though, it's not all that punkish...
Nov. 5th, 2008 03:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amredthelectorI've been working on writing a steampunk short story on and off for four months. It's the story of a man of science who wants to fly, and his assistant, in a world loosely based on Victorian England. Today, I finally finished. I'm going to enter it into a writing contest going on at my school, and possibly write some more about the people who are in it/the world its in. Here, read!
Samuel Flescher was his name, but most called him Sam. At this particular moment, on this particular day, he stood on the edge of a thunder head. Bits of ice snapped at his ankles, clinging to his wool socks. Below, sky and city lay, broken down into a patch-working of gray, and brown, and finally green towards the edges.
His breath spread forth in small puffs as he contemplated. He buried his hands in the pockets of his leather coat, balling them in fasts as to warm them. His footing shifted slightly, loosening a piece of soft cloud.
“Are you going to jump, sir?” A voice called out.
Sam inhaled slowly, gazing down.
“No,” the world waited far below, noisy and steam-filled. “No, I don’t think so, Frankov.”
He slowly turned and walked back from the edge, to the center of the cool, billowing carpet. There, a portly man waited for him.
The man, Frankov, held forth a top hat, which Flescher took. Together, they continued across the way, as they had originally come.
* * *
“All I’m saying, sir, is that you’ll have to jump one of these days.”
“I know, Frankov, but not today.”
The two gentlemen walked briskly along the narrow street, talking in fast hushed tones.
“Oh? And what’s the matter today? Wind? Smog, again? Too cold?”
“No…” Samuel adjusted his scarf as he spoke. “It’s just… not the right day.”
Two young women passed by, giggling as Flescher tipped his hat.
“Good afternoon, girls.” He said casually.
“Good afternoon, professor.” The first woman replied. “Have you jumped yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“Oh.” The two girls smiled at each other. “Well, we look forward to the day you do.”
“I believe that shan’t be too far off.”
At that, the girls continued down the path. They whispered to each other, and laughed.
Frankov looked at Flescher, a bushy eyebrow raised. “You know, sir, the longer you wait, the more people will talk.”
Flescher nodded. Of course he understood that, but they could wait. He and his assistant continued in silence for a ways.
“Why exactly are we going to see this madman?” Samuel said after a time.
Frankov cleared his throat and adjusted his lapels, but otherwise ignored the question.
“Borys…” Samuel pressed.
“Well, sir, he is the best in his field.”
“Best or not,” the younger man said, wrinkling his nose with distaste, “he is still a lunatic.”
“But a brilliant one. Turn here.”
It was a rusted, dingy iron door set into the wall of an equally dingy brick building. The windows were opaque with grime, and dark smoke billowed from its chimneys. It had formerly been a factory for making men’s hats, but had been converted into one of the strangest places in the city. A metal sign above the door read “Mr. Hyaer’s emporium of clockwork wonders.”
The portly assistant glanced at the professor – upon his face was a look of total disgust. Frankov shrugged, smoothed his mustache, and took hold of the corroded railroad spike that served as a door knocker. He struck the door three times, loudly.
The two men stood in silence for a few moments. They could hear a slight rumbling, then a loud clatter. The door then swung open, releasing a rush of warm air.
In the doorway stood a short, scrawny boy. He had a face reminiscent of a rodent, and dark hair that stood out from his head in all directions. He clothes were more befitting of July then January. A welder’s mask was held loosely in his left hand.
“Yessir, can Oi ‘elp ya?” The boy’s accent was thick and uneducated.
“Yes, young ma –“ Frankov began.
“Ratty. Oi’m called Ratty, not 'young man'.” The child interrupted.
“Yes, well. I am Doctor Borys Frankov, and this is my colleague, Professor Samuel Flescher. We are here to speak to Mr. Hyaer – he should know we were coming.”
“Roight, sir.” The boy stepped to the side, waving an arm for the men to enter. “Wait ‘ere, an’ Oi’ll get ‘im.”
Once the two were inside, the boy shut the door and hurried into the building. He left them in a small room, which attached to the rest of the factory by a dim hallway. The room felt like a furnace, a sudden change from the chilly outdoors. Beads of sweat were collecting under Samuel’s thick wool scarf. He scowled, and muttered under his breath. Much of it was criticism about the man they were meeting.
