SteamGoth anthology

This is not Ada's hair.

Ewww.

Just when I think it couldn't get worse, it gets worse.

Victorian England is invaded by a mechanical fishman army from Atlantis and only the unlikely duo of Sherlock Holmes and Jack the Ripper can save the island from sure destruction. (unlikely because Watson was murdered by Jack when the crime solving duo had previously crossed swords).

You're damned close to an episode of Sanctuary.
Two of "The Five" (the series' central characters who engaged in an experiment in Victorian England which gave them "Abnormal" powers) are Dr. James Watson (a super-genius who was the real-life inspiration for Conan-Doyle's Sherlock Holmes) and John Druitt (who was driven mad for a while by the experiment and did the killings attributed to "Jack the Ripper").

There are a lot of us here who have absolutely zero writing ability who can still pitch an idea.

Which one of these gems do you want?

Victorian England is invaded by a mechanical fishman army from Atlantis and only the unlikely duo of Sherlock Holmes and Jack the Ripper can save the island from sure destruction. (unlikely because Watson was murdered by Jack when the crime solving duo had previously crossed swords).

An elite squad of commando mind-controlled Sasquatch is terrorizing the Canadian Northwest. Paul Bunyon and a Steam Powered John Henry have to stop the furry fury and uncloak the evil mastermind... who happens to be Abe Lincoln's symbiotic twin whose consciousness was finally allowed to take control of Old Abe's body upon death.

Allan Quatermain is back. This time he faces some bad white guy who is using another bunch of black folk as pawns in his evil scheme to get gold.

umm... time travel... with... clockwork midgets... and some sort of bacon extruder device which is worth a fortune.

I think a John Henry Story could be good. I have often said that "League of Extrodinary Gentlemen" would have been better with John Henry than with Tom Sawyer. It also needed someone that understood basic physics on the writing staff.

I was thinking John Henry dies but is given a clockwork heart. Maybe mix The tell tale Heart with the story of John Henry.

Ok I am mixing the tell-Tale heart with the story of John Henry.

here is a preview of the first paragraph.

True- Anxious I am so very anxious I have been and am. But why would you call my wager lost? The deal was struck we all saw the deed done- not lost no- not lost in the least. Above all the sense of urgency gives me hope. I have seen all things in heaven and earth and even in hell there is none like this. How then have I lost? Hear me now and look how he moves – I will gladly tell you the story of the Steam Driven Man.

Ok I wrote the story about John Henry this morning. I will post it here as a preview. To note this story is basically Poe's Tell-tale heart but chnaged to work with John Henry. So some passages are taken verbatim from Poe.
Also this story is more SteamPunk than SteamGoth but since it is inspired by Poe I think it fits.

The Tell-Tale Steam Pump

True- Anxious I am so very anxious I have been and am. But why would you call my wager lost? The deal was struck we all saw the deed done- not lost no- not lost in the least. Above all the sense of urgency gives me hope. I have seen all things in heaven and earth and even in hell there is none like this. How then have I lost? Hear me now and look how he moves – I will gladly tell you the story of the Steam Driven Man.
It is impossible to say how the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me. Object there was none. Passion was all I had. I watched the man fall. You hear me I saw him fall. He had beaten the best my engine could do. He was a man made of iron and he wasrightfully called the steel driving man. Yes that was it, that gave me the idea. The man had a soul of iron, but body of flesh. Arms of raw sinew and bone and a heart that had burst. My blood ran hot and I came quickly to that fateful decision as I saw him lying there. To save that man of Iron.

