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27th of September 1898


I have been asked a favour by a dear friend. You may know I am not one to deny heartfelt requests. From my friend, then, a letter:

To all whom it may concern,

We have fought stars and defied gods. Together, we have created wonders out of thin air. We have made each other so incredibly proud. Each one of you had made me so incredibly proud.

I have caused you too much strife already. I knew it was the price for my hubris and ambition, but in my foolishness I did not consider the pain it would inflict on others. Moreover, I have acted harshly and unreasonably towards many whom I love. For this I can never atone, but it is my hope there is still a place for me in your hearts and prayers. I must take my leave, for it is the right thing to do. They will not find me where I am going. You must not find me where I am going. I beg of you that at least, to not search for me anymore. Save yourself the pain and the tears.

Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai.

[The letter is signed with unintelligible initials and a small drawing of a hummingbird flying into the setting sun]

Art of London

How did it end up like this
by Tris Ghost

Visit their galleryobserve more art.

News of Art, Art of News

Tomorrow Stubbornly Refuses To Arrive

In the mid night hours of the presumed yesterday, tomorrow was expected to arrive at the next strike of a clock. Shockingly, and to the annoyance of all onlookers, tomorrow had, in fact, not arrived. Even much later, in early afternoon, tomorrow is still awaited to be seen, felt, smelled, or perceived in any tangible way. Unfortunately, it still appears to be today.

Researchers have started looking into the absence of tomorrow. Various theories have arisen from the collected data. One such theory poses that it is perhaps not a lack of tomorrow, but rather an overabundance of today.
“We simply have to first run out of today,” said the lead researcher, A________ T., “It may take a while for us to run out of today, sure, but you have to look on the bright side – it’s quite a lovely day.”
Some more far-reaching researchers have ventured into their dreams to potentially find tomorrow. One particular theory poses that perhaps tomorrow is simply shy.
“I’ve started sleeping with an eye mask, not to spook tomorrow when it does eventually arrive,” said doctor H____.

Whatever the case may be, tomorrow may still be absent even by the end of the week. More information can be found on a convenient public forum in a town square near your lodgings. Any progress shall be reported upon by us later today, or during tomorrow, shall it ever arrive.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Oh, fate, how it doth strike so kindly.

Dear Boreas,
Such a lovely tune, to fill my world with joy, perhaps, once again.


20th of September


Language has inherent and great power. Such a statement is perhaps cliche coming from one of my persuasion, however today I want to focus not on the esoteric, rather on the human.

Those in power know to use language to their advantage. They designate words to what they dislike, to what they find virtuous, to what they have deemed alien, dangerous, punishable. Through loyalty and likemindedness these words spread, gain meaning, and harm those they were always meant to harm. One cannot think that such plots are merely a coincidence, a subconscious perk of exploitation. They are, without doubt, hostile and directed.

All the same, such tactics are easy to combat. Language has power, yes – a power that flows both ways. In the eyes of the universe, each person shines the same; together, then, we shall shine even brighter. Take up your torches and take up your words, turn them towards those who have hurt you. Make words not into weapons, but into shields. Wear your words like armour, carry them in comfort. Show, with words, that the truth does not care for its twisting.

Language has inherent and great power, yes, yet the power only goes so far. There is always a limit to what language alone can do. The rest, in malice or in good, is up to us.

Use your words wisely, dear London.

Art of London

A Duel to Death
by Tris Ghost

Visit their galleryobserve more art.

News of Art, Art of News

Tracklaying Efforts Unearth Ancient Art – A Look At Railside Archaeology

One pleasant side effect of the Great Hellbound Railway’s westward progress is the exploration of the aforementioned west. While these are reaches where humans still live, remote as they are they go oft unexplored in the proper and desired depth. With rather large groups of tracklayers and various workers progressing at an admirable yet still relatively slow pace, safely surveying and exploring the land becomes a desired extracurricular activity.

