Master Gode (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} mastergode) wrote,@ 2009-01-07 00:05:00 |
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A steampunk story
I was driving to Megan's parents' house today, in order to housesit for them for a night, when I had an idea for a steampunk story. I originally envisioned it as a short story, though now it's beginning to look more like a novella.
Once I got to her parents' house, I opened my laptop, sat down and started writing. I had one specific scene in mind when I started writing, and two specific characters. In the section I wrote, all I've done is introduced one character. There hasn't even been any steampunk in the story yet. Then again, I specifically want it to be low-steampunk. I think that those stories about people riding airships and being ridiculous are usually just fan service and are terrible. I want this to be a responsible story that incorporates steampunk elements, that's all.
Anyway, this is also my first ever venture into writing a story that takes place in the past. It's intimidating, but I've been studying that time and period so much lately that I feel vaguely qualified to do so. I'm sure there will be little inaccuracies here and there, but I'm avoiding being TOO specific for the time being.
So, I present to you the first scene (not the first chapter) of my story which currently has no title, but which in my mind I call Jonathan vs. Nicholas. Hopefully it will fare better than Sever Vs. Ecks.
It isn't too long right now, so let me know what you think.
Jonathan vs. Nicholas
Chapter One: In Which Mr Jonathan Darby is Given a Strange Assignment
Jonathan Darby flung himself out of the Hansom with such speed that he spooked the horses. Jonathan tossed the driver a few coins at random from his pocket as he flew toward the steps of the Herbert and Georges Bank of London as fast as his lanky legs would take him, quite unaware that the driver was busy calming the horses. The Herbert and Georges Bank of London, far from the most prestigious bank in London, was unique in that its board of directors had been willing to hire him. Its poor standing amongst other London banks made it all the more important to Jonathan that he not get fired, a task which seemed less and less likely as each second ticked by. "Be here no later than eight a.m. tomorrow, or we shall be forced to let you go," Mr. Georges had said; it had been nearly a quarter to eight when Jonathan had stormed out of his apartment, and he hadn't dared to look at his watch since.
Jonathan, having taken only a few moments to mount the stairs, stood out of breath before the great double doors which were the bank's entrance. He leaned over, resting his hands on his knees, and caught his breath. Coming into the office discomposed was even worse than coming in late, or as his mother would have said, "grace before timeliness." No longer winded, he pushed open the doors and stepped through into the bank proper.
The guard standing by the door gave Jonathan a scrutinizing stare as he walked through the doors, but he simply nodded at the man and moved on. Jonathan's eyes immediately glanced upward to the large clock on the wall, whose second hand was ticking 58, minute hand was ticking 59 and hour hand was about to tick 8. Jonathan started to give an immense sigh of relief, but then realized where he was and masked it with a cough that, due to his nervousness, rang out loudly and hollowly in the silence of the bank's lobby. The two men working at their desks looked up at him. Jonathan, feeling the bite of chagrin, cleared his throat, waved cheerily, and walked with as much confidence as he could muster toward the door at the back of the lobby that would lead toward his desk.
No sooner had Jonathan sat down at his desk and opened his accounting ledger than Mr. Furnis came walking down the aisle, past the desks of his coworkers, to stand before Jonathan's desk. Jonathan cringed on the inside; Mr. Furnis was the office foreman. Mr. Furnis cleared his throat.
“What time is it, Mr. Darby?” He asked.
Jonathan pulled his pocketwatch out of his vest pocket and read the time from it. “Why, it's just one minute after eight in the morning, sir.”
Mr. Furnis was a large man, who wore his beard in large muttonchops, and when he leaned over to talk to someone, he had a long way to lean; the end product was intimidating and would have been quite out of place at the Bank of England.. He used that tactic now, and leaned over Jonathan's desk, putting his face close enough for Jonathan to smell his acrid breath.
“You're very lucky, Mr. Darby,” he said, softly. “I know you're going to go too far, one of these days, and then it will be my job to eject you from the premises. I'll enjoy that, I think.”
“Y-yes, sir,” Jonathan stammered.
Mr. Furnis straightened up abruptly and in his normal volume said, “Mr. Darby, Misters Herbert and Georges would like to see you. Go to Mr. Herbert's office straightaway.”
“Y-yes, of, of course,” Jonathan said, while his heart leapt in his chest. Mr. Herbert and Mr. Georges were dour old men who had never said anything nice about anyone within earshot of Jonathan. The fact that they wanted to see him boded very, very ill for his future at this particular bank, and with it, his future plans of applying for a job at a more respectable bank in a year. Jonathan had long been harboring the belief that the Herbert and Georges Bank of London performed more than just legal services, though he had never been able to prove it, nor would he have wanted to if he could. It would certainly have explained Mr. Furnis's uncommon thuggishness. However, Jonathan simply kept his head down and did his work to the best of his ability, which often was insufficient to the task at hand.