Now this is the point. You fancy me a loser. Losers have nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how quickly I proceeded- with all caution gone- driven by knowledge- with what determination I went to work! I was gentle never so gentle with my machines. I turned the cranks I stroked the wheels- oh so gently! And then, when I had made my calculations I dismantled the very machine that had lost the race. No steam billowed out now, and I thrust my hand into the works. Oh, you would have cried out loud to see how cunningly I removed the parts. I took them quickly there was no time to lose; I must disturb the deathly slumber of this Iron man. It took me no time to build the thing I had worked such calculations upon. Ha, would a loser have been so crafty as this. And then, when the object of my creation was in my hand, I placed the last gear with abandon, I say with abandon I took that magnificent object and placed it on the man’s chest. For seven long minutes I fiddled with my new contraption. I touched the man’s breast his heart did not beat and I spoke to him in low tones imploring him to awaken before I would have to undertake this final act. I looked on him in death.

Upon the eighth minute I had thrown all caution to the winds. I opened up his chest and saw the exploded heart. A Surgeon’s hands could not have moved more quickly than I. Never before that day had I felt the extent of my own powers- Of my Genius. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, Opening up the gates of heaven itself, throwing them wide, and the man he could not fathom or dream of what I was to do for him that day. I fairly laughed at the idea; and perhaps God heard me; for my hands moved like lightning with a quickness born of mercury. I moved closer to the dead man removing the worthless tissue extracting the veins and arteries. His chest was open and thick with blood. I attached muscle and vein. Arteries clogged with dying blood soon were part and parcel of my metal creation. I opened the door and sought to pull this man back from the embrace of death.

Presently I heard a creak, and I knew it was the creak of gears. It was not a creak of rust or of misalignment Oh no!.- it was the high pitched sound that arises from the clash of metal on metal when powerful gears push and turn. I knew that sound well. Many a day just at noon, when all the world was alive, it had welled up from my machines the high pitched click that signaled a well honed mechanism. I say I knew it well. I knew what that signified, and I was elated, and I laughed again. The man laid cold dead but my machine strapped to his chest and penetrating his body moved on its own. Death was receding and I knew that I must work quickly to keep it at bay. The presence of life was like lightning in my hands.

I waited a few seconds without hearing the creak again, I resolved to open a little – a very, very little the valve that allowed steam to pour into the mechanism. So I opened it- You cannot imagine how quickly, quickly and surely I opened that valve. Steam poured into the machine, like the crack of a whip it shot into the pump. The pump opened up slowly but soon was at a full head. The Steam powered Iron heart pumped and blood flowed once again in that dead body. The machine pumped furiously and I grew ecstatic as I watched the cogs and gears turn. The world went dull and the man of iron lay still but for the whirl of the mechanical heart. And I have not told you, what you mistake for loss is but an over attention to detail on my part. Now I say there came to my ears a sharp, slow sound which I knew very well. It was the sound of steam pushing the pump a whoosh and a whirl as the rushing of the wind it caused my soul to leap.

I was unrestrained and I moved like liquid steel. My breath came quickly and I held the throttle tight. I kept the steam flowing and allowed more and more into the pumps. Meanwhile the angelic tattoo of the pumps increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The dead man’s soul must now know his body had been hijacked. The pump whined and I threw the throttle to full and the body leaped forward once and lay back down still as death. I grabbed his shoulders and shook I pleaded with him to come back, to show some sign of life beyond the pounding of the pumps. This vexed me to the core. Would my work be in vain? He was limp death had grabbed him and as I examined him I found no sign of life but the pump churned on and on. One last thing- Oh yes one last triumph. I grabbed the throttle in one hand and pushed it past the limits. Steam exploded from the machine every valve was open and power oozed out. The body leaped again and this time I saw him stir. Ever so slightly the fingers moved then the arms.

