---

Editorial

The boy who fell in love with a Goddess
By R. J. Frogvarian

Once upon a time, in a far away land, there lived a boy at the edge of a forest. He lived in a small, single-room house with a small bed, a pot to cook with, and a book of stories. He fed himself with what he found in the forest, fruits, fungi, furry creatures he hunted, always taking only what was necessary for his survival.
One day, as he ventured into the forest, he heard a cry of great pain. Then again. Again. Cautiously he followed the sound. Very soon he came upon a clearing. In the middle of it was a fallen tree and under it, a great crow twice his size. The crow shrieked and cried and shook, trying to free itself from under the tree. The boy watched with awe. Then, slowly, he approached. The crow’s eyes darted towards the boy. It watched as he walked towards the tree and pushed. He pushed and pushed and pushed, until the great bird was free. It shook once more and let out another shriek. The boy could see its wing was broken, and though the crow was calm, he could see pain in its eyes. He took a few branches from the tree and bound them with vines, making a support for the wing. However, it was getting dark, and the boy could not linger. He placed a rabbit, the result of today’s hunt, in front of the crow.
“I’ll be back tomorrow. I promise,” he said. And it was true.

---

Art of London

Letters From the Surface, Part V
A Letter for Someone Else
by Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

One of the orphans ran down the stairs. He said, “A letter.”
The letter was addressed to a one Mr. Netae. I recognized the name. Mr. Netae was one of my acquaintances, who once poisoned me unprovoked. I considered the dilemma carefully.

I walked to a smoky flophouse, the address of my acquaintance. … They had been scandalized! Off to the tomb colonies! Five minutes too late. My adversary began to snigger.

Later that night, I couldn’t remember what had been done for the scandals.

Steadfast is increasing…
Shadowy is increasing…
An occurrence! Your “Irrigo” quality is now 7!
An occurrence! Your “Letters From the Surface” quality is now 5!

---

News of Art, Art of News

Lady in Lilac, artist drenched in Irrigo

It is a wonder that this Lady can even be remembered.
The Feast is behind us, dear readers, and with it has gone the Lady in Lilac. There are few – and possibly none – who can match her skill with the needle, and a few with a brush, perhaps. She is, undoubtedly, one of London’s most wonderful artists. Not only for her skill, but also for the nature of her craft – making all of London your canvas, after all, is a worthy stunt – and, much more so, her existence. Bathed to the core with Irrigo, she easily evades memory. For this reason, we have tried to procure a photograph of the Lady; alas, it seems that not even cameras are willing to remember this Lady’s image. See you in a year, Lilac!

We do hope you yourself have gotten one of her tattoos, dear readers.

---

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
How can I escape?
Yearning

---

Dear Yearning,
patience is the greatest of virtues. Work hard.

---

Editorial

Ode to your Bosom
By R. J. Frogvarian

As you hold me close
To the source of your love
That evokes in me prose
Unknown, before, in woe.

Those precious mountains!
My tongue encircles the peaks,
Your breath slightly falters,
Smiles across our cheeks.

Now we lay together bare of clothing,
bare of restraints on the soul,
the mind, the shame, nothing,
nothing stopping two halves wanting to be whole.

And nevermind those only looking down on our love,
And on those who, as we, dare love.

---

Art of London

The Sixth City
by Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

Paris, 1908.
A cloaked figure approaches the Monarch.
The Monarch asks what the figure’s business is.
The figure speaks.
It says it wishes to buy the city.
The Monarch gives off a hearty laugh.
The Monarch, once again, asks the figure’s business.
The figure introduces itself as Mr Wines.
Mr Wines repeats its statement.
The Monarch appears confused.
Mr Wines offers the Monarch anything they want.
The Monarch considers.
A man appears, scarred from a fight.
He holds a gun.
Mr Wines is unfazed.
The man shoots.
It is a direct hit.
The Monarch looks to be angered.
The man puts on a cloak himself, then offers the same bargain.
Five days later, on February 14, Paris falls underground, coating London in so-called snow.
A Sixth City has come.

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News of Art, Art of News

The Duchess – a victim of love?

