London-Hungry: Steampunk Tidbit

I - I wrote a thing, guys. It's weirdly written in terms of sentence structure and I don't know why but WHATEVER WHATEVER I'm just gonna post it. I also feel like the tense is fucked up but I'm too tired to fix it now. Any critique or advice in terms of grammar or character stuff is more than welcome. Like, yes please. Explanation in terms of character/plot at the end.

Steampunk snippets

I participated in MLS's midterm marathon at her school this year and had a great time doing it. Two of the stories that I wrote there were steampunk, and so close to NaNo, it really got my brain in that mindset. I am currently 10,498 words into my project, and every last word of it has been steampunk. HERE ARE A FEW SAMPLES. :3

The Date

“Today's the big date, huh?” Cassandra asked, one shoulder caught in the doorway to support her casual lean as she looked in.

“Today is the big date,” Sam agreed. She checked her outfit in the mirror again. The slinky black top accentuated her breasts without showing a lot of cleavage. The gray pants were tailored to hug her ass. They made her legs look very long. Compared to her daily wear of scrubs or worn jeans, she felt like she was ready to walk the red carpet.

“You have your exit strategy in case your mystery internet guy turns out to be a lying loser?” Cass asked.

“Of course,” Sam sighed. She tried to be optimistic, but an online correspondence was not the most reliable type of conversation. Optimism did not trump practicality.

“I look okay?” She asked with a slow twirl to show the full extent of her outfit. Cassandra reached back to unclasp her necklace, a simple silver affair with a diamond pendant in the middle, and fastened it around Sam's neck with a smile.

“You look beautiful.” She winked. A slick black tendril poked out of her nose, squirmed and withdrew. Cassandra put a delicate hand to her face, looked at the slimy trail that was left, and opened her mouth to speak. The only noise that came out was a sickening squelch. Her throat bulged. Her eyes rolled back in her head. A tentacle shot out of her mouth, thicker with each inch that emerged. A second one followed close behind. It fought for the cramped space. More and more squirmed from the depths. Cassandra's jaw cracked audibly to compensate.

Soon, Cassandra's willowy frame was completely obscured. The clear, pale skin of her face looked chalky, then gray. It seemed to be melting, and though nothing visibly fell off, as the change continued, the sharp juts of her cheekbones emerged like the bow of a sinking ship. The whites of her eyes shrunk away until only empty black caverns remained. Her striking features were reduced to a bleached skull held aloft by the writhing cluster of oil-colored tentacles.

“Hey, Sam,” it greeted. The skull rotated left, then right to orient itself.

“Hey, Perry,” Sam answered, trying to keep the disgusted horror off of her face. Perry's real name consisted of syllables unpronounceable by the human tongue, which sounded eerily like bone grinding on bone and the wailing of a fatal sea storm at night. Unable to hold a corporeal form on his own, he had entered into a sort of time-share agreement with Cassandra six months ago when she had been diagnosed with a rare bone cancer and given six months to live. Perry cured it without chemo or surgery all for the price of possessing her skull at pre-arranged times. Sam couldn't bring herself to approve entirely of the arrangement. Perry gave her the creeps.

“You look nice today. Going out?” he asked. He made a meaningless gesture with an appendage.

“Yeah,” she responded.

“Hope you have a nice time,”Perry hesitated, then retreated from her room. He said it so earnestly that she almost felt bad for being short with him. She slipped her heels on and clicked into the common room. Perry had donned his work cap at a jaunty angle.

“Look, Perry,” she started.

“Hey, Sam, quick vanity check,” he interrupted. Two small tentacles poked out of Cass's eye sockets and moved in sync: up, left, down, right, then pointed at her. Sam gagged at the display. “I was thinking, this way, people can know where I'm looking?”

“No.” She could not keep her face free from the repulsion she felt. “Don't do that ever again.” The demon deflated. The tentacles withdrew.

“Okay.”

Sam left before he could do anything even more cringe-worthy. She had a date, and she didn't want to puke before it.

Not how I thought it would go

The Irish Were Never Meant to Fly

Genre: Steampunk

A monologue

Fake

This came about as a product of being stuck in a car for three hours. Silly, inconsequential story set in an alternate universe in which the zombie apocalypse did not hit and our heroes are (for whatever reason) jewel thieves.

This is serious writing guys

This is a very serious piece inspired by Robert Bloch and also some other authors.