If you still see me as a loser, you will think so no longer when I describe how I worked to revive the man once I saw him stir. No human eye would have detected the slight movement that I perceived through the lenses of my goggles. I quickly massaged each arm and leg and even took his head in hand and massaged the scalp to bring blood back into perfect flow inside the body. He stirred slowly but I could feel the strength returning to him. When I had made an end to my labors and he lay resting but fully alive only thirty minutes had passed since he had bested my steel driving machine. Then those who had stood in awe of my machinations gathered round. They had called the police believing me a madman when they saw me crack open the dead man’s chest. But here he laid alive and well, steam driving his new Iron heart. I had not lost the bet - Oh no! I showed the police my work and I offered to let them examine the machine that had brought poor John back to life. I myself in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph sat cross legged and exhausted next to the spot where John Henry stirred and opened his eyes.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them that no wrong had been done. Now that John Henry was awake and had spoken a few words. But ere long I felt myself getting more and more giddy. I could hear the whoosh, whoosh of the steam pump pushing the blood through his heart. John Henry was standing now and had his hammer in his hand. I was a winner no loss was mine. The pump got louder yet and my ears burned with the sound of my triumph. No one else seemed to notice and John Henry the steam powered man looked at me askew. Oh god what could he want. Does he want to thank me for my genius does he want to shake my hand and offer me his lifelong gratitude? The pump was loud in my ears but I could hear John Henry.

“We had a bet, Company Man.”

Time to bump this to the top and remind anyone who is writing a story for this that they have until the end of the month to submit it. Thank you.

Time to bump this to the top and remind anyone who is writing a story for this that they have until the end of the month to submit it. Thank you.

I will have mine in.

I've been having a hard time and things have been going slowly. But after a dream I had last night I tore up my original and started writing over again this morning. So far I have about a thousand words. At this rate I will have something by the end of the week.

Over the Edge
By Gerry Harris

When I’d heard the news that Thomas Alpine, renowned news photographer, had fallen from the 20th floor tramway in New York, I knew They’d gotten him. I’d known Alpine not as a photographer but as a hunter. Unfortunately sometimes a hunter falls prey to the hunted.
As soon as I heard the news I caught the cross-continental Zeppelin out of San Francisco for New York. The two-day voyage was agonizingly slow, but it was safer than taking the train, what with the recent upsurge in train robberies.

We docked at the Coney Island tower. You could hardly tell that less than a decade before it had been at the heart of some of the fiercest fighting ever seen in North America. I took the 10th floor tramway into town. My first stop was the precinct house closest to Alpine’s flat. Unlike some cities, in New York the entrances to the police stations were at ground level. I guess they figured they ought to be closer to where the crime was. I introduced myself to the desk sergeant as Alpine’s friend and colleague, and asked to see the casebook on his death.

The sergeant looked at me like I’d just popped out of nowhere. “We’re not in the habit, Mr. Riley, of letting any old person just peruse our cases,” he said. I fumbled around in my wallet and produced a press card showing I worked for the New York Times (one of many identities I found myself forced to maintain).

“Thomas and I were working together on a piece dealing with corruption in high places,” I said. “I’d really like to know the circumstances of his death to see if it is related to the story, and whether I should take precautions.”

“Lt. Patterson is the detective who investigated Alpine’s death. Why don’t you go chat with him?” The sergeant nodded in the direction of a desk in the corner of the room.

Patterson turned out to be a congenial fellow. He had very little on the case other than tram passengers had seen Alpine struggling with someone on the 20th floor tramway and a few minutes later a call had come in that someone had fallen. Alpine was found on the street, along with his camera. The latter had broken open and exposed the film, so any chance Alpine had photographed his assailant was moot.

It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. They don’t photograph.

I thanked the lieutenant and made my way to Alpine’s flat. I’d corresponded with him enough I knew his address by heart. It was on the 14th floor – right in the middle of working-class territory. I let myself in using the lockpick I carry with me. It didn’t look like anyone had been there. Of course, They wouldn’t care as there would never be any photographic evidence of them, and anything else could be chalked up to the ravings of a madman.

One room of the flat had been dedicated to a dark room. Alpine had long ago graduated from plates to film, and he did not skimp on either the medium or his cameras. I spotted a model on a shelf that could take a photograph of someone half a mile away and still allow that person to be identified. The films he used allowed resolutions unthinkable just a few years before.

