Our dearest Mother Goose simply wanted our readers to know that today she looks rather beautiful – and we agree!
Featuring
2nd of February 1898
Editorial
Self-embetterment is to be taken one step at a time. Progress is seldom rapid, and even then most commonly on the larger scales. It all starts with a promise, a promise to the self, a promise to friends, a promise to the audience.
Promise improvement, and support will follow. Yes, even in these pursuits, humans are creatures of society. We lift each other up and help each other grow as the needs of our social circle expand. To allow oneself help can be daunting, especially for the entrepreneurial soul so used to relying only on its own powers. To limp on a shoulder of a friend is to make the most dangerous of trust falls.
Aforementioned steps are to be taken with care as well as courage. It is not a blind battle to be fought, rather a premeditated match to be won. Hardships of the mind arise in such times, yet with dedication, determination, and diligence even the wiles of one’s doubts can be overcome.
Most importantly, there is a need for time. As the best wines are the oldest, as cheese ages in cellars, human improvement cannot happen overnight. Do not, however, look to the future as if it were present. Realisation of one’s current needs is what drives us towards the future we desire and deserve.
Look to love, London.
Art of London
Sun-Filled Stories, Chapter Three
Part III
by Cassius Mortemer
The Author couldn’t breathe.
It was an oddly curious sensation, really. He supposed the lack of a soul explained his general lack of fear. He also didn’t remember being such a weak runner. How did he even get out yesterday? Perhaps the lack of fear made him self-conscious, which in turn was slowing him down. He pushed those thoughts out of his head. No time for thinking.
He had a good rhythm going, jumping over rocks and rubble and ill-maintained roads. He could hear the Churlish Devil laughing in the distance. He had no doubt in his mind that even the slightest rest could be the end of him. He wouldn’t dare look back.
The Author vaulted over the ruins of a wall and immediately regretted it. His foot caught the edge, and he went sprawling into dust and cobwebs. Cobwebs? Oh no. Long sheets of sticky grey webs stuck to his clothes like tomb colonist bandages. Clumsily he got to his feet, continuing his run with prayers on his mind.
Except he didn’t get much farther. Where previously he could’ve sworn was an open courtyard, was now an unnecessarily sturdy stone wall. And to his left. And his right! He was boxed in, and the Churlish Devil was almost on him. Part of him hoped that the Introverted Devil will save him. The rest of him knew that was unlikely.
He was faced with an awful ultimatum: attempt to fight back, or succumb to his fate? The latter sounded less painful. But the former…
The Author leaned against the wall that now trapped him. Covered in sorrow spider webs and dust. Soulless and lost. Is this what they meant by ‘curiosity killed the cat’? If he had left the Introverted Devil alone, would he be any safer? The Churlish Devil jogged over, grinning smugly. The Author squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face away…
It was another curious sensation. The Author assumed the Devil must’ve crushed his windpipe, because his throat hurt considerably. That, and he couldn’t breathe. The Author felt like crying. Felt like cursing his luck and screaming in frustration. He didn’t, of course. He just knew that’d be something he’d do. He was vaguely aware of the stone wall scraping against his back. Oh, he was falling. He had fallen. Ah yes, and he was feeling cold now. He remembered dying before. Perhaps once or twice.
The Author woke up in a slow boat passing a dark beach on a silent river.
“What…?” he said. “But I’m soulless…” It sounded more like a question than a statement.
The other two passengers eyed him, but said nothing. The Boatman was grinning at him (not that he had a choice, otherwise).
“The Soul is complicated” the Boatman said. He was too preoccupied playing chess to further elaborate.
The Author found himself feeling… bored. All that drama and an echo of despair, for the same old result. Is getting his soul back worth it, when it’s seemingly most important function turns out to be false? What’s the point, then? The Author’s gaze fell onto the far bank. The far country. Death. He squinted, trying to see details. He could almost see…
“Bah!” the Chess-Playing Passenger said. The Author jumped and sat up straight. Perhaps not. The Passenger decided that now was a good time to take a break, catch their breath, and not smash the chessboard. The Chessboard… That’s how he got back, last time. Would the Boatman remember him? The Author took a seat and started setting up the board. The Boatman was only half caring.
Memories and Roses
Prologue
by Professor Wensleydale
“Professor?”
“How many times do I have to tell you, I’m not buying your- why, Bishop! What brings you here?”
