies with oral traditions extensively to understand just how such long form memorization can take place accurately. What they found were repetitive mnemonic devices and typical scenes that could be played out over and over again with the recorded information. Basically, they realized what ancient people already knew, our brains are hard-wired to remember specific story structures, so repeating those structures in formulaic ways allowed for long form memorization. Think epics like the Iliad and the Odyssey which were each hundreds of lines in length but were passed down to impart history, folklore, and tradition. Even the Bible has oral tradition attached to it with some scholars attributing a musical rhythm to dots on the original Hebrew versions of the text. Even Jesus taught in parables because we seem to remember stories over almost anything else. 

Fast forward to today and consider for a moment the practical applications of words. We sign contracts and consider them binding by law because the right words have been used; in fact, for much of history a handshake was the binding seal over oral contracts between two parties. Two words obligate you in marriage; your signature proclaims your approval; prayers reach through space to connect you directly with God; words make or break friendships faster than I can sniff out a pizza coming through the door; a buzz from your phone lets you know there are words to experience and you must do so right now; and one slip up on your fast food order gets you the small instead of the much needed large. It's all a word-spiracy, man! 

In his TED talk, “Why a good book is a secret door,” Mac Barnett discusses the power of a story to break the divider between fiction and reality. He wants a book to be a secret door that opens and allows the fiction to populate the real world, and, in a way, it often does. Harry Potter fans can visit Universal studios and buy wands and robes in Harry Potter world. That same fan can then go online and find out what Hogwarts house they are in, what their Patronus would be, and even what wand they would have. The story of Harry Potter has affected us so deeply that we long to experience the magical world in J.K. Rowling's books. When we connect with a story, we imbue parts of it into our self until we are making costumes for just a moment of true connection with the story we loved.  

From birth, we hear what others are saying, repeatedly, until we begin to understand those noises ourselves. As we develop, our rational thought is literally made up of the language we are hearing around us. Think about that. Your thoughts are literally the symbols of your native language. Words are your thoughts; they are everything with which you identify as a rational thinking, being. More words mean more thoughts, fewer words… well, you get the idea.

Let’s end at the beginning. When teaching Shakespeare, I know that my students will understand the play so much easier if we watch it being performed instead of just reading the static written words. An actor’s inflection and movements add volumes of meaning to what is being said, just as the author intended. Layer on top of that the fact that Shakespeare introduced more than 1,700 new words and phrases to the English language that are still in use over 400 years later, and you will see the staying power of a good story. 

So, do words really have any power? You tell me.

Thanks for reading!

How have you experienced the power of story? Leave a comment and let me know.
​
Zach Larson
Author at Living Words Press

Have a question you want to ask? Leave a comment below or email me at Zach@livingwordspress.com. I want to know what type of post you would like to see from me next.

P.S. Want more content right now? Sign up for my newsletter to receive bonus material, reviews and recommendations, pre-release goodies, and free stuff. Sign up now on the home page: Livingwordspress.com. Just click the button under the title. You don't have to purchase anything to sign up for the newsletter. Most of the content included in the newsletter is exclusive to subscribers, so don't miss out!


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@livingwordsp
www.facebook.com/livingwordspress



Sources:
https://www.britannica.com/topic/oral-tradition
https://www.ted.com/talks/mac_barnett_why_a_good_book_is_a_secret_door
Extra Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=muuWRKYi09s