MxF Monsters, Brass, Iron, Trains, Magic, and Story.

[Lighthouse]

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Foreword​

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Basically the Basics
Multi-Character/Novella style poster.
Multi Genre/Mixed themes, though the concoction almost always involves horror.
It is rare to find my limits.
Male writer.

The Long Answer
There are words that by simply mentioning them create worlds.
For some listeners it is mentioning fables, and off their minds go into Never-Never Land.
Others, it's words built upon the spines of shadows, and their thoughts swoon to nightmares built in The Land of Nod.
In every word, a world, and in each of our stories a universe.

Story above all else.

I tend towards a darker pallet of writing, mixed with fantasy.
Staging ranges from modern, ancient, steampunk, or western.
A good read/write is a feast for the mind, and that is all that in truth matters to me.

Your limits will always be respected.
(Some worry over this since I have so few)

​

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Invitation​

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Once upon a time,
after Nikola Tesla, but before Harry Houdini,
there was an Era....

... where men riveted together Gods of steam and brass.
... where faith laid steel tracks across the face of the unknown.

A time when technology touched myth,
and fables were challenged by gears and coal smoke.

This, is a Fable of that time,
or rather better put...

...this is where at least two interwoven Once upon a times begin.​

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Key'nos Harbor
Major trade port of the south

The city was as advertised, a crowded mass of buildings and cobbled streets.
The air was filled with the call of Hawkers selling their wares, horse shoes clacking against stone, and wheels of wagons bumbling along.
The wind tasted of coal, oil, incense, and in the distant hearing the mournful call of a steam engine upon the iron lines.

Districts close enough to the water's edge were salted with the distant seas.
There are older streets, to which those of right mind and conscious nature would avoid, where shadows trade black market deals.
And yet other roads seemed to be lined with silk, brass, and silver.

Money flowed like water to some in this world of smoke and tinker, while others traded sanity for loaves of bread.
Yes, the city was as advertised, a paradise for some, and a clockwork hell for others.

And in two days Fellow Traveler,
it would all be ash.
​

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Between Places With Names
Alice in Wonderland - Madhatters - Cheshire Fables - All while being chased by a Queen of Hearts.
Romance/Steampunk/Dark Fairytale/Many Worlds

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Rollingstock 831
The Shop

Seeing a Rollingstock coming into the city would be akin to seeing a...
...drifter, gypsy, traveling vendor, or cure all 'expert'.

Each of them had their own selective specialties,
but this one has in tradition a vast variation of products true to the rest of its kin.

Tall shelves in limited space were spooled with silks from other lands,
and the air was sweet with herbs in jars, satchels, and woven bags.
There were strange tools, jewelry, and small wonders from around the globe itself.
All of its products are sold on display each being lined, shelved, held in place by strap, string, or case.

And yet, at the center of it all...
... was a black painted desk, gilded in bronze.
Upon the top of it rested a single telling thing,
The Book of Names.

It was not a ledger of numbers, or even business.
It was a catalog of authors, bound in leather like a rare first edition, and placed with care.
Every printed work from Mary Shelley to Aeschines, the ancient Greek poet, could be found in that list.

As if in the spotlight of it all, that catalog of endless writers, poets, and papers, simply sat waiting.
It showed that this place fancied itself a lair of a Word Smith.
It fancied itself a mobile printing press of typically unique, restricted, or difficult to locate texts.

Indeed, many people of the city visited this Rollingstock as it passed through.
Workers of math read new theories through published papers,
and many noble women hide their purchased books beneath pillows with a slight blush.

And these?
These were only two of the various breeds that come beyond the door.

Though all of this was just how things looked, a mask,
and Fellow Traveler, you know masks can deceive.
​

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Cornelius Hawthorn
Tradesman of Rollingstock 831​

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Dark eyes, the color of woods, bark, and oak, looked at the frosted glass which lined the walls. Beyond them the world had become faded, pushed away into the vague shapes of a misted optical illusion. People wandered out there beyond in the streets, but from here they looked nothing more than ghosts, phantoms, and shades, blurred copies of the original. That gaze held upon the distortion of the world, and though there was not silence in the shop, it was the nearest that such a word could come to.

Soft ticking of clocks...
Soft flicker of oil lamps...
... and the quiet thunder of his own heart beating that rhythm.

There was something, an itch really, at the back of his skull.
Wasn't physical, or even theoretical, but rather a thing that seemed to gum up the cog works of his mind.
It was like noticing at last a missing piece of the puzzle that was being put together.

At the height of six foot even, wild hair that needed attention, and the hat to keep like a crown upon his brow, the Tradesman stood almost as a statue.
Left hand held under a small tea saucer, while right kept finger locked and looped in place upon the cup's little arm.
It wasn't the best tea in the world, but it steamed over the white rim. It was decent, and at least scented his mood with a slight hint of honey.

A voice, not one of his own, sounded off to the man's left and upward, but those dark eyes did not follow to the top of the bookshelf.
Cornelius needed not wonder where, or from who the small childish voice echoed from.

"Why do you look so dower?"
Words broken by what could be described as a sharp toothed yawn.
"You've done... well enough. For a rookie that is."
Those words, perhaps had a hint of sarcasm on it, but such was the praise of a feline.