From the many uncovered relics, the works of art of the past cities sticks out to our humble paper the most. Statues carved in bone, inlaid with white gold. Masks so intricate craftsmen scratch their heads upon seeing them. Dresses that, against all reason, have been perfectly preserved. Tablets and cylinders on which poems and stories are carved.

These are all hearsay, and these are all the absolute truth – we will vouch for it with our reputation. We have, of course, seen these relics ourselves, though they are not yet a matter of public record. As all of our readers will intimately know, science, just like art, shall never be rushed. The relics are still undergoing examination from various experts; Neathy geographers, historians, mathematicians, and a surprising plethora of palaeontologists are collaborating in determining the origin, age, value, and, indeed, any matter of significance of the relics.

From yet unconfirmed sources our reporters could get a hold on, an issue preventing the examination of the relics has to do with their very nature. Of course, as the railway gets closer and closer to Hell, it is harder to know what Is and what Is Not. Although this is not yet an issue of large significance, as the researchers were able to confirm that a majority of the current findings do indeed exist, some of the latest retrievals are raising concerns.

On the behalf of the Great Hellbound Railway, we at The Goosey Gazette extend our invitation to any experts of the Parabolan to please get in contact with us or other responsible parties.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
In pits of light we wither and despair. Nothing but our own selves stand in our way. Yet, we simply do not move.

Dear Stagnant,
One has to be strong in face of such adversity. Seek company, advice, encouragement. Fight yourself for your own self’s sake.

13th of September


There is nothing sweeter than knowledge. Nothing more thrilling than pursuing it. Nothing more ecstatic than the realization of a scientific revelation.

In my whimsy I like to equate science to art, or at least draw parallels between the two. It is of little surprise to me that the science of the rubbery folk – for they do truly have a scientific field of their own – is much more akin to an art.

I have had the privilege of studying under rubbery artists and scientists at Helicon House. It was an exquisite honour to learn from them, see their unique perspectives, hear their peculiar theories. Although I have had previous run ins with their Art, there is truly nothing that can match true mastery.

In this way, I would like to extend a thanks for me and the larger community, and express my hopes of further Shaping society for the better.


Art of London

Held Lost
by Chronic Dreamer

I visited the cove whenever I could, a sparkling secret only known to me. They greeted me with splendor every time, rippling up out of the water and carrying me through the air. The white sand glittered in the sunlight, just as joyous as me and my secret friends.

No one knew where I would go on the weekends. Most assumed the worst, that I would go indulge myself. I gave them no reason to think otherwise, I would occasionally return exhausted the next morning. The next day would not be one of those days, this day I laid peacefully among my watery friends who danced about the calm shore.

An enormous screeching blot cast a bestial shadow over us. My friends dove back into the water, disappearing. The aphotic mass in the sky rushed towards the beach, the indistinct din becoming thousands of individual screams all cutting over one another. Countless shards of deep amethyst ravens raked at the sky while biting each other on their descent.
Just before they would have enveloped everything, one of my friends sprang from a wave and covered me. I was tossed off my feet as the land under me buckled to the force of the cloud’s impact. I called to my friend through the sudden onset of darkness. There was no response.

I could hear them, those horrors. They racked stone and sand all around me, their hysterical cries tearing my ears asunder. I spat sand from my mouth, calling out again to my friend. No response. The constant barrage made my whole body tremble on top of my fear.

Shards of something sharp embed themselves into my body, my cries unheard even to myself. My body convulsed with another shard cutting deep into my shoulder. Another two cut into my back, and another into my neck. With each stab, I could feel less and less. My body stiffened, unable to flee from the five, twenty, hundred shards all slicing into me.

…When I came to, my eyes were already open. I couldn’t move any part of my body, not even my eyes to look around. I couldn’t feel anything either, not the heat of the sun, the sand under me… No, it wasn’t sand. My eyes were transfixed on the horizon of the ocean. No matter how hard I tried to look around, they wouldn’t obey. I told my body, demanded it, to move. I laid where I was.

