Introduction
Steampunks Through History
Greetings traveller, and welcome to the inaugural edition of the Sheffield Steampunk Society’s zine. I won’t bore you with attempting to explain what Steampunk is, or where it came from, as that would both take more time and space than I have available to me here, but I will give a short history of The Sheffield Steampunk Society. The group itself began, as most things do quite small, we were just bunch of Steampunks who got in touch online and started meeting up in the pub every week to discuss and show off our various projects, ideas and plans. Eventually somewhere in the discussions over drinks we (well, I say ‘we’, but in reality this zine, like the entire group, was actually the brainchild of Bethan, who is the closest thing we have to an editor for both this zine, and the closest thing a group as disorganised as us has to a chairperson) came up with the idea of pooling our collective skills and interests together in a zine, and this is the result. Within these pages are collected a variety of contributions from our members, ranging from short stories and selected fiction from our resident authors, illustrations and artwork from the artistically minded amongst us, along with various other little titbits of general steamy and punky goodness for you to enjoy. The only thing that we would ask of you is to bear with us, as this is an complete amateur production, we come from a variety of walks of life and none of us actually have much, if any experience in magazine writing or editing. But, no matter what you think of this humble production we’d love to hear your opinions you so we can improve it, should we manage to organise ourselves into producing another edition. Should you wish to express an opinion on our work then we can all be regularly found online, either on the Brass Goggles forum or on the Society’s group page on the Book of Faces. In closing then, I’d like to thank everyone who contributed to this, as well as you all for reading it. If you enjoy this zine, please consider donating to us, as all money donated will go towards getting the next issue physically printed. Enjoy!
-Andrew Bennett
Find us on Facebook by searching ‘Sheffield Steampunk Society’, or look for our thread in the UK Geographical section on BrassGoggles for updates
Artists Impression by Erica Madeley
Steampunk ‘much older than first thought’ say boffins So, steampunk. Where did it all start? Wild Wild West? H.G. Wells? Jules Verne? Finding ever more distant roots for our shared love of mad science and high tea is practically an accepted part of the subculture. Now startling new evidence suggests the idea of alternate history rendered in fetching shades of brown goes back much further than that. Amateur speleologist Dr. Aldwych Verdigris, speaking at the annual conference of Potholers, Dowsers and Mudlarks, announced the discovery of this astounding cave painting at an undiclosed location somewhere in the world-renowned Pinchbeck cave system deep under the Lincolnshire Fens. According to Verdigris, the painting conclusively proves that odd eyewear, silly weapons and a penchant for earth tones dates back anything up to 10,000 years. Unfortunately the meeting broke up in disarray when the society’s patron, the Marquis Beaucoup de Moules-Mariniere, claimed the cave painting was bogus, to which Verdigris riposted, “at least it’s not bloody French”. We were awaiting further developments at the time of going to press.
A Collection of Stories I Shall Fear No Evil
by Dave Redford
The trick was not to think about it, H told himself, a split second before realising the self-defeating nature of that idea. He paused, took a deep breath and recalled the popular mantra. Live your life one day at a time; your day one step at a time... ‘Hurry!’ the visitor’s voice module crackled impatiently, and H gathered himself and shambled down the corridor after it. Hey, at least we’re not alone in the Universe. He laughed despite himself. Those T-shirts had been popular for about a week after they’d landed, although he hadn’t seen one for a while. Still, somebody out there must be sitting on a big pile of tenners they couldn’t spend. He laughed at that, too; that relentless cut and thrust, the scrabble to make another few quid at all costs. That was all gone now. Neil Harrison had been nicknamed ‘H’ by his colleagues for want of any other defining characteristic. ‘There were seven others before me...’ he would joke weakly, usually to blank stares or forced, belated smiles. Not his fault really, and not theirs. Humour tended to be in short supply these days. ‘You gotta laugh, or you’d cry’, he would say to himself and any other humans in earshot, sometimes several times a day. He occasionally wondered if he laughed a little too much, but then, as he reminded himself looking about him, it was better than the alternative. ‘Community Care’, it had said on his rota this morning, and he was old enough to have laughed at that too. Definitely not ‘inmate pacification’, then, which is what it had said last week. Sure, the visitors’ command of English had a little way to go, but they’d sure as hell learned the art of higher-managementspeak. They learned fast too. Give ‘em another year and they’d be indistinguishable from the politicians and spin doctors they’d replaced. They reached the first door, and Harrison took the first ration pack from his bag and keyed in the code. Route card said this one was a Christian. The inmate (sorry, intern) lay in a troubled sleep, eyes darting behind closed lids, face twitching. H found the crib sheet and pressed the intercom. A shrill alarm sounded in the cell (quarters, he reminded himself), and the intern snapped awake, settled back down for a second, then remembered where he was and started screaming blue murder. The scrawny, unkempt figure pounded on the door and clawed at the armoured glass for a while, until the visitor crackled ‘Stop it!’ H looked surprised at the creature’s informality; then realised the command was aimed at him. He sighed and operated a familiar combination of keys and switches, donned his ear defenders and eyeshield and counted to thirty. When he opened his eyes again the intern was lying on the floor in a foetal position, moaning softly to himself. Yeah, thought H, 11-hertz strobes and pulsed white noise would do that to you. He felt a pang of guilt as always, but then, as he reasoned, sticks and stones could break your bones; a little son et lumiere got the job done a lot quicker and cleaner.