As Jonathan walked down the aisle of desks, his coworkers turned and watched him, doing nothing to lessen the feeling that he was walking to the gallows. When he reached Mr. Herbert's office door, he smoothed his vest and jacket, and straightened his tie. After composing himself, he knocked on the door. He heard a faint voice from inside telling him to enter.
Mr. Herbert's office was hardly an office at all, as so far as he could tell, no work was ever done inside of it. It was really more of a study, with an ornate oriental rug, thickly padded armchairs and large bookshelves filled with an impressive number of books which were likely fake. Jonathan knew that this room was designed to impress potential clients with the bank's wealth, but it still intimidated him.
“Mr. Darby, please have a seat,” Mr. Herbert said. He was sitting in an armchair next to Mr. Georges.
“Oh, no thank you, sir. I'm very happy to stand, thank you.”
“Very well, whatever you wish,” Mr. Herbert said. He was the younger of the pair, being only in his late fifties. Mr. Georges was a septagenarian with drooping jowls and a palpable grumpiness. “Let me be plain, Mr. Darby: you are a disgrace to your family. You are the worst banker I have ever seen in my life, and if it were up to me, I would replace you in an instant with an idiot child. There are men in Bedlam who would make better bankers.”
Jonathan said nothing, but his heart dropped down toward his intestines.
“However,” Mr. Herbert went on, “Mr. Georges feels that there is a chance that you can be… salvaged.”
Mr. Georges cleared his throat and then spoke with a deep, gravelly voice. “You see, Mr. Darby, we no longer require your presence in this office. As it would be impossible to find someone capable of bungling numbers more creatively than yourself, we have decided that you shall instead serve a different purpose. While you may not be able to tell an addition symbol from your elbow, you are smart enough to know not to cross us, yes?”
“Y-yes, of course, sir, I would never-”
“Yes, yes,” Mr. Georges continued, and Jonathan stopped babbling. “One of your coworkers may not be so smart. We suspect that Mr. Furnis is inadvisably stealing from us. You will accompany him to our branch in Highbridge, during which time you will attempt to discover whether what we suspect is true. You are not to let him know that this is your task. You will ostensibly be his assistant. Do you understand?”
“I... believe so, sir. I just don't know if-"
“Very well. You are dismissed. You leave for Highbridge tomorrow morning.”
Jonathan had been dismissed enough times in his life to know when to leave quietly rather than upsetting anyone. As soon as he closed the door to Mr. Herbert’s office behind him, Jonathan realized that he and Mr. Furnis would be traveling alone together. Just himself and a large, brutish man who seemed predisposed to violence and who had some terrible grudge against him.
The future was not looking especially bright.
I was driving to Megan's parents' house today, in order to housesit for them for a night, when I had an idea for a steampunk story. I originally envisioned it as a short story, though now it's beginning to look more like a novella.
Once I got to her parents' house, I opened my laptop, sat down and started writing. I had one specific scene in mind when I started writing, and two specific characters. In the section I wrote, all I've done is introduced one character. There hasn't even been any steampunk in the story yet. Then again, I specifically want it to be low-steampunk. I think that those stories about people riding airships and being ridiculous are usually just fan service and are terrible. I want this to be a responsible story that incorporates steampunk elements, that's all.
Anyway, this is also my first ever venture into writing a story that takes place in the past. It's intimidating, but I've been studying that time and period so much lately that I feel vaguely qualified to do so. I'm sure there will be little inaccuracies here and there, but I'm avoiding being TOO specific for the time being.
So, I present to you the first scene (not the first chapter) of my story which currently has no title, but which in my mind I call Jonathan vs. Nicholas. Hopefully it will fare better than Sever Vs. Ecks.
It isn't too long right now, so let me know what you think.
Jonathan vs. Nicholas
Chapter One: In Which Mr Jonathan Darby is Given a Strange Assignment
Jonathan Darby flung himself out of the Hansom with such speed that he spooked the horses. Jonathan tossed the driver a few coins at random from his pocket as he flew toward the steps of the Herbert and Georges Bank of London as fast as his lanky legs would take him, quite unaware that the driver was busy calming the horses. The Herbert and Georges Bank of London, far from the most prestigious bank in London, was unique in that its board of directors had been willing to hire him. Its poor standing amongst other London banks made it all the more important to Jonathan that he not get fired, a task which seemed less and less likely as each second ticked by. "Be here no later than eight a.m. tomorrow, or we shall be forced to let you go," Mr. Georges had said; it had been nearly a quarter to eight when Jonathan had stormed out of his apartment, and he hadn't dared to look at his watch since.
Jonathan, having taken only a few moments to mount the stairs, stood out of breath before the great double doors which were the bank's entrance. He leaned over, resting his hands on his knees, and caught his breath. Coming into the office discomposed was even worse than coming in late, or as his mother would have said, "grace before timeliness." No longer winded, he pushed open the doors and stepped through into the bank proper.