From my peripheries, I could see it wasn’t sand that I laid upon, but some kind of black shattered sludge that argued with light. The waves lapped with sorrow at, not the shore but, a beach of crystal water growing from the sludge. And above me… was my friend. They were the same crystal water, unmoving.

The day eventually fell below the horizon, and darkness overcame us. The day rose again, fell, rose, fell, and rose. Time became lost to me. I thought maybe someone would search for me, but nobody came. So, there I stayed, lost to time in a forgotten cove, waiting for the world to end.

News of Art, Art of News

Helicon House Opens Its Doors – Rubbery Art For All!

Standing in Ealing Garden, the newly-built yet seemingly ancient Helicon House hosts the Tentacled Entrepreneur’s candidate project. Though he had not won the election, it brings joy to us to see the efforts of not only him but of his supporters come to fruition so fast. Walk with us then, metaphorically, into the Helicon House.

It is important to bear in mind that these are merely beginnings of the project, yet one must admit they are impressive. A solemn clay man guards the entrance, collecting donations from visitors. The currency here is beauty and art – and such is what welcomes all that enter the Helicon House.

From the moment one sets a foot in the parlour, amber fills the world. It is indeed one constant gallery, with artists (largely of the rubbery disposition) commingle, share, and – yes – create. Expositions and impromptu workshops are a daily Helicon bread, as painters capture the world around them, sculptors give form to dreams, and musicians expose their souls on a stage.

The main attraction here, of course, is art of the rubbery folk. Besides the countless amber statues and bazaarine-inspired paintings, novel and strange music fills the House. Soulful, yet clearly not human, to its benefit rather than detriment. It does not seem to follow the usual scales, adhere to repetition, or many other of our musical principles. It is something wholly unique and enamouring.

Closer examining the sculptures of the rubberies, it is clear that Shaping is natural for them. Amber bends under tentacles, warm, warmer, suddenly fluid, then rigid as it stops in what can only be considered the most perfect, most desirable shape for that particular piece. It is perhaps not an exact science, though that only elevates it higher to the notion of an Art.

We encourage and welcome you all, our dearest readers, to board a train (tenpence a ticket) and visit the Helicon House for a truly magnificent experience.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
The stars and the squares and the dots and the lines – all dance, all conspire, all see.

Dear Witness,
Ah, the plethora of mystery. The pure joy of discovery. May it never expire and fill your world with wonder.

6th of September 1898


It is important to keep in a stable state of mind. Do not panic.

Legibility wavers and changes and wobbles and lacks, the intake and the output. They do not sync but merely contradict each other to the annoyance of all involved. Do not panic.

Calm spreads all around on the outside yet the world is inside out and now the people walk in your veins, the announcers yell reports straight into the back of your skull, horses trot on the insides of your fingers as the Thames churns wanting to leave this godless prison of your stomach. Do not panic.

Head aspin, stars colliding inside your veins the explosive rumble permeating your being; hurting, damaging, calling for release and for an end – an end to what, me, it, all? Do not panic.

You are at the door now, one more step, now two more, hands clasping the handle keys rattling between your fingers by nothing but touch picking the correct one as it clumsily slides in, turns, clicks, opens. Do not panic.

In safety now. Deep breaths. Back against a wall. Deep breaths. The world slowly seeps out from your eyes, bulbous reality returning in a wet catharsis. Stable, now. Deep breaths. The warmth of familiarity. In resignation and victory, you collapse. It is important to keep in a stable state of mind.

Art of London

Two Tears and a Moon
by Sevenix

See more of their art.

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Minding The Gap – The Great Hellbound Railway

The past months have been marked by the fast pace of change and progress. Between the mayoral elections, the soon-ending festival, and life’s tendency to wobble over the railing, it can be hard to truly grasp the a-happenings of greater London and the Neath. More specifically, of course, the common citizen might have had very little opportunity to get to know all the details of the current Great Hellbound Railway project.
Though Hell is still far away by space as well as time, there are a handful of stops a Londoner would surely be interested in:

From Moloch station, a second railroad runs westward, to the far reaches of London and the station at Ealing Gardens. These outskirts of London, seldom visited, though now accessible by many, are a little more than slums in which Rubberies live alongside willful outcasts and, often, criminals. Still, the GHR board seems to be making an effort towards embettering this frankly dreary place, certainly to help attract more travellers.

