#Steampunk Short Stories

[alpaca-clouds]

Solarpunk Storytelling - And People Who Have Never Read A Book (apparently)

And once more I am back at the topic that maybe annoyes me the most of all when it comes to "white people having bad opinions about solarpunk". (And yes, let's face it, most of the people are white.)

And that is people that argue like this:

"Uhm, actually, how are we supposed to bring in a conflict if it is not about the utopian solarpunk world hiding a dark secret?!"

To which I will always have to assume that these people are not in fact familiar with the concept of books, movies, series, or stories in general, and have not consciously ever consumed a story at all. Because otherwise I cannot fathom how one could come to this conclusion.

Because here is the thing: Most stories out there have a conflict that does not involve a government having a dark secret.

Unbelievable, right?

Escuse my sarcasm in this, but I really just find this argument so silly. I mean, Lord of the Rings most certainly does not draw its conflict out of any government hiding a dark secret. Nor does any of the Sherlock Holmes stories. Titanic is a very popular movie not building around the concept of a dark government secret. And... Ugh, I don't know. Forrest Gump and Fight Club are two very popular movies, that I don't like, but in fact do not work around a dark government secret as a conflict. Nor do my favorite Fantasy books: The Magic Castle trilogy (that includes Howl's Moving Castle) and The Witcher series.

You will find there are a ton of stories out there not focused on a dark government conspiracy. In fact those conspiracies tend to be a feature of only certain subsections of genre fiction: thrillers and dystopian fiction. And obviously especially dystopian thrillers. Which is why it is so common in the original punkpunk genre Cyberpunk: Most Cyberpunk stories are dystopian thrillers.

But Solarpunk is not Cyberpunk. And you can tell a lot of different stories that do not feature those kinds of conspiracies.

What those people do not really seem to grasp is that at the very core fantasy, science fiction, and all the punkpunk genre actually do not quite describe the sort of story you tell, but just the setting. Think about it: High Fantasy does not say anything about what kind of story you can expect. Sure, a lot of High Fantasy is either a war story, or an adventure story, but I have read high fantasy thrillers before, just as I have read one really cool indie mystery story that was high fantasy. Same with Urban Fantasy. Are most Urban Fantasy novels some sort of detective novel often with a strong romantic/erotic subplot? Sure. But I have read Urban Fantasy horror, pure Urban Fantasy romance, and Urban Fantasy adventure stories. (In fact I wrote an Urban Fantasy pirate adventure myself.)

Same with the other punkpunk genres. Yes, most Cyberpunk is in fact some sort of dystopian thriller. Some are more action heavy, others are more mystery heavy. But I have seen Cyberpunk erotica, Cyberpunk adventure, and Cyberpunk drama novels. Sure, they always tend to have dystopian subtext, because Cyberpunk worlds are dystopian - but... It is not the central theme in those stories.

Steampunk is maybe even stronger in this. Because I have seen I think any genre in Steampunk before. Romance, adventure, mystery, action thriller... I have seen it all. And I do not even like Steampunk particularly!

So, I really have to wonder: Why in the world can those people think of telling only one type of story with the Solarpunk-setting? And why is it the kind of story that is literally the polar opposite of Solarpunk as a setting-idea?

Because I can guarantee you: Every single genre is very much still possible even within an utopian Solarpunk setting, where the utopia is not a sort of conspiracy hiding a darker secret.

Mystery? Well, even in an utopian world people will go missing. Even in an utopian world, someone will commit murder. The world being utopian will not just fix humanity from its darkest instincts.

Romance? Duh, people will still fall in love in an utopian world. And people will still be complicated about it.

Adventure? Within a Solarpunk world there will still be people looking for lost treasure. Hell, there will probably still be some asshole private collectors who want it for themselves. Or you can even do it fitting with the theme: Instead of a lost treasure people are having an adventure looking for a supposedly extinct species!

Action? You do not need a government conspiracy for someone to come up with guns and do bad things with it, forcing good guys with guns to stop them and have cool fights while doing so!

Thriller? Again, it does not need to be a government conspiracy for that to happen. (Heck, I might write a different blog about that tomorrow.)

Horror? You can have both serial killers/slashers in a Solarpunk world, abusive people for psychological horror, and ghosts/demons if you wanna go supernatural. Literally neither of those care much about the setting they are in.

So, yeah. Really. If you think you cannot write an interesting story within a Solarpunk novel that does not involve the government hiding something and the world being build on a lie, that is very much a skill issue. Or to put it different: Maybe writing is not for you.

[jackkilligrew]

The ungainly monitors were hardly taken seriously, and undergraduates had been known to kidnap them, reprogram them, and have them performing tricks at parties. Curious about Blackspire’s mysteries? Check out my full world-building journey on my blog!

[sabastory]

Veni, Vidi, Vixi

A “Closed” sign, haphazardly slapped on to the outside of the front door. Even after hours, life at the Liberalia Lounge remains colorful and lively. Muffled laughter and cheers can be heard from within. Clinks of glasses, squeaks of chairs, the stomps of feet as figures of various sizes dance their troubles away in a flurry of boisterous jubilation. 

“...and we will NOT lay down and die!...”

The warm glow of candles bathe the room in a deep saffron. The flicker of which reflects off the watery eyes of a tall Dragonborn with rich blue scales. His face is youthful, kind yet defiant.

“...in DEATH, we show COMPLIANCE…”

One foot up on a chair, his size makes him easily visible among the diverse crowd of like-minded youths.  

“...Nothin’ changes, and the cycle continues…”

A kenku girl, cowl concealing her sullen green eyes, sits entranced by the speech. Her tea has gotten cold.

“...Now, lads. Tomorrow, we break that cycle!”

Tankards of beer, fists, hats, and more are thrust into the air as a chorus of cheers ring throughout the room. The Dragonborn triumphantly looks around the space and steps down off the chair. A skinny young man shoves a tankard into his hands.

“I daresay your first rousing speech was one for the ages, Milo”.

The Dragonborn takes the drink and looks up at the man. Early 20s, pointed ears poking out from locks of vibrant, golden hair.

“You sure it wasn’t too much? I’m not the best with words”

The man shakes his head with a smile.

“You did a wonderful job, mate. Really riled everyone up. Right, chief?”

He turns to look beyond the mingling crowd at a small figure sitting cross legged on the edge of the bar. They’re gently tuning a guitar, plucking the strings and twisting the pegs with eagle-eyed intent. The figure looks up. A kobold, brown scales and a piercing gaze. They give a tender smile, nodding in approval.

Milo calms down a bit and bashfully looks to the side. 

“Well, I’m just glad he let me. Usually he’s the one who does all the speakin’ and whatnot.”

There’s a pause.

“We’re really doin’ this?”

“The plans are all set up, it’s now or never.”

Another pause.

“Ya know, I never once expected to be a part of somethin’ like this.”

“I don’t think any of us did, but you said it yourself up there. The cycle can’t be broken if nothing is done.”

A cackle of laughter reverberates across the still lively room.

“Besides, you saw what happened at the Degraide. The blueballs are going to be spread thin looking for that little fella. That's why we have to take the chance now.”

Milo looks down at the floor, a million thoughts go through his head, all pounding at the walls of his skull like a troupe of tiny miners.

“I just hope he's okay…”

The man gently puts a hand on Milo’s arm.

“It’s gonna take a lot more than that to bring the little troublemaker down.”

He playfully pats Milo’s face a few times before grabbing his drink and disappearing into the crowd.

Left alone with his thoughts, Milo takes a big swig from the tankard he’s been fiddling with. 

Heir to an estate that no longer exists. The last surviving member of the prestigious Vanderburg family.

Funny where life can take you, he muses to himself.

[bethanyannart]

So many years later and I still love this steampunk Snow White. She made 7 Dwarves from scrap metal to keep her company on the run.

[aigeneratedfun]

🕰️✨ Steampunk elegance meets avian grace! This fashion-forward look blends intricate mechanical details with timeless beauty. Our model, adorned in a stunning ruffled dress, is complemented by her feathered friend, bringing a touch of nature to this industrial fantasy. 🦉💫

[the-lektric-tinker]

It occurs to me that maybe not everyone in this fandom knows about the two official short stories from the League of Seven universe that you can read online for free:

Alternatively, these stories would be a great place for a non-fan to start, because they’re like a little taste-test of whether you like the world and writing style, without spoiling anything that happens in the actual trilogy.

[bookmothic-dyke]

Plan: Cosplay as my own short story’s main character.

Location: Celebration event for the college publication it’s in.

Reason: Because I’m gay. So why not?

Note:

- This will be my first cosplay.

[moonfeatherblue]

Of Gods and Cogs

“… Ben.”

I stand below the gazebo and say his name.

His name is all I say. Never been much for confrontation, I suppose—goddamn, it had to be me who stumbled upon Ben’s trespass. A dim lamp strapped to his forehead, he crouches over the Elders’ contraption, all brass and gears and pressure gauges. The frantic clicks and pops of Ben’s tinkering through the cool, clear night keep discordant time with our misted breaths: his shallow and agitated; mine quick and afraid.

My lips tremble on calling for help. Something pointy and cruel digs into the pit of my stomach, telling me that would be the worst idea I’ve ever had. And I’ve had some pretty God-awful ideas—I wound up here, didn’t I?

No, it’s Ben and me.

… God help us.

I say his name again. “Ben… please…”

One extra word croaks out of me.

“Don’t move!”

My entire body jolts as Ben spins to face me. Half-tangled in copper coils and silhouetted in my quivering pool of lantern light, he clenches one jittery hand over his head. A bundle of wires snakes from his fist into the unknown innards of the contraption.

Horror spills up my spine.

Oh, no…

“What will this achieve?” I try, my eyes an anxious hummingbird flicker up and down the wires that connect Ben to the Elders’ contraption. “What could you possibly hope to—”

Ben’s molten glare tightens around my throat, stealing my speech, the very idea of language spooling away in meaning as I—predictably—freeze.

“I thought Ellious and Martha were pathetic. But you?”

Ben sneers, his disdain laced with venom. I lurch backwards—not only at his expression, but as something shatters by my feet. My lantern, it seems, has escaped my grip. Its oily flames snuff out on impact with the gazebo step, plunging the garden into darkness. Now the only light remaining, besides the quiet glitter of stars through tree limbs, is Ben’s head lamp. Its beam glares directly at me. My blinking eyes prickle with bewildered spots, blotting the traitor into a smear of shadow.

“You’re the worst of the lot,” Ben says, panting. “You *adore* them, don’t you?”

“Adore who?” I squint at him, the cogs barely creaking in my stressed head. Glass crunches beneath my shifting boots. “The Elders?”

“Of course the Elders—sycophant!”

He spits on the pristine lawn at my feet, adding his own fluids to the galaxy of dew clinging to the blades. “You call this a sanctuary? A place of healing?”

Ben’s laugh is terrible, pure aural poison.

“They’ve bound us to them—don’t you see? Every last stray they’ve collected! We’re theirs, now! You think they’ll just let us leave here?”

“S-stop…”

I gasp as Ben’s wild gestures jerk the deadly bundle in his fist. Behind him, the contraption makes an unnerving fizzing sound. “Ben, you can still s-stop this!”

“I’m ending this.”

Turning his back, Ben again hunkers before the contraption like a worshiper at an altar, his fisted threat still held overhead. “You stay the hell away from me! Get out of here—get out! While you still can.”

Panic froths and bubbles up through my digestive tract. I stand by, as good as vacant, my body stiff and lips sealed shut. “S-stop…”

*For God’s sake…*

I grind my teeth so hard my jaw moans—forget this! If the entire garden’s going to burn, it won’t be because I can’t hold my fucking nerve when it counts!

I gather resolve around me like an armoured cloak and step forward. Ben doesn’t notice, too hellbent on sabotage and too convinced I wouldn’t dare.

Another step.

“Ben.”

No, *this* is the worst idea I’ve ever had.

Somehow, I don’t care. I’ve never felt more certain in my life and—holy hell—confidence is crack.

Give me more.

I seize Ben’s wrist, feeling the hectic tick of his pulse and whir of machinery through his papery skin.

“I… said… STOP.”

From mountaintops with fire-streaked skies to bathwater predicting the end of days, relax for a minute or two with your beverage of choice and dip into some fantasy flash fiction with Blue.

Listen to the audiobook version on YouTube @moonfeatherblue

Also available on Wattpad, Inkitt, and Scribble Hub. Eventually also on Tapas (once I figure out why the site doesn't like me) and my yet-to-exist website (when I eventually get on top of that) ~

[remnantglow]

Hey, I really like all the books you've recomended so far (got me into the murderbot series thanks for that one <3) was wondering if you had any recs for steampunk? Was trying some scifi sub-genres lately and this one really interest me

it's definitely a genre i need to dive deeper into bc i haven't read that much either, but! two i absolutely adore:

the leviathan trilogy by scott westerfeld - YA alternate history ww1 where the central powers use steampunk machinery and the allies use bioengineered beasts, following an austro-hungarian princeling and a scottish girl who enlists pretending to be a boy. i loved this series as a kid and i just reread it recently and it STILL kicks ass. also, some absolutely gorgeous illustrations!

the dead djinn series by p. djeli clark - lesbian magic detective solving murders in steampunk 1910s egypt! literally one of my all time fav series in recent years 🥰 u can start with the (free) short story a dead djinn in cairo - and if you like it, there's the companion novella "the haunting of tram car 015" (same world, diff charas) or you can skip directly to the short story's more direct sequel, the novel "a master of djinn"!

[atthequillsmercy]

Pride Sale!

  In honor of Pride Month and the delightful person who sent me a middle finger when I put my books on sale in June last year, I’ve put my books featuring LGBTQ+ characters on sale once again for the entire month! Click any of the links below to check them out. Make sure the sale price is there since I don’t count on a bug free experience… Dahlia One, Two, Three, and Complete…

[dark-bear-productions]

Don't give up on an idea you love

I'd like to tell you how I started Hunting Darkness, the transmedia project I'm working on. You might find a cool new piece of media, you might find a bit of personal motivation, and you might find a fun new blog to follow, but you'll certainly find an insight into the creation of the project I am dedicating my life to.