The guard standing by the door gave Jonathan a scrutinizing stare as he walked through the doors, but he simply nodded at the man and moved on. Jonathan's eyes immediately glanced upward to the large clock on the wall, whose second hand was ticking 58, minute hand was ticking 59 and hour hand was about to tick 8. Jonathan started to give an immense sigh of relief, but then realized where he was and masked it with a cough that, due to his nervousness, rang out loudly and hollowly in the silence of the bank's lobby. The two men working at their desks looked up at him. Jonathan, feeling the bite of chagrin, cleared his throat, waved cheerily, and walked with as much confidence as he could muster toward the door at the back of the lobby that would lead toward his desk.
No sooner had Jonathan sat down at his desk and opened his accounting ledger than Mr. Furnis came walking down the aisle, past the desks of his coworkers, to stand before Jonathan's desk. Jonathan cringed on the inside; Mr. Furnis was the office foreman. Mr. Furnis cleared his throat.
“What time is it, Mr. Darby?” He asked.
Jonathan pulled his pocketwatch out of his vest pocket and read the time from it. “Why, it's just one minute after eight in the morning, sir.”
Mr. Furnis was a large man, who wore his beard in large muttonchops, and when he leaned over to talk to someone, he had a long way to lean; the end product was intimidating and would have been quite out of place at the Bank of England.. He used that tactic now, and leaned over Jonathan's desk, putting his face close enough for Jonathan to smell his acrid breath.
“You're very lucky, Mr. Darby,” he said, softly. “I know you're going to go too far, one of these days, and then it will be my job to eject you from the premises. I'll enjoy that, I think.”
“Y-yes, sir,” Jonathan stammered.
Mr. Furnis straightened up abruptly and in his normal volume said, “Mr. Darby, Misters Herbert and Georges would like to see you. Go to Mr. Herbert's office straightaway.”
“Y-yes, of, of course,” Jonathan said, while his heart leapt in his chest. Mr. Herbert and Mr. Georges were dour old men who had never said anything nice about anyone within earshot of Jonathan. The fact that they wanted to see him boded very, very ill for his future at this particular bank, and with it, his future plans of applying for a job at a more respectable bank in a year. Jonathan had long been harboring the belief that the Herbert and Georges Bank of London performed more than just legal services, though he had never been able to prove it, nor would he have wanted to if he could. It would certainly have explained Mr. Furnis's uncommon thuggishness. However, Jonathan simply kept his head down and did his work to the best of his ability, which often was insufficient to the task at hand.
As Jonathan walked down the aisle of desks, his coworkers turned and watched him, doing nothing to lessen the feeling that he was walking to the gallows. When he reached Mr. Herbert's office door, he smoothed his vest and jacket, and straightened his tie. After composing himself, he knocked on the door. He heard a faint voice from inside telling him to enter.
Mr. Herbert's office was hardly an office at all, as so far as he could tell, no work was ever done inside of it. It was really more of a study, with an ornate oriental rug, thickly padded armchairs and large bookshelves filled with an impressive number of books which were likely fake. Jonathan knew that this room was designed to impress potential clients with the bank's wealth, but it still intimidated him.
“Mr. Darby, please have a seat,” Mr. Herbert said. He was sitting in an armchair next to Mr. Georges.
“Oh, no thank you, sir. I'm very happy to stand, thank you.”
“Very well, whatever you wish,” Mr. Herbert said. He was the younger of the pair, being only in his late fifties. Mr. Georges was a septagenarian with drooping jowls and a palpable grumpiness. “Let me be plain, Mr. Darby: you are a disgrace to your family. You are the worst banker I have ever seen in my life, and if it were up to me, I would replace you in an instant with an idiot child. There are men in Bedlam who would make better bankers.”
Jonathan said nothing, but his heart dropped down toward his intestines.
“However,” Mr. Herbert went on, “Mr. Georges feels that there is a chance that you can be… salvaged.”
Mr. Georges cleared his throat and then spoke with a deep, gravelly voice. “You see, Mr. Darby, we no longer require your presence in this office. As it would be impossible to find someone capable of bungling numbers more creatively than yourself, we have decided that you shall instead serve a different purpose. While you may not be able to tell an addition symbol from your elbow, you are smart enough to know not to cross us, yes?”
“Y-yes, of course, sir, I would never-”
“Yes, yes,” Mr. Georges continued, and Jonathan stopped babbling. “One of your coworkers may not be so smart. We suspect that Mr. Furnis is inadvisably stealing from us. You will accompany him to our branch in Highbridge, during which time you will attempt to discover whether what we suspect is true. You are not to let him know that this is your task. You will ostensibly be his assistant. Do you understand?”
“I... believe so, sir. I just don't know if-"
“Very well. You are dismissed. You leave for Highbridge tomorrow morning.”
Jonathan had been dismissed enough times in his life to know when to leave quietly rather than upsetting anyone. As soon as he closed the door to Mr. Herbert’s office behind him, Jonathan realized that he and Mr. Furnis would be traveling alone together. Just himself and a large, brutish man who seemed predisposed to violence and who had some terrible grudge against him.
The future was not looking especially bright.