A modern interpretation of steamwestern, by guest artist Charlie Sherratt (http://endearer.tumblr.com/)
He pressed a different button, took a breath and spoke slowly and deliberately. “The lord is my shepherd”. The barely-human mess on the floor twitched, rolled onto his back and groaned. H tried again. The intern’s lips moved slowly. H recited the line a third time, and this time the man struggled to his knees, joining in. They recited the psalm together, starting again at the beginning when the intern showed no sign of stopping. Finally the man fell silent, head bowed, lips moving. H looked to the visitor for approval. ‘Proceed’, the thing uttered. They never used more words than they had to; it was an unfamiliar mode of communication to them, he supposed. H pressed another well-practiced key combination, a hatch slid aside, he placed the ration pack inside and the hatch closed again. They set off down the corridor. He had wanted to say something, just a simple ‘see you then’, but you only said what was on the card, that was the procedure. Any reference to the future or the passage of time in general was right out anyway; these people were supposed to be ‘livng in the moment’ according to the treatment schedule. Not much of a moment, H thought wryly, but then the VR technology was still a long way from being perfected. So, in the moment it was, with a daily prayer or meditation to take them to a better place for a while. Poor sods, H thought, it’s not their fault they ended up like this. He thought again of the day the visitors had landed; two years ago now, although the probes had been here a lot longer than that of course. The advance guard, they had been; all-seeing, all-hearing, tough and agile, reporting everything back to the mothership. There, that infinite dust-cloud of data had been sifted and analysed this way and that, waiting for the perfect moment, the point where achievement met decadence, limitless potential met collective ennui, exploitative skill gave way to runaway over-consumption. That’s what he’d read somewhere, anyway; basically they’d let the humans do the hard work - industrialisation, infrastructure, mass media - then made their move before we could irretrievably cock it up. It made sense as theories went; or maybe the sinister bastards had just aimed for Venus and missed, who the hell knew? They had made their first landing in Regent’s Park, waited for the world’s cameras to descend on the site; then the ship had just sat there, silent, still, inscrutable and threatening, while crowds gathered and speculation reached fever pitch. Meanwhile, and with a great deal less theatre, they had moved their other craft into position in a couple of hundred other locations around the world. On the third day, a circular section in the shallow-domed top of the alien craft had started to move anticlockwise, slowly but surely, perhaps a quarter-turn at a time. It was all oddly familiar to a small minority of those present. Sure enough, as the hatch laboriously unscrewed itself, the crowd relaxed somewhat. “Cut the crap and show us your Heat Ray!” someone shouted, provoking a ripple of laughter, which ebbed and flowed for the next minute or so as various sections of the crowd had to have War of the Worlds briefly summarized for them. All of which made it immeasurably more shocking a minute or so later, when the hatch stopped turning, everyone held their breath, a platform descended rapidly from the bottom of the ship, and the visitors marched out in eight directions at once. In about three seconds the reactions of the onlookers had gone from suspense to surprise to panic, horror, disbelief as they had processed what the aliens truly were. Just their style, such theatrics, although it had been devastatingly effective at the time. For some people - TV viewers included - the damage was permanent. Their minds had just melted, shut down, just not been psychologically robust enough, H guessed. Millions of others had panicked and run, out of the cities but with no real idea where to go.
