Tag Archives: steampunk fiction

The Fairytales Of New Albion Pt. 2 (Steampunk Fairy Tales)

The next day the group of haggard fairytales resumed their trek across the chaotic and violent city of New Albion.

New Albion was in the throes of a revolution. Led by a former police soldier known only as Soldier 7285, an uprising had gradually taken over and skirmishes would break out suddenly in the streets. At various points in the day shouting or gunfire could be heard echoing across the city.

The fairytales tried their best to avoid all trouble. Jack of Ash would prowl the rooftops, trying to work out a route for them to follow as they attempted to navigate their way through the urban maze.

Every so often they would all freeze and listen. They were listening for the Whispers and when they heard it, they simply ran.

Burlap Molly had managed to nick some pies and so they all sat and ate. Jack of Ash reminded them all of scenes from Arcadia, the glens and waterfalls, the native Fae inhabitants, the soft warm glow in the evenings when the tree homes were lit. Stories thrived and were happy there. Characters resolved and belonged.

Amongst the colorful characters and stories populating Arcadia was The Baptist. He blessed all and bestowed a sense of place in the world. Some considered him the soul of Arcadia. No one knew how the Darkness came, with it’s whispering swarm of gnashing, insectant flickerings of engulfing blackness, but it did. It took The Baptist away to another, darker place.

A sadness had lingered over Arcadia until it was finally decided a small group of volunteers should go forth into this strange, chaotic world, find The Baptist and bring him back home.

Arcadia’s oracle, the Crow, prepared the party. He issued three warnings: 1. The Shadow that took The Baptist was strong in this other Land and would always be in pursuit. Anyone it touches will be lost. 2. The door back is in the throne room of The White Queen’s castle. 3. Avoid the White Queen and do not let her speak to you. If she speaks you will be lost.

Jack finished his pie and reminded them this was their story now. It was a dark story, but it could have a Happy Ending. Nothing was better than a Happy Ending and the darker the story the more sacred the Happy Ending.

Their pies all finished, they embraced and continued on.

The Story of Jack Of Ash

Once upon a time a teenage girl from a strict and morally rigid family secretly bore a baby out of wedlock. She gave birth in her own bedroom by herself and while she was cleaning up the mess, hid the baby by wrapping it tight and placing it in the flue of her bedroom’s fireplace.

However, while scrubbing her bedsheets she collapsed and her family, with no idea of what was wrong, rushed her to the hospital where she did not wake for days.

A kindly and childless old chimney sweep heard the cries of the helpless infant and rescued it. He named it Jack.

Jack thus grew up as a chimney sweep on the rooftops of the city. Free and wild, he would dance for hours in the moonlight, swirling and leaping over the rooftops.

By the time he reached his teenage years he was a sight to behold, already a half glimpsed legend called Jack of Ash. One 16 year old girl though saw him every night, for his favorite dancing grounds were across from her window.

The girl was a sad, sheltered teenager, kept inside much too often by her stern and overprotective father. As a result she was very lonely, awkward socially, and yearned deeply for adventure and romance.

One night, in the wintertime when Jack did not dance, she whispered “Jack of Ash” up into her chimney five times, calling him to come.

The winter passed.

At the first bud of spring he came.

He beckoned her out onto the rooftops. She went and they danced together, slowly and carefully for she was only a beginner.

Each night he would come and each night they would dance on the rooftops of the city. By summer she too could leap across the skyline and they would stop their dance only to kiss and watch the moon in each others’ arms.

By Autumn she had also become a force of nature on the rooftops, leaping and swirling above the city and by this season they were making love.

When the last leaf in the city turned brown she became ill. The doctors couldn’t quite diagnose it, but they theorized some type of consumption. Stated simply, she had lost her youth.

She had aged a decade. Jack of course disappeared for the winter and she never saw him again.

This is how it was to be with Jack. A lonely teenage girl may call him in the winter, whispering his name 5 times into the chimney. At the first bud of spring he may come. From the first bud to the last colored leaf she will know the most exalted romance of her life but it will age her 10 years.

Jack of Ash never ages.

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Posted by on January 3, 2012 in Uncategorized


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The Fairytales Of New Albion Pt. 1 (Steampunk Fairy Tales)

(NOTE: Some of you may note that a few of the original fairy tales mentioned herein are familiar, and can be found on the album Fairy Tales of the Lost and Wandering. This story was written first and after writing it, i decided that i liked the idea of writing original fairy tales and putting them to music, so i used a few of these. This is where they originally come from.)

Four terrified, bruised and beleaguered fairytales huddled miserably together in the alley of an industrial urban city in which they did not belong.

Jack of Ash cradled Burlap Molly who as usual had picked an inopportune time to suddenly drop asleep. Dear Departed Diedre fussed over her and tried to conceal them behind a pile of trash.

Ironitsa, the slum girl made of iron as every school child knows, naturally stood guard. They were all weary and needed sleep. Even Ironitsa need to shut down for a few hours every day.

The great industrial city of New Albion clanged, hissed and hummed around them while the cries, shouts and gunfire of its troubled residents and their ongoing revolution echoed through the streets. The tired, scared fairytales did not hear the Whispering that signified that their tireless pursuer was near, and so they huddled together and told stories until they fell asleep.

The Story Of Dear Departed Diedre

Once upon a time there was a precocious girl named Diedre.

She collected salamander tails, eyes of newt, toad skins, bat teeth and moon water. It was her aspiration to become a witch. However, she had no idea whatsoever how exactly to go about such a thing or access to any sort of materials which might explain it.

Thus she simply invented her own spells and potiony concoctions. While she had great fun experimenting with them, they rarely ever worked.

Her parents put up with this hobby with as relaxed and permissive an attitude as they could manage if not with the occasional raised eyebrow or spot of worry.

However, when one of her potions caused the test subject, the family dog, to leave a trail of purplish vomit throughout the house she found herself sternly reprimanded.

In retaliation to said reprimand she told her parents she hoped they never saw her again and ran to her soom to cast a spell of invisibility over herself.

The spell was long and complex and while never having worked before, perhaps just needed a few tries. She was still going through the long incantation (for the 3rd time) an hour later as she sat in the family carriage, the three of them on their way to Tuesday bisquits at Aunt Vivian’s.

The accident happened fast. She never did know what exactly occured, but it ended with the horse losing control and the coach thrown down a hillside into a grove of trees. No one survived.

Diedre found herself a ghost, wandering the city trying to find someone who could see her and talk to her.

Every few decades her parents are reincarnated. They grow up and always, always they find one another. They spend their short lives together before they are inevitably killed again. They never have children.

Diedre waits patiently through the years for this to occur, for her parents to meet once again and begin living together. Once they do she is there with them, sitting silently beside them at every meal, on the floor beneath them as they sit in the parlour room. She sits with them every day, day after day until once again an accident inevitably claims them and they are gone again.

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Posted by on January 2, 2012 in Uncategorized


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