The boy returned shortly.
“Sirs, if ya can ‘ang up yer coats, an’ come wit’ me, th’ mister’ll see ya now.” He pointed to a row of brass coat hangers on the left wall, and the men removed their jackets, hanging them there. It was a bit of a relief to be rid of their think winter coats, but they room was still sweltering. They envied the youth’s summer clothes.
The young man led them through the dim hallway, which opened up to a gigantic work room. The room was wide and tall – instead of floors, catwalks and buttressed work stations criss-crossed each other up four flights. Two gargantuan stoves made the room hellishly warm, and were sustained by mechanized bellows. Tools littered workbenches and tables, and strange machines of every shape and size took up any room they could. The entire place smelled like smoke and iron.
The creak of metal echoed around the room as they climbed a free-standing staircase. Up the three went, then across a catwalk. The gentlemen had to clutch at the handrails, but the boy stepped lithely, without fear. He was used to the slight swaying motion and the sickening height. And, unlike the two men, he had total faith in the complaining metal.
After perhaps four meters, they stepped off of the catwalk and onto a wooden platform that hung from the wall. Cut into the brick was a wide door way, covered by a half-opened metal door.
“Wait ‘ere,” the boy said, and slipped into the partial opening.
As they stood there, Frankov looked at his friend and gave him a slight smile. However, Flescher’s expression did not change. His nose was still wrinkled, he was still scowling.
The boy’s face reappeared, poking around the door. “A’right, ‘e’s ready.” The young man pushed the door open wide, then scurried back along the catwalk.
With a slight push from Frankov, Samuel walked through the doorway, into a cluttered office. It was not a large room, and was made smaller by the presence of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a majestic wooden desk. The far wall was a bay of four tall, frosted windows that let in very little light. Incandescent lamps illuminated the darker corners.
In the center of the room stood Calil Hyaer, a tall, sturdy, redheaded man. It seemed as though he had been in the middle of his work, but had rushed to make himself presentable. His shirt was wrinkled, stuffed under an unevenly buttoned jacket. He had made a half-hearted attempt to smooth his wild shock of hair, but had failed to remove the pair of work goggles balanced on his forehead.
“Borys!” He exclaimed, bounding forward to shack the doctor’s hand. “And you must be Professor Flescher! An honor to meet you, sir!”
He grasped Samuel’s hand and gave it a firm shake. When he let go, the professor grimaced. Hyaer’s hands have been covered in a thick black oil, and much of it had transferred to Flescher’s hand. Annoyed, he fetched a handkerchief from his breast pocket and attempted to clean the grease off, to no avail.
Calil Hyaer had the jittery energy of a rabbit, and he moved about the office in large, light steps. He walked to his desk, and motioned for his visitors to sit in two plain wooden chairs he’d set up. When the two had sat, Hyaer did so as well, in the worn chair behind his desk. However, he quickly jumped to his feet again.
“Windows!” He exclaimed, and moved to the back of the room. Pulling at the sash of one window, he grunted, “I forget how warm it can get in here. I apologize if it is uncomfortable.” With a squeal, the window opened a quarter of a meter, filling the room with frigid winter air.
“There we are.” The tinker said, returning to his seat. “Now that we’re comfortable, down to business, eh?”
“ ‘We’ have no business.” The professor sneered. “I have my projects. You – ach!”
A small but well aimed kick from Frankov cut off Samuel’s tirade.
“What the professor means to say,” his said quickly as Flesher rubbed his shin, “is that he has made much progress on his own, but he has hit a bit of a snag. Now, if you’ll look over these blueprints…” he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small stack of folded paper.
“Borys!” Samuel exclaimed, snatching the papers from his assistant’s hand. “How dare you give my plans to this – this lunatic!”
“Sam, please, calm down!” Borys pleaded, trying to pacify his friend.
“No, Borys, I will not calm down!” He shouted, getting to his feet. “First you force me to speak to this madman,” he waved a hand at Calil, “and now you’ve gone behind my back to give him my work?” Unable to say much more beyond an indignant stuttering, Samuel Flescher glared at his friend, then stormed out of the room.