Jericho Locks, a small swampside community, a place of gondolas and trade. One might enjoy the markets, the canals, the romantic view of the forest line dipped in mud.

The Magistracy of Evenlode, the last outpost of the constabulary. Although perhaps not the most culturally enriching experience awaits here, one would be remissed not to venture here to this so-far farthest point of the railway for perhaps the possibility to say you have been there itself.

Besides the stations, all built in a mixture of gothic baroque and a rather over eagerly sized up foundation, the trains and the travel by them are a desirable experience.
Truly impressive machines, stylish modern behemoths of steel, alloy, and wood, the steam-powered locomotives and welcoming passenger carriages are a sight to behold. Simply seeing these marvels of contemporary engineering make their way across the plains near the Upper River brings with it unparalleled emotions. What then, of the travel?

As the aforementioned plains pass by at haste, one may not be given much time to take in the beauty of the Neath. Admittedly, one might not see much of it, either, accounting for the lack of natural light. Nonetheless, that which one will indeed see will still not match anything one might see within the safety of London. The only difference, of course, is that now it is within the safety of a moving train.

Movement, what a joyous passtime it can be. There is something enthrallingly calming about the feeling of moving in one direction. Perhaps you have experienced it yourself, travelling in a horse-drawn carriage. With the speed and the relative smoothness of a train, it is all that and more! Furthermore passing through the lands of Neath, it makes for a truly therapeutic experience.

The carriages are not, as some say, “filthy nests of disease”. The Great Hellbound Railway had recently installed not only benches, cleaners, and even occasional cushions, but for the richer of citizens also plush first-class seating and an on-board kitchenette. The cuisine, while not the most exemplary, is passable, and the consumption of it is a true thrill.
While we do have a slight concern with the rising prices of tickets, we do believe that all citizens deserve comfort above the standards of cattle.

Although we have mentioned crime and potential for meeting unsavoury individuals, we also encourage everyone to not be afraid. The Great Hellbound Railway trains have hired guards patrolling the carriages, certainly all individuals of strong moral core who would not let any evildoing go unanswered.

Tickets currently run at tenpence a head for lower class seats, twenty five pence for second class, and fifty pence for first class, kitchenette included.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Was there perhaps a mistake? Have we left a gap? Do we care to fix such transgressions?

Dear Questioning,
Perhaps let the past be the past, now. Brighter reaches await those who do not dwell, rather learn.

30th of August 1898


I recall one day on the surface. Early morning as it was, dew on the grass and mist all on the countryside. Through a window of a carriage, as we passed trees and hills and fenceposts, the sky was clear yet the fog was so so thick. Yet, even through the shroud, I could see the sun. I could see it – truly see it. Its light so strong, yet subdued by mere few droplets of water. Naked, bare, and perfect. A perfect circle hanging in the sky, suspended by its own belief in its beauty.

Circles are perhaps fundamental for beauty. The ancient greeks have believed so, and there is little reason or want to disprove their statements. All can agree there is perfection in circles. They bring with them properties ripe for exploration. Relations and transpositions with delightfully surprising results. Trigonometry owes itself to the circle as it commingles with tau to unravel the very nature of triangles. Primes travel on a circular trajectory, forward to infinity on the fastest curve of the brachistochrone.

Circles are pure symmetry, and symmetry had been deemed beautiful. Denial is unnecessary, rebukes unwanted. It is found in nature, in humans in the stars above. Balance in all things, and all things in balance – points equidistant from their origin in a beloved dance.

Circles, truly, are the gateway to the secrets of the universe.

