Steampunk prose experiment

Author's note: I recently - far later than any writer should, honestly - became acquainted with the concept of steampunk. So just to ensure that I've garnered a proper understanding of the steampunk genre and aesthetic, I wrote this very brief story in which I attempt to invoke a steampunk environment. Any sort of critique regarding how well, or how poorly, it works will be greatly appreciated.


Nathaniel meandered his way about the curve of Willow drive, his cane clicking sharply upon the cobblestones. Above his head towered the flat cream walls, the broad gables, lofty arched windows and frilly cupolas of the Library District. Though the sun had peeked over the horizon barely an hour since, the clogging scent of coal already hung thick in the air as the early morning traffic rapidly filled the streets. A handsome automobile with a sleek, gleaming black coat purred its way gracefully up the hill past Nathaniel, who, briefly recognising the face of his brother-in-law beneath the driver’s towering top hat, offered a cursory wave. On the other end of the road, the battered, rickety shape of a horse-drawn taxi-coach ambled about the corner, the poor, underfed beast at its head looking quite baffled and out of place as another automobile purred swiftly past it.

Rounding the corner of the drive, Nathaniel came to the intersection of Willow and Barcroft, where the road abruptly broadened into a vast highway and began a sharp, unwavering dive down toward the lower districts of the city. And from where he stood at its very peak, Nathaniel had an unobstructed view of the russet-coloured stones, the high windows and broad domes of the University – and, beyond that, the Factory District, with its rows of geometric structures of icy grey stone and reams upon reams of towering chimneys belching black smoke. Another horse-drawn taxi rounded the corner and turned down the hill, bearing a troop of factory workers. Most of them were already clad in their helmets – those blank masks of shimmering chrome with lifeless eyeholes of icy black glass set into them and those snarled tangle of wires twisting forth from their chins. And in the far distance, the low, resonant wail of a horn blared through the air as an immense airshift drifted its way across the skyline like a bloated, malformed grey whale, its multitude of vast propellers all flailing spasmodically.

With an impulsive exhalation, Nathaniel spun about on his heel and gazed up at the building which now stood before him, at the very tip of Barcroft highway: the Library of Ridgehaven, a towering structure of grey stone crawling with luscious ivy, a row of lofty Ionic columns across its face, a finely cut set of marble steps leading up to the doors of heavy oak.

Meandering his hurried way up the steps and through the doors, and flinging his hat and coat over one of the coathangers lining the lobby, Nathaniel almost gasped with relief as he stepped into the library’s main hall. He, quite frankly, adored the place; adored the soft, muffled tone of total silence that reverberated across the twisting hallways and bounced off the towering, whitewashed walls; adored that warm scent of mustiness that emanated forth from the reams of thick, fluffy maroon carpeting and shelves thick with ancient, steadily yellowing tomes.

‘Good morning, Nathaniel.’ wheezed the shallow, husky tone of the decrepit woman crouched behind the vast front desk, her face hidden behind a newspaper emblazoned with the headline Kelvarian peace talks break down.

Nathaniel puffed out a sigh of contentment as he ambled toward the reading room. Nothing relieved his mind of the concerns of the frantic world beyond these walls quite like delving into the depths of historical study.