“Sam…” the old doctor called out, rising to his feet. He had hardly stood before he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Please, Borys. Let me talk to him.”
Calil arrived at the door old moments after Samuel. The professor had had a bit of difficulty navigating through the work area, and had stopped to don his coat and scarf. It was the perfect opportunity to speak to him.
“Professor. I would like to apologize.”
Flescher looked up for a moment, then returned his gaze to his coat buttons. If looks could have killed, he would have set his jacket on fire.
“I did not mean to upset you,” Hyaer continued, “But I truly did want to speak with you. You, professor, are doing something no one else has ever done. Men have dreamed of doing what you are trying, but none have actually tried it. You could even be called mad.”
“Is this the pot calling the kettle black?” Samuel spat, not looking up.
“No, no. This is the pot calling the kettle brilliant.” Hyaer stepped closer to Flescher, and lightly placed a hand on his shoulder. “You are an amazing man, Samuel Flescher. With or without my help, I know you will fly.”
The tension in Samuel’s neck loosened for a moment. The tinker’s words had reached him. Faith – one person that truly believed in him. Samuel had not encountered such a person since he had started his project.
However, this small bit of softness was tainted by his opinions. He shrugged the hand off of his shoulder, an ugly look returning to his features.
“You are right,” he snarled, “I will fly without your help. Your help is nothing but the delusional fancies of a man that belongs in an asylum, not on the streets.”
Flescher flung the door open and exited, walking quickly and heavily. He wanted to get away from the clockwork factory as quickly as possible.
Calil did not follow him, but smiled slightly as he watched from the doorway. "Good luck, Professor," he shouted after him. The professor walked faster.
* * *
The sky was a stormy dark grey. Fog had swallowed the city, and only the tall smokestacks could be seen. Wind blew from the north, and bits of ice sliced through the air like miniscule diamonds.
Samuel Flescher stood on the edge of the cloud, watching the world below him. His hands were numb, his face was red. He watched the white void below, taking in the quiet cold.
“Are you going to jump, sir?”
Also, same offer goes as my DA and Sheezy pages: Samuel Flescher and Calil Hyaer are loosely based on famous literary characters. If you can correctly guess who they're based off of, I'll draw you somethin' purdy.
Samuel Flescher was his name, but most called him Sam. At this particular moment, on this particular day, he stood on the edge of a thunder head. Bits of ice snapped at his ankles, clinging to his wool socks. Below, sky and city lay, broken down into a patch-working of gray, and brown, and finally green towards the edges.
His breath spread forth in small puffs as he contemplated. He buried his hands in the pockets of his leather coat, balling them in fasts as to warm them. His footing shifted slightly, loosening a piece of soft cloud.
“Are you going to jump, sir?” A voice called out.
Sam inhaled slowly, gazing down.
“No,” the world waited far below, noisy and steam-filled. “No, I don’t think so, Frankov.”
He slowly turned and walked back from the edge, to the center of the cool, billowing carpet. There, a portly man waited for him.
The man, Frankov, held forth a top hat, which Flescher took. Together, they continued across the way, as they had originally come.
* * *
“All I’m saying, sir, is that you’ll have to jump one of these days.”
“I know, Frankov, but not today.”
The two gentlemen walked briskly along the narrow street, talking in fast hushed tones.
“Oh? And what’s the matter today? Wind? Smog, again? Too cold?”
“No…” Samuel adjusted his scarf as he spoke. “It’s just… not the right day.”
Two young women passed by, giggling as Flescher tipped his hat.
“Good afternoon, girls.” He said casually.
“Good afternoon, professor.” The first woman replied. “Have you jumped yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“Oh.” The two girls smiled at each other. “Well, we look forward to the day you do.”
“I believe that shan’t be too far off.”
At that, the girls continued down the path. They whispered to each other, and laughed.
Frankov looked at Flescher, a bushy eyebrow raised. “You know, sir, the longer you wait, the more people will talk.”
Flescher nodded. Of course he understood that, but they could wait. He and his assistant continued in silence for a ways.
“Why exactly are we going to see this madman?” Samuel said after a time.