Art of London

Temple in the Neath
The Messidorist Panopticot
by Sevenix

See more of their art.

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The Magistracy Of Evenlode – The Last Outpost Of The Constables

Halfway to Hell, miles from London, amongst ancient temples and underneath flooded chambers, the last outpost of London’s constabulary stands. It is said they are less corrupt than the inner circles of the Scotland Yard. Farther from the powers. Yet, importantly, closer to that what matters.

London is merely a single city within the vastness of the Neath. There are those well-versed in these lands. Those that have lived in its folds for years, decades, centuries. Humans, oh, clever little creatures we are, find their way. There is much to be done, even so far away from London. There is good and honest work there, and there are those still willing to do it.

The constables of Evenlode are an honest if eclectic group, one still seeped in tradition and rites. It is not uncommon for those far westward to be drawn to these habits. Less so than the Gondoliers of Jericho, the constables still prefer their own to outsiders. It is not, however, a closed family.

Our own reporter had been a witness to an acceptance ceremony of the constables. A young recruit, idealistic and good-willed, relocated here for his moral core – perhaps on his own whims, perhaps out of the fearful whimsy of those higher up.

They bound the young man, hoisted him up above the waters, with little regard then put him under the waves. It felt like years, the surface even became calm, before a gentlewoman’s quiet worry broke the crowd. They reemerged him, then, reassured him, welcomed him as one of their own.

There, amongst those temples older than time, built to gods not even the stars may remember, there the last efforts of good remain. Forgotten, or perhaps only hoped to be forgotten, they toil away, and we can be sure – they have never left. They shall never leave.

There is hope yet, after all.

It Feels Like Nothing
a report by Ruddertail

They asked us what having your soul extracted felt like, and as one not so superstitious as to believe the devils could perform such a feat, I was the only volunteer.

I was a little worried about it, on some fundamental level, but quickly found a devil loitering near the Brass Embassy – a bedraggled one, clad in what seemed to be attire intended to shame, rather than compliment – and his eyes lit up immediately with that familiar devilish glow when I asked him. He hadn’t convinced anyone to part with their soul recently, he told me, just barely suppressing what I can only assume would’ve been a joyful dance.

There’d be a payment, of course, he assured me. And it wouldn’t hurt. Not in the slightest! Some, he claimed, even enjoyed the sensation. He likened it to having a particularly large clump of ear-wax extracted and finally being able to hear. To the popping of a pimple! A sensation most humans enjoyed, he assured me.

Never let it be said that all devils possess what we like to call devilish charms. But he was there, and I had a deadline to meet.

When I agreed, he thrust a rather sizeable purse of brass into my arms, and produced a strange device, one that looked very much like a tuning fork. It felt warm, almost tingly as he touched it to my skin a few times, first to my forehead and then to my chest, just above my bosom – and then he told me it was all done, with a wide grin on his face. All in all, it felt like nothing. really. He’d finally earn at least a modicum of respect from his infernal peers, he added, seeming genuinely thankful.

I’m not convinced he did anything. Perhaps it was all merely trickery, something to keep us “mortals” convinced of their abilities, for no reason but their own amusement?

Merrily, he turned around, and I saw no particular reason not to drive my knife into his back. He made a strange sound like a whistling kettle, and collapsed. It felt like nothing. As expected, he didn’t have anything resembling a soul on him, only a few bottles of what seemed like some kind of hellish intoxicant, and that strange fork. There, then, is my conclusion; the only thing our devils have in common with those of old is their affinity for deception.

Next week, dear reader, a report from the clerical perspective on the soul trade. I’ll find one of those especially ornery priests and see what kind of sound he makes.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Ah, look at the time. I should have been gone. Perhaps I’ll forgive, one day.

Dear Tired,
Forgive, never forget.

23rd of August 1898


Today – a class on punctuality.