It didn’t appear there were any undeveloped rolls lying about. Thomas must’ve cleared his backlog before setting out on his last mission. That probably meant he wanted to devote his full attention to whatever he was bringing back. I found what I was looking for in another room. The room contained a chair and a desk with a homemade light table on it. A couple of loupes and grease pencils told me this was where Thomas did his actual creative work. The drawers of the desk contained envelopes of prints, each labeled with a project name. One, however, had no label on it. Alpine always did have a sense of humor. We didn’t know what They called themselves, and we didn’t have a name for Them either.

The photos in the envelope all appeared to be group shots with curious gaps in them. Thomas had circled some of the gaps in grease pencil and made a note off to the side. Most often the note was a single question mark, but some had names: Neil Merriweather, Alice Merriweather, Perceval Merriweather, and Alexandra Merriweather. Thomas had evidently stumbled upon an entire nest of Them.

I slipped the envelope into my satchel. Then I heard the front door open and close. I reached back into my satchel and pulled out my gatling pistol. As quietly as I could I rotated the barrels until I heard the click of a round chambering. The 12-round magazine on top of the weapon made it a bear to aim accurately, but it fired three rounds every time the trigger was pulled, and that more than made up for its lack of accuracy, especially at such close quarters. At least I hoped that would be the case.

I peered around the doorframe. In the main room I could see a woman with her back to me. She was removing her gloves and hat and placing them on a table. As quietly as I could I raised the gun in front of me and tiptoed up behind her.

“Who are you?” I asked quietly. She gave a little gasp and froze.

“I’m April Alpine,” she said without turning to face me. “This is my brother’s flat. What are you doing here?”

I lowered the pistol. “My name is Riley. I’m an associate of your brother's,” I replied. “Thomas never mentioned a sister.”

“Thomas spoke of you often, Mr. Riley,” April replied, smiling. “As for me, I was in Seattle when I heard the news. I came as quickly as I could.”

“Did your brother mention what he was working on when he died?”

“Only that he’d been hired to provide photographs of a reclusive family, and that he’d be paid handsomely.”

That was a bit odd. Alpine usually handled these investigations privately. Maybe it was a cover story he’d concocted. “Does the name ‘Merriweather’ ring a bell?”

Her eyes widened. “Do you mean The Merriweathers? They’re one of the richest families in New York. They hardly ever venture below the 30th floor. Is that who he was investigating?”

Investigating? Interesting choice of words. “I may have to do some social climbing. Do you mind if I stay here for a bit? I’ve had a long flight and I could use a little rest.”

“No. no. I’m sure my brother would’ve been more than happy for you to stay here,” she said with a hint of a smile. “That is, if you don’t mind sharing the flat with me while you’re here.”

“Perish the thought,” I said, grinning.

I called over to the Zeppelin port and had them pneumatic my trunk to the local cargo terminal. A boy from the local teamsters’ union house delivered it to the door. I lugged the trunk into a back room, stood it up and popped open the clasps. Folks in my line of work have to be able to blend in wherever we might find ourselves. Fortunately for us, They like to cluster in the upper strata of society so our costume choices are relatively limited. I pulled out the suit and hung it over the doorframe. Then came the beaver-skin hat, gloves and cane. The ensemble had cost me a fortune, but was guaranteed not to draw attention above the 20th floor. The cane had also cost me a pretty penny, but one must not skimp when one’s life could hang in the balance.

I had chosen the work room as mine. I laid out a small pallet of blankets and a pillow next to the desk and locked and chained the door before I turned out the light. During the night I heard someone try the door, but she couldn’t get in. Otherwise I slept like the dead.

The next morning I attended to the necessaries, bathed and shaved and put on the suit I’d taken out the night before. As an added touch I spritzed myself with a $50-an-ounce cologne. Every little detail helps. As I grabbed my hat, gloves and cane, April stepped out of her room arrayed in one of the most expensive gowns I’d ever laid eyes upon. A bonnet perched upon her head and her gloved hands grasped a Chinese paper parasol.

“I assumed from our conversation last night we’d be heading up town this morning,” she said. “From your getup, I assumed correctly.”