First: if you're unfamiliar with the term transmedia and are hoping it's media by and for trans people, I'm sorry to disappoint you: that's trans media. No, transmedia is when you combine stories told through different media to create a larger whole. (Although I'm happy to say Hunting Darkness features characters who are trans, non-binary, gay, bi, ace, and more, as well as many characters whose gender identity or sexual orientation never comes up and can be freely interpreted).

With that bit clear, let's get this story going.

It began in 2016, after I played The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt and -- inspired by my parents' love for Victorian and SteamPunk aesthetics during a visit to their house -- wrote a rain-sodden, blood-soaked, action-packed story about a team of five slightly SteamPunk Victorian Monster Hunters fighting a massive pseudo-vampire that had mysteriously appeared in a warehouse.

I intended to expand the story into a debut novel called Hunting Darkness -- yes, the name stuck -- but ultmately failed to turn it into something that satisfied me and tried moving on. Unfortunately for my mental health, I kept coming back to that idea of Victorian Monster Hunters, my beating Bloodborne in 2019 adding fuel to the growing fire.

From time to time, some story idea would excite me and I'd begin writing once more only to inevitably think "This would be great for Hunting Darkness." I'd then open my old files, go over my notes and ideas, and try once more to get something out of it. I'd rearrange concepts, tweak my ideas, adjust my themes, and eventually realise it was a much too big and unwieldy a project, I'd never fit it into a novel, and I had better give up.

On it went. I wrote thousands of words and never finishing a story. Eventually, I pretty much gave up and stopped writing altogether.

Then, in late 2022, I listened to The Magnus Archives while doing some (very dull) data management at my new job. I had never really listened to an audio drama before -- unless you count the time I accidentally listened to an old radio drama on shuffle while temporarily blind -- but I really liked this format of stand-alone stories lasting about 20 minutes each. Of course, I then thought of some scene I had cooked up for my Monster Hunters and wondered at how much fun it would be to write a series of stand-alone monster hunts for my very own audio drama.

And then it finally clicked.

My partner Luca studied transmedia storytelling in college and had excitedly told me about it many times, but I'd never considered that Hunting Darkness might be a prime subject for it. Now, however, I wondered if it wouldn't be nice to create an audio drama solely for the writing of monster hunts.

I began working on From the Bay of Fangs, playing on the idea of reports written by Hunters being used as advertising for their services. When I fleshed out my world building and it became clear the Hunters would be government agents, I decided to change the tone from advertorial to propagandistic.

This then sparked the idea that not everyone would just accept this propaganda, leading to The Dark Truth, a series of in-world posters objecting to the stories told in From the Bay of Fangs, accompanied by a story about a government agent trying to find the people behind those posters in order to save her career.

At this point my creativity went into full swing. I officially created a (one-person) company called Dark Bear Productions, created a website, shared some of my worldbuilding, and am now publishing both From the Bay of Fangs and The Dark Truth independently while writing more Hunting Darkness stories and coming up with more still.

It's been stressful, I won't lie. I quit my job in order to work on this and I'm hoping I can find those people who'll find Hunting Darkness as cool as I do -- although I'm sure they're out there.

But it's also been fun and exhilarating and inspiring and it just feels like what I should be doing. So if you have something you really want to write but can't figure out how: consider transmedia! Or just explore some more stories when you can and see if anything clicks. If you share the results with me, I'll check it out. I can't promise I'll like it, but I can promise I'll like you for having created what you had to create, no matter the self-doubt along the way.

Take care!

Daan

[watermeloncholycucumbersome]

I posted this on Instagram already, but I just wanted to share it on here too!

This is my short story I've been working on in point form. I have no idea what to call it but it shall come to me eventually Lol

It's got a lot of truth to it and resonates with how the world is today, and how it'll get much worse up until Jesus comes.

I had a lot of fun making this, I hope you enjoy reading/watching it:)

~Jenni

[jackkilligrew]

Welcome to Blackspire, a reimagined Victorian city where steampunk meets magic. Dive into the sci-fi fantasy world of my upcoming series! Curious about Blackspire’s mysteries? Check out my full world-building journey on my blog!

[sabastory]

Tinker, Tailor

CW: Abuse and Strong Language

“There. Done.”

The Royal Artificer lethargically sets their screwdriver down among the myriad of other tools that have seen activity in the past few hours. His desk is a cacophony of metal, wood, and intricate little mechanisms. A workspace that would make one go cross-eyed if looked at for too long.

“I recalibrated the coils and oiled the finger joints. I reckon you’re good to go.”

The scruffy wolf sitting next to the workstation raises their newly primed and polished prosthetic arm and tests the fingers by making a repeated grasping motion. The clicks and squeaks are much less prominent. He extends the claws on the fingers with a sudden “Chk!”, and they pulsate a bright blue, filling the workshop with an eerie glow.

The wolf smiles, jagged yellow teeth glistening in the dull blue light. “Ain’t that top-hole.”

He stands up and starts to head toward the door, but is interrupted.

“Um. Hold on.”

The wolf stops, and halfway turns around with a grunt.

“What.”

“Well…you come in for repairs and tune-ups at the same time every week. It’s always more beat up than it really should be. What do you…do with that thing?”

The wolf fully turns around and stares at the Artificer. His menacing, hulking frame casting an equally as threatening shadow in the dim light of the claws he kept unsheathed. He stomps toward the Artificer, shoulder pauldrons jostling and clinking as he approaches, and points a glowing claw at him, making him flinch.

“You’re here to make shit, not ask questions. Got it, kid?”

The Artificer looks up at the wolf’s snarling face. Artificial lenses reflecting his anxious expression.

He eventually stutters out. “W-well I um…It’s just that since I’m the one that makes your augments, I believe I h-have a right to know what-”

Before the sentence can be finished, the wolf suddenly smacks him to the ground with his non-mechanical hand. A feeble yelp reverberates throughout the workshop.

“Know your place, you pathetic little yokel! Just do what you’re bloody told! Understand? Or do I have to drill it into that brainy head of yours?"

He raises his artificial arm, blueish white electricity courses through the forearm and lights up the workshop even more.

The bedraggled Artificer coughs and sputters. He looks up at the wolf, clutching his head. All he can give in response is a meek nod.

Chk! The claws sheath back into his mechanical hand. He spits on the ground.

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

He mutters something else to himself as he turns back around and stomps out of the workshop, slamming the door shut. 

The Artificer, now alone in his shop, stands up, brushes himself off, and stumbles to his desk on shaky legs. He takes off his goggles and tosses them to the side. 

Tears silently stream down his face.

[butter-leopard]

On the Longest Night

Story by Nicole Hawberry

Illustrations by Rama Thorn

Summary: A little holiday story in which nothing of note happens but visiting friends, lighting candles, and waiting up for lost souls.

Tags: winter solstice, alternative holiday traditions, asexual main character, lesbian moms, cozy fantasy, doctoral research, Edwardian-era-flavored setting, alchemy never died

Content warnings: past loss of family, loneliness

6,300 words

Suggested tea pairing*: Tranquility by Yumchaa

*unsponsored!

~

On the evening of winter solstice, Ann left her rooms at sunset.

She hefted her basket of gifts and made her way across the quad, boots crunching on grit that had been thrown down to break up the ice. A confection of pink clouds towered atop the university roofs. It quickly dispersed into darkness, and all across the courtyard, the alchemic lamps blinked on. One hissed to life as Ann passed beneath. 