What to know of it? Perhaps, for one, that it is a simple myth. Punctuality, as so much of today’s advice for so-called good business, is a fabrication. A courtesy, perhaps, yes; it is much more polite to show at a predetermined time than to let the other party wait or be waited upon. Besides, one has to think of the hard-working spies tailing them at all times. It would be simply rude to throw them off in such a crude way.

A courtesy, yet never a necessity. Punctuality, one might find, is a tool the powerful submit their subjects to to perpetuate their power yet further. A good worker knows their methods, limits, and resources. Nigh a deadline needs meeting in any given project. Completion is all that matters, the start is merely a distraction from the core.

Do not get me wrong – the early bird gets the coveted early worm. A diligent and patient bird, however, can get any worm it desires, with nought but its own wit. Look, then, to the process and the result, never to the social constraints made only to hinder.

History, after all, is written by the victors.

Art of London

Portraits of Wax
by Elvira Blake, pen name Millea



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Fruits Of The Zee – Mutton Island Festivities Are Upon Us!

With the elections over, a new Lord Mayor inaugurated, and London attempting to settle back into as routine lifestyle as any city in the Neath could, the denizens of Mutton Island offer a much-needed distraction. Fruits of the Zee festival, an annual tradition for the islanders as well as Londoners now once again welcome all to the dark shores of delight.

As always, the festival offers a plentitude of food and drink, song and dance, remembrance and chances to forget. The regular steamer from Wolfstack to Mutton depart at ten pence a passenger.

The Viscountess, as is tradition for Lord Mayor, had also attended the festival. Reportedly not by any boat, rather utilizing means more familiar to her, the Viscountess had made a successful effort to perform all officialities and expected pleasantries that come with the occasion. Despite this, she does (perhaps understandably so) seem to prefer the somewhat-drier streets of London to the grimy humidity of Mutton Island.

We wish you all a pleasant season of adjustment, much luck in the hunt for treasure, and only the most well done of rubbery lumps.

Rejoice, dear London.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Ah, oh, my sincerest apologies.

Dear Timely,
It shall be passed with no remark, this once.

16th of August 1898


There is little I can say to express my sheer disappointment in my own abilities. To truly encompass the depth of my regret, to properly grovel at the feet of the world.

Dear readers, I will be the first one to say that the state of the Gazette had not been up to standard in recent months. I could make excuses, throw blame at the busy times of the very recent months, point out the understaffing and competition of the world of journalism, yet such would benefit no one. So it stands that I, as the Editor in Chief, am fully responsible for all that this paper is, produces, and stands for – and I simply do not feel as though I live to my own desires.

As such, I hereby vow to embetter myself, to strive for greatness, and to bring nothing but improvements in the coming months.

To all the artists who had supported our humble paper for so long – thank you.

And to you, my dear readers – thank you a million times more.

– R.

Art of London

Various Portraits
by Elvira Blake, pen name Millea

Mayoral Term

Edward, yet

News of Art, Art of News

E_____’s Exquisite Confections – Moloch Street Stall Open!

Several months had passed since one Mr. E_____’s company, the E_____ Confectionary, had entered London on the streets of Veilgarden. This mysterious shop’s doors remained closed for a rather questionable while, yet progress was quite visible. With a coat of new paint, shiny new hinges and lamps, a lovely door of oak and candy floss pink drapery, gentlepeople of the Ministry of Health had on several occasions entered the store.

Sooner yet after these visits, private clients were seen visiting the small shop, each from a diverse walk of life. Soon, the word of Mr. E_____’s confections had spread wide. The fudge, sublime, the chocolates, unmatched, the caramel – oh, by the stars, the caramel. From the highest echelons of society to the lowest rags of the common folk, everybody had heard the name.

With such novel ideas, heavenly tastes, and rather affordable prices, all things considered, it is a surprise that the shop had not taken London with much more of a bang. Perhaps it was the riffraff of technological progress combined with the mayoral elections that had allowed E_____ Confectionary to go by unnoticed. Whatever the case may be, there is clearly more yet to this sweet-toothed businessman.