The visitors figured the rounding-up could wait; it would be easier once hunger and exhaustion set in. First there was an army to deal with, both the professionals and the ad hoc rabble who had decided to stand and fight. That had not ended well. H had seen a 6-footer, not even a soldier, probably no heavier than himself, slide under an armoured car and flip it right over. A few more scenes like that were enough to make H put down the scaffold pole he had found, find a quiet alleyway and reconsider his future. After that it was one long rout, the odd lucky shot notwithstanding. The humans had soon got the message. The visitors hadn’t even had to eat very many of them. And that was the thing, really, H had realised; they hadn’t wanted to destroy humanity, ship millions off to slave colonies, harvest bodies for biomass or any of that sci-fi crap. They just wanted to put us to work in the mines and on the farms, strip the entire planet of its mineral wealth and move on. They didn’t seem to bear us any particular ill-will if we just accepted our lot and got on with it. And since they knew full well that a well-fed mine worker on a bonus scheme would shift rocks a damn sight better than a broken, emaciated slave, the conditions weren’t bad. Still, H was thankful he’d never worked in a mine (resource procurement centre, he corrected himself), a factory (value addition facility) or especially Regeneration. They didn’t have a euphemism for that; it was what it was, and there wasn’t a worse job he could think of. Except maybe Nutrition. He came to with a start, realising they had reached the next door on the round. Confucian, it said on the card. They went through the same routine, thankfully without needing the strobes – much – and H talked his charge soothingly through his incantation, taking care with all the subtle nuances that Mandarin Chinese demanded. It had been the up-and-coming language once, he reflected, but when the visitors arrived its subtleties had been beyond the capabilities of those voice modules. So English it was to be, the world over, and now Mandarin was banned from general use. It was only used now in places like this, for people like this, when there was no other way to get through to the scrap of humanity that remained. And yeah, thought Harrison, dropping the ration pack through the hatch, nodding once and turning away, it did beat working in a factory or a mine or any of those other places. He hadn’t stuck the radio station very long, with its endless propaganda in a succession of dying tongues, but this was alright. It had come in quite handy eventually, he thought, his gift for languages. That, and not being even slightly arachnophobic.
The Pursuit by Andrew Bennett The oppressive darkness of the City at night was even more complete in the alleyway as the man awaited his opportunity to strike. He had been following this man for days to gather the necessary information to strike. He knew his target’s daily regime and his regular route between his lodgings and his workplace, a route which would take him straight past the entrance to this alleyway. The waiting man shifted nervously from foot to foot, the specially sprung mechanisms in the sole of his boots creaking as he did so. A shadow appeared in the street before him, he recognised the silhouette of his target. He led the other man pass him, hiding in the shadow of the buildings overhang before reaching out, clamping a hand over the man’s mouth, whilst driving the steel of his blade into the man’s neck and dragging his limp form deeper into the darkness. The killer dropped the body with a thump in the centre of the alleyway. It would almost certainly be discovered by the following evening, but that mattered little. So long as he could complete his work it would just be disregarded by the authorities, another drunk stumbling home who picked an argument with the wrong man, or simply a robbery gone wrong.
A voice from the street called; ‘Are you alright Sir? Who was that with you just now?’ The killer froze, in all his surveillance he had failed to notice the man had a bodyguard. He looked down at the body lying by his feet as the blood began to pool beneath it. The man would come and investigate soon. He reached down and grabbed the dead man’s watch chain, putting his weight onto the sprung soles of his boots, leaping to the rooftops with relative ease, ripping the chain from the dead man and the front of waistcoat as he did so. Even if the body would be discovered before he would have liked, it gave the impression he needed. The bodyguard turned into the alleyway and was startled by the sight of the corpse of his charge lying there before him. He slowly withdrew a pistol from the interior of his coat as he approached. Whilst he examined the body the killer watched from his eyrie, crouching in the shadow of a chimney stack.