She stopped first at the home of Dr. Nir, who she’d known since she’d been an undergrad at Sweetwind College. When Dr. Nir had moved here to Janos University, she’d talked Ann into coming along to pursue her graduate studies. Soon after, she’d introduced Ann to her current mentor, Dr. Longway.

At Dr. Nir’s apartment, Ann accepted a glass of cherry cordial and a plate of tiny spiced meat tarts, and politely turned down an invitation to stay for a game of word cards.

She visited the home of Dr. Longway himself next and found that he was out. Ann smiled at the thought of the droll professor making rounds on winter solstice, doling out presents. She left his present on the front step with the pile of packages already growing there. Hopefully he’d appreciate the striped socks she’d knit him in bold yellow and black yarn, in memory of the bee that had followed him across campus one late summer day. He dryly joked that the encounter had left him hesitant to take afternoon walks, but Ann could tell he was at least half serious.

Next, she went to the home of the librarian, Davith. There, to the amazement of his two children, she pulled a handsome box of miniature wooden games out of her gift basket. From the corner of her eye, Ann caught Davith’s sharp look, but she didn’t meet his gaze. She only watched the kids go through the box, crying out with every discovery they made.

It had been a stretch to buy the box of games on her limited budget, but Davith was a good friend to her, and he had saved her research several times by tracking down rare books. She was glad to be able to do this for his family. She only regretted she couldn’t afford to get them proper artisan-crafted toys—ones that danced and lit up and made noise all on their own. These ones had been made by an apprentice artisan as practice pieces, so they were well-made but not infused with any life of their own.

The children begged Ann to sing at least one song with them, but Davith glanced in sympathy at the gifts piled in Ann’s basket before explaining to them that she might have other people to visit. Ann gave him a grateful smile. In truth, she dearly wanted to stay, but she did have a lot of stops to make and not much time.

She made three more drop-offs to colleagues and professors who were out, probably delivering presents, like her. It was just as well, because she didn’t have the heart to turn down many more offers of food and company as she hastened to empty her basket. Each stop brought her closer to the edge of the university, through austere gardens filled with bare branches, dark green juniper bushes, and red solstice ribbons.

By her seventh stop, she was making good time and allowed herself to get sucked into an audio play on a friend’s phonograph. The drama and music reminded her of the rare times she’d visited the theater with her family, and she forgot herself completely until she glanced at the clock and, with a stumbling apology, hurried out.

Her last stop was the farthest. It brought her beyond the university’s walls and across the bridge to the Camp of the Arts. She gave thanks that the morning’s ice had long ago melted as she rushed over the cobblestones.

The Camp of the Arts was everything the university wasn’t. The streets branched messily and were cramped with townhomes, cafes, and studios of different architectural styles and ages. Older structures made of creaking wood and brightly-colored cloth leaned shoulders with newer brick buildings. The newer buildings were no less flamboyant, with their spiraling murals and the mosaics that glittered across multiple shopfronts.

Ann passed the open-air market where she’d bought the games for Davith’s children. Most of the market was closed for the evening, but several food vendors served spiced bubbly cider and fried dough, and groups of merrymakers wove up and down the narrow lanes of shuttered market stalls, taking in the bright decorations: strings of glowing baubles, paper cutouts of twirling snowflakes, musical pipes playing songs. The smell of cinnamon and sweet fry oil tempted Ann, but she kept moving.

The whimsical decorations continued into the residential neighborhood. Strings of paper lamps crisscrossed overhead, drenching everything below in colored light. A stilt-walker leaned to blow bubbles at a group of children, who shrieked and scattered.

Ann stopped at the front step of a familiar townhouse. The house had been decked out in bunches of multicolored ribbons and little bells that rang themselves. Out of their delicate tinkling, Ann could just make out a solstice melody.

A clocktower tolled the hour. Planning, with regret, to make this visit short, she took the last parcel from her basket and rapped on the door. The apology she’d readied froze when Ulma’s face appeared in the doorway and brightened at the sight of Ann. Then Ann was being ushered into the warmth and light and savory smells of her friend’s home.

Ann was still attempting to navigate greetings and apologies when a streak of orange and white shot toward her and tangled around her ankles, putting her further off balance.

“Oh!” Ann said to the calico kitten. “You’ve gotten so big!”

She bent to pet it, and the basket on her arm dipped with sudden weight as a small black shape leapt into it, claws scrabbling.

Ann laughed under the double assault. Ulma laughed, too, and took the wrapped gift from Ann’s hand so Ann could catch her balance.

“That package is for you, anyway,” Ann said.

She set the basket down. Inside, the black kitten—which was nearly full-grown, like its sibling—had found the scrap of cushioning fabric at the bottom and was already curled on its side, attacking the cloth with front and back feet.

Sensing something more interesting going on than greetings from a human, the little calico twisted under Ann’s hand to inspect the basket. In moments, it had tumbled inside to bat paws with the other kitten.

“The pests!” Ulma said. “I’m sorry.”

Ann teased the kittens with the scrap. “They’re not doing any harm.”

“Do you have any more stops after this one? Would you like to stay for dinner? We’re having roast.”

Ann already knew this by the delicious smells. She would have loved to stay; the house was so beautiful, filled with candles and bunches of prickly-grape leaves and more of the tiny bells. And the company would have been even better; Ann loved Ulma and her husband, Teddy.

Apologetically, she shook her head. “This is my last one, but I’ve got to get home.”

“Oh, good—so you have plans. That’s great, as long as you aren’t alone. We knew you weren’t traveling to see your folks this year.”

“Thank you,” Ann said. “The invitation means a lot.”

She took something soft and long from her pocket and handed it to Ulma, who accepted it with slight puzzlement, then recognition.

“My socks! I was wondering where these had gone. And—a pair of Teddy’s, too?”

At Ulma’s questioning look, Ann winked and lightly touched the side of her nose.

Ulma glanced at the squishy package she’d taken from Ann a couple minutes before.

“I needed a size reference,” Ann said, with a sheepish shrug.

Ulma laughed. “I’m sure I have no idea what’s inside this gift you handed me! Hold on a minute, I’ll be right back.” She disappeared through the open door, leaving Ann alone in the entryway.

Ann always loved visiting Ulma and Teddy’s house, even when it wasn’t a holiday. The couple were artisans, and they kept a rotating display of their works on the shelves and sideboards here. She mourned that she hadn’t visited them in months; she’d been so busy with her doctoral work. Now for the winter solstice, the entry hall was filled with even more wonderful things. She toured the room, running her finger lightly over the wonders: a tiny music box in the shape of a snowflake, a miniature castle with a rotating disk of costumed dancers, a wolf playing the fiddle. Ulma and Teddy had made all of them together. Ulma built the metal mechanical parts of the music boxes, and Teddy carved, polished, and stained the wood that housed them. Which of them infused the pieces with life, though? Ann was watching the wolf smoothly draw its bow across the fiddle, as if she could puzzle this out, when Ulma reappeared. She had a parcel under one arm, a pale wooden box under the other, and a tray of spice cakes in her hands. The cakes were shiny with icing and dotted with fat currants.

