Okay, I promise I’ll think of something proper to write in the near future, but for now, have a sample of what I’m working on at the moment, a full length novel named Clockworld!
Like all the citizens in the dark Underworks of the Iron City, Mouse lived his life by the tick. He had grown up alone, unable to remember the faces of his parents, now long dead, and he had never seen so much as a glimpse of the sun, but the tick was ever present. It was his lullaby at night, and his alarm in the morning. He occasionally remembered that he had a name other than Mouse, a name he vaguely recalled being whispered by his mother in front of a warm hearth, but it had been so long since it had been used that he couldn’t remember what it was. Mouse was the name he’d earned from his ability to silently infiltrate places others could not, and Mouse was who he was
He made his living on the streets, and under them, squeezing through the tight passageways that made up the dingiest parts of the city, never more than one or two jobs away from starvation. The Underworks were home, whatever that meant.
When Mouse woke up that fateful morning, he had no idea that his world was about to change, and that he would be swept up in the events that would be the catalyst of those changes.
As a street urchin of limited means, the sixteen year old boy had made it through the few years of education he had been able to attend at old Father Corre’s school – a school that had no building or grounds, but was instead wherever the out of favour priest of the Old Gods had been able to set up a blackboard and find enough seating for the twelve or so children who had clamoured round to learn their numbers and letters.
Reading was one of Mouse’s great joys in life. The Church of the Gears had made a universal drive towards literacy in his youth, with the intention that all of the ticking worlds children would be able to read their holy texts.
Mouse had breezed through those in about a quarter of an hour before he had moved onto more interesting works. Now, when he found the time, he crept back into the small hovel he called a home and read bad novels about ghosts, goblins, and all the other fun things a young man enjoys reading about.
On the day the world changed, Mouse had several things on his mind. The first was oranges. The grocer whose shop he was currently under, who charged a fortune for the ripe delicacies that were transported down from the upper levels, had received a load of the fruit that very morning, and had promised to pay Mouse with a bagful if he was able to seal off the leaking steam vent beneath his storeroom. The second thing on the youth’s mind was the new novel he had waiting for him in his home, a tawdry tale of a haunted castle out in the western reaches, near the silver seas.
The third thing on Mouse’s young mind was how he was going to seal off the vent without getting half his face melted off for the privilege.