At last the man who stared at the windows tilted his gaze from the world beyond those clouded glass panes, and looked high up towards the very top of a shelf. Vision could not stretch up and over to see the one who spoke to the man, but there was no need for that magic. A pair of amber eyes preceded by pointed ears poked out from over the lip was now staring down at the Cornelius.

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Sir Walter Daring Stillford
The Cheshire of Rollingstock 831​

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Eyes, darkened by the brim of Cornelius's hat, narrowed almost in threat towards Cheshire, but that expression melted soon enough. What was left behind was turned once more towards those frosted panes of glass. Steady hands went to work in feeding his own lips another sip of that just passing tea, as thoughts continued to boil against the inner corners of his skull.

At last, the man had to force himself to admit the truth.

"We're missing something, and I think you know it."

The acquisition of such a thing made Walter flatten his ears, a wicked look crossing its own face above that strange bronze and amber color.
"Careful Tradesman, you're the thirteenth here. I'm the first of my brood."

A slight smile, one that was hinted at with the honey of tea, tucked itself at the corner of the man's lips.
"I mean no offense O' furred king of this wheeled castle. This city has what? Two? Three days left, and before that we'll have time to restock."
The man tilted those oak eyes again at the cat.
"Let's use the last seeker, humor me Great King."

Again those ears flicked back against his skull as Walter disliked the sarcasm used back against him, but to the credit of the feline there was that distinctive noise. It was half scratching, half paw knocking at something, and the feline cast a strange object. It struck the floor with solid -CLACK- of impact, and came skittering over beside the man's polished shoes.

"You know human there was a time your kind worshiped us."

"There was a time when we didn't have toilet's either, O' Wise Knowing One."

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Item 2391-A
Seeker Seed​

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Stories try to make it sound easy.
Chant some magic words, wiggle some fingers, or do a little pattern, but it's not as simple as that.

Magic, or at least the real kind of magic, comes with a price.

The man set the tea cup upon its small plate, and the plate upon the desk,
and only then did he bend to take up the object.

Lifting it in careful, controlled hands, Cornelius whispered to it a secret.
A truth...
A thing pulled from the corner of his soul...

For you see, if you want to know something about someone Fellow Traveler, first one must offer something about themselves.

The man tossed it to the desk, upon pages of contracts that had been filled in this damned city that only had a few days left in it.

And that seed-like object, with its contract in turn fulfilled, unfolded, refolded and became something... else.
Neither spider, scorpion, or insect, the thing seemed to take parts from all to form itself from brass, black, and get itself an amber eye.

Its bones were made of clockworks.
Its purpose is fed by a secret.

It had no skull to think with, only a single amber eye to guide it.
It had no heart to pump blood, for it had only one thing to accomplish.

It... was a Seeker.

The man was not afraid.
Nor was the man startled as it launched itself to the wall.
Nor was he disturbed as it crawled out the window.

"I don't know why you care..."
Walter shook his head, disappearing over that ledge in full again, and gave another one of those sharp toothed yawns.
"...we've already met our quota."

But that was the trick of it.
Cornelius didn't know why that itch was there, only knew that it was.
The tea lay forgotten, and his remaining thoughts were lost out frosted windows that turned the world into ghosts.

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Item 2391-B
Seeker Attuned​

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The Music Box Raven
Horror-Obsessions-Control-Monsters-Mild to Extreme Themes
Possessive Love/Force/No Choice/Possible Insanity

They call this part of the city "The Scrap Heap".
Cheap parts, most likely damaged, on the sly or in bulk.
Stolen jewelry half priced, and broken clockworks one third for buying as is.
This is not the kind of place to where nobles tread,
nor is it the kind of place that was safe for those to even visit.

Here, in those dark close pushed alleys, one particular establishment is well known.

Charmingly, they named this one The Junk Yard.
Humans do like their themes don't they?



You would be wrong if you guessed those men and women in those cages were for sale.
That would make them slaves.
No, but the contracts to their lives were for purchase.
That made them indentured servants.

A tiny distinction, but one that was legally binding.
Here, you could buy yourself a 'junk yard dog' for next to nothing.
You wouldn't even be wasting much money if they didn't last.

The poor who defaulted on a loan for some food for their family.
The good looking commoner who slept with the wrong noble man's wife.

There were a thousand and one ways to find yourself at rock bottom and inside those cages,
but there was only one way out.

It was listed right there on the collars, plain for any to see.
A price tag, though not a very large one, imprinted on the brass bands about the slaves...
...or rather...
..indentured servants necks.
Tax not included.

​

Black feather wings tilted against the deeper air currents that poured from the city's vents, and followed the heat flows into the heavens. Arching upward like a fired arrow, the below ground shrunk by every second. Rooftops, people milling about in streets, and all of its concerns merely shrinking farther...and yet farther away. Through the clouds themselves the metal beak upon its face punctured like a bullet, tearing through the cotton white as now there was only sky.

Blue, bright, sun bound sky.

Black lens eyes turned towards the scene with envious gaze, and the beauty of it made mechanical heart tick and tick a clockwork faster.

