CINDER31LA (sapphic steampunk re-imagining)
by Freida Kilmari
August 31st 2024
Genres: Adult, LGBTQ+, Retelling, Steampunk
I have 22,280 days left to live.
She only has 31.
Here in Clepsydra, everyone knows when they’re going to die. Born with a life clock embedded into our wrists, the tick-tock of our heartbeat is a pulse we’ll forever hear. Steambotics rule number one? Never mess with a life clock. For 21 years of my life, I’ve followed the rules and walked in my late father’s footsteps, hoping to one day be as good an engineer as he was.
Until she walked into my life.
The princess is dying, and it’s up to me to break the law and do the impossible. To cure time.
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EXCERPT
I
had 22,280 days to live. That was all the time I would get, whether I
liked it or not. The clock never lied. The brass and steel of my
lifeclock embedded in my wrist ticked on despite my mental whirring and
purring, and I yanked my blue coverall sleeve down to mask the annoying
tick tock of my heartbeat.
Returning my attention to the engine
in front of me, I asked, “What’ve you got today for me, then?” I popped
the hood of the steamer open and watched the faulty lines cross where
they shouldn’t and meet where they should, with nothing transferring.
“Hmmm . . .” I rubbed sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand.
“Seems you’ve got yourself all twisted, little buddy. Don’t worry, we’ll
have you fixed up in no time.” As if in answer, the steamer chugged and
whined, puffing a dirty cloud of old, used air in my face—clearly on
its last legs. But I couldn’t return it to Old Mags like this; it was
the only way she could see her grandchildren over in Prago City.
I
spent all afternoon untangling the steam lines, trying to put them back
together in a way that resembled the older models, but this thing was
built before I was born and I couldn’t figure out how to line everything
up to the radiator.
“Liquid toffee, El,” a synthetic voice croaked out from my desk.
“Ah, sweet toffee.” The bitter and sweet mixture always got my heart pumping.
IoN’s
rusted, bronze body no larger than my head whizzed through the air with
his new thrusters, his arms dangling behind as he raced back to the
kitchen.
“Careful, IoN! You’ll knock something off the shelves if you don’t watch those arms.”
“Well,”
he said as he whizzed back out with a can of compressed air, “if you
did not pack them full with so many”—he paused and pulled an old project
I’d been trying to work on last month from the shelf—“doodads, then I
would not have a problem.”
He was always like this, moaning and
complaining about the state of the garage these days. But with Dad gone,
I had to step up and take over the business—my stepmother wouldn’t want
to ruin her perfect new manicure my earnings paid for—and that meant
there was no one to help clean up. The shelves on the metal and wood
walls had stopped floating some time ago. I had since given up fixing
their thrusters and nailed them to the walls the old-fashioned way.
“Just be careful,” I chuckled.
His
small, hemispherical body whizzed around the garage, picking up all the
tools I’d left lying about this morning after fixing my neighbor’s
Instacaff mug. Business had been a bit slow recently—or, as my
stepmother liked to remind me, nonexistent. The garage used to shine in
the middle of downtown’s business park on level zero; even some of the
rich would come to use Dad’s services. “He’s the best in the business,”
they’d say, and I’d coo and wonder at his magnificence. Now, it was
nothing but a scrappy old building with a broken sign the sun didn’t
even reach since they’d built the city’s new level twenty-one a couple
of years ago. We’d barely had any sunlight reaching us before, but
twenty-one’s entertainment center blocked out the meager shaft of light
that used to flicker our way from 11:00 a.m. until 1:00 p.m. every day.
Besides, its white marble and old cog design was an eyesore I could do
without. I hated the damn sight of it every time I stepped outside.
“Mom to Cinderella,” the radio echoed across the garage, dispelling my thoughts.
I
cringed. I hated that name and she knew it, but I was reminded of the
warning my stepmother gave me this morning before leaving our apartment:
“Cinderella, darling, don’t forget to make some actual money today, or
I’ll be forced to resort to grounding you.” She booped my nose, smiled
that cruel, frustrating smile at me, and walked to the local spa for her
morning massage.
As if grounding me would help pay the bills. I was the only one working!
“Cinderella!”
I snapped out of the daymare that was her plastered-on face and ran to the radio receiver. “Yes, Phyllis?”
“Cinderella!”
the radio crackled again, forcing her voice into octaves even higher
than her fake personality would usually reach. “How many times must I
tell you to call me ‘Mom’ or ‘Mother.’” She sighed over the receiver.
“Really, Cinderella, I simply cannot keep telling you.”
“Sorry,
Mother.” My voice retained its usual nondescript tone, hiding anything
and everything she might use as leverage over my life. “What can I do
for you?”
“Well, now that you’ve actually asked.” She coughed to
clear her throat. “I may have a job for you. Someone sent us a letter
requesting your assistance at the Dome on level eighteen.”
Level
eighteen? I’d never even left level zero. Most commoners didn’t venture
farther than level ten, and even that was only if you had a well-paying
job or an invitation to take you there. Level eighteen? I bet I could
see the sun from up there. Not the small slithers we occasionally got
when you found the right street corner at the right time of day, but
real, actual sunlight.
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Freida
Kilmari, an author, writer, and editor from south-west England, has a
passion for unique fantasy, one that started with the likes of Philip
Pullman, Derek Landy, and Darren Shan. With their fantastical words, she
spent her childhood and young adult life vying to create her own world of words one day. Eventually, after finishing her degree and settling into being a business owner, she started writing fantasy romance with LGBT+ twists, and from there, she's kept twisting tropes, retelling fairy tales and legends, and seeing just how far you can push the boundaries of sexuality and gender.
Living in south-west England, she owns and runs Penmanship Editing, a fi
ction editing business that strives to make the most out of each author's unique story, words, and heart. "Every writer is different, and it's those differences that make our work a part of who we are." She's worked on over 100 books in the last two years and has received praise from authors and other editors alike for her encouraging and togetherness approach in a field that is lacking uniqueness and empathy.GIVEAWAY
Blitz-wide giveaway (INT)
$50 Amazon gift card + signed copy of CINDER31LA
a Rafflecopter giveaway
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