Here is a six sentence excerpt from a steampunk story I am currently working on, a sort of transsexual “Six Million Dollar Man” called “Mechaniborg”…
I turned towards the seam of coal and he screwed the lines into the side of the drill, the hot incoming steam furthest from me. I shook my body carefully, allowing the various parts of the rig to settle upon my frame, and then I pulled the trigger for an instant, so that the noise of its operation would warn anyone nearby that steam was in motion. Then I brought the drill up to full speed and attacked the coal.
From that point on I can relate nothing sensible. When one is working at the coalface it is simply a series of sensory impressions; there is noise, choking heat, and darkness. All that I do recall is the shift halting, as usual, thrice for water and easement breaks, and once for us to eat our greasy pies; and so it must have been close to the end of the shift when disaster struck.