“I require you to restore an epic, and perhaps modernize it.”
“Any old ______ would do. Why me?”
“Because all the others refused.”
“What?”
“Not to mention, your department seems to imply that you are the most qualified.”
At this I leaned in.
“What language is it in?”
“Correspondence.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh, yes.”
You’ve gained 1* Surface-Rose Petal(new total 3).
Renown: the Church is increasing…
A twist in your tale! You are now Restoring an Epic.
News of Art, Art of News
An Exquisite Marriage – A Bond Of The Lethal Nightmare And The Melancholic Endbringer
The two started out as the usual, modest couple. Days of courting and days of dates. Those bewedded know the pains of preparations, the legalities and the celebrations. Guest lists and wine, venues and sighs, all for the perfect wedding occasion.
The proposal came, by all accounts, rather fast, yet it was all but unexpected. The couple’s wonderous romantic alchemy is, after all, rather obvious, even tangible.
The affair was private. Very few were permitted inside; the venue was one of the Bazaar’s own. Intimate, truly, a precious thing in these times. We can, of course, only speculate upon the proceedings within.
The guest list of the proceeding celebration was, to state bluntly, exquisite beyond belief. Many a character had found themselves congratulating the happy couple; though most wish to stay anonymous, there have been sightings of several Masters of the Bazaar, prominent women of London, and a well-known Midnighter.
We at the Gazette wish the newlywed couple all the best in their married life. It can be tough, it can be dreadful, it can be the pinnacle of ecstasy. It will be what you make of it, with determination and hard work. Love is nothing if not a challenge of will.
As the courier states: Look to love, always!
Ask Mother Goose
Dear Mother Goose,
Am I, perhaps, on the verge of mediocrity?
Gray
Dear Gray,
I am afraid we all are, at some point in our lives.
19th of January 1898
Editorial
The passage of time truly is a bewildering concept when one wills to give it thought. Not in the way where it might lack sense, rather in the way of the human mind being unequipped to fully comprehend Time’s full quirks and reaches. A month, at times, might feel like a week. A month, often, might feel like the full extend of a year. A year, rarely, might feel like no time had passed at all.
No matter subjectives or unperceivable truths, there is objectiveness to the comparative length of a year. 12 months; 52 weeks; 365 days; 8,760 hours; 525,600 minutes; 31,536,000 seconds. Today’s is the 53rd edition of our humble paper. A year in the making, truly, and all of it impossible without the help of London’s artistic community.
In the darkness of the Neath still shine lights. In the galleries, the theaters, the smoked back rooms of restaurants. There, brighter than the candles, the creativity of artists radiates luminous iridescence. It is our great honour and privilege to capture a bit of this glamour, to print it onto our pages, to share it with the rest of our remarkable city.
It is my hope that the Gazette has provided you dear readers with at least some amount of entertainment and, perhaps, an amount of joy as well.
We shall, of course, continue further on, and discover new reaches for our as well as your art to blossom within.
Best of regards,
R.
Art of London
Sun-Filled Stories, Chapter Three
Part II
by Cassius Mortemer
“Here we go again…” he whispered. He tried his best to remember the road he took yesterday. He hadn’t been focussing on the way at all. He was too busy asking questions and watching the Devil’s reactions.
He had passed four horse statues (or the same statue four times?) and finally admitted to himself that he had no idea where he was going. Perhaps he should’ve looked for a guide instead? He sat on the edge of what might’ve been a broken statue. Or a fancy rock. He didn’t care, he was too busy moping.
He unfolded the little sketch he drew of the Devil. He had only met the man yesterday. Do the soulless normally get this attached to the devil that takes their soul? Do devils usually rush an Abstraction? He had a friend who got hounded by a devil for weeks before he finally attempted an Abstraction. The devil failed, of course.
A shadow passed over his sketch, making it hard to see. Someone was standing before him. The Author’s gaze shot up, and he locked eyes with a pair of sulphur-fire blue eyes. The man was grinning cruelly at him. It took the Author a moment to recognise the Churlish Devil, who had nearly made him an Infernal Hunt participant the day before.
The Author sprang to his feet but the Churlish Devil planted a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down.
“Now, now, no need to rush…” he purred. “Where’s your little friend?”
The Author didn’t say anything. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, he didn’t want to. The Churlish Devil tightened his grip.
“It’s not nice to stare,” he said. It almost sounded like a threat.
