There is an importance to being idle, like a vast oasis of leisure. All one can sometimes do is lay back with a cup of tea and blurred words on a page. There are such lulls in all of our lives.
Sometimes, perhaps, we are not as grateful for them. Just a trifle for those who care not for work, we think, a tool of the lazy to pamper their souls. We do not think that, perhaps, our soul needs to be pampered as well.
Other times still, perhaps, such moments are a terrifying void of awaiting resolutions. A true, actual lull in time, when nothing seems to move. A vastness of time through which we have to trudge second, by second, by second, by second. There is no doing, there is only the attempt to survive until the next page of this chapter of our lives.
Whichever reason we may have, well, it is important to not get lost in the why. Perhaps, still, one can simply enjoy a small, tiny, break.
Art of London
A Compilation of the Good Bits- Credited, of Course, and put together in such a way that it makes no goddamn sense
Compiled by Professor Wensleydale.
I then found my rival, writing a film of slanderous material. The Devil looked mockingly offended. “Me? Insult one of our best associates?” I ran in the general direction of the noise. Just like my mother. The Neath grows dark in their absence. This opportunity is mine, and mine alone. This wasn’t exactly planned. An old woman gingerly entered the hall. I only take the cup and shake it a while. I already knew this was to be our fate.
Credit where it is due:
Wolf Grim Rine
Reinol von Lorica
Sun-Filled Stories, Chapter Three
by Cassius Mortemer
It must’ve been a dozen games now. The Boatman didn’t care, even if he lost every single one of them. People of little importance do not matter to him, especially those as inexperienced as the Author. With each win, the Author felt a little stronger, sat up a bit straighter. Then, a sudden light! The Author nearly fell out of his bed, gasping. Everything hurts. But he’s alive. The Author tried to make sense of his surroundings: squeaking bed, dusty shelves, faded carpet… How did he get back home?
There was a note on his bedside table. No, not a note; a poster for Dante’s Grill. ‘Devilishly Delicious,’ was written in the strange, flat and rigid-yet-flowing style that devils are so fond of. Nothing had serifs, and it just seemed… off. Nevermind that. There was handwriting on the back.
‘Try harder next time,’ it read. ‘The moment you wake up, meet me here.’
It was unsigned.
Now, a sane man might be wary. Even some insane men might be wary. The Author, however, was already forgetting what suspicion felt like. He had no reason to be scared. Even if he had, he couldn’t remember what feeling scared felt like. Might as well, right? He had nothing better to do. Perhaps this person knew where the Introverted Devil was.
That person was… the Churlish Devil.
The Author had never been to Dante’s, first and foremost. It’s relatively exclusive and the only way gentlepersons such as himself can afford it is by being invited by a more important gentleperson. The Churlish Devil had been waiting for him outside, grinning. His brilliant Infernal Hunter’s uniform was replaced by a ‘simple’ navy suit and a rather bright cravat.
“Quite a long nap you took,” he commented.
“You’re the one who invited me?”
The Devil didn’t answer. He walked into the building, feeling that should be indication enough of his intentions. It worked, at least. The Devil found them a seat near a window, and the Author sat opposite to him.
“Why am I here?” he asked. The Churlish Devil gazed at him with those sulphur-fire-blues (he wasn’t wearing any dark tinted glasses, as Devils often tend to do). A fanged smirk. His eyes flickered to a menu on the table.
“Because I’m curious as to what sort of man you are. Coffee?”
The Author ignored the question.
The Devil didn’t answer him. A Devilless had arrived to take their orders, and the Churlish Devil decided for the Author. The Devilless left, and the Devil turned his gaze to the window.
“What is your opinion on sorrow spiders?”
“You didn’t answer my question,”
“How about poisons or venoms? Which is worse, in your opinion?”
“Please answer my question…”
The Devil finally turned his gaze back to the Author.
“It’s related to your soul,”
“What about it? Do you know where it is?”
“How do you like snakes?”
For perhaps an hour (perhaps more), the conversation continued in this fashion. They had lunch (it certainly was as devilishly delicious as advertised) and the Devil kept asking questions relating to the Author’s fears. When they finished up, the Devil was the first to leave his seat.
“Ladybones,” was the last thing the Churlish Devil said before they parted ways.
News of Art, Art of News
Feast Of The Exceptional Rose Celebrates Lovers Once Again
Dearest London, the time has come again for the wonders of love. Clandestine balls in the mist invite even the most compliant members of high echelons to forget their uptight ways and softly fall into the arms of a stranger. Now, more than ever, is the time to reach your beloved’s heart. We at the Gazette, of course, recommend the true and tried ways of deepening a bond, rather than today’s trend of turning over one’s pockets to pay for expensive gifts and trifles.
For those struggling for ideas, it is of course our pleasure to provide inspiration:
Challenge to find each other at a masked ball.
The rush of the unknown is, of course, the cornerstone of many a London festivity, Feast of the Rose being no exception. Being able to find your beloved among a vast, masked crowd truly is a test of love. If, perhaps, you end up falling into the arms of another, well the situation may solve itself still in new and exciting ways.
Take a walk in the lesser known corners of the near-London area.
A romantic walk never hurts, and one full of exploration (and lack of prying eyes) is a very sought-after commodity. We, of course, cannot reveal these unknown corners, as it would defeat the purpose of the exercise. A means of defense (just in case) is recommended and remember – in darkness, clothes are optional!
Partake of a delicious meal together – perhaps prepare it together as well!
The heart is reached through the stomach, and a bond can be only deepened by preparing a lovely dinner with your beloved. Culinary art, as any art, is for anyone!
[Due to the unspeakable salaciousness of this advice, the printing press owners refused (through red cheeks) to even touch it.]
We do hope, dear London, that this article truly inspires you to spend a time of quality with those that you love this festival season.
Look to Love, London!
Ask Mother Goose
Dear Mother Goose,
Is there solace for the cowardly?
None, only the flames you set to yourself.