Forums → Art, Music, and Writing → Nocta Hemata

If you've read my other work/s, you're probably gonna say, "He's not gonna finish the previous one again?" Well, I'm still wondering myself, though I've already finished the next chapter of the other one Im writing, and is currently undergoing the merciless editing of the editing department. So, dropping that, here's a steampunk story for you!

"This way, she went over here..."
The three men ran into the alley and turned deeper in, and stopped. They turned back to face the girl, who was hiding behind a group of tougher-looking men.
"So these thugs here looking to mess you for some quick dough?"
The grimy girl silently nodded, which prompted the men to advance on the gang. The man who spoke led the little girl into the back door of one of the workshops. He spoke loudly,
"Hey Victor! You're sister's here again!"
A young lanky teen stepped out of the workshops from repairing a steamtank. He quickly rushed to his sister's side.
"What is it this time, Liz?" he inquired, scolding her with the tone of his voice. She shook her head and hugged him close. She was on the verge of tears.
"Why aren't you at home? Why's m-" he stopped, and stood.
"Stay here." he commanded here, not even looking back, not even responding to the inquisitive glances thrown at him by his colleagues, not even noticing the reluctant protests of the men who had helped his sister earlier and were coming back into the shop. He tore off his apron and ran back to his house through an elaborate maze of alleys, backstreets, and sewers. He ran into a small patch of blackened ground being hosed down by Rooks. Another one was just covering one of several bodies with a white cloth, muttering a silent prayer as much for the fallen as much for himself. Shock hammered Victor to his knees. He stood, hope stoking a fire in him; he rifled through through the bodies, much to the protests of the Rook charged with their care. He stopped, uncovering only a wrist, but he had seen that bracelet every morning, ad no amount of soot could hide each facet, every contour of the tiny metal rope design that embraced the crisp hand of what was now his mother's body. He walked slowly away, throwing away the hand of the heavy gloved hand of the crewman that came to grasp his shoulder, and retched on the ground. He was on the verge of collapse, but managed to teeter back towards the alley that led him to what was left of his home. There, the tears he'd been holding back, the tears that were about to be shed were stopped short by the sense that told him he was surrounded by armed men. The wrench came down upon him, and his vision flashed. Hands grabbed his shoulders, but his brain barely registered this, overwhelmed by the pain one of his attackers' knees brought upon his face. Then the beating stopped. He fell to the pavement, struggling to retain his consciousness, but the sound of flesh hitting flesh soon turned into a rhythmn that slowly let him drift to sleep.