The Author attempted to weasel out of the Devil’s grip. An awkward roll of the shoulder, a little shimmy to the side. The Devil didn’t hold on, instead watching him with idle interest. Like a cat watching a lizard wriggle and run before he tears its skin off with his fangs. He grabbed the Author by the collar before he could get too far away.
“I seem to recall your little friend breaking something of mine…” the Devil said, pulling the Author close. The Devil’s chest pressed to the Author’s back, and his free hand grabbing on to the Author’s bicep.
“Please let go of me…” the Author said. The Devil leaned his face close to the Author’s neck and took a deep breath. Every muscle in the Author’s body was telling him that now would be an excellent time to run, perhaps. Only for self-preservation purposes, of course.
The Churlish Devil hesitated… then started laughing.
“He took your soul, eh? Ha! Didn’t know he had it in him.” He roughly pushes the Author away, sending him stumbling. He caught himself, barely.
“Well, I no longer have any use for you. But that doesn’t mean my time would be wasted…” the Devil said. “I’ll give you a five second head start. If you get away, you’re safe. At least for some time. But if you don’t…” the Devil only smirked. The Author didn’t waste any time. He bolted before the Devil could say ‘go’.
(Un)Holy Night
by Chronic Dreamer
Two of my friends and I raced to the city center on bicycles, all of us having started from various points around the city. The brown multi-storied buildings were primarily of the Tudor style; a few modern sensibilities accented the buildings, such as shingled roofs and windows on the lower levels bastioned by iron bars. Other than the three of us, the city was desolate.
I had been the last one to arrive which made me the last to have my wish granted by The Crimson Beast. The building — that The Beast had propped their tent on the lawn of — towered over us with white columns and cold trim. Bearing a wide berth, it pushed all the other buildings away with well-groomed green. The building accented a much smaller white tent housing myriad musical instruments and mixing tables in which waited the wishing fairy (previously The Beast). Her violet hair floated freely as if in water and she drifted free from the shackles of gravity. She listened to one of my friends, the one who was the second to arrive. The first to arrive had already received their wish, and they were kept as a liquid in a tall-necked, deep-blue vase.
I already knew this was to be our fate; it had happened to me the previous time I had made a wish. That time, I was unaware of the process and shocked to find myself melted into a liquid and kept in a bottle. I watched as the universe around me slowly folded in on itself, molding itself to where my wish became the altered reality. For those around me, this was instantaneous; for me, I had to wait for the eternity to end and circle back to the point where I had uttered my wish.
When my second friend melted into the eternal liquid, I stepped up to make my wish. I joked with the fairy of how we had done this dance before and how I wanted a different wish, this time. Before I could express my wish, and after I had made the off comment, angels in sharp suits came into existence, seized me, and flew me away by my shoulders. They ferried me to the foyer of a drab office building, the whole place in a tumult.
Something evil had been re-born because of my wish, I had overheard. Ordinarily, they would have perceived each and every time the universe looped, and kept that evil under their watchful eyes and in their made prison. My wish, they did not know about. The evil being, called Noah by the angels, had been able to escape its imprisonment. During the singular point in time, the gap between where the previous universe ended and my wish universe began, Noah escaped its bonds with its will of wrath and gave itself birth in the new world.
The other side of the foyer, next to the hallway of office rooms, faded away to reveal a dirt path that wound through a neatly kept wooded area. On the path trod an adult male holding tightly to a baby wrapped in a serene blanket. The angels cross the threshold, frightening the man and poised to execute the infant. My sense of morality was thrown into conflict. I did not want a baby to die, but I knew that if it is true evil it must. I am unable to decide its fate.
News of Art, Art of News
Prolific Paper Reaches One Year In Age
Which is, of course, both a truth and jest on this humble reporter’s part. The bottom line, of course, is information.
In the next year of The Goosey Gazette, a few changes and improvements:
The Gazette is now under the label of the Word & Press printing agency, who provide us with new possibilities of form.
The Gazette is still under the ownership of one R. J. Frogvarian, which guarantees a wealth of content.
The Gazette is still here to serve its readers, which guarantees integrity.
All in all, there are positive changes on the horizon for a humble growing paper.
Wish you all the best, London.
Ask Mother Goose
Dear Mother Goose,
Perhaps, it is good.
Resting
Dear Resting,
It is what it is, and it will be what it shall be.
12th of January 1898
Editorial
And on the Seventh day, we wept.
