Steampunk – Page 4 – Mist Glen Moon

For Peace

Irving leaned over the contraption, tracing the mess of pipes and gears. Finally, it was ready. Grabbed his torch, he ignited it into a hissing flame. As he lowered the torch to reservoir the door banged open loudly. Jerking, Irving singed away the connecting wire and the gears collapsed.

Mad

Mist drifted through the air as Tilley was marched into the room. Turning her head, she coughed in the goon’s direction. Thomas Brijesh looked up from his workbench, his monocle enlarging his eye garishly. He blinked and tucked the instrument away pressed her into a seat opposite of Thomas. And kept pressing. “I’m down. I’m down,” Tilley said hunching over in the chair. However short they thought her was obviously overestimated.

Excessive

This is Ollie’s third outing my flash fiction. Let me know if you’d like to see more of her in the comments below. The door creaked and dust puffed up from the floor. I twitched my nose looking into the room. Shelf, after shelf, after shelf. Each filled with more books than I’d wanted to…

Waiting

Alessia paused just inside the tavern. Heads swiveled her followed by a narrowing of eyes and hands reaching for guns. Heh. That was one part of coming here she’d forgotten, everything being infamous meant.

Her Own Way

“Get back,” I watched Josephine Maria Ziegler shriek clutching her skirts tightly. Was almost as if she thought holding them would keep the throng back. Fool.

I was known for stealing from my friends

Quick

I slouched over my chair bouncing my foot as I watched. The brothers were at it again. Mayer had even started glowering at their noise instead of draping himself over his beakers. Just a little longer and I. . .

Trouble

I watched Inspector Wittkower ignore the throng, offkey sirens, and acrid stench of a train burning. No. Fairness demanded noting a train wasn’t burning. A lone engine belched smoke not steam. A small one. Hardly worth fussing.

Still Wittkower ignored all and the responders parted about him and the lady he spoke with. Her genteel clothes didn’t belong here. Jacket, bustle, skirts. All screamed breeding. This was a place of poverty.