Aim: Include food within the narrative. Maximum 500 words.

He grunted, his release evident in the sticky sheen that now coated her thighs. He let her feet fall to the ground as he pulled away and hoisted up his trousers.

Her hand was held out expectantly. He gave her wrinkled face a once-over before dropping two silver coins into her palm. She grinned toothlessly, holding the coins up to the stray strands of light from the street lamps. She looked as if she should be hiding beneath a bridge elsewhere. But it wasn’t as if there was much choice out here on the streets of Whitechapel; there was a stench of raw fish and smog that choked every turn. The ale on the whore’s breath almost drowned it out. Almost.

He strode away with the air of a man who had just sated his appetite. For now, at least. There was always something else to be coveted, something else to be gawped at.

Mary Nichols shoved the coins down into the pink folds of her bosom, preened her salt and pepper hair, then jauntily swayed back onto the street. The prickly air pinched her nose and cheeks. It was late, so late, in fact, that the ale houses were closing and her potential client list dwindling; they were tired, drunk, broke. She couldn’t clock out herself; she was still short the boarding fee of even the sleaziest house. There had to be someone.

That was when He pulled up, accompanied by the clacking of horse shoes and the steady rolling of fine wheels. She puffed out her chest provocatively. The carriage slowed to a stop in front of her. The little window was silently drawn open and, in the midst of the gloom gathering inside, she could make out a tall top hat and a pointed nose.

“Lookin’ for something’, mister?”

“It’s awfully cold out. Won’t you come inside?”

“A girl shouldn’t ride off with strangers.”

A black gloved hand dangled something exotic out of the window, just a little out of her reach. They were little purple baubles all squished together in a bunch: grapes. She snatched at them greedily. He let her take them.

“I’ll go anywhere with you, mister.”

He let the door swing open slowly. Mary clambered in inelegantly, the steps sunk beneath her weight. If there had been the slightest glimmer of light into the abyss of that carriage, maybe she would have gotten away unscathed. Because maybe, Mary would have seen the flash of silver concealed beneath her John’s clock.

Or, should I say, Jack’s cloak.

Words: 424

Photo by Heather Lukins