Cassie Clare steampunk writing contest winner No. 5

Today we bring you our final winner in our Cassie Clare steampunk writing contest. We really enjoyed reading these and hope you have, too. Maybe these stories will even inspire you to write your own! This one is from Carolina F. You can also read the other winners’ entries: Tess A.; Jessyca-Ann P.; Elizabeth T.; and Sandy P.


 Tap, tap, tap, tap. She rapped her fingers rhythmically on the linen cloth-covered table, taking a swig from her near-empty glass of whiskey and ice. “Stop it,” the brown-haired, green-eyed man sitting across from her hissed through his straight teeth as he slapped his veiny hand on her leather-gloved fingers.

    She slit her espresso eyes at him over the rim of the glass. “We’re nothin’ but sittin’ ducks, Toby.”

    “We are waiting, Alexandra,” he said sharply. “We can’t act until they act.”

    “It’s a damn waste’a time, that’s what,” Alexandra replied after she blew a loose strand of dirty blond hair away from her eyes and freckled cheeks. “If these fools stare any harder they’d burn a hole.”

    “It’s not like you’re dressed like proper society. Just look at you, wearing pants!” Toby exclaimed, scrunching his forehead and furrowing his thick eyebrows. “Pants! And a dress shirt! You look like a man! And that hair!”

    She rolled her eyes. “‘Cause a petticoat and loose hair’s real useful for horse-ridin’ and stoppin’ criminals. Speakin’ othe devil. No, I got it this time,” Alexandra told Toby, fishing some bills out of the inside pocket of her vest. “Stay low.”

    “Of course. Stay low, she says,” he muttered sarcastically as the two rose from their chairs. He held his chest out, feigning strength and confidence against the whispers of shocked men and women of society. How could such low-class people sit as equals in the Astoria Restaurant? Alexandra simply marched between the tables, her black leather knee-high boots stomping against the marble floor.

    The small band of men they were following began to speed up, noticeably so. Then, they began to run. The shortest pulled a revolver from the inside of his vest, looking over his shoulder and aiming at the two. “Oh, well, shit,” Alexandra grunted, shifting the scarf around her neck and ducking when bullets began to fly. “You better have a gun on ya.” She pulled a pair of pistols from the inside of her diamond-patterned brown vest, cocking the safety off.

    “You forget that I’m a cop, too?” Toby asked loudly over the shrieks when he grabbed the pistols from the holster hidden inside his black vest. He jumped when one of the bullets ricocheted off the hanging chandeliers and broke the glass to shards. Bang! Bang! Bang!

    “Persistent bitches,” Alexandra snarled. She pushed people and tables aside while shooting at the men, two of which were closely huddled around their target. “Toby, go warn the police, tell ‘em to have a jail cell ready in any and e’ery Burrough. Start settin’ up a movin’ perimeter around the men and do not lose sight’a them.”

    “No, I’m not letting you go alone!” He shot three bullets at the criminals, who started to take on human shields. The two pushed forward, ducking and dodging, shooting and cursing.
    “Do as I say, Tobias Goldstein, or I will find a way to make ya regret it, do ya understan’ me?”

    His chest swelled as his face screwed up in defiance and anger. “Yes, ma’am.”

    With that, they ran towards the exit, shoving people away with ferocity. They sprinted down the main foyer, almost slipping on the carpets and crashing into the Corinthian columns as they avoided the mess of broken tables, sofas, chandeliers, candlesticks, and people.

   Alexandra and Toby flung through the main entrance doors. “Don’t ya dare touch my horse!” she shouted at the valets who, without much success, tried to move the massive, muscular horse from the entrance. “Move!” she barked, grabbing the sleeves of the plump valet’s jacket and throwing him aside. In one swift move, she was on the horse. Toby’s horse had been standing next to hers, so she took the opportunity to threaten the cop some more as he rode off in the opposite direction. “Let’s go, Bucephalus!” She squeezed her legs and urged the horse with the spurs on her boots. He reared and tore into a gallop across the brick and concrete main entrance, passing underneath the metal arches and windows as its cooper-colored body, mane and tail glinted below the sun.