The bodyguard was able to deflect them easily; the slow speed of his opponent’s swings giving him more than enough time to intercept them. But the blade still had enough momentum to tire him as he was forced to swing his own swords around him like a dervish. Eventually he felt his back press up against one of the myriad of glass cases that filled the space. Finding himself with nowhere to retreat he was forced upon the offensive. He ducked his opponent’s latest swing which collided with the case behind him, reducing the glass to a shower of glittering shards. The bodyguard seized his opportunity, striking as he rolled forwards through the storm of fragments, tearing open a long gash along much of the assassin’s sleeve, drawing blood as the point of his blade pierced the other man’s skin. The assassin cursed, clutching his wound, revealing a strange and intricately design tattooed on his upper arm.
The bodyguard rose from his inspection and declared forcefully;‘I know you’re here. There’s little point in attempting to hide. Come out and let’s settle this honourably like men.’ The killer silently smiled at the other man’s naivety, a spell which was all too soon broken by the sound of a shot being fired from the alley bellow. It stuck the brickwork of the chimney beside him, covering him with red dust before the man below called out; ‘I don’t make a habit of missing twice. Come down here before I put any holes in you.’ The killer turned and immediately attempted to flee along the ridge of the roofline but was halted by sound of another shot and the sensation of movement beneath him. The bodyguard had fired again, deliberately aiming at the tiles below his position in an attempt to dislodge him. The killer crouched and launched himself over the peak of the roof before he could lose his footing as the tiles beneath him began to slide from the roof under him.
The bodyguard turned, desperately trying to catch his breath, to survey the damage he had caused to, he grunted in puzzlement as he caught sight of the other man’s tattoo: ‘So you’re one of them. Back at the academy they told us you were all dead.’ ‘You know nothing of us, or our work.’ The other man snarled before launching his sword in a viscous strike toward the other man’s head. Although weakened by his wound the weapon still had enough momentum to break through the bodyguard’s feeble attempt to divert the blow, burying the blade in his jaw. A look of shock passed over the body guard’s face before he fell to his knees, blood flowing freely along the length of his opponent’s blade. The assassin tore his weapon free, wincing at the pain in his arm as he did so, leaving his opponent to fall to the floor. He drove his blade into the other man’s throat, unleashing a torrent of blood upon the floor before leaving the corpse where it lay, exiting the building through the same skylight through which he had entered. * A week later a solitary man found himself stood in the middle of a crowded square, the closeness of the black hood covering his face almost suffocating him as he felt the hangman tightening the noose. He had been accused of the murder of two men, one found in an alleyway, the other in a museum not far away. His protests of innocence had done nothing for him and as the priest finished saying the prayers for his damned soul, the hangman pulled the lever, dropping his body. His neck snapped as he reached the end of the rope, killing him an instant. In the crowd another man smiled silently as the condemned man died. He turned and made his way out of the square, nursing his arm as he walked, a bandage under his shirt protecting a wound near a strange and intricately designed tattoo.
The other man cursed as he exited the alleyway, dodging falling tiles as he did so. The killer had begun racing across the rooftops, desperately trying to put as much distance between him and the man following him on the streets below before his pursuer could fire another shot. The bodyguard firing at the killer as he fled across the rooftops, repeatedly cursing as he weaved his way around the few passersby he encountered wandering the gaslit streets and each of the shots he fired missed, making a cacophony of noise as they ricocheted off guttering or shattered tiles into a thousand pieces. The killer merely kept running, the sound of each shot making him tense before hearing the clatter of guttering, or the sound of a tile breaking. The only break in the monotony of the chase came when he was forced to leap the gaps between buildings. Eventually the killer reached a wider gap than any other he had yet crossed, the roadway below filled with passing steam hansoms and wagons. His pursuer saw the dark form of his quarry clear the gap with some difficulty, disappearing quickly into the interior of the grey building across the roadway. The bodyguard sped across the cobbles, dodging the various vehicles as he went. He found the great double doors chained closed, secured with a heavy iron padlock. He opened the cylinder of his revolver, cursing as he found only a single round remaining. He placed the smooth steel of the muzzle against the padlock before firing, the lead ploughing deep into the iron. He removed the dangling chains and threw the doors open, moving into a hall filled with the relics of the past ages of man. The wind blew through a broken skylight where the killer had entered. There was the sound of breaking glass from another room, and the bodyguard wandered towards it. He soon found himself wandering through a gallery filled with glass cases and displays featuring a multitude of aged and ancient weapons. Upon finding a promising case, he turned his revolver around and used the handle to break the glass open before extracting a pair of cutlasses. He continued to pace through the glass corridors, swords held out before him defensively at each moment expecting his adversary to appear. A sudden, wild, primal scream shattered the silence inside the hall. The bodyguard instinctively ducked narrowly dodging a falling claymore as the assassin swung it in a downward arc while leaping over a display case. The bodyguard rolled forward, coming up into a fighting crouch, turning to face his adversary. The assassin charged, swinging the heavy blade with repeated, clumsy strikes, more akin to a butcher’s knife than a trained swordsman.
