Perhaps I am prepared to face my demons. There are only a few, after all, however haunting and powerful they may be. Or perhaps it is I that is the weak one.
I have concocted a plan. I’m still content with my purpose, of course. Such things are not to be forgotten, thrown away like a paper ball. Yes, my purpose still stands. However, it does not have to stand in the same way. It can be nudged, adjusted, rebuilt, even. The purpose does not have to manifest the same all the time.
There is Violant, there is Irrigo, there is the Correspondence. Powerful tools, if one knows how to use them well. I cannot act in haste, of course. Such things take time. Bit by bit.
Rebeka has been whiling away her days. The scars on her body make me shiver. She seldom smiles in a pleasant way nowadays. The well, the well, the well, it calls to her. The contract is clear, still burned into my mind.
I shall have to accompany her, yes. Afterwards, however, there can be freedom.
Art of London
Journal of a Dead Man
by Samuel James
‘It couldn’t have been an animal, this happened in the middle of a city’
‘Then what else could have done that? It couldn’t have been a human’
‘I don’t know, but it couldn’t have been an animal either’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, it was some madman who did this’
‘Then why do the corpses look like they were torn up by mountain lions?’
‘I don’t know, he probably used metal claws or something’
‘Metal claws, yeah sure’
The onlookers talked among themselves as police removed whatever was left of the bodies of old Jules and the young factory worker Henry, it took them some time to identify the remains due to the state they were in. There wasn’t a whole lot left of either of them in the first place.
At least their respective families will save up on funeral costs somewhat since they’ll be able to just bury them in soup cans.
But that didn’t make it any easier for their relatives.
Jules’ death hit his granddaughter Lacey the hardest. She loved the old man, she was fascinated by the stories he told her when she was a child, much to her father’s dismay who hated how his father filled his daughter’s head with wild fantasies of monsters and all manners of creepy and terrifying creatures stalking the darkness.
And that’s exactly what got Lacey thinking on what it could have been that tore Jules to pieces like that.
It wasn’t a human or animal.
But rather one of the creatures Jules has been talking about his whole life.
‘Don’t tell me you believe in this nonsense as well’ Lacey’s childhood friend Liz said to her.
‘It’s not nonsense, when you think about it for a second or two, it makes perfect sense’ Lacey said as she thumbed through Jules’ journal, looking for any mentions of demons or anything else that might be up and about at night.
Liz rolled her eyes at her friend, ‘that’s how they always start, grandmother says Jules started out the same way, at first he said the monsters made perfect sense and then he descended into mad rambling and raving about demons, ghosts, vampires and all kinds of other creatures’
Lacey ignored her friend’s words as she kept looking through Jules’ diary, finding mentions here and there about something stalking the streets of Warumsgrad at night, but he didn’t go into detail about what it could have been.
With a sigh Lacey closed the journal and placed it on the small table next to the recliner, ‘I wonder where he got all of this information from’ she muttered to herself moments later and looked at Liz, who only gave a shrug in return.
‘I don’t know, other old crazy people? Maybe he found some occult book? Uh he heard those stories in a bar full of superstitious people?’ Liz rattled off some options on where Jules could have heard about the creatures, all of them met with a slow shake of Lacey’s head.
‘We’ll just have to do some digging on our own’ Lacey said and got up from the recliner, smoothing out her skirt and looking back at Liz, ‘and I think I know where we should start’
Liz let out a sigh and got up as well, ‘the crazy drunk who’s been yelling at bushes in the park?’
‘No’ Lacey said and shot her friend a dirty look, ‘I mean Jules’ room, he’s been hiding something there from me and my father, so I figured that would be the best place to start’
News of Art, Art of News
A Week Of Uneventfulness Impair This Report Does Not
It is with regret that we have to say – there are no news this week.
No news of art, certainly, perhaps none at all. All is quiet in the Neath, or, as quiet as can be. Rats bicker, bats flutter and chirp, cats sit their silent vigil of secret keepers. Even Jack has not shown his smile. Dames and lads walk, arm in arm, at a casual speed, as this is the week to do so. A gentle calm spreads around the streets of London.
On these blessed days, there is nothing exciting, not even a bit to report on – perhaps, of course, apart from the nothing itself.
Despair not, though, dear London! Despite such sloth all around, this reporter has hope, the hope of another week! Yes, as the Earth moves through the vastness of cosmos, a new day shall arrive, a new week. The calm will lift, yes it may seem sad but it is fortune that brings us the end of it. There are only so many days of rest one can use, London. Soon we will be thrust into another bout of happenings, hunted by boredom only to escape its grasp so expertly that you will look back on this week and think, have I ever truly enjoyed the calm?
Enjoy it you may, can, and should, dear London. This reporter will humbly see you next week.
Ask Mother Goose
Dear Mother Goose,
Am I who I thought I was?
Are such judgements truly up to us?