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27th of October 1897


My arrival to the Neath was just before Hallowmas. How many years ago now I cannot recall. Treacherous time. It is a charming tradition, that of secrecy. Masks, confessions, revelry the likes of which the surface could only ever dream of. All endorsed, of course. All par for the course.

Traditions are to be upheld, to the extent of one’s want and like at least. In keeping with such, here’s a confession for you from yours truly, dear London.

I despise my predicament. Not a day passes when I am not filled with anger and anguish at the position my love had wrought. To see one you respect indulge in such self-destruction… it can drive a person mad, truly so.

This Hallowmas is the beginning of the end. Another candle for the count. Everything has been prepared. I made sure of that. Only the necessities, of course. There is no longer a need for careful protection. A gentle flower has thorns. Thorns turn into barbed wire, coiled around a being. The being, under the protection of its own deformity, plunges through crowds towards a singular goal. Certain destruction.

I have made more than just simple preparations, of course. Double the pain. I shall accompany dear Rebeka. I shall not be allowed to cross the gates.

All shall be Well.

Art of London

What we can wish for
by Wilbur

Once upon a time, there lived a starfish who wanted to become a star. It spent its days in the ocean and, at night, came to the surface to watch the stars, dreaming of being among them.

One night, as the starfish rose above the waters, the moon was big and blue, and so close the starfish thought it could reach out and touch it. After a while of silence, the starfish sighed.
„Oh, if only I could be a star…“
The blue moon turned to the starfish.
„You wish to be a star?“ it asked.
„Oh, yes, very much,“ the starfish replied.
„You already are like a star, I think. You spend your days hidden and come out at night, as if to accompany me,“ the moon said.
This made the starfish happy, but it still wasn’t enough. It wanted to shine as bright as the stars above.
„But, can I be a real star?“ it asked.
„No… I’m not sure,“ the moon sadly replied.

For many nights thereafter the blue moon remained, keeping the starfish company. They emerged together at dusk, talked through to dawn, and watched the stars together, though the starfish still wished it could be one of them.
One night, one of the stars themselves came down to the surface of the ocean. Its light turned night to day. It spoke to the starfish.
„You want to be one of us?“ it asked.
„Yes!“ the starfish replied with a glimmer of hope, „Yes, more than anything in the world!“
The star smiled. „You already are a star inside. You are only so gloomy and cloudy, you do not let your shine come out. You do not need any glimmers or sparks. You only need to let your brightness out and be happy.“

The star faded back into the sky, and the starfish remained hopeful. It continued wishing to be a star. It tried to make its shell as bright as it could be and came up every night to gaze at the stars.
However, as time went on, it realized it liked being itself. It liked the warm sun during the day. It liked the water. It liked to converse with the moon throughout the starry nights. It did not make it want to be a star any less, but it calmed it down, made it happy with its life.

One night, as the starfish talked to the moon, it did not come up to gaze at the stars. It came up for its own happiness.
As this realization came over the starfish, its body started shining, bright as a real star. It floated up above the ocean waters and, just as the stars could come down, it rose to the sky.

And became one of them.

News of Art, Art of News

Hallowmas – The Season Of Fog, Masques, Confessions

Hallowmas! Oh, the fog that hides spirits past, present, future. The time has come to don your masks, dear London, and attend one (or all) of the many balls and parades organized around our fair city. Disguise yourself, and confess your regrets.

This year, Attendants roam the streets. Convoys of the Bazaar, they are here to unburden us of our woes, listen to our sins, uphold ancient promises. Seven of them appeared, early in the morning brought out to the pyres, emerged only as bearers of their mask. Let the Fool judge you.

The Masques, of course, balls of extravagance. St Dustan’s, of the Devil Mask. Pavilion of Butterflies, of the Moth Mask. Wreck of St Elmo, of the Crown Mask. In compliance with the spirit of Hallowmas, attend these balls. Don your masks. Speak to the Fool of your tragedies.

With keeping with the traditions of Hallowmas, we at The Goosey Gazette have decided to publish (anonymous) confessions of you, our faithful readers, our dear Londoners. Find this week’s confessions on pages 7҉̷̶̶-҉̢8̵̴̀̕.

So, dear London, as the night is dark, as blood is red, as our hearts flutter at clandestine meetings by the Hallowmas candles,

enjoy yourself, dear London.


I need to tell someone. My guilt is too much to bear.
I have killed so many – the captain, the games operatives, I failed to save my beloved Constable. I have written a newspaper in her name. I have got rid of Jack but still the shame remians. I left the orphanage, a damned place of hell I left it. I should have put it to flames but I couldn’t bear to hear the screams. I was weak. I had seen too much death to see more. Whenever I have nightmares I see the faces of those I have killed. Those I have failed. Its too much to bear.
– Old Man

I still have it, A WORD BROKEN uttered from the mouth of a king turned beggar, and I will not share. The agents and Constables may try to take this knowledge for themselves, but only those who walk in the Courier’s Footprints will truly appreciate the beauty of this Correspondence.
– Masked Midnighter

Submit your own delicious confessions to us for publishing until the end week of Hallowmas.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Is it so, that perhaps not all doom is justified?

Dear Ponder,
By many merits, it never could justified.


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