Art of London
Sun-Filled Stories, Chapter Three
Part I
by Cassius Mortemer
The Author woke up in his bedroom, a small package on his bedside table. It was morning, and he was alone. What happened last night? He didn’t feel particularly troubled. Or happy. Or particularly alive.
The Author rolled over and grabbed the package. Logically, he thought he should be alarmed, scared, heartbroken. He felt none of that. Just a vague emptiness, deep within him. He opened the package. It was a few handfuls of jewels, bits of Nevercold Brass and a Devilbone dice. There was a piece of paper on his bedside table. A contract. His very own infernal contract.
He had lost his soul.
Should he go look for it? It’s certainly an odd sensation, to not have a soul. Not unpleasant, he supposed. But odd.
He wrapped up his jewels and brass and made way for the door. He should look for the Introverted Devil. He will have his soul. Won’t he? He certainly didn’t expect an Abstraction when the Devil sat so close to him yesterday, but he’s the only one that could’ve done it. He thought about last night. Drinking with the Devil, getting to know him… somewhat.
He didn’t feel anything…
Did his home always look this grey and dismal? The Author got dressed in cleaner clothes. He’ll check the honey-dens first. He met the Devil there, after all. Maybe someone saw him. Maybe someone knows where to find him.
The same Guardswoman stopped him from going in this time around.
“You don’t understand, I-”
“Yeah, yeah, you said the same thing yesterday,”
The Author felt a somewhat… muffled sense of unease. A knot in his stomach where anger used to be. It feels kind of… cold, now.
“I don’t need to go inside,” he says.
“What do you want, then?”
The Author pulled a piece of paper out of his pants pocket. He had attempted a sketch of the Introverted Devil from memory before coming here. It wasn’t half bad, really. Very detailed, too.
“Have you seen this devil? He’s blond, wears all black.”
The guardswoman looked at the picture for a while, then at the Author. Then back at the picture. She jerked her chin to the alleys off to her right.
“Yesterday. That’s all”
The Author looked towards the alleys. That’s where he and the devil had met. He’s no closer than he was when he left his house. He sighed, disappointed, but thanked the Guardswoman nonetheless.
The next place to check would be the Forgotten Quarter. The Author took the exact same route he took with the Devil. Waited for a cab on the same corner. Got off at the same desolate street.
The Forgotten Quarter was quiet. But not ‘quiet’ as in a lack of sound – there was screaming in the distance, for one – it was the kind of quiet that instantly silenced your own thoughts. The kind that allowed even the slightest sounds to press in on your ears and burrow into your mind.
The Author put one foot in front of the other. A muffled sense of fear was creeping into his heart, as if by habit instead of genuine feeling. Is it safe to travel alone here, where Devils prey on humans? What would they do to someone who’s soulless? Does he even know where he’s going?
Would he be able to find the Devil again?
News of Art, Art of News
Our Dearly Departed
______ __________
12th of June 1872 – 5th of January 1898
Today we say our goodbyes to ______ __________, a renowned hunter, zailor, a loving friend. Only a handful had returned from her last northbound expedition. The zhip had crashed, unsalvageable, and ______’s zailors refuse to speak of what had happened.
______ is survived by only her brother and sister. A symbolic funeral shall be held at the delta of the Thames and the Unterzee, in a week’s time with the midnight bell’s chime.
May her soul find peace.
Ask Mother Goose
Dear Mother Goose,
Perhaps, it was all for something.
All shall be well.
5th of January 1898
Editorial
The Urchin and the Noman
by R. J. Frogvarian
Day VII
Next came shadow, cold, hunger. The boys were roused from their sleep, though they desperately clung to the remnants of unconsciousness. They dared not move an inch. In the urchin’s eyes, thunder subsided, grey clouds sheepishly floating. In the noman’s eyes, a single fear: the cold of north.
Then, all was well.
Day VIII
The next visitor came in a storm. Lacre hailed around, temperatures demanded any cover they might find. Underneath a raggedy blanket, one of the boys had almost convinced himself his limbs were not giving out, when…
Warmth spread through the room. In an impromptu hearth flames danced high, and from behind them, a cloaked figure stared.
“There will be tragedy, you know,” it said, “It likes tragedies. There is much at stake for us. Can you feel the heat of the flames? How the Neath-snow noxiously melts? The worst storms come when end is near. Yes, soon the tears will subside. Soon, fires will burn stronger again. May they burn forever.”
