This is a weekly series of genre descriptions. If you disagree with my descriptions, you’re probably wrong. It’s OK. It happens to the best of us.
It’s like listening to whistling wind and wandering water winding through woods dotting a dale. Suddenly, the dale rockets upwards, powered by explosions. The peace of the wooded valley is unaffected; you find serenity, swaying above the detonations.
It’s like listening to a old timey big band covering a bouncing dance floor with velvety brass horns and thick bass notes. During a trumpet solo, you notice that the trumpeter is a robot. Full of sudden alarm, you edge away from the dance floor and bump into a well-dressed couple. Their mechanoid eyes click as they examine you. Everyone here is a robot. You resume dancing to avoid suspicion.
It’s like listening to a loud upstairs neighbor who has somehow convinced a string quartet to tap dance on a sheet of iron. When you pound on the ceiling to make them quiet the hell down, your broom makes a scratchy, static-filled boom. Confused, you hesitate, and the violin finally sinks its melody deep into your brain. A lever ratchets open as your sight surrenders to an unknown grey mist.
You wake up on a Victorian-style wrought iron bed that has been painted brass, covered in cogs, and appears to have multiple points of articulation that you can’t figure out how to use. Your ears are filled with the ringing of anvils and the heaving of bellows. You think you might be helping to construct a 90 foot tall steel crab. As you leave your room, you take a pair of goggles with you. They’ll probably never be useful, but it’s better to have them and not need them…
Congratulations to Tobias McCurry for now having a TV show that proves that he’s the steam-est punk I know.
It’s like drifting down a gentle stream, your feet brushing across smooth river rocks. Your heartbeat swells in your ears, methodically tapping out your lifeblood. As you make your way downstream, you drift in and out of consciousness. Each time you lift your head, you find yourself in an entirely different, yet somehow familiar, river.
It’s like listening to a subway car methodically rattling down the track. The brakes scream as it takes turns harder and faster. The train begins charging through the city, throwing the castoffs and remnants of society back into the harsh fluorescent light of the platforms. The helpless wail of the brakes vanishes into the night, leaving you surrounded by the problems you had ignored and forgotten.