Basically I was enjoying a few pints and in order to get a better description of the setting for the first story you'll read, I decided to rant. Below is what spewed forth from my mandible in an attempt to establish my version of a steam punk Victorian London . I've removed names but haven't edited anything so grammar, spelling etc is like it was from @drunkenjohn .
It's not particularly good so I decided to share it with you all. Read it aloud to your 4yr olds.
"Born in 1859 his birth was a great blessing to the family as his mother, a devout christian had become pregnant before betrothed and because of that, particular extremist groups tried to...stop the bastard baby from being born. Ethan's father however made her an honest women and moved his family to a much more safer place....London. There was no other place like it.
So lively with new ideas, engineering wonders, bad weather and an odd odor the lingered like an itch or perhaps something viral like gonorrhea. Seems anyone can catch it. Dismal buildings match the expressions on the faces of walking bags of bacteria, expressionless clones of the queen. The people with hope hide it cleverly behind violent blood stained eyes. Their gestures used as a rouse between their beliefs and persona. Any alley you traverse in london can yield something terrifyingly new like lines in a complex program. Cobblestone streets leave much to be desired by the soles of feet but at least the drinks keep the men docile and the women promiscuous.
Dandy's carry themselves apart from others to perhaps suggest humans aren't inherently primal, which is what they saw everyone else to be. The queen was. The queen always is. The queen was cold. The queen is always. The queen was law and law was only ignored by those who felt the fear of god more than the queens' these were usually the immigrants. Gypsys before they had a name in some cases they were the cobble in the streets. Their eyes meant their souls had something greatly different than what they had to desire. London was all of these things. Good coffee and beer bad politics and weather. The air so thick with sodomy and sweat one could perhaps tie a neckerchief with it and then proceed to use it to cover the odor. Dismal is the place where dreams remain themselves and apathy tears down the walls of hope, or doesn't. This place was now home.
Horse dung lining the streets like the seam of a wedding dress happily married to it's place on the ground knowing there is no up from down here. "