by R. J. Frogvarian
The moon was fancy data. A distant page to observe, study, learn from. Countless hours we have spent gazing upwards, watching this silver disk. Its patterns, phases. The secrets whispered by its light. There were great many things to learn. We now know them all.
The moon is a curious public. As we have peered into it, so it peers into us. A well of light, so baffled by its observers. Now the light comes down, many rays as many peoples, yearning to know more. Beckoning us to come up and join them, each night, softly asking their many questions.
The moon will be a logical rope. The only thing left for us to do. The only outcome we can end on. Questions, answered. Agreements, made. We will know each other, us and the moon, and we will climb upon its rays, up, up, to join it among the stars, and to be propelled further yet. Through the moon, up high, we will become something more.
Art of London
Sun-Filled Stories, Chapter One
by Cassius Mortemer
The Author found himself sprawled on the ground. Several small jars were scattered onto the cobblestones, one or two broken, and a darkly-dressed stranger was busy fumbling about between them. The Author spots a pair of darkly tinted glasses amongst the jars. Does it belong to the stranger? He reaches for them the same time the stranger did. Their eyes meet.
By god. His eyes seemed to glow in the darkness. A yellow so bright, it almost seemed like…
“Sunlight,” he whispered. The Devil took his glasses and put them back on.
“‘Scuse me,” the Devil mumbled and proceeded to pick up what’s left of his fallen jars. Is that Prisoner’s Honey? Does Hell export honey? He seemed a little somberly dressed for a devil. Not to mention a little clumsy and awkward.
“Ah, excuse me, is that Prisoner’s honey?”
The Introverted Devil stiffened, then locked eyes with the Author – tinted glasses slightly askew. His lips moved but no words formed. He got up, clutching his jars, and hurried away.
But the Author wasn’t done with him.
“Wait! You missed one!” he lied, rushing after the Devil. The Devil didn’t seem to notice or perhaps even care what the Author had to say. He didn’t even change pace. The Author managed to grab him by the shoulder and pull him back.
“I said wait!”
The Introverted Devil stopped, stiff as a rattus-faber corpse during sackmas. How can a devil be so mousy?
“Where are you going with those?” the Author asked.
“None of your business”
“Actually, it is. I am a very well-known official in the honey-dens,” – not a complete lie – “I would’ve recognised you if you were a delivery boy.”
From this close, the Author could smell the sulphur on the him. There was no doubt that this man was a Devil – at least, no doubt in heritage.
The Introverted Devil shrugged the Author’s hand off his shoulder and started walking again, a bit more casually. He didn’t attempt running when the Author matched his pace.
“The Forgotten Quarter,” he finally says.
The Author’s eyebrows shot up and disappeared in his bangs. The Forgotten Quarter? What the hell would you need Prisoner’s Honey there for? Why would you need it there? The Author opened his mouth to ask as much, and the Devil interrupted him.
“I don’t know what it’s for. I’m just doing what was asked.”
The Author kept walking alongside the Devil. The Devil, no doubt uncomfortable with his entourage-of-one, pulled his shoulders up to his ears. They got all the way to Daughtry’s Passage before the Devil finally spoke again.
“Why are you following me?”
“Am I not allowed to?”
“That’s not what I asked.”
The Author shrugged and offered him a wistful smile.
News of Art, Art of News
The Advent Season Is Upon Us!
Rejoice, one and all! The 1st of December is here, and with such, the time of Advent. Soon, lacre will fall upon our shoulders, and a red-cloaked taker will visit us at our door. Such frivolousness is to come later, of course. For now, the various sellers and street urchins have begun distributing cards fancily painted with depictions of many Christmas’ characters.
Each day, perhaps, we will find a small gift from the stars, awaiting at our doorstep. With a cup of hot chocolate (or another beverage of your choice) in our hands we will open a small window of our advent calendar, the chocolate inside melting slowly on our tongues. We would light candles, of course, yet we are not so foolish as to truly do so.
Truly, London, this is the season of joy and jolly, on which we come together, us and our loved ones. Greet your neighbours with a smile, and do not forget to be kind.
Ask Mother Goose
Dear Mother Goose,
Am I perhaps not doing enough? Or is it just a time of drought?
We all experience lulls of feeling. One moment there is bright fire, the other only embers. They can be rekindled yet; they only need more fuel. A little rest. The flames require time and effort to come back to life.