It sat with them in solemn understanding for a while. When the storm had stopped, the fire had died out, the lovers now fast asleep, it was nowhere to be seen.
Day IX
It was gone in a flesh. A shadow swooped onto the roof, glowing eyes peered inside. A low screech like distorted laughter sounded.
“Oh, but we will see,” it intoned, and then, it was gone.
Yet, the urchin and the noman sat in stiff silence. Their fingers no longer intertwined – not for lack of want, only for fear that the other will let go.
Day X
A letter was slipped through a slit in the wall. Gently it floated down, between the two sitting on the floor. Shaky white hands broke the seal, pale fingernails fished the paper out. In neat handwriting, the letter spoke. It spoke of many truths and secrets, heart-wrenching tales, warnings of stories. It expressed sorrow over the boy’s predicament.
Most of all, it gleamed with understanding.
Little could be done to stop the tears.
Day XI
And tears never stopped before another hood appeared in the window. Soft fingers wiped the damp cheeks. A basket of food was placed on the floor.
“It does little to mourn early. Time is that which heals. Memories are what fuels us. These have not been easy days. Make the happiness last last forever.”
Laughter filled the room, soft and slow as if afraid to come out, but bold and brave in its presence. Smiles joined the tears, and just for a moment, thoughts swayed away from the inevitable.
Day XII
The final day was marked by silent softness. The world moved as if through molasses; not even the birds and the wind dared break the calm. If one squinted in sleepy blissfulness, if looked almost as if sunlight spread through the windows and the holes of the humble rooftop hideout.
The urchin and the noman together as one. Smiles of regrettable truth and acceptance. With stormy eyes they looked at each other. No bliss can last forever.
Art of London
Sun-Filled Stories, Chapter Two
Part III
by Cassius Mortemer
The Author led the Introverted Devil to his own home. Even when they were well away from the Side-Streets and the worst of the crowd, he was still rather disoriented. It was only when the Devil was seated in the Author’s favourite reading chair, his handkerchief forcefully pulled away from his face to allow him fresh air, that the Devil managed to regain his senses. The Author brought him a glass of Amanita Sherry. The Devil hesitated.
“You’ll probably feel better,” the Author said. The Devil, still unsure, took the glass anyway. It’s not like the Author could drink it.
“I’m… more surprised that you’d have it, to be honest.”
“Friend of a friend,”
“I see…”
The conversation went stagnant. The Devil awkwardly drank the sherry. The Author fiddled with his sleeves. Itching to start up a conversation. They sigh in unison. Then they smiled.
“Well…” the Author started, “It wasn’t a boring day,”
“It’s only noon,”
They smiled at each other, partly out of politeness, partly out of fondness. Struggle brings people together, even in cases like theirs. The Devil put his empty glass on a nearby table and got up, wiping away his smile.
“I should go,” he said. The Author sprang up and grabbed his arm.
“Wait! Are you sure? You seemed just about ready to pass out a moment ago,”
“I was not!”
“Consider it repayment then. For the trouble I caused,” the Author snagged the open bottle of Amanita Sherry, smiling sheepishly.
“Of course, I will be indulging in cheap Greyfields,” he continued.
The Devil looked at the Author, then the cheap sherry, then glanced back at the door. He sighed.
“Alright, fine. But after this I’m leaving,”
Three hours and two bottles later, and the Devil was still there. He was draped languidly over his chair, legs dangling over an armrest and an empty glass balanced on his stomach.
“Why… am I still here?” he drawled. He was supposed to leave ages ago. But now he’s here. With the Author. In relatively close proximity.
“Because you’re my guest and that’s just good manners,” the Author said. He was lying on his stomach, peering at the devil from over the edge of the couch’s armrest. Not the most comfortable of positions, but he enjoyed the view.
“You’re blond,” the Author remarked. The Devil, with his hat and tinted glasses tossed carelessly onto a coffee table, raised an eyebrow. He didn’t comment. The Author kept on, already accustomed to his silence.
“Like sunshine,” the Author said, reaching out as if to touch it. The Devil sat upright, out of reach. The Author didn’t seem particularly bothered. The Devil was already wondering what would’ve happened if he didn’t flinch away.
There was a moment of dizzy silence as the Author checked for remaining wine, and the Devil quietly contemplated society norms. Disappointed, the