Though all things must fall.

Raven, though such a name is used only in rough wording to a creature such as this, tucked wings flat against its body, and let gravity take hold.

Downward.

The wind whipped, howled, and hurled insults in the birds ears as it cut through the fabric of the sky.

Downward.

Those distant images grew in size, clouds of burnt wood, coal, and oil now visible like ghosts on the rooftops.

Downward.

The 'clip clop' of hooves upon cobble. The clang and bang of steamwork machines.

Wingspan snapped wide, and where flesh or muscle might tear, the metal tethers in this creature feared naught the strain.

Through the low streets of the slums those wings took him.
Swooping clear of humanities heads, and out of reach of any childish swing, five to seven feet above them slowly the Raven drifts.
Over those people dressed in their blacks, and white, the Raven moved with feathered wings only adjusting to currents.
Yet, from inside that almost bone like paint upon its skull, the things lens black eyes adjusted.
Click- Its pupil narrowed.
Click click- Only a pinpoint of black remained.

​

Now. Strike.

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A black blur of shadow crossed near the fruit stand, and the eyes of people nearby were all tangled up in their own matters. What was left was the drone of wings above them, and an event such as that wasn't so uncommon as to force one to look. Metal claws now held the stolen property of grapes, thick round orbs of juicy explosions, or so the Raven was told. The added weight? Well, that didn't slow down the thing one bit, if anything even more speed was put on. The creature had gotten away with the crime, and perhaps some sense of wrongness to theft pushed it to escape the scene. Or maybe, it was just excited to finish what it set out to do in the first place.

In truth I can not tell you if the Raven fled its conscious or towards its excitement.
There are some answers that Winged Creatures just leave in the dark, and so further speculation is irrelevant.

After some time, the Raven gradually tilted, turned, and pulled the rest of his body through the air.
As practiced as a ballet, and as exact as a factory machine, the Raven swooped into The Junk Yard's open air cages.
Not a single feather was ruffled as it tucked itself thin to pass through the bars.
Light as grace itself, it came to rest upon the bare rough floor of the cell with a flap of wings to pause descent.

How many time has this ritual been repeated over the span of weeks?

The Raven would land, leaving a treasure of food upon the floor where anyone could get at it.
Metal legs clicking and clacking as it circled the loaf of bread, apple, peach, or in this case large grouping of grapes.
At one point a bold man had attempted to take the prize, and the poor bastard lost an eye and half his price.
That one was sold a day earlier, so the continued grudge was no threat.

So the black winged one was doing his guarding around the prize, soft normal bird like cooing echoing from his throat as head bobbed slightly with each step.
Those black lens eyes watching the crowded cage with detail.

This was the last part of the dance it performed once or twice a day.
It spread its wings wide, and seemed to bow.
Mechanical throat opened, and the sounds of a music box echoed forth.

How many times has this ritual been done before?

It was a summoning.
It was a calling.
It was seeking Her with the song.

Song of the Raven.mp3

drive.google.com

Some were fearful of the creature.
Some were jealous of the creature, and the gifts it brings Her.
They had a right to be all of this and more.

What they most certainly did not have the right to do though, was set a trap.

How many times has this ritual been done? Can't tell you that.
Just know it was enough times for them to set up this little plot.

The Raven did not see the club being brought down against its body.
It felt the crunch of bone, snap of spring, and impact though.

Couldn't miss that fun little joy ride of learning about pain.
The shattered form, twitched.
Gears whined, tendons spasmed, and broken music played somewhere in the hollows of the Raven's breast.

-Click-Click- The shutters in its black lens eyes sought the crowd for Her face.
-Click- Black pinpoints seeming to darken still... the one all to human question of 'Why?' on its fading mind.

What happened next I can not say in full due to these open spaces.
Though that corpse of a creature that had long brought food, treats, and gifts moved.
It leapt from the floor like a rabbit.
It burrowed into its attackers chest as easily as acid.

The man stumbled, mouth moved but no words could be heard.

Something peeled itself out of the man.
Like one would treat an orange, it might be said.

Not Raven, Human, Machine, Flesh, or even Sanity,
it had changed.

It had evolved.

One of the other guards was surprisingly quick to react,
put a blunderbuss to the side of the demon like things face, and pulled the trigger.

The creature's head did jerk to the side, the guard did manage that,
but where those ricocheted pelets ended up was another one of those winged mysteries.

It is hard to explain things in a way without treading upon rules here,
so I will merely say if your sleeve gets caught in a printing press, it will not hesitate to mutilate your hand.

There is no press of someone's muscles pushing down on you.
Just hard, heavy, piston driven metal that passes through at flesh and bone.

So, when the creature's arm snapped out, those claw like fingers wrapping around the Guard's arm...
... it is easy to say that the limb was forever lost.

Tired, starved, fear ridden, abused, and put in the middle of carnage itself?

No wonder She felt feint as, after slaughtering every last guard in the area indiscriminately,
the thing pushed the bars aside like a curtain.

No wonder darkness claimed her,
as the nothing creature began to sing a lot like a music box at the back of its throat.​

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These fever dreams and more.
L.H.​