Frankov cleared his throat and adjusted his lapels, but otherwise ignored the question.
“Borys…” Samuel pressed.
“Well, sir, he is the best in his field.”
“Best or not,” the younger man said, wrinkling his nose with distaste, “he is still a lunatic.”
“But a brilliant one. Turn here.”
It was a rusted, dingy iron door set into the wall of an equally dingy brick building. The windows were opaque with grime, and dark smoke billowed from its chimneys. It had formerly been a factory for making men’s hats, but had been converted into one of the strangest places in the city. A metal sign above the door read “Mr. Hyaer’s emporium of clockwork wonders.”
The portly assistant glanced at the professor – upon his face was a look of total disgust. Frankov shrugged, smoothed his mustache, and took hold of the corroded railroad spike that served as a door knocker. He struck the door three times, loudly.
The two men stood in silence for a few moments. They could hear a slight rumbling, then a loud clatter. The door then swung open, releasing a rush of warm air.
In the doorway stood a short, scrawny boy. He had a face reminiscent of a rodent, and dark hair that stood out from his head in all directions. He clothes were more befitting of July then January. A welder’s mask was held loosely in his left hand.
“Yessir, can Oi ‘elp ya?” The boy’s accent was thick and uneducated.
“Yes, young ma –“ Frankov began.
“Ratty. Oi’m called Ratty, not 'young man'.” The child interrupted.
“Yes, well. I am Doctor Borys Frankov, and this is my colleague, Professor Samuel Flescher. We are here to speak to Mr. Hyaer – he should know we were coming.”
“Roight, sir.” The boy stepped to the side, waving an arm for the men to enter. “Wait ‘ere, an’ Oi’ll get ‘im.”
Once the two were inside, the boy shut the door and hurried into the building. He left them in a small room, which attached to the rest of the factory by a dim hallway. The room felt like a furnace, a sudden change from the chilly outdoors. Beads of sweat were collecting under Samuel’s thick wool scarf. He scowled, and muttered under his breath. Much of it was criticism about the man they were meeting.
The boy returned shortly.
“Sirs, if ya can ‘ang up yer coats, an’ come wit’ me, th’ mister’ll see ya now.” He pointed to a row of brass coat hangers on the left wall, and the men removed their jackets, hanging them there. It was a bit of a relief to be rid of their think winter coats, but they room was still sweltering. They envied the youth’s summer clothes.
The young man led them through the dim hallway, which opened up to a gigantic work room. The room was wide and tall – instead of floors, catwalks and buttressed work stations criss-crossed each other up four flights. Two gargantuan stoves made the room hellishly warm, and were sustained by mechanized bellows. Tools littered workbenches and tables, and strange machines of every shape and size took up any room they could. The entire place smelled like smoke and iron.
The creak of metal echoed around the room as they climbed a free-standing staircase. Up the three went, then across a catwalk. The gentlemen had to clutch at the handrails, but the boy stepped lithely, without fear. He was used to the slight swaying motion and the sickening height. And, unlike the two men, he had total faith in the complaining metal.
After perhaps four meters, they stepped off of the catwalk and onto a wooden platform that hung from the wall. Cut into the brick was a wide door way, covered by a half-opened metal door.
“Wait ‘ere,” the boy said, and slipped into the partial opening.
As they stood there, Frankov looked at his friend and gave him a slight smile. However, Flescher’s expression did not change. His nose was still wrinkled, he was still scowling.
The boy’s face reappeared, poking around the door. “A’right, ‘e’s ready.” The young man pushed the door open wide, then scurried back along the catwalk.
With a slight push from Frankov, Samuel walked through the doorway, into a cluttered office. It was not a large room, and was made smaller by the presence of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a majestic wooden desk. The far wall was a bay of four tall, frosted windows that let in very little light. Incandescent lamps illuminated the darker corners.
In the center of the room stood Calil Hyaer, a tall, sturdy, redheaded man. It seemed as though he had been in the middle of his work, but had rushed to make himself presentable. His shirt was wrinkled, stuffed under an unevenly buttoned jacket. He had made a half-hearted attempt to smooth his wild shock of hair, but had failed to remove the pair of work goggles balanced on his forehead.