Mystery surrounds this lady of cats. Who is she, really? What secrets can one so close to cats learn? What lurks in the basements of the palace? However! One question, more than the others, and true of all those in the Neath – why here?
We, dear readers, are convinced we have an answer to this mystery! We believe – it is for love!
Our sources speak of a man in the Duchess’ past. One she was willing to sacrifice much for, though, in the end, ended up having to sacrifice much more than planned. As it is with many rulers, of course. This decision cost them both much, and brought forth a great evil. Still, she remains faithful and committed.
Our own Empress is said to have made a deal. And, truly, who is to blame one for love?

---

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
What is a good way to make friends?
Aeo

---

Dear, Aeo
It never hurts to have honey on yourself. Dreams are the way to go! Mind not the vulgar Ministry that forbids our precious dreaming. It is a time without darkness, and the Marches are welcoming to small picnics with those you love and admire.

---

Editorial

Think about love, dear readers. Think about your loved ones. Think about not only the people, but also the things, activities. It is important to think on love. For what force is more powerful than love? None! The stars may think Law is the absolute, those opposing them may think lack of it is where strength lies – but all of them are wrong! The Bazaar itself knows this. The Masters know – though some may be losing hope – that it is true. It is the core truth etched with Correspondence into the heart of the Universe; vibrant! Intoxicating! All-consuming. Love is what makes us human, dear readers, and it is something no one could ever take away from us! From the Empress herself, to the stuffiest of bureaucrats, to the most soulful of artists, love is what makes us us! We have all wept over love lost, long or freshly, or never starting, over love unreciprocated, over love unwanted.
The Feast may be time for lovers and spouses, strangers and soft kisses, but I implore you! Think on all love in your life. Love fully! Love unrepentantly! Love to the very day Stone’s light fades from your sight!
For it is not a curse, dear readers, but a gift to us from the Earth itself.

Love!
R.

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Art of London

Letters from the Surface, Part IV
Another Letter
by Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

I walked back to my Townhouse, then down into a Third City Sub-Temple I resided at. I opened my letter.

“Wensleydale,
I have heard that you are significant in London. What happened?
One must think-if you are significant, how obscure are others? Do some want to be out of the picture?
Anyways, have a rose-petal.”

A rose-petal? I suppose I can deal.

Watchful is increasing…
Melancholy is increasing…
An occurrence! Your “Letters from the Surface” quality is now 4!
You now have 1*Surface Rose-Petal

---

News of Art, Art of News

The Feast of the Exceptional Rose has arrived – Love and poetry awakes in London!

Love(!) is in the air! Hearts alight with passion as lovers and strangers alike don masks and shower each other with affection, touches, gifts, secrets. The Feast is upon us, and Feast we shall – on each other, on small chocolate hearts, on the poetry of the heart.
This season, love is the main focus for the world of art, more so than usual. Buskers and lounge poets have begun penning their stories full off emotions, brushed off on their Shakespearean sonnets, and, undoubtedly, captured the hearts of many a Londoner. Indeed, this season is, as always, wonderful to capitalize on the secrets of the heart!

So show us your poems and your songs, dear London. For what is more wonderful than love?

---

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Will you attend the Feast this year?

Masked

---

Dear, Masked
Look for feathers touched by moonlight.

---

Dear Mother Goose,
I have kissed another during the feast. I fear for what my beloved may think. What should I do?

Kind regards,
Confused

---

Dear, Confused
Do not fret over such smallties. Love is love, and love it shall remain. The balls are masked for a reason. You may very well have been kissing your beloved – in a very clever disguise! No matter. Simply give your soul and mind a rest. Drink a cup of tea. Kiss your beloved with more passion than ever before.
All shall be well.

---

Editorial

I have been zailing lately. It is a noble and dangerous profession, to be a person of the waves. As noble and dangerous as the zee itself, and just as beautiful. Truly, there is no calm like the zailor’s calm, and no fury like the zailor’s fury. It is an awe-inspiring duality.

Just like zailors are as the zee, so the artists are as the art. We are hard to grasp and define, so varied yet so similar. Soulful, incorporeal when at our best. Celebrate your hard work, sires, madames, and all others; for it is not without blood and sweat that our work bears fruit, just as it is not without blood and sweat that the zee does not swallow the zailor.

R.

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Art of London

Letters From the Surface, Part III
Down from Above
by Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

“You bite less than me? Why do I not believe that?”