Why, of course, the very newly-opened Moloch Street small stall, a queer sign above letting all traingoers know that E_____’s Exquisite Confections can be found for sale there, is nothing but clear proof of this. In spirit of the Veilgarden shop, the stall as if popped into existence overnight. Its windows yet dark, doors yet locked, and fliers hanging about announcing no clear dates, rather clear advances in flavour. Soon, they claim, honey shall be the new fashion. Prisoner’s Honey, yes, diluted as such to not yank one’s waking body into the land of the dreams, but only to thin the veil between our world and Parabola itself. The sweetness of this honey, and the wonderful realities it can bring, all safely wrapped in a sucker.

Such are bold claims, we will be the first to agree, yet we cannot help but feel further excitement. After all, E_____ Confectionary is, if nothing else, tantalising beyond belief.

Sweet tasting, dear London.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
What a walk! Would you not agree? Shame for the time.

Dear Lost,
A lovely night doth not need a filled schedule. Do open a bottle on me as well.

9th of August 1898


Today is a time of fast and frequent change. Many things are a-happening, in worlds real and false alike. One can spend hours unfruitfully recording all the progresses and regresses of even the past year, only to discover that they had omitted rises and falls of entire civilizations.

Such, however, is not the job of a single person. Just as Rome had not been built in a day, so has its history not been described by a single historian. Jack of all trades, master of none – perhaps not the most valued sentiment, as evidenced by the saying’s oft-omitted final part – our society, one may find, relies on those considered specialists.

It pays off, after all, to have your house painted by a person who had painted a thousand houses rather than one who had painted only ten. Even here, as we observe progress on the Great Hellbound Railway, it is the tracklayers, workers of specialized skill, without whom the task would be truly impossible. At their head stands Ancona, one who I can vouch for having all the experience one would require and desire from a worker and a leader.

It is not wise to expect all the weight of the world to fall on a single person’s shoulders, and unwiser yet to expect that those well-suited to a task will look past being slighted in the grandest of manners.

Thank the stars for well-directed pedanticism.

Art of London

Various Portraits
by Elvira Blake, pen name Millea

Poor Edward

News of Art, Art of News

Workers Strike – A Surprising Development For The Great Hellbound Railway!

As the Great Hellbound Railway approaches the Magistracy of Evenlode, costs, work, and danger all go up. It seems that in the most recent news, the workers of the Tracklayers’ Union have gone on strike, refusing to work until a proper recompense has been arranged.

Rumour has it that besides the standard reqests of better safety measures and pay, the workers are requesting part of ownership of the Great Hellbound Railway company itself. The GHR Board had already assembled to discuss the strike itself, as well as the implications and possibilities of the aforementioned action.

While the proper results are not yet known to us in full, it seems that work is to be resumed soon. Whatever the case may be, we must say that the possibility of wider company ownership is an intriguing prospect for all of us at the Gazette. It would be a fresh break from the current oligarchical model arising amongst London’s companies that even certain Masters are partaking in. Truly, while we may not know what such future would hold, were the vote to pass we would be delighted to see the communal efforts of the board and the workers towards a greater goal of travel, science, and business.

We wish the workers, as well as the members of the board, the best of luck in the future of the Railway, and good relations with Hell.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Ah, once again. Doth quality diminish?

Dear Belated,
One would hope never. Not the way of the world, of course.

2nd of August 1898


The results of the 1898 Mayoral Election are now, of course, known to all. The Viscountess of the Viric Jungle shall soon be inaugurated into the office of Lord Mayor, and her term shall begin.

It would stand to reason to mention that despite our best efforts, our own Gazette’s inclination towards a different candidate was rather obvious. The Tentacled Entrepreneur, despite not having won, has still brought many a good thing to London. Protection for the Rubbery Folk, new and unique art, and Axile with its own Arts, of course. Moreover, it is only fair to say that no matter the result of the election, we can see nothing but progress coming to London. We do not hide our disappointment in the Entrepreneur’s unfortunate loss, yet one cannot argue with democracy with simple feelings.