“Borys!” He exclaimed, bounding forward to shack the doctor’s hand. “And you must be Professor Flescher! An honor to meet you, sir!”
He grasped Samuel’s hand and gave it a firm shake. When he let go, the professor grimaced. Hyaer’s hands have been covered in a thick black oil, and much of it had transferred to Flescher’s hand. Annoyed, he fetched a handkerchief from his breast pocket and attempted to clean the grease off, to no avail.
Calil Hyaer had the jittery energy of a rabbit, and he moved about the office in large, light steps. He walked to his desk, and motioned for his visitors to sit in two plain wooden chairs he’d set up. When the two had sat, Hyaer did so as well, in the worn chair behind his desk. However, he quickly jumped to his feet again.
“Windows!” He exclaimed, and moved to the back of the room. Pulling at the sash of one window, he grunted, “I forget how warm it can get in here. I apologize if it is uncomfortable.” With a squeal, the window opened a quarter of a meter, filling the room with frigid winter air.
“There we are.” The tinker said, returning to his seat. “Now that we’re comfortable, down to business, eh?”
“ ‘We’ have no business.” The professor sneered. “I have my projects. You – ach!”
A small but well aimed kick from Frankov cut off Samuel’s tirade.
“What the professor means to say,” his said quickly as Flesher rubbed his shin, “is that he has made much progress on his own, but he has hit a bit of a snag. Now, if you’ll look over these blueprints…” he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small stack of folded paper.
“Borys!” Samuel exclaimed, snatching the papers from his assistant’s hand. “How dare you give my plans to this – this lunatic!”
“Sam, please, calm down!” Borys pleaded, trying to pacify his friend.
“No, Borys, I will not calm down!” He shouted, getting to his feet. “First you force me to speak to this madman,” he waved a hand at Calil, “and now you’ve gone behind my back to give him my work?” Unable to say much more beyond an indignant stuttering, Samuel Flescher glared at his friend, then stormed out of the room.
“Sam…” the old doctor called out, rising to his feet. He had hardly stood before he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Please, Borys. Let me talk to him.”
Calil arrived at the door old moments after Samuel. The professor had had a bit of difficulty navigating through the work area, and had stopped to don his coat and scarf. It was the perfect opportunity to speak to him.
“Professor. I would like to apologize.”
Flescher looked up for a moment, then returned his gaze to his coat buttons. If looks could have killed, he would have set his jacket on fire.
“I did not mean to upset you,” Hyaer continued, “But I truly did want to speak with you. You, professor, are doing something no one else has ever done. Men have dreamed of doing what you are trying, but none have actually tried it. You could even be called mad.”
“Is this the pot calling the kettle black?” Samuel spat, not looking up.
“No, no. This is the pot calling the kettle brilliant.” Hyaer stepped closer to Flescher, and lightly placed a hand on his shoulder. “You are an amazing man, Samuel Flescher. With or without my help, I know you will fly.”
The tension in Samuel’s neck loosened for a moment. The tinker’s words had reached him. Faith – one person that truly believed in him. Samuel had not encountered such a person since he had started his project.
However, this small bit of softness was tainted by his opinions. He shrugged the hand off of his shoulder, an ugly look returning to his features.
“You are right,” he snarled, “I will fly without your help. Your help is nothing but the delusional fancies of a man that belongs in an asylum, not on the streets.”
Flescher flung the door open and exited, walking quickly and heavily. He wanted to get away from the clockwork factory as quickly as possible.
Calil did not follow him, but smiled slightly as he watched from the doorway. "Good luck, Professor," he shouted after him. The professor walked faster.
* * *
The sky was a stormy dark grey. Fog had swallowed the city, and only the tall smokestacks could be seen. Wind blew from the north, and bits of ice sliced through the air like miniscule diamonds.
Samuel Flescher stood on the edge of the cloud, watching the world below him. His hands were numb, his face was red. He watched the white void below, taking in the quiet cold.
“Are you going to jump, sir?”
Also, same offer goes as my DA and Sheezy pages: Samuel Flescher and Calil Hyaer are loosely based on famous literary characters. If you can correctly guess who they're based off of, I'll draw you somethin' purdy.
