Editorial
The Boatman is a good friend of mine
by R. J. Frogvarian
The boatman is a good friend of mine.
He smiles as my feet touch the sinking wood,
A slight, boney smile, intentions to boot,
Inviting me, “Roll the dice, pass the time.”
Such perverse joys I no longer hide,
Light vanishing as we leave behind the world
Of the living. All around the mood
Of death, and dying, and denial.
Corpses, sitting, praying not to reach the other side,
The black shores glistening with pain and regret,
I only take the cup and shake it a while.
On my lips sits a slight, boney smile,
Moments that, while I live, I will not forget,
As the boatman is a good friend of mine.
Art of London
Low Claim
by Chronic Dreamer
TW: Gruesome murder
There was an old man living away and alone in his cottage. This day, two villagers who hated him deeply came for a visit. Without greetings, the intruders bind the old man to a wall. While keeping him as their audience, one beats the man while the other heats up a branding iron in the fireplace. They then take turns burning and beating, malicious grins pulled across their faces.
While the two took recess to gobble the old man’s food, he freed himself and fled. Unhappy with their missing play thing upon their return, the two decide to methodically destroy all the old man had. The old man did not get far before a third stranger finds him. The shadowed figure takes a cast iron poker with four prongs and impales the old man; the red tips sizzle as they pass through and out his back.
A little girl who cared for the old man hurries after hearing rumor of the two villager’s nasty plan. She finds the villagers drinking and eating in the old man’s kitchen. Without the two noticing, she rushes upstairs to see how badly the villagers had treated her friend. She finds him unmoving, slumped over with a wicked poker through his chest. She confronts the two villagers and screams at them. The villagers, mortified, flee, claiming they only went as far as poking him with a branding iron.
News of Art, Art of News
Famous Artist’s Last Performance – A Duel Of Life And Death
Barely two weeks ago, the announcement of a duel to true death between the Renowned Performer and V. S____, a critic, made rounds in many artistic circles, our humble Gazette included.
Today we bring you the results of the conflict.
S____, as the one challenged, was also the one to pick the weapons. He chose a classic – arming swords.
The duelists met at dawn, heavy mist sat low on the pavements of the Forgotten Quarter.
A reporter of our own was, of course, present, herself a good friend of the Performer.
The bout began. Both men were skilled. A slash. A sidestep. A parry. They traded blows, gauged each other in the morning cold.
Then, in a flash, it was over.
S____ fell to the ground, a terrible gash across his chest.
The Performer smiled. A cigarette was lit. He said his goodbyes to our confused reporter.
Then, his own sword pierced his chest.
As life slipped away, the reporter knew, the duel is not over yet. The men shall fight now, again, on the other shore. Only one shall return.
She waited, patiently.
Then, one of the corpses moved. It was S____. With a grim, gloomy glare, he sat upright. His face fell into his hands.
“I have never known such grace.” He reportedly said before leaving into the darkness of the morning.
We shall all miss the Performer, dear London. In his honour, raise your glasses high tonight.
Remember the art, London.
Ask Mother Goose
Dear Mother Goose,
So many changes, so little time. I wonder, is the world kind, or cruel.
Wonderer
Dear Wonderer,
There are ups and downs in life. Turns, twists, loops, dead ends. Life is like a boat ride, really, in that it ends only in death. Might as well try to get a little joy out of it.
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