“I should have done this in the kitchen,” Ulma lamented as she handed the tray to Ann, set the package on a side cabinet, and opened the wooden box, which was empty. She popped the spice cakes into it while Ann watched, bemused.

As Ulma added the last cake and latched the box shut, she said, “At least take these with you to share.”

Ann didn’t know what to say except, “Thank you.” She let Ulma take the empty tray from her and press the warm box into her hands.

“And this is for you,” Ulma said, reclaiming the wrapped package from the cabinet and proffering it to Ann. “I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to go gifting this year. We’ve been busy with the roast, and our son’s airship had to stop in Rosewood for bad weather. The kids are the ones who usually go out.”

“I hope they make it safely.”

“Oh, they’ll be fine. The kids were pushing snow down each other’s collars, last I heard.” Ulma’s mouth twisted in a smirk. There was probably a story there. Ulma was sweet but took vengeful delight in her son’s parenting misadventures.

Ann felt bad for him, but couldn’t help her own, answering smile. She bent to tuck the gifts into the basket and then paused when she saw the two cats curled inside, now dozing together.

“Look,” she whispered.

Ulma’s curious look dissolved as she caught sight of them. She gave a “tsk!” and scooped them out, one floppy kitten in each hand.

“Here, they can have the scrap,” Ann said. “Happy solstice, you two. You’re so easy to choose a gift for.”

In the few minutes she’d spent in the warmth of Ulma’s home, Ann had forgotten how cold it was. She paused on the doorstep to wrap her scarf tighter around her neck. As she made her way back through the Camp of the Arts, she kept close to the buildings, out of the wind, catching good smells and sounds of laughter and currents of warm air from cracked windows.

As she reached the university’s moat, the chill took on a wet bite. The noise and bright glow of lamps fell away, becoming only muffled sounds and flashes of light reflecting off the black surface of the water. Ann passed several people on the bridge, many of them carrying lanterns. Their voices echoed around the short tunnel of the university’s gate as Ann passed through it, under the portcullis that had not been lowered in generations.

After the bright colors of the Camp, Janos University seemed so dark, lit only by the steady white illumination of the alchemic lamps.

A wreath had been placed on her door. Ann glanced around the hall, wondering if it had been placed there by one of her neighbors. Bags of candied fruit and nuts had been pinned among its pine needles and prickly-grape leaves.

Beneath the wreath, mounded against the door, a small pile of packages waited for her. The sight surprised her, though she didn’t why it should. Heart warm, she knelt to put them into her basket. From the wreath, she chose a bag of candied fruit for herself and left the rest for any spirits that wandered by that night.

The living room looked just the way it had when she’d left earlier: spool of ribbon, scrap fabric, and scissors out for wrapping presents, an empty tea mug and a plate of toasted nut bread on a chair nearby—and the usual mess everywhere else.

With horror, she realized it was a disaster.

Since early summer, she’d been so focused on her research, she hadn’t taken notice of her surroundings. The apartment looked like the den of some book- and yarn-hoarding creature, a little nesting bird or rodent.

She checked the clock on the mantel. She didn’t have the time to spare, but she also didn’t have a choice.

Her desk offered the only clear surface large enough for the basket of gifts. She set it there, atop her research notes, then sloughed off her warm winter clothes and got a fire going. When the wood was crackling and sending up orange flames, she attacked the living room. There wasn’t much she could do in a small amount of time, but she could at least put things in neater piles.

First, she swept the scrap fabric, ribbon, and scissors into a craft basket and returned the toast and tea mug to the kitchen. Then she ran around the apartment, gathering armfuls of books. At first, she tried to organize them in some relevant way, but when she found herself deciding whether to separate Dr. Rafa’el’s books from the three stacks of research, she quickly gave up and, in a frantic rush, piled them all together.

For a moment, she hesitated over all the knitting, thinking she should arrange it by project, but then she remembered herself and dumped it all on the corner of the couch—the one that was too stiff to sit on, anyway.

One of the projects was an unfortunate first attempt to knit a gryphon doll for her niece. The wings were blocky and looked like two blankets flapping on its back, and she’d forgotten to give it forelegs. She intended to try putting it to rights at some point without completely unraveling it, but until then, it would sit with her balls of yarn, looking confused and left out. Some emotion—pity, or love—urged her to pull it out of the pile and set it on top to watch her finish cleaning the apartment.

Ann pulled long strips of telegraph tape from the desk and threw them into a crate of prints. She suspected one of the messages was a short winter solstice story from her niece; it had arrived earlier in a flurry of metallic clacking.

From the dining table, she swept a pile of equipment for her upcoming research trip into a box and pushed the box—clinking with vials of antinausea draughts—under the bed in her room. Straightening, she spotted a piece of paper on the ground and recognized it as a letter from Dr. Rafa’el. He’d sent this one to her at the holiday years ago; it was one of her favorites. Earlier in the week, in a fit of nostalgia, she’d pulled it out to read. He was usually polite and serious to a fault, but this one contained a rare, silly drawing by him, and it always made her smile.

She tucked it in the closet with the rest of the letters, and spared a moment to wonder how Dr. Rafa’el was doing and how he was celebrating the holiday. She couldn’t imagine him making visits on solstice evening with a basket of presents on his arm, but also, she couldn’t imagine him not. Was he visiting family? Funny, from the years they’d corresponded, Ann could recount his personal philosophies, his favorite operas, and the way he took tea, but she didn’t know if he was married or if he had kids. Siblings. Nieces or nephews that telegraphed him with stories and cost him a fortune in telegraph tape...

Realizing she was smiling again, and that she’d been standing in her dark room, staring at her closet for several minutes, she shook her head at herself.

When at last she was done, the apartment still looked like her own—the apartment of a doctoral student lost in her dissertation work—but it seemed (at least she hoped) a bit less desperate. If nothing else, some of the floor was visible. In a word, it was acceptable, and she relaxed a fraction.

She still had a lot to do.

The fire had burned itself into smoldering coals nearly perfect for cooking. With her limited time, she should have opted to make dinner at the stove, but stubbornly, Ann rearranged the coals and added more wood. They always made winter solstice dinner at the hearth. It was tradition.

Ann retrieved the iron pot from where it lived for most of the year in a corner of the kitchen and set it over the coals on its three squat legs. Soon, the apartment was filled with the sound of sizzling and the smells of rosemary and parsnip. Beef stew wouldn’t make for a particularly fancy meal, but it would be warming and—she hoped—appreciated.

In her apartment, Ann had a total of three chairs. While the stew bubbled, she gathered these around the small dining table, spread out a lace tablecloth, and arranged three place settings. She put a knit cushion on each of the chairs.

Seeing the table this way did something funny to her. It had never been only her and them before.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, with a snap of her fingers. She retrieved the box of spice cakes and, after a minute of rummaging, found a serving platter to set them on. They looked too good like that, dressed with icing and currants. It made Ann smile. A lot of love had gone into them.

All she had left, now, were the finishing touches.

From beneath the couch, she pulled a wicker box filled with her most precious holiday decorations. First, she took out the bunch of silver bells. It was one of the few artisan-crafted items Ann owned, and it had been given to her by Mum and Auntie when she left home. Though the bells didn’t ring on their own or play music, the silver never tarnished and their nest of ribbons looked as crisp as if just-tied. Then, she lifted the little soul lantern from its protective fold of velvet cloth.

