Editorial
It is a slow process, waiting.
I feel as if I have waited my entire life. For what? There is not a singular answer. I have waited, yes, for stretches of time until events had passed. Action, wait, resolution. Wait, action, resolution. Wait, wait, wait.
Perhaps such is the way of living. To wait, always, from moment to moment. Seldom are we the true actors in our fate. Seldom is full control given to us. That is not to say such is impossible. That is only to say that we, in fact, are not alone in this world.
We are all actors and the world is but a stage. Know your lines and cues, carry yourself as you should, reap the spoils and learn from the failures. Wait. Wait for your moment. Wait for when you know it is your own time to shine. Once it comes, yes, then even you will have your moment in the spotlight. Together, in our waiting, we shall create something beautiful.
At last, I wait again.
Art of London
This War Of Ours
Part II
by Reinol von Lorica
Perhaps sleep wouldn’t be so bad. It would almost be a relief after all this fighting. If only that blasted noise could stop…
“Lieutenant.”
As he drifted off to the unknown, he could’ve sworn that a change had happened. The mud was awfully soft. And the noise seemed to have actually quieted down. Was this…
“Lieutenant!”
Emerald eyes opened. Breathe. Those years were gone now, taken away when the new Kaiserin of Reich vied for peace and ending the seven year long war. It was just another dream, one of many he had these nights.
He was not in the muddy wastelands of Europa. Nor was he in the midst of fighting and war. No. He was instead in a small steel room, lying comfortably on a small bed. A desk was pushed up against a wall, laden with books and papers .A half open wardrobe. It wasn’t the best of accommodations, but it was one nonetheless.
Quietly, the soldier sits up on his bed, wincing at a few creaks in his back. He stretches, ignoring the knocking on his door and the female voice calling out his rank as he stands. Time for a new day, he supposed.
“I’m coming.” He approaches the wardrobe, and opens it, revealing the very same grey uniform he wore during those war stricken years, albeit cleaned up and updated.
With a sigh, he put it on with haste, almost relieved at the comfort to be back in a uniform again. A quick look in the mirror, and soon, he had opened the door, revealing the youthful face of the trooper.
“Lieutenant von Lorica, sir!” she snapped to attention, which was returned. Seeing no reason to hold him up, she spoke. “Colonel Schmidt wishes to meet you on the bridge. We’re making touchdown on Port Weiss soon, sir.”
He nods and waves her off, dismissing her. “At ease, get some food, and thank you for informing me of this.” Whatever else she did was tuned out as he stepped out of his room and into the steel hallways of the Reich Airship Siegfried.
Walking through them revealed no further enlightenment. A few crewmembers nodded at him as he walked by, though he encountered no fellow soldiers. Perhaps they were all in the mess hall. In less than five minutes, he had entered the bridge.
Instantly, he was greeted by the sounds of working pilots and mechanics. The chatter of the crew as they eased into their flight. The whirs and hums of machinery and screens.
And then, there was the view. Past the glass screens, the skies, untainted by smoke or smog. Clouds drifted lazily past as the vast expanse of the bright blue sky stretched for what seemed to be an eternity.
For a moment, he loses himself in the beauty. Truly, airships were one of the greatest miracles of the Age of Steam. Even now, he was still surprised how this hunk of metal stayed flying.
“Ah. Good morning lieutenant,” the words snapped him out of his reverie, and the soldier stood at attention to his superior officer. “Colonel Schmidt.”
News of Art, Art of News
The Great Hellbound Railway – Construction Begins!
From the office of our Lord Mayor, Virginia, comes a diplomatic treaty – with none other than Hell itself. It seems that the Hell-owned Moloch Station railway shall not be the only one connecting our fair city to the land of the devils. Indeed, contracts have been struck with many a side, the Bazaar had given its blessing, the Tracklayers’ Union is in full force, and a board of distinguished and prominent figures now overlooks and bickers over every detail of this upcoming project.
An ambitious one it is indeed, and we, as anyone else, are looking forward to seeing not only the speed and efficiency of the construction, but also what profits, benefits, and general outcomes such a connection to Hell will yield for the public at large.
Indeed, perhaps a sanctioned vacation in Hell itself is not far off from the table now! Certainly, there are many of those who would kill to have a peak at those brass gates – yet we advise patience! The first leg of the tracks has been laid, and we now await further comments from the Great Hellbound Railway Board.
In the meantime – stay safe, London!
Ask Mother Goose
Dear Mother Goose,
Oh what joy self-discovery is.
Spade
Dear Spade,
No virtue, truly, holds more glory than the knowledge of oneself.
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