Truly, the votes have been counted and recounted, and the people have spoken. Despite our personal woes, we welcome London’s first cat-candidate as Lord Mayor. Furthermore, we wish the Viscountess a good term in the office, good tidings, and may her word be as true as her claws.

Chief Editor of The Goosey Gazette,

Art of London

Better Luck Next Time
by Cef Havoc

Visit the artist.

by Elvira Blake, pen name Millea

News of Art, Art of News

Gondolas And Marshes – Jericho Locks Station Opens Its Doors!

The Great Hellbound Railway has made further progress towards (you gussed it) Hell, with the station at Jericho Locks opening its doors to the public. Jericho Locks are a small yet respectable upriver commune, trading port, and home to the Guild of Gondoliers who ferry cargo and passengers through the Locks.

The Guild of Gondoliers is in itself an organization shrouded in mystery. A tightly run group with seemingly no singular master, they are, it is fair to say, conservative in the matters of o progress and, thusly, the railway. Most fortunately, as the station had already been built, this will most likely pose no further issues for the Great Hellbound Railway Board.

Jericho Locks are also a midpoint of the railway between London and Hell. Inch by inch of track laid by the wonderous tracklayers, Hell is now closer than ever before! These truly are exciting times coming our way, and we cannot wait what wonders await past the Hinterlands!

Safe travels, dear London.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
One day, I wish to go without self-made obstacles.

Dear Tired,
Perseverance is a virtue, after all.

26th of July 1898


Respite at last.

The work never ends, not really. Yet it can be postponed. Just momentarily. For a day. Perhaps I’ll get lost in someone’s eyes. Perhaps I’ll only think of loss. Perhaps I’ll sink to the bottom of the bottle, unable to contain myself anymore.

Perhaps I’ll dance until the morning and fall like when I was young again.

We never stop learning. This is simply one of the things we need to learn and learn again. Or rather, we need to unlearn the standards put upon us, and come to the realization that worth does not come from simple actions, as it is inherent.

Perhaps I shall ponder that.

Art of London

Dance of the Embers
by Sevenix

See more of their ar

Electorial News

Second Week – The Goosey Gazette Electorial Popularity Survey!
Results Are In!

Though the number of participants is humbler this week, we still bring you our own Gazette’s personal survey data.

Perhaps by the nature of our readership, the overwhelming majority of this week’s votes goes to the very Tentacled Entrepreneur, with F. F. Gebrandt leading ever so slightly on the Viscountess.

Furthermore, the Entrepreneur is also the most common second choice of vote, with the split between the others being the very same as before.

Lastly, nearly none of our readers have decided to change their vote since the start of the election.

It seems things are truly looking up for the Tentacled Entrepreneur. Of course, we could not be more excited! Were he to win, it would mean a true change for London, a pioneering of not only art, but also inter-being politics. The acceptance of the Rubbery Folk as equals, though perhaps not on the table immediately, would be a welcome change for all.

Nonetheless, as elections come to a close, no matter which candidate wins, we are looking forward to what they bring to London herself.

News of Art, Art of News

Jericho Station Opening Soon After Elections!

The electorial season always takes precedence over many a happening in our fair city. Not even the progress of science, technology, and diplomacy can withstand the pressure of politics. Partly due to the presence of various politically engaged individuals, the Great Hellbound Railway Board is postponing the building of the next station until after the elections.

No matter the officialities, the Board and the Tracklayers Union have been hard at work; the next stretch of tracks, as well as the paperwork and foundation of the Jericho Station have been laid. Naturally, we have not yet been to the land beyond the marshes, though we promise to report on any and all important facets of westward Neath. The closer the railway gets to Hell, the (pardon the pun) hotter the news become. What may lay on the banks of the Upper River?

For now, as the elections come to a close, we wish you the best of luck, dearest London.

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Ah, the arms of a lover. Wherever have they gone.

Dear Dreaming,
Sawn off at the shoulders, replaced with yearning.