She stepped outside to hang the on the hook above her door and set the lantern on her doorstep. Across the courtyard, children whooped and a man called out a greeting. Ann crossed her arms over her chest, breath frosting, and watched their group go by. The atmosphere had taken on a rare, hazy quality that softened the lamp and lantern lights, making them into ghosts.

After the crackling cold, the air inside her apartment was thick with heat and rich smells. The door sealed out the children’s laughter, and in the insulated quiet, the clock above the mantel ticked the seconds.

Suddenly, the apartment was very small and very large and very empty and very close. She didn’t look at the clock. Now that it was almost time, she couldn’t.

To keep her hands moving, she placed a pan of wine over the fire and added cider and spices. She rearranged the contents of the dining table. Added the gifts from her basket to the mantel with the other cards and presents. Relocated her teapots so they could all fit. Sat on the vacant end of the stiff couch and watched the fragrant steam rise from the mulled wine. After a time, she realized she’d pulled out her talisman—the one Dr. Rafa’el had sent her years before—and was stroking its silky feathers, something she did when she was nervous.

The clock chimed ten.

“All right,” she said to the knit gryphon sitting on the hill of wool next to her. She tucked the talisman back under the collar of her sweater and went to the door.

“Welcome,” she whispered, and locked it.

From the wicker box, she took the last objects: two silver candle holders. She placed a slender taper in each and lit them with a flame from the hearth, as she’d been taught.

The pale-yellow beeswax burned sweetly. Once upon a time, the women of fishing villages had gathered together to dip the tapers that they’d later burn in their houses at night—lights to guide home their husbands and sons. Brothers. Fathers.

Ann placed the candles on the windowsill.

Winter solstice. Everywhere across campus and in all pockets of civilization, people set candles and lanterns in thresholds and in windows, on gate posts and at the edges of camp—beacons promising warmth and safe haven to all stray souls. Family and strangers gathered at the fireside, sharing bounty and story, reinforcing old connections, creating new. On the longest night, everyone had a home and hearth.

Ann ladled three bowls of stew. She set these on the small dining table with warm bread, a pot of honey, and butter. She poured mulled wine into each of the mugs.

“I hope you enjoy,” she whispered to the table.

She had intended to take a seat at it, but in the end, she took her meal to the hearth. Maybe this was rude, but somehow, it felt right. She ate while listening to the murmur and snap of the coals, and allowed herself to feel at peace. She hadn’t known what she would feel, sharing the holiday this way, but it wasn’t bad. It was…good. It was quiet, and she felt connected. Inexplicably, paradoxically so.

Outside, the approaching clang of a bell marked the passage of a solstice search party, a procession of candle bearers who traveled from door to door, guiding the way for lost spirits. They neared Ann's door, and the bell went silent. Into that pause, the bearers would be lighting the lantern on her doorstep. The peal of the bell resumed a few seconds later, and the procession moved on, drawing the spirits along with flame and sound—helping them find their way home, and, if not, helping them find friendly shelter.

She listened to the sounds disappear. In the gentle quiet that followed, she tried to sense any difference in the apartment. A shift of the air, a watchful presence that hadn’t been there before, maybe an inexplicable flicker of the candleflames at the window. How did these things work? She’d never been in an otherwise empty room on the night of solstice.

The clock continued to tick. Her bowl, now empty, cooled in her hands.

If any spirits had found their way inside when the procession passed by, Ann could not detect them any better than she could when surrounded by five other women and a small flock of birds all making music and conversation together.

There was also the alternative: that there weren’t any spirits because the souls that would have visited her hadn’t been lost.

In the fireplace, a log popped.

She rose to put her bowl in the kitchen, then covered both bowls of stew on the table, reckoning it wouldn’t hurt to keep the contents warm and clean. Just in case.

She tried not to be disappointed. It wasn’t like she’d expected to speak with them. It wasn’t like she had expected…anything, really.

Her hands rested on the back of a dining chair. She realized she was gazing at Ulma’s spice cakes. She picked one up, inhaled the sweet butteriness, and took a bite. The dense dough was still very slightly warm. The fragrance of spices and orange peel evoked memories of late nights in the sitting room with her foster sisters, playing number tiles and weaving leftover ribbons into bracelets and solstice crowns.

What were their mothers doing tonight? Was the house very quiet? Were they listening to music and enjoying an evening without four demons flinging bells at each other behind their backs? Ann hoped they were. She hoped it wasn’t as strange for Mum and Auntie as it was for her, gathering all the cards and packages from the mantel and settling on the floor with them.

“Miss you all,” she said to them. “Thank you for these.”

 She opened the cards first, starting with one from a friend she kept in touch with from primary school. She unfolded the handwritten note she’d come to expect every winter, with its accompanying heliograph, and saw that her friend’s family had an extra tiny, bald person this year. The firelight glowed through the creamy paper, silhouetting the words as she read them.

The cards from her university friends and mentors were also familiar and expected: most offered short greetings and wishes for a happy holiday, as they did every year.

Opening the cards from her sisters, however, was an odd experience. Usually, she received family updates and holiday tidings in person. This year, however, they’d agreed not to get together. With Ann preparing a research proposal for her expedition in spring, Linden caring for her one-month-old, Alyssum opening a business, and Heather off in the northern ice pole, they were all too busy—or too far—to travel home.

Ann had braced herself for missing them, but still wasn’t prepared for the ache at reading their words. The feeling eased as she continued, though, and it seemed rather like they were there with her. She could hear their distinct voices as they recounted new baby troubles, happy accidents in floral arrangement, and spousal drama.

Only after she had read the letters did she remember she might not be alone.

“Sorry,” she said, glancing at the table. “Just in case you’re listening: This one is from Linden. Her first child was born last month. All she wants for solstice is sleep. I wish I had some to spare, but I’ve been woefully low on my own supply lately.” She picked up the other letter. “This one is from Alyssum. She decided to open a flower shop—in autumn. Good luck to her. Sorry; that was mean. She’s actually doing quite well for herself. She received so many orders for solstice swags, she closed the shop early in the month. I’m proud of her.” She set the page down. “There’s no card from Heather. She sent it last month because mail is unpredictable for her. She’s at the northern ice pole. That’s her gift on the mantel, the carved antler. She got it from a tribe she stayed with for a few weeks.”

Ann treasured the piece. She had stopped to run her fingers over it many times since she’d unwrapped it from its cushioning strip of fur. It depicted a tiny sled being pulled by dogs, just like Heather’s. Every time Ann looked at it, she imagined the tread of paws on snow, the whispering slide of runners, the vast silence and frosting breaths—and smiled.

She loved all of her foster sisters, but Heather’s sense of adventure had always spoken to something inside Ann. Even if Ann herself was too timid and book-bound—and too afflicted by height sickness—to strike out on her own adventures, it made her heart full to think of Heather camping under the ribbon of northern lights.

Ann smiled and added, “I think you’d like them all, my foster sisters.”

After slipping each of the cards into their envelopes, she tucked them into the chest of drawers for safe keeping.

She unwrapped each of the presents next, revealing—from her university friends—caramels, mittens, knitting needles, and a hat.

Her sisters had sent colorful sweets, an anklet, the clay impression of a baby foot, a glass vial filled with delicate dried flowers, and two notebooks bound in soft leather (one from each of them).

