By Sean Canning
These are extracts from a fictional piece of writing I have been working on for a little while based around a dystopic steampunk reality with influences from H.P. Lovecraft and George Orwell
1.Morcadi grabbed the man’s shirt and head butted him: smashing his visor. Blood flowed down Morcadi’s face: he didn’t let go his sword slashed at the man’s ribs – blood coated both of them. Disgusted Morcadi threw the man to the ground – he went for his tesla2, Morcadi drew his gun but the batons charge caused him to drop it: regardless the gun fired blew through the man’s leg – blood filled the air. Morcadi dodged the man’s next strike and countered by stabbing him in the shoulder: the blade divided the joints ripping his arm off. Unfazed the man continued – unrelenting. Gritting his teeth Morcadi continued his assault: the blade found purchase between the man’s lower ribs blood spurted covering the bike – covering everything. It was stuck, the blade was stuck: the man’s tesla crossed Morcadi’s face forcing him to the ground: the glass covered ground cut Morcadi’s face: he grasped a large shard of glass, in his blood soaked hand and forced himself to his feet. He tackled the man flipping him over his shoulder – Morcadi barely still standing turned and forced the broken bottle through the man’s throat.
2.The crest of the church, sun falling into night behind it looking around Morcadi realised just how beautiful it all was. Empty coats filled the streets, top hats floating around the place brushed aside by colour: all the more vibrant but all the darker and as Requia’s face crumbled against his hand.
3.Morcadi dashed forwards throwing his long coat into an attacker then diving into the sludge: it was thick and slowed him considerably, the fumes made him nauseous but he forced himself to press on; gagging, heaving he forced himself onwards barely making it too the tree. Sergei’s spears made a good ladder they were deep in the thick tree, and Morcadi could climb up easily – as he reached the top he saw a rifleman aim at him, click, his gun was empty and Morcadi flew to punish him for his mistake. Jumping from one branch to the other he grabbed the man’s shirt and pulled him to the thick branch. Using the man’s safety line designed to stop him from falling off Morcadi wrapped it round the man’s throat and let go of the branch choking him – Morcadi looked in the eyes of the man as his mask fell to the floor. He was a boy no older than nineteen – he looked like a farm hand, like anything other than a soldier, blood and tears ran down his face and hit Morcadi. The boy’s flailing stopped. Morcadi dropped to a lower branch…
4. As he buttoned it he examined the pair of trousers he had chosen – smooth eastern silk: they allowed him to be mobile and not think twice about his movements and were comfortable around his legs, a crimson waistcoat: smooth silk that would not get stained as he cut a bloody swath through crowds – and finally his best trench coat – black with a floral dark grey pattern across and a red velvet interior – large shoulder pads thickened and armoured with hard leather but discrete in the folds of the coat and a top hat for the death himself desired a night on the town: however; before he could pick one arms wrapped around his shoulders – slender hands – from a slender frame grasped his chest and a sigh of relief breathed out – Requia was there waiting for him and seeing him dress the way he was she knew that what was going to happen was not good so she held on – one last grasp – one last embrace – one last moment before she would have to put him down – not that she could win alone, so she wasn’t – but with ten coppers waiting to flood the building she had to give him a fighting chance.