This was an interesting turn of events. However I couldn’t think of a reason she shouldn’t accompany me. “Shall we then, my dear?” I asked.

“Aren’t you going to take your hand cannon?” She asked, arching a brow. “After all, my brother was killed up there.”

“I have no place to hide it,” I answered. It was the truth. The damned thing was a foot long and weighed more than seven pounds. It wasn’t the type of weapon one could simply hide in one’s waistband.

"Then let us hope we won’t need it," she said, putting the parasol onto her shoulder like a soldier on parade.

We took the lift to the 20th floor. As the cage climbed I looked my companion over. “Do you have ‘the sight’?” I asked her.

“’The sight’? What’s that?” she asked looking at me sideways.

“Do you ever see things that shouldn’t be there?” I asked. “Have you ever seen, well, monsters?”

“I’m not sure what you mean, Mr. Riley.”

‘The sight’ typically ran in families. My father had it and I and my brother had it. Hell, most of the loose organization of hunters had it. The rest relied on such things as photographic evidence. Thomas Alpine had it. Still, it wasn’t uncommon for some siblings to inherit it and others not.

“Never mind. It’s not important,” I said, my grip on my cane tightening.

At the 20th floor we caught the tram for midtown, where the buildings towered above their surroundings. There were no trams above the 20th floor, nor did there need to be. The folks above the 20th floor could afford their rooftop gardens, plazas and personal flitter pads. From the 25th floor up, the buildings were a tangle of penthouses, exclusive clubs, private parks (including, according to rumor, at least one game park), flying walkways, flitter pads, and five-star restaurants. It was into this warren of opulence my companion and I were headed.

We stepped off at the midtown station and caught a lift for a 30th floor plaza. A number of high-end shops fronted on the plaza. I hoped to pick up the trail there. As soon as the cage doors opened I knew we had struck gold. They were everywhere. There were, of course, people there too, but it seemed the plaza was crawling with Them. Alpine hadn’t uncovered a nest, he’d uncovered a hive. I was in way above my head here.

How to describe Them? Imagine a black ant nearly six feet tall, man-shaped, with manipulative hands, and four limbs. Their shiny outer shells weren’t chitin, but an incredibly tough skin. Their skeletons were enough like a human’s to pass muster on first glance. I had no idea of how they appeared to others. Somehow they disguised themselves enough to pass as humans. However, for reasons unknown they could not be photographed.

I looked at my companion. She seemed completely unfazed. All she saw were high-society people. This situation was bigger than I had expected. I was going to need to call in every hunter I knew, and even then we’d probably be outnumbered considerably. I bent down and whispered in April’s ear, “we need to get out of here, now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Riley. We’re in no danger here,” she said, her voice louder than usual. A number of Them stopped and looked in my direction, their antennas twitching.

I began backing toward the cage. The nearest of Them began advancing toward me. Others in the crowd were turning toward me now. I hit the summons button on the cage. April addressed the nearest of Them, “he’s not armed, he can’t hurt you.”

The creature surged forward, followed by a number of his fellows. Some of the humans in the crowd turned to see what the fracas was, but then quickly went back to their own business.

My back hit the cage door. I raised the end of my cane, pointing it toward the lead creature, and twisted the hand-knob. The creature dropped in its tracks as the .44-40 slug tore through its chest. The others hesitated, and several looked at April. At that point the cage door slid open and I stepped backward, waving the end of the cane back and forth to keep the other creatures at bay. The cage doors slid shut and I began dropping toward the 20th floor. At the 20th I grabbed the tram back to Thomas’s flat. I didn’t have much time. Reaching the flat I tossed my clothes into the steamer trunk and pulled out a set of coveralls and a tam. It took me a few minutes to change my outfits. I threw the satchel with my gun over my shoulder and dragged my steamer trunk behind me. I was just reaching the lift to the 10th floor tram when I heard a rush of feet coming down the stairs. The lift doors opened and I slid in just before April and a number of Them rounded the corner. I’m not certain they saw me.