The Mad Englishman by Jade Beck I was a child when Napoleon declared himself Emperor of England. It was a strange occurrence really; the messengers came from Paris to say Wellington had been defeated in Belgium and that Waterloo was a bloodbath. The French had poisoned the water and the Prussians had made a bid to become their allies to ensure peace. The world stood still. I remember being in Trafalgar Square with my father as it was announced. ‘I wish to announce that Wellington has been defeated and has re-entered Paris,’ quiet fell over the crowd as they began to assimilate this new information. I remember seeing the older women look at one another with mutual understanding. Their husbands, what was left, were about to be called to duty. I grabbed my father’s hand, he squeezed it reassuringly. His eyes watched over the crowd seeing the reaction. The crowd went quiet at first the news washing over them like a bad smell. What did this mean for England? Initially nobody knew but women feared for their husbands and children and men shouted to be heard about what they would like to do to Napoleon. With the news that Napoleon was about to lead an assault against England suddenly men leapt into action and the few remaining troops came through London looking for conscripts. Within the next few days messengers came thick and fast from the ports with reports on Napoleon’s location. My father was in the army, as high up as he could go without being of noble blood.
He no longer just took visitors at his office but at home too. My mother had died during childbirth. It was just me, my father and now an endless stream of advisors and soldiers talking of new recruits and battle plans. I sat at the table playing with a piece of bread and a meat broth my father had served me. I was more interested in seeing what was being talked about in the next room. As quietly as I could I slipped off of the chair and crept over to the door which was slightly ajar. ‘The men are being assembled. Napoleon has come from the North usin’ his other ships as a diversion,’ said an alien voice. It didn’t belong to my fathers. ‘How many did we lose?’ My father’s voice came in. I loved listening to my father’s voice. He wasn’t educated but spoke true and with a kindness. ‘Not many, it was won quickly.’ Silence. ‘Has he landed yet?’ ‘Yes, we sent initial force to meet him but we will require a second wave.’ ‘I shall lead the second battalion.’ There came the sound of wood scraping against the stone floor. I ran towards the table and swung myself up on the chair as the door opened and the soldier left. He didn’t look at me. My father followed him into the room and gave me a smile. I couldn’t return it. He was going to leave me. ‘John,’ he said to me,’ Napoleon has defeated our troops in the channel and has landed in the North. I am to lead the men to meet him.’ I looked up at him my eyes warm with tears about to fall. I frowned to try and keep them in. I didn’t want my father thinking I was weak. I wanted to be strong like him. He looked down at me with his kind blue eyes and my bottom lip trembled. I couldn’t hold the tears any longer and allowed them to run down my cheeks. ‘Nooo,’ I cried throwing myself at my father’s feet. Strong arms came round shoulders pulling me up to stand up. ‘Now now son, I need you to look after Alice whilst I am gone. She has shown us a kindness,’ he whispered brushing the tears from my face. I nodded unable to speak. He left me alone with the remains of my meal for a few moments before returning with his bag. He planted a big kiss on my forehead and thumbed my trembling chin. I couldn’t breathe as I watched him walk away. Just as he shut the door I ran towards where he had just stood crying out, ‘father!’ With that he left the room and my life. I can just remember seeing his ginger hair move out of the candle light and the door shut. Alice, a friend of my fathers from down the road came and took me to her house. Sweet Alice, her long blonde hair tickled my cheek as she cradled me in her arms. Her lips formed a smile which didn’t reach her wonderful hazel eyes. I could have sat and stared into those eyes for hours. They always comforted me. I prayed for my father every night as news rolled in from the Battle of York. Napoleon won after only a week of fighting. Ten years later and I had not seen my father again after that night. It was a whole year before I finally learned the truth. Napoleon’s men had captured him and tried to use him against his own men. He was brave until the end. There had been no funeral and no body ever found. The only thing I had to prove I had had a father once was one of his medals which I kept on a piece of twine around my neck. Orphaned so young I had been brought up by Alice who had loved my father. She kept me out of the workhouses for which I will always be eternally grateful. I walked along one of the back alley cobble streets of London sniffing the air. The sweet aroma of a storm brewing filled my nostrils. I was a blacksmith’s apprentice and a good one at that. I hadn’t received any schooling except for Alice’s life lessons. ‘John, you are sixteen my love, this bitterness you keep will not serve you well. He is gone and he did not die so you could get into skirmishes with the Emperor’s guards and get yourself thrown into jail!’