    Alexandra rode onto Fifth Avenue on an extremely busy afternoon and cursed loudly. She weaved between the people and the carriages in an attempt to keep up with the carriage that bore one driver and one man with a crank-driven machine gun in the driver’s seat. “Damn it, really now?” She steered Bucephalus as the man shot at her with rather clumsy accuracy.  “I can play that game too.” Alexandra kicked Bucephalus with the spurs, a spark jolting the horse and causing it to gallop even faster. Its hooves pounded against the concrete, cracking below the pressure. With one hand she pulled a small crank from the neck between the copper threads and brought it over to the side. When she pulled it further out, two small machine guns snapped outwards from the sides of Bucephalus’ neck. “How ya like them apples?” She grinned and began to steer and shoot at the same time, jets of steam blowing out of his nose as his head bobbed up and down.

    The criminals began to bang on the roof of the carriage in a panic, to Alexandra’s delight.   Then they began to speed up, which made her to scowl soon after. “Bastards.” She pushed the crank back into Bucephalus’ neck unceremoniously, the smoking machine guns storing themselves. Once more she jolted the horse that was now breaking the concrete and leaving hoof marks behind. The street snapped upwards and made the wheels of the following carriages bend and break apart. Steam shot out of his nostrils in faster, thicker streams.

    “Don’t die on me now,” she cooed Bucephalus. “Let’s do it.” Alexandra steered her horse past stalled carriages and criss-crossed between the street and the sidewalk. “Move it, fools!” she shouted before covering her mouth with the scarf. They were shortly behind the carriage but unfortunately also in their line of sight. One man shouted to another man inside the carriage and within seconds a pair of revolvers and rifles were sticking out of the doors and windows. Alexandra squeezed the sides of her horse. Instantly, from both sides of Bucephalus’ stomach, four different rifles, two from each side, slid out in their respective copper gun racks. Without looking, she grabbed a rifle with a glass butt filled with water from the left rack. She squeezed again and the racks whirred back into Bucephalus while she cranked a small lever on the rifle. “Don’t let me down, Ivy,” she told the gun.

    As the rifle steamed to life, Alexandra was putting a tried-and-true master plan to work. She pushed a lever down between Bucephalus’ ears, which released so much steam the streets were enveloped in white. Throughout all of this, she kept an eye on the carriage and aimed for the hind wheels, waiting for the rifle to begin steaming. Who needed gunpowder anyway?

    Amid the chaos, Alexandra expertly steered Bucephalus, listening intently to the sound of panic from the criminals and the wheels of the carriage turning. The rifle began to emit small spurts of steam. Time for some action. She stood on the stirrups, which locked them into place, making Bucephalus continue in his path on autopilot. Alexandra took a deep breath with her left index finger on the trigger, telling herself to keep steady, to wait for the moment.

    She pulled the trigger, A small bullet shot out of the rifle at top speed, breaking the axle clean in half. Alexandra didn’t have time to admire her handiwork and dropped her weight on the stirrups to disengage the autopilot. The fog cleared as Bucephalus galloped and jumped over collapsed people and carriages, arriving at the crash site.

    Alexandra heard the moans and groans of the men, some whose mechanical parts whirred painfully and others whose just completely bent and broke apart. Such cheap mechanics, she thought. In the middle of it all, she saw the target: a young, proper-looking red-haired gentleman with a disjointed clockwork arm that bore a gun that spurned from the bottom of his wrist.

    With the end of her steam rifle, she threw off his top hat, revealing angry hazel eyes and a bloody face. Bucephalus stomped on his wrist before he could aim the gun at Alexandra, steam puffing out of his nostrils. The man screamed in agony and squirmed below the weight of the horse. She shoved Ivy in his bruising face, right between his eyes and pulled her scarf down.

    “You’re under arrest.”

One thought on “Cassie Clare steampunk writing contest winner No. 5

Add yours

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Blog at

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: