Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – August 16, 2013

Theme / Genre: Steampunk

Include: photograph, pills, headset,
data stick, lottery ticket

Words: 1,000

Music Fans

‘What in Stevenson’s Rocket?’ Sidney wafted his hands, as he entered a
steam and smoke filled kitchen. ‘Damn,
the last slices of bread.’

‘Master Sidney, what is going on here?’ A fiery voice cut through the cloud.

‘The toast-steamer, Mrs Westwood, it is on the blink again.’

‘Well, trust it to be you, Sidney.’

‘Sorry, Mrs Westwood.
It could have happened to anyone.’

‘But it happened to you, and the last of the bread I see,’
Mrs Westwood said, sliding open the basement windows, the wind flapped her
white apron. ‘It’s a good job you didn’t
start a fire in here, or a flood. I’ll
get Nancy, to tidy up this mess later.’

Sidney watched rays of sun cast through a mixture of vapour
and smoke finding its way out into the early afternoon air. A single ray reflected on a photograph of his
mother, taken with the winning lottery ticket that changed their lives; he
remembered how it used to be. The daily
smog from coal fires, the days greyer and darker. He would hide downstairs playing games with
staff, whilst his mother searched for him upstairs. The house was colder then too. Steam under-floor heating changed everything;
life was cleaner, brighter and warmer, upstairs and downstairs. However, enough of the nostalgia, he needed
to go.

‘I guess I will do without breakfast,’ he said.

‘Well young man that will teach you to sleep late,’ she
said. ‘There’s some left over bacon, if
you like.’

Mrs Westwood was a tough old boot; she made an excellent
Cook, and ruled the kitchen like a rod of iron; sometimes a fitting surrogate
for his recently departed mother – the innocent victim of a drunken
hover-carriage accident.

‘No thanks, Mrs Westwood,’ he said grabbing an apple from
the bowl on the table. ‘This will
suffice; I’m late as it is.’

‘Yes, your concert; big night tonight.’

‘Indeed it is,’ his thoughts returned to the past. ‘Wish mother could see it.’

‘Well, I’m sure she’ll be looking down on you tonight.’

‘I do hope not, she never liked my music, “Too modern for
me”, she would always say.’

‘She was still very proud of you, you know that.’

Sidney could see even Mrs Westwood was holding back a tear
or two; it really was time to go.

‘Right, tell Nancy and the others that I will meet them in
the King’s Head afterwards.’

‘So, just me to look after everything tonight,’ she said
sarcastically. ‘Everyone has a
night-off.’

‘You can still come, Mrs Westwood.’

‘No, Master Sidney, I’m only pulling your leg,’ her face
warmed with a radiant smile. ‘You father
is going too, so I will put my feet up.
You have fun now, you hear.’

‘I will.’

Sidney left the warm kitchen. A big night was right; he needed some
support. He pulled out two red pills
from his pocket popped them in his mouth and took a bite of his apple.

Making his way to the stables, he sneaked out before his
father could give him a lecture on correct driving and safety procedures. The stable doors were open and the groom
stood brushing his horse. Glen, dressed
in brown peaked cap, waistcoat, britches and boots, covered in flecks of golden
hair, had already harnessed Golden Sovereign to the carriage; packed full of
instruments.

‘How is my Sovereign this morning?’

‘Fine fettle, sir,’ Glen said, ‘and looking forward to a
canter about town.’

‘Excellent.’

Entering the stall, Sidney turned to the carriage that
rested on a foot-high oak plinth. He
flicked several switches and pulled down a lever securing it in an open
position, then pulled and pushed a large leather knob. A motor turned over and a loud pop made
Sovereign jump.

‘Steady, girl,’ Glen consoled the steed.

Sidney pulled and pushed again, another pop and a cloud of
smoke billowed from under the carriage, the engine rumbled for a few
moments. Soon, wisps of steam puffed
from various valves from the engine compartment at the rear of the carriage. The vehicle lifted six inches from the plinth
and Sidney climbed the short chrome and timber ladder to the open driving seat,
the carriage buffeted, as it calculated the additional load.

‘The data stick is already in the mapping device, Sir. You’re good to go.’

‘Thank you, Glen. See
you later.’

To dampen the sound of the engine, he pulled on his
headset. Making a clicking sound through
his teeth, he flicked the reigns, ushered Sovereign out of the stables and down
the cobbled mews; he and instruments hovered behind.

Steam-carriages were far more comfortable than
wooden-wheeled ones over the cobbles, and quicker, weight carried by the steam,
not horse power. They were harder to
steer sometimes, especially if galloping too fast, and although water storage tanks
took up quite a bit of space, steam was the way to go. However, until they could design a suitable
breaking system, Sovereign would still have a job to do.

The streets seemed busier than usual today, but thanks to
the mapping device, Sidney and Sovereign skilfully traversed the back streets
of London’s West End. Pulling up at the
back of Her Majesty’s theatre, Sidney spied friend and fellow band member,
Johnny, lugging a set of kettledrums.

‘Sidney, good day.
Have you seen the crowds?’ he said.

‘Yes, I had to drive a torturous route to get here. What is going on?’

‘They are here for us.’

‘What? That is not
possible,’ Sidney was truly bewildered.
‘This is our first major concert.’

‘It would appear Malcolm has done his management well. He must have spun some yarns and mentioned
your steam-guitar. The place is
absolutely thronged.’

‘Well, imagine that.’

Sidney lowered the carriage setting, jumped down, and began
to offload his equipment. No sooner had
he done so, a group of screaming girls ran towards them from the other end of
the street, petticoats and dresses swirling everywhere.

‘Sidney, they have seen your guitar case.’

Sidney looked down at the large letters emblazoned on the
side.

“The Steam Punks.”