Sweet Alice had bailed me out a second time after I was caught trying to sabotage an Emperor’s Guard. They were genetically mutated men with mechanical limbs which were often fitted with pistols. I was lucky to still be alive; those hybrids were cruel and vicious. I had frowned looking upon the aging face of Alice. Alice had lost her first husband in the first battles with Napoleon. She had then loved and lost my father to the same man. How could she not feel anger against the ruler? I slammed my fist down onto the table we sat, the force of the blow shaking everything on top of it,’ you don’t understand Alice. Obviously you don’t otherwise you’d understand my anger!’ She rested a hand on my arm,’ I do understand John but what you don’t understand is fighting with the Emperor’s Guard will land you into trouble. I do not have the money to bribe them for your release again child.’ She stood busying herself with pots from our meal. She looked tired and frail. I hadn’t noticed this before. I bit my lip, I needed to buck up my ideas and not get caught. I wasn’t stopping my campaign. I would never stop my campaign against the French but I couldn’t get caught. Her words echoed in my mind. The men charged with citizen’s protection were corrupt and could easily be bought. As I lived now in my twenties I had used my trade as a bargaining chip many times. It was amazing how soldiers truly did compare each other with the size of their sword. The street was quiet and the night was still. I had a wife now, Margaret and a little boy named John after me and my father. I walked to clear my head, to try and rid myself of the anger I felt inside. Alice had warned me of my anger more than once but I had become better at hiding it. The men who ruled this country were murderous, lying scumbags. They bought the nobles who had forgotten all about Wellington. The French had their wine and they kept the stupid rich folks happy with it. It angered me that after only ten years half the population had forgotten about Napoleon’s crimes against us. It infuriated me that we forgave. Napoleon was beginning to show signs of age and I reckoned he wouldn’t survive another winter but his male heir was ruling France which left his daughter. I didn’t know much about her but she looked as if all she cared about was fashion and horses. I knew a lady who worked in the palace and apparently the young lady was cruel to staff. It did not surprise me one bit. I could feel the anger welling up inside me, cursing through my veins like molten lava. It was then I saw two guards round the corner and into the alley I was strolling down. My fists clenched involuntarily. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled with tension. They noticed me and began walking toward me. These guards were not a part of the Emperor’s Guard and had no visible improvements like the hybrids. ‘You there, why are you out at this ungodly hour?’ one said in a French accent. That really riled me. ‘I am out for a stroll sir, the wife is moaning at me again. I needed air,’ I replied my chest heaving to control my desire and need to punch the stupid Frenchman. The French guard must have noticed my breathlessness and cocked his eyebrow, ‘Do we have a problem here?’ ‘No problem here.’ ‘You look a tad flustered mate,’ the other guard said. He was English. That annoyed me even more. Keep calm, the voice of Alice piped up in my mind. Her face smiling at my inner demons trying to keep them at bay, unfortunately on this occasion Alice was beaten with my need for revenge. ‘How can you work with him?’ I asked pointing at the French guard with an extended finger. I took a step forward and their hands went to their pistols,’ how can you work with a French murderer? His folk killed our fathers, killed our men. How can you work with a man like him?’ I spat on the ground at the French guard’s feet with fury in my eyes. I took a quick look around me to check there were no witnesses or overlooking windows. There were none. Perfect. ‘Easy now son, we don’t want a problem do we?’ said the English guard holding out his hands. His French colleague did not seem to care as much about the scene about to erupt in this dark alley. He was angry with my accusations. I could see a vein pulsating in his temple.