“Because you are arrogant. You think you can steal that diamond? It’s the size of a bloody cow! Not to mention the fact that you do not know how to be silent. You are also doing it out of spite for us- me, the Constabulary, and all of your attempted victims.”

“Ha! Right there! You say you bite less than I, but you just spat out insult after insult! I am capable- the Constables have me on their side! I am sought out for my knowledge of a secret alphabet!”

“Since when do you have a brain? Ambition clouds all thoughts! Especially your own ambition. You insufferable git!”

“Since when do you have a ______ heart? Or even a gut? You are a coward!”

Silence.

“At least I have capability, and know my limits.”

“Get the hell out of here. If we meet again, I’m pinning a Sanguine Ribbon.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

Steadfast is increasing…
Daring is increasing…
Subtle is increasing…
Heartless is increasing…
Suspicion is increasing…
An occurrence! Your “Letters from the Surface” Quality is now 3!
An occurrence! Your “An Argument at Midnight” Quality is now 1!

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News of Art, Art of News

Decadence and Mahogany – the newest exploits of the Mahogany Hall

Here at the Gazette, we celebrate arts of all shapes and sizes. That, of course, includes our good friends at Mahogany Hall. Magicians, comedians, tricksters, and, of course, actors.
However, in the newest development, a new act is joining the stage, or so the rumour has it. Dear readers, we have it on good word that, starting this very spring, rat fights shall take place at the Hall! You can be assured that all Rattus Faber present are consenting and eager to attend these mock fights, in some cases even willing to die for the glory!

You heard it here first – go and grab your tickets!

---

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose, have you ever been to the beautiful, beautiful NORTH?
Lion

---

Dear Lion,
please do not seek me out. Consequences will follow.

---

Dear Mother Goose,
It’s like we don’t even know each other any more. What should I do?

---

My dear,
sincere conversation is the best way to get things flowing. That, and good wine. A combination of both just to be sure. Open your heart and your wounds, and let them open theirs. There is nothing to be afraid of, nothing but loss, and loss is never an eternal void.

---

Editorial

If there is one thing we strive for here at the Gazette, it is consistency. It is integrity. We want our readers to know they can rely on us, trust us. We do not want to be just another pawn of the Ministry, or a fading nub on the metaphorical Rubbery of the journalism industry. We want to make our mark on the world by bringing the artists of the Neath together.
For this reason, no artist shall be excluded, and for this reason, as promised last week, we are bringing to you a poem from a Blemmigan-inspired poet. For this reason as well, this edition took a day longer to publish, as the poet insisted on utmost secrecy – and, let me tell you, dear readers, blindfolded meetings at a musty basement of a Spite brothel are the peak of secrecy.
However, I ask you not to panic, dear readers! As the word spreads and the community becomes tighter, the Ministry shall not pursue us anymore! The Society shall not hound us anymore! There will. Be. Freedom. For the Arts!

Kindly yours,
R.

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Art of London

Letters From The Surface, Part II
More Postage
by Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

That night, I trudged over to the junction of Bad Monkey and Takepenny. I had arrived fifteen minutes early, so I watched spies running like maniacs, under orders of players.

The mailman saw me, again, and brought me a second letter. I would read it once I got back to my Townhouse.

I waited. And waited. A hunger broke, but I waited still. A silhouette approached myself, and I felt a fear.

“Come on, you know I bite less than you.”

Shadowy is increasing…
Austere is increasing…
Steadfast is increasing…
Suspicion is increasing…
An occurrence! Your “Letters From the Surface” Quality is now 2!

---

Again
by an Anonymous Blemmigan-inspired Poet

Streets lit by candles, together
We tread, breath laced with wine
But drunk from each other,
Your bed we soon find.

Our thighs so plump with want,
Arms yearningly entwined,
Lustily I drink your taste part
of you now in me inscribed.

“Oh, lover, ah,” your name on my lips, a moan,
We are a spectacle for the audience of us,
In a private performance our bodies we join.

Secret wish, can these moments never pass?
An eruption, Aphrodite rising from foam,
Our breaths still together as we draw our last,

And prepare for the second act.

