Treasures of the world are always worth preserving. Too many have fallen victim to the frivolities of ancient demagogues. In the name of God and country they eradicate what is not theirs and erase records to fit their own narrative.
Standing up to the status quo may seem like a task too big for the most regular of persons, yet it is the careful preservation which gives treasures of the past the life and glory they deserve. Defiance need not be another activity for the frivolous elite. Any one can participate simply by refusing to let the endangered die, to preserve what one’s culture deems important.
As with all things, it is not a perfect science, a clear-cut result. It is up to one’s own judgement to distinguish the true gems from poison-filled vials. As with all things, exhibit care in the choice of preservation. Hate shall not persist through time; only love can break the cycle.
It is, perhaps, the duty of us all to fight for our history.
Art of London
Sun-Filled Stories, Chapter Four
by Cassius Mortemer
It felt like ages.
For the next few days, the Author had paced his study, wandered around Ladybones Road, and annoyed the guards at the old honey dens. When he wasn’t in London, he was searching for inspiration elsewhere. But by now he was getting antsy, and he had a feeling that it was related to the ever-growing piles of empty honey jars. A lack of soul clearly doesn’t impact a bad habit. He stood by his desk, brooding at a small sulphur-scented square of paper.
He couldn’t do this alone.
And several hours later, he wasn’t doing it alone. The Curious Devilless was waiting for him outside, smiling.
“You’re fast,” the Author remarked. The Devilless flashed a fanged set of teeth at him.
“I was in the neighbourhood,”
The Devilless strolled down the street without another word. She took him all the way to Spite before the Author finally thought to ask.
“About the letter…”
“I can help you, yes. I have my theories, but I think I know where your infernal paramour has gone,”
“He’s not my paramour,”
“Have you ever heard of Mt Palmerston?”
“Is that the mountain-monster that some of the zailors whisper about?”
“That’s Mt Nomad, dear”
The Devilless stayed silent for a few moments, smiling wistfully for dramatic effect. She spoke as the Author opened his mouth.
“It’s a place in the north, where devils often go to retire,” she said.
The Author thought of the Devil. He was younger than most devils, that was clear. Perhaps even naive.
“Why would he want to go there?” he asked.
“Because zailors often smuggle their best souls to Mt Palmerston. That, and it has a nifty volcano, if you understand me correctly,”
The Author’s blank stare told her that he did not, in fact, understand her.
“He’s not going to sell your soul,”
More staring. The Devilless’ smile faltered, blown away by a sigh.
“Do you want me to spell it out for you? He’s going to throw your soul into the volcano.”
The Author watched the road, wordless.
“I can arrange a ship for you,” the Devilless offered. “Passenger fees aren’t particularly expensive. But it’s a long journey, and a terribly treacherous one at that.”
Still, not a word. The Devilless’ smile had returned. She had him now. She knew what was coming next.
“Is getting your soul back worth it? For a demon you met a few days ago?”
The answer was immediate.
“Of course it is.”
A satisfied grin. A brief silence. For dramatic effect, of course.
“I’ll speak to my contacts. You’ll have a captain willing to take you to Mt Palmerston and back in two days’ time. You can meet me at the Wolfstack Docks then.” She scribbled a time and a name onto a loose piece of paper in her purse and handed it to the Author. And then she was gone, as quick as she arrived.
The Author was alone again.
News of Art, Art of News
Politically Engaged Starvation – A Performance Piece Or A Serious Tactic?
A group of fourteen Bazaar deniers have taken residence in Trafalgar Square. They have set down stools around Nelson’s Column and chained themselves together, arm to arm and leg to leg, in a circle all around the monument.
The supposed leader of these political artists, identified as one J_____ T_____, proclaimed that the group is on a hunger strike, refusing to consume any sustenance in protest of the Bazaar.
“We will not stand down!” J_____ proclaimed to the press, “We will continue our fight, whatever methods necessary, ‘till the Masters stand down and the Bazaar releases London from its grasp!”
The only master reachable for comment was one Mr Pages, who stated:
“I assure you we do not commend this provocacille. The disruptive elements shall be handled with intermost scrupulitude – and we make no promises to be delicate.”
Constabulary officials have also taken camp nearby the protesters, monitoring their activity, though so far it appears they truly mean to keep to their promise of a hunger strike. No private investigators have taken up the reigns of the case; further negotiations are thereby postponed.
Despite the group’s rhetoric and ideals, it is yet unclear what they intend to achieve with their activism, though theories of raising general awareness or this being a simple performance piece of the revolutionaries have arisen.
Ask Mother Goose
Dear Mother Goose,
Am I trying too hard?
It may be the natural state of things, yet there are limits which one should adhere to.