‘You murdering Frenchman!’ I spat again and the French guard leapt upon me. I crouched feeling the guards body slam into mine. He hadn’t bothered unhooking his pistol. I had angered him enough for him to be happy with just using his hands. I arched my back springing up using the back of my skull to hit him like a serpent rearing its head before it pierced its fangs through its victim’s skin. As he recoiled I grabbed a knife I had hidden in my breeches and he came at me again, his fists rose. I ducked a punch and sent one of my own into the side of his face. His English colleague backed away from the fight with a pistol in his hand. It didn’t appear it needed loading like normal. I made a mental note to find out if there had been any improvements on the weapons used by the guards. I needed to keep the Frenchman close so the English man couldn’t take a shot at me. I whipped round my elbow making contacting with the other side of his face stunning him. He took a step back and I sliced my knife through the air aiming for his stomach but he managed to move back just in time. I swerved my hand upwards catching his arm with the knife. He screeched out in pain and I used that to deliver the final blow. The French guard’s eyes widened with surprise. He had thought I was just another scoundrel with a point to prove. I was that and more. My knife plunged eagerly into his body somewhere in his chest. Breath escaped his body as he became limp, my dagger digging into his lung. I could feel the warmth of his blood on my hand as I thrust it in further. His eyes began to glaze over and I knew this was the end. I pulled out the dagger and let him fall back onto the ground in a crumpled heap. As he fell I hurled the dagger towards his English colleague which landed firmly into his leg. I don’t kill our men. The English guard roared in pain dropping his gun to cradle his leg. I left him there and continued walking. I did not need to retrieve my dagger as I had many at my disposal. Alice had tried to get me to restrain my anger and channel it into less angry pursuits. Instead I just became better at not being caught when my anger took hold. I killed as many Frenchman as I could because that is the only way I could keep on living. I did it for my father and I did it for the others who had fallen upon French swords. I would not stop until the French knew my name and they feared it.
Lientie’s Collection of Curious Cryptids The pengolin is a curious species, for it has developed a method of deterring the most dangerous of predators in it’s harsh environment- Hard, plate like scales made of keratin cover the pengolin’s back, which when the creature curls in to a ball protect it almost entirely. It is also able to use the plates to an aggressive advantage; pengolins have been viewed in their natural habitat sliding across the ice, protected from above and attacking predators (Who may soon be prey) with their sharp beaks as they glide in group formations towards them. Many experts refuse to believe in the existence of the pengolin, but they can bloody well go to the antartic and see for themselves if they want to prove me wrong.
Here we see illustrated the pengolin’s defensive posture, and the view of the creature without it’s plates. Notice how the overlapping plates leave little space for predators to attack, apart from the wing area, where they have a small exposed section of skin.
The latest catches of tiddles the cat
Latin Name: Raphus Cucullatus
The mighty hunter, and pet of one Mr Peter Harrow esq., is notorious for it’s impressive hunting trophies. Below you are priveledged to see photographs of the collection.
The Dodo, extinct by the time of ‘Alice in Wonderland’ was subject to a Victorian rebreeding project to create a pet out them. Escapees became feral taking the ecological niche of the pigeon, colonising Trafalgar Square and other public spaces. Latin: Deminimus Mammuthis Primogenius Latin: Sundamys Infraluteus Sherlockia
First referred to by Dr John Watson in ‘The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire’ this ‘Giant Rat of Sumatra’ is a vicious opponent with a body over 5 feet long. Tiddles not only slew this beast but hauled him through the catflap, up the stairs and left him under my bed. No wonder Tiddles is tired.
The genetically engineered Micro Mammoth the Mimmoth is first recorded by Professor and Professora Foglio of Transylvania Polygnostic University. It is a (normal) rat sized household pest, which is very tasty grilled.
Thank you for reading!