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News of Art, Art of News

Tristam Bagley’s unfinished masterpiece – a brief review of The Bell and the Candle

Not too long ago, one of our reporters was present at the Empress’ Court during the premier of one Tristam Bagley’s forgotten opera, The Bell and the Candle, revitalized years since cancellation. Our reporter has at last recovered from the experience; they gained back the control of their left eye and the spontaneous fires on and around their body have ceased. Another of our reporters has interviewed them and compiled their thoughts on the play into this brief review.

The Bell and the Candle is unlike any other piece previously seen, at least within the Earthly sphere. Incredibly tantalizing, joyfully titillating, and infinitely erotic, the play is sure to provoke deep thoughts as well as metaphorical (and literal) fires in your heart.
Reportedly, the metaphorical fires are rekindled with unforeseen passion; our own reporter has found themselves among no less than six barely-clad aristocrats with red cheeks (and not only).
The music truly shakes your whole being. Despite the peculiar choice of instruments, mostly glass and bone, the sounds of strings and drums echo within your being for days after. The two leads, titular Bell and Candle, performed magnificently. Their voices were strong and sure, and, despite the serious blood loss, they have performed to the very last tone.

The seven hundred and seventy seven members of the orchestra, as well as the cast, are making swift recoveries, hopefully returning to their homes by the end of the next year.

---

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
I am gazing into eyes I shouldn’t gaze into. Eyes behind cosmogone glasses. They may not be strictly forbidden, but I know there will be a painful end. What should I do?
Please, answer.
F

---

Dear F,
Life is to be enjoyed, and love doubly so. Don’t run away from happiness now only because it may not be there later. In the long run, the happiness will outweigh its lack. Follow your heart, whatever path it may lead you down to. However, beware of the secrets these eyes may know. Secrets behind mirrors are dangerous ones, and those eyes may be the lights of guidance or of misleading.

---

Editorial

What is art? What is art to you, fellow Londoners? A song, heard at the opera? A canvas, splattered with paint in a pattern recognisable to beings of sapience? A book, read under a duvet for fear of being discovered? All of those, and more – and most of all, art is nothing without those who consume it. Such as we would be nothing without you, dear readers. For what is more of an art than a community coming together to celebrate the works of its individuals, revel in their creativity, indulge in artistry.

I am, at last, proud to present to you The Goosey Gazette! The finest purveyor of artistic integrity in the Neath!
Kindly yours,
R.

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Art of London

Letters From The Surface, Part I
by Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

I awoke, the morning after one of Mr Wines’ revels. Thoughts soared through my head. Gant… Wells… Zee…

I heard a knocking at the door of my Orphanage/Townhouse. A letter? Addressed to: Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick, Orphanage at Fiacre’s Foot. Well, it is for me, but my orphanage is on Childcake Street.

I opened the letter:

“Wensley,
You may not escape what you have done. I know where you are.
I know why you are there. I will meet you at the junction of
Takepenny Street and Bad Monkey Row, at Midnight.
We must discuss the plans you have. If you do not turn up, the
Constabulary will know everything you did on the surface.
x”

Oh. Him.

Watchful is increasing…
Shadowy is increasing…
Melancholy is increasing…
Nightmares is increasing…
Suspicion is increasing…
An occurrence! Your “Letters From the Surface” quality is now 1!

---

News of Art, Art of News

Mycologenes – a rousing star or a fading affair?

The recent Blemmigan fad brought with itself more than just streets filled with beakless fungi. The Mycologenes, as these secretive poets have become known, are the admirers of the Blemmigan-inspired poetry known to be talked about only under one’s breath and recited only in the back rooms of the most scandalous establishments.
Reading through the works of the Blemmigan Poets, one finds themselves asking:
How long before the frail heart of London accepts these great works? (And, immediately after finishing a poem – where is the nearest pair of stockings?)
Well, dear readers, we of The Goosey Gazette believe in progress! We believe in openness! We believe that art, no matter its form, should never be hidden in the seedy backrooms of Mr Apples’ parlours! For this reason, for the first time ever, the next edition of our humble paper will include a poem penned by an anonymous Blemmigan Poet!

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Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
have you ever zailed? What do you say of the beauty of the zee?
K.

---

Dear K,
I have had many a journey on the zee in my time (and many a zailor). The vast beauty of the cruel waves. Stone, Storm, Salt. It is not a safe place, it is not always tranquil, but the zee is like love should be – unpredictable, lethal, oh so irresistible, and absolutely unconquerable.