Dr. Longway’s present made her stomach drop, even as she smiled. “You’re terrible.” It was a rubber stamp with her name and her title, as it would be when she completed her dissertation and graduated her doctoral program. She’d lamented so often that she would never finish. “I guess I have to get through it, now. This stamp is too handsome to waste. And ‘Dr. Fairweather’ does have a nice ring to it.”

The gift from Ulma and Teddy made her gasp. They had made her a gleaming music box the size of her palm. It bore a motif of feathers and ivy leaves, and when she thumbed the switch, it filled the room with the soft strains of her favorite solstice carol. She couldn’t decide if she felt more grateful or guilty. Had she hinted too hard by fawning over the boxes when she visited? Then she remembered the genuine smile on Ulma’s face and, with a vow to make them something extra nice for their birthdays, set aside the guilt.

She placed the music box on the mantel, delighting when it moved onto a new song and continued to play.

Only the brown paper parcel from her foster mothers remained.

Bells tolled—big bells this time, from across the courtyard, marking midnight. Ann added another log to the fire and a pinch of incense that made the flames flash green. She sat back down with the package. The brown paper was the rough kind used to wrap meat. Ann loved this quirk of Auntie’s: the woman who so loved fine, frilly things delighted in wrapping presents with the most unassuming paper and jute twine. It made the treasures inside all the more dear.

Ann picked at the knot of twine until the loopy bow sprang open, then unfolded the paper a corner at a time to reveal a tissue-wrapped bundle. It was floppy and thick in her hands. She pulled aside the tissue, then frowned quizzically at the knit inside. Bright jewel tones clashed in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but was…unexpected. She unfolded it to reveal a child’s blanket. This was odd. Mum and Auntie did often give blankets as gifts, but they favored quilts and creamy-colored crochet throws with tasselly ends.

An envelope fell to the floor. Ann draped the blanket on her lap and opened it to find a heliograph of Apple the cat curled in a basket of laundry, a recipe card for Mum and Auntie’s solstice-morning scones, and a letter in Mum’s handwriting, pasted with whimsical paper cutouts of birds and snowflakes. Ann brushed her thumb over the texture of them.

Dear Ann,

How is your project going?

Auntie brought home three loaves of solstice bread today. One is your favorite, with crushed pistachios. Auntie doesn’t like that one, and the one with candied cherries is more than enough for me. What are we going to do with all this bread !! I might give it to the neighbors when Auntie is out. I doubt she’ll notice it’s gone. There is so much food in the kitchen. I think we forget that you girls won’t be home for the holiday. Maybe we’ll have to invite some of the old women from the quilting class. Some of them haven’t got family anymore. The class is a way for them to get out and see people. You know Auntie and I stopped asking much for the class years ago, just enough to cover the supplies. Ettia’s bank stopped paying out her fee months ago but we won’t say anything to her about it. The class is the highlight of her week.

The letter went on for several more long, rambling paragraphs as Mum covered news of the shop, the decorations they’d put up, Apple’s bout of sickness (“She’s fine now, she threw up a big hairball one morning. Auntie stepped in it. Now she won’t stop screaming for food”), and their slow renovation of the house.

Auntie and I were cleaning out some old trunks in the back room and found this. It’s your baby blanket. I thought you might like to have it.

Mum’s neat handwriting continued on for the rest of the page, but Ann stopped there.

Her baby blanket. That hit her in an odd way and she blinked, and then it hit her harder when she realized that her mom, her real mom, must have knit this—or even her grandmother.

She spread the blanket beneath her hands, taking in the pattern of the colors, absorbing the deep, almost primordial familiarity. Her fingers bunched the knit and she pressed it to her mouth, blinking sudden tears. She didn’t even know what she wept for.

She glanced toward the table. She took a deep inhale, but the blanket just smelled like home, the home she grew up in with Mum and Auntie. With Mum and Auntie—and her foster sisters and their birds and a host of dolls and swathes of fabric draped over every surface. The home where they hid in closets and flicked thimbles from under the bed and placed the cutlery on the table just so. The home where she’d hidden behind the lemon balm in the summer and fashioned fairy gardens out of patches of moss, where she sneaked out of her room at night to steal tablespoons of jam from the ice chest, where she curled between Mum and Auntie when she couldn’t fall sleep in her own bed. Home. Lavender sachets and ginger syrup, glass pitchers of minty water and lacy drapes fluttering in the breeze.

She wasn’t even sure if it comforted her that it smelled like her childhood, or if she was disappointed that it didn’t smell like something else—like someplace else.

The fire burned down. The music box from Ulma and Teddy continued to play. Ann lowered the blanket and got up to turn it off. She covered the stew pot, poured the remaining mulled wine into a jar, and organized all the gifts.

The clock’s chime at the half hour found her at her desk, staring at her dissertation notes. She didn’t remember sitting down. Muscle memory must have brought her there, where she’d spent so much of the past year.

She set the notebook aside and pulled the telegraph machine toward herself. She thought for a moment, then tapped out a message to Mum and Auntie, wishing them a happy holiday and thanking them for the blanket. She almost asked them about it. They rarely talked about her parents; Ann still wasn’t sure how, or if, they’d known them. But after staring at the telegraph for several minutes, she flipped off the lamp and stood.

At the table, where the bowls of stew sat with the wine and the remaining cakes, she whispered a happy solstice and a thank you.

Briefly, she considered stepping outside to clear her head and breathe fresh air, but the soul lanterns had been lit. While it wasn’t taboo to leave the house after the search party had passed, it didn’t feel right. So instead, Ann cleaned the dishes and did, after all, organize her stacks of books. She even made an attempt to read her niece’s holiday story, but her gaze kept skating over the length of telegraph tape without reading the words.

Ann poured herself a last mug of wine and settled on the couch. Next to her, the little knit gryphon listed on its perch. She picked it up and ran her fingers over the stitches, frowning. The blocky wings flopped.

She should unravel it. Or maybe not.

It was time for bed.  

The blanket still lay in a neat heap on the floor. She hesitated before she picked it up, bunching it in her hands as she stared at it and then spreading it open. It was even smaller than she’d originally thought, vibrant with color and soft.

She looked at it for a long time before finally taking it with her to the bedroom. On the windowsill, the candles were nearly burned down. She left them, and would leave the window latch unlocked tonight. Just in case.

fin.

(Li'l author note: Happy holidays, and thank you for reading! Ann's story will continue in 2023. ☕️📚🪶 -Lep 💜)

[worldsfromhoney]

When in Rome

Masterlist

cw: blood, gore, torture

You don’t mean to come upon them, but stories like this always start that way. Something happens that isn’t meant to and you’re bound to wonder what the poor souls stuck in that situation would do. It’s a bit self-degrading to call yourself a ‘poor soul’ but what else fits you in coming upon a scene so far detached from humanity?

Or perhaps it is so exemplary of humanity that you cannot help staying to watch and see and spectate.

It’s every day you visit tradition-lacking areas or, as you prefer to call them, ‘free’ places. You find these little pockets of freedom in an era where tradition and punishment against subversion reigns supreme, smile sympathetically, and offer your hand. Except it isn’t quite a hand in the way you aren’t quite you as it’s been for a long, long time. The ones you talk to seem to think you’ve gone too far with your implements and replacements, becoming more machine than human but they are wrong. You’re definitely human.

