New Story!

Hi all, as I said in my blog yesterday, I would be dedicating some time to actually sit down and write something.  I started last night and would like to put up the introduction and first chapter to this.  Not wanting to give too much away, I'm going to keep the synopsis to myself, but its actually got me looking forward to write more chapters, & am planning to do at least one a day.

So, please find below the start to this story, which I am going to call either All the World's a Stage or 15 Minutes of Fame.  It is a first draft so I will be making changes to this as I go on, but I welcome your thoughts and views on it so far.

Thanks,

Jay
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INTRODUCTION

"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances:
And one man in his time plays many parts."

- William Shakespeare, 1623

CHAPTER 1

As the blood soaked sheet was pulled back, he could see the level of damage that was inflicted.  A dull pain started to throb in his temple, and he averted his eyes, choosing to look up into the night sky and compose himself.  It was a clear night, and the moon seemed to illuminate this scene as if it were a spotlight.  After a few short moments, he gazed down at the poor unfortunate that lay at his feet.  She appeared to be a middle-aged woman and was fully clothed.  Her body was warm to the touch, though it was rapidly cooling due to the cold winter weather that was approaching.  Her clothing was wet, saturated with blood.  The only noticeable wound was an incision on the left side of her neck, running across her throat.

He knew that this would attract media attention, as this wasn't the first murder on this street.  This was Whitechapel, part of London's East End, and an area that - in 1888 - was plagued with poverty, suffering and death.  Just over 124 years ago, another body lay in this position, in the exact same spot.  This was Durward Street.  In 1888, Mary Ann Nichols knew it as Buck's Row, and this was her final resting place.  A copycat killer.  There had always been attempts to follow in Jack the Ripper's footsteps, but this was different.  Something just wasn't quite right about this.

His eyes checked the body for any signs that could aid his investigation.  In her right hand she clutched a small piece of blood-spattered paper.  Carefully unfolding it, he noted the writing it contained.  He had seen this before, and it chilled him to the bone.  He knew what this entailed, and he knew that there would be more...there were always more.  The note contained just four words: FIFTEEN MINUTES.  ANDY WARHOL.

It was shortly after 7pm.  This night was just beginning.