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SteamyPunk now in zine form!

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Anyone who has caught up with Strangers In A Tangled Wilderness at a bookfair or other tabling event has probably seen our little steamypunk zines. Well, we’ve finally taken the step to print out a whole bunch (with offset-printed covers done by one of our collective members!) and have offered them for sale at the tangledwilderness.org Mail-Order Page. You can buy the set of two Margaret Killjoy stories and three Dimitri Markotin stories, five zines for five bucks! Unfortunately, we’re not really sure if we’re allowed to send this stuff overseas, so at the moment this is for steamypunks in the USA only.

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House Of Glass & Pearl

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

by Robert Monroe
Warning: Contains no explicit sex scenes! This is a work of romance.
The brick house at 1723 Reed Avenue does not normally draw the attention of any passerby. The house stands silently, quiet ordinarily, like the house to its left and the house to its right. Curtains of thick white lace obscure the view inside and not a sound can be heard slipping from within the house. It is a house of completely unremarkable normalcy, with the exception of its eerie silence.
But there are those who know what to look for, those who see the streets of London with very different eyes, eyes that drift to the shadows and the alleyways. Eyes that know what is there, waiting. It is with those eyes that the visitors of 1723 Reed Avenue spy the peculiar tabby sunning on the house’s walkway steps.
(Continued)

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Emerson & Adalia Rob A House

Friday, April 25, 2008

by Dimitri Markotin
Of course, it caught Emerson by surprise when the young gentleman stepped into his office and up to his desk, slipped a hand behind his neck, and kissed him full on the mouth.
Emerson stood with a start, knocking papers to the floor before regaining his composure and studying the interloper’s face more carefully. “Adalia?” he asked. He looked the guest over. Her breasts must have been bound, her hair swept up into her bowler, but he was certain it was her. His Robin Hood, the burglar he had met amorously weeks prior and not seen since.
(Continued)

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Chaos Theory

Thursday, March 6, 2008

by Dimitri Markotin
It certainly wasn’t what I planned, I must confess. What sort of person would I be if I were to attend such a lecture—the nature of chaos in contemporary mathematical philosophy—with the intention of entering into such a liaison? This I can tell you in truth: I had no idea how the weekend would turn out. (Continued)

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Homecoming, Part One

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

by Victor Chablon
She’s my tinkerer.
I’ve called Lill that for the ten years I’ve known her. Oh, it’s a presumptuous thing to call her, particularly because she is most certainly not a tinkerer—she’s a master clocktocker and steamer.
But it’s an especially presumptuous thing to call her, because she’s never been mine. Lill’s always been her own master, a tenacious controller of her destiny. Even after we married and our fiery wooing slid into a few well-worn patterns of domesticity, she was never anyone’s but her own. I loved her for that, for that untamable side of her. Lill, my wild woman with the goggles and the gloves. My tinkerer.
(Continued)

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Emerson and Adalia

Sunday, October 7, 2007

by Dimitri Markotin
It was obvious to Emerson—and likely most every guest of the garden party—that the raven-haired beauty bore no invitation. Certainly, she was well corseted, bustled, and dressed; her gown swept the stone pathways, its neckline revealed gorgeous collarbones. But her hair was not done up and came only to her bare shoulders. She wore no hat and her skin was tanned to olive. She was not society. (Continued)

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A Pirate of Both Day & Night

Thursday, September 27, 2007

by Margaret Killjoy
I can’t sleep with you, you know that.” Ulian ran a few fingers up Neh-te’s collarbones as he spoke. Her striped sailor’s shirt, already wide-collared, was stretched open to expose her deeply tanned shoulders.
“I know,” Neh-te whispered mournfully, “I remember.”
The bamboo dock beneath them creaked slowly as the waves of low tide splashed against its posts. Behind them, on the mainland, a bamboo windmill beat the time slowly, churning in the ocean-side winds. (Continued)

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A Man of the Waste

Thursday, September 27, 2007

by Margaret Killjoy
Icar relaxed in the shade of the brick store, his long legs stretched out in front of him on the cobblestone, his small pack at his side. He had never seen been to The Vare, and the city was disorientating; people of all sizes and styles hustled their way through mid-day crowds without saying hello to one another, and nobody had yet taken any notice of the gangly, shirtless stranger from the Waste. (Continued)

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