It’s just that you’re the glitch in this system—the wrong cog in the machine, the blocked pipe in the network, the unfindable wire in the engine.

This is how you manage to remain unseen when you stumbled on this scene. How not one of those traditionalists turned their discerning clockwork eyes on you and instead focused on the matter at hand.

Things might make more sense if you had arrived earlier and got to speaking with the man who’d been there a while ago. Maybe you would’ve known he was waiting for someone since sunrise and the sun was already gone from the sky hours ago. Maybe you would’ve even revealed your nature as a glitch and this man would’ve showed you his secret, too.

But you have arrived in the middle of a carnage and the story starts from here.

It’s five against one but in truth it’s just the four doing all the work as the fifth stands off to the side, supervising; watching and recording everything as traditionalist coppers like him tend to do. There is a chain of command, even in these savagery you’re witnessing, tradition persisting even now.

The man you would’ve traded secrets with is curled up on the ground, hands clutching at the grass and dirt. Around him are strips of worn cloth, further shredded by the violence of the figures assaulting him. You would’ve—should’ve—looked away from the man’s bare body, perhaps to save him a little bit of dignity in secret; to be able to say that you have not taken a step out of line as the others have.

But you are a glitch and a human who knows this is not a simple act of savagery. This is nothing like the punishments doles out by The Machine when tradition is broken or cracked at. There is a goal here and you need to watch to know what it is.

So you settle in the shadows, heighten your senses, and listen.

For a long while, all you hear is the sound of hands going deep into this stranger’s body, the squelch of fingers wrapping around a mix of flesh and wiring, before there is the violent wrench of flesh, skin, and metal from the body. The spilling of blood-oil soon follows, as if this man’s body couldn’t believe something so savage was happening to it.

For a while, it is just these other men of supposed civility tearing into this defenceless body that you forget the stranger is still alive. You see it in their clenched jaw, how their teeth grinds in place of words, and the taut curl of their body towards itself, bit by bit.

This stranger is alive and not making a single sound as they are torn apart snd you wonder, don’t you, what their voice is like? Is it kind? Is it deep? Is it soft in this world of rigidity and sharp angles?

You do not wonder for long.

The leader of this crew finally moves. It’s like watching a statue come to life except life flees it just as fast, replacing its movement with inhuman combinations of coal and steam and wirings sparking. He draws out a pipe and sparks the tobacco to life with the friction of their creaking metal fingers.

“And just moments ago, you were so eager to talk,” The Leader says. “What happened to that urge? Did your ragtag group’s betrayal deal that much shock to you, hm?”

The Stranger does not answer. But you and presumably the others see how he flinches from the mention of people supposedly dear to him. You see his eyes that’d been screwed shut now flutter open, tears obvious at the corners.

The Leader clicks their tongue, “Don’t go crying on me. You know your tears have no effect on me—on anyone… not anymore, at least.”

It is after this that you hear the stranger for the first time. He’s smiling, if a little sadly and it not reaching his eyes.

“It’s a human response,” The Stranger says, tears finally and silently falling down the side of his face. “Just as you’re angry with me ever since I left, right? That’s human.”

He looks pleadingly up at his captor and you know there is something deeper between them; something you cannot fathom to understand. Not yet. Not now when you only have the pieces and they are being held strong away from you.

Still, you cannot read The Leader’s face. It is not a dark night but the shadows are drawn tight and heavy around his visage that looms over the prone man. He leans down, pipe precariously unbalanced with him till some of the hot ash falls right on the stranger’s face.

They flinch. He smiles crooked.

“I am angry, yes, but not of the reasons you’ve come up with in that little, rebellious brain of yours,” The Leader says, watching as bits of ash keep falling and burning the prone man. “I am angry for you have gallivanted around, dragging my name in dirt, as you break tradition after tradition and leaving others in your wake to take the punishment for you.”

“There… there w-wouldn’t b-be such sacrifices if you d-didn’t force tradition on people who had never agreed to it. Not once! Not eve—”

The pipe flips over and this strange man who had fire in his eyes even after being subjected to such savagery and humiliation screams. He curls further into himself, hands clawing his throat now as he retches on the ground, wanting wanting to vomit out the taste of smoke, ash, and literal fire that he’d swallowed. With every cough, his open wounds coughed with him. Blood spurted from every spasm, wires sparked, delivering jolts he couldn’t just shake off as easily as before. Sweat steamed off him till the stank smell spread round like a fog, seeping into crevices of the earth that had done nothing but consume his blood and suffering.

You have to stop yourself from acting. You were this close to taking another step that would’ve rustled the grass or sifted rock and informed these players that their game was up and wasn’t that the best thing to happen now? End this strange man’s suffering?

No. That is not what you have waited this long for. You slink back into the shadows and wait. And wait. Wait. Wait. Wait.

The stranger eventually stops dry retching. It’s when he’s just lying back on the soiled ground, twitching and spasming and heaving great breaths that the first gentle touch comes upon him. The rest of the torturers retreat and make space for The Leader who’s finally deigned to go down on one knee. You watch his eyes take in everything about the sad state of the stranger and wonder if he’s looking to remember its state before this or to look for something.

You believe it’s the latter. Not out of instinct but by how you had noticed the frenzied but directed movements of the other men earlier as they tore through the stranger’s body. Looking, looking, looking.

The Leader smiles. He reaches a gloved hand towards the stranger’s face and cups it gently.

“My dear friend… You, I think, out of everyone, have been the closest to me and my heart for as long as I can remember,” He says in a soothing tone, flicking off some dried blood and tending to the bruises and hurts.

The stranger sobs. The Leader keeps smiling as he forces the man’s jaw open, pushes his tongue to the roof of his mouth, and grabs something underneath. You watch the entire thing just as this immaculate-looking man pats the stranger’s face and stands up, smoothing away the wrinkles on his clothes.

“And it is because you have been the closest that I know exactly how your little mind ticks,” He says, bringing the object to his eye for a moment that lasts exactly that—a moment.

It looks like a gear; a piece of clockwork so intricate and massive that it would end up relying on gears like that. You have seen one such piece of machinery. You have come from one.

You are the glitch of one.

Eventually The Leader and the rest leave, satisfied with finding what had been lost—no, what had been taken. They have no need of finishing off The Stranger. That is not what the job entailed and they are, if anything else, apt followers of orders.

After the shadows of many are gone, another one comes over this man who’d literally been pecked clean. It’s your shadow. You, who’s reaching for this stranger’s spilled innards and deftly winding back together broken and torn pieces; wired ligaments, piped veins, coal-breathing organs.

It’s you who wait by their side as they catch their first clear and clean breath and eventually look at you, a question in their gaze. You have a question, too. Multitudes of them actually, but a more important one you need answering now.

You introduce yourself. Their eyes widen. You hold out a hand just as you’ve always done to those who’ve broken tradition and knew nowhere to go and nothing to do.

The Stranger laughs. “What’s one more broken man for you, huh?”

One more is phenomenal. One more means the world and tears finally break through his eyes as you say this, taking his outstretched hand.

One more is all you ever need when changing everything.

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