I hopped aboard the 10th floor tram and made my way to Grand Central Station where I caught a train for Boston. In Boston I hopped aboard a Zeppelin for L.A. None of Them were aboard.

Once back home I picked up a two-day-old copy of the New York Times. There was a short piece on a young lady found dead at the foot of a downtown building. She matched April’s description. I’ve spent the last three days reaching out to my contacts among the Hunters. I’m trying to build enough of a force to go back to New York and wipe out the nest before it grows.

So far, everyone I’ve contacted says they’re in. We should be ready to go any day now.

Cross your fingers and wish us well.

:cheers:

Do you have any edits or suggestions?

Damn, CA. I'm glad I don't have your dreams.

Love the story.

Very nice addition to the Anthology. SteamGoth meets Blade Runner at least that is what came to mind.

I have zero skill but I can tell you what I thought could use some tweaking.

The two-day voyage was agonizingly slow, but it was safer than taking the train, what with the recent upsurge in train robberies.

This didn't read right to me. I know he is writing in a familiar tone but it struck me as to familiar... maybe.

I peered around the doorframe. In the main room I could see the back of a woman’s head.

Noticing just her head was a bit odd.

I lowered the pistol. “My name is Riley. I’m an associate of your brothers,” I replied. Thomas never mentioned a sister.”

I think you are missing an open quote on the second sentence.

It was into this warren of dissipation my companion and I were headed.

Could you explain your use of the word "dissipation" here?

I have zero skill but I can tell you what I thought could use some tweaking.

The two-day voyage was agonizingly slow, but it was safer than taking the train, what with the recent upsurge in train robberies.

This didn't read right to me. I know he is writing in a familiar tone but it struck me as to familiar... maybe.

I peered around the doorframe. In the main room I could see the back of a woman’s head.

Noticing just her head was a bit odd.

I lowered the pistol. “My name is Riley. I’m an associate of your brothers,” I replied. Thomas never mentioned a sister.”

I think you are missing an open quote on the second sentence.

It was into this warren of dissipation my companion and I were headed.

Could you explain your use of the word "dissipation" here?

I've little skill myself. I made a few tweaks. Does it read better now?

I have zero skill but I can tell you what I thought could use some tweaking.

I lowered the pistol. “My name is Riley. I’m an associate of your brothers,” I replied. Thomas never mentioned a sister.”

I think you are missing an open quote on the second sentence.

I've little skill myself. I made a few tweaks. Does it read better now?

“My name is Riley. I’m an associate of your brothers,” I replied.

I would think "your brothers," should be "your brother's," as in "your brother's friend".

Very minor nit. Excellent work!

I have zero skill but I can tell you what I thought could use some tweaking.

I lowered the pistol. “My name is Riley. I’m an associate of your brothers,” I replied. Thomas never mentioned a sister.”

I think you are missing an open quote on the second sentence.

I've little skill myself. I made a few tweaks. Does it read better now?

“My name is Riley. I’m an associate of your brothers,” I replied.

I would think "your brothers," should be "your brother's," as in "your brother's friend".

Very minor nit. Excellent work!

Fixed. Thank you. I want to be taken seriously as a writer, and every little thing helps.

Don't forget when it is fully ready to send me a copy in .doc format with the waiver cover letter.

My email is gideonwoulfe@yahoo.com

I may have a second story ready in the next day or so.

Two stories would be great I will have two stories and a poem in the anthology. I believe we will be using Lulu to publish the book after looking at all the options.

I have been working on a logo for the anthology web page.

I really like it.

You do not have the required permissions to view the files attached to this post.

Yeah, I can imagine it used for tagging a wall.

Six days left to turn in your stories, poems, even how to articles on Steampunk/goth

If you are sending me something send it to gideonwoulfe@yahoo.com include a short message saying something to the effect that I am free to use this article, story etc for this one time project. Also include a short biographical statement.

Thanks