The Hardich Killings sneak preview

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic


A small extract from a short story I am currently working on. I have not come up with a definite title as of yet. It should be completed soon, however, i am writing on and off. PLeas let me know
what you thought of it and I Hope you enjoy the extract. - L.J Shepherd

Submitted: October 28, 2017

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Submitted: October 28, 2017

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It was an art form. One that was incomparable. It was a sickeningly sweet symphony of screams and muffled cries. A Symphony bathed in sweet, seductive shades of crimson. A Symphony that was played by the instruments of smiles and slaughter; of fright and fear. The intricacy of its crimson soaked brush strokes will echo through the walls of time and seep into the grim and grizzly archives of modern history. People everywhere would know of his infamy, of the burning beauty he had created, blighted only by the views of the common man; He saw no reason to despair, commoners were not men of art. They didn't know van Gough from a child of 4 years. He cared little what they thought.  He knew that the great men of this earth would except his masterpiece for what it was: art. Art in its purest form. 

The man left the Inn in a black cloak matted with thick crimson and maroon. His hair a nest of birds ruined by the storm. His hands bore the scars of a true artist, plagued by his need to outdo his past works. His top hat rested on his head, its symbolic nobility masquerading the murderous intentions of its owner. He trudged through the Alleyway and into the bustling, bazaar that was the streets of Victorian London. The skies were glazed in the thick, foreboding shadows of ominous storm clouds. He strode through the sickening, swarming streets, observing the mundane citizens carry out their mundane lives, rushing to get back from their mundane jobs to go see their mundane families. But not him, no, he had places to be. He went by the name of Mr. A Hardich.

The Industrial smog clung to his form as if it were asking him, no, telling him to stop. But to throw it all away would be madness, all this work, all his careful planning, and plotting. His hard work would be reduced to rubbles and chars, and for no reason of worth. He would continue. He must continue. He signaled to the hansom cab, which was meandering idly up the street. The driver spoke, "Where are you headed?". The driver was well spoken, with the remains of what sounded like a Yorkshire accent scattered throughout his speech. Hardich, with secrets many and no intention of passing them to the rough-faced common idiot before him, kept details to the minimum. "Aldred street, I can walk from there." He replied, spitting the words out in the sharp, graceful tone of one who has caused suffering in the name of art. The driver nodded, which he swiftly followed up with "and may I ask your name, sir?"."Hardich. Alex Hardich." His voice quivered slightly. not from the violent nature of what he had just done, but rather the pure, unrivaled adrenaline. It was incomparable to anything he had ever experienced, nothing else could come close. No food nor harlot. He was in euphoria. 


© Copyright 2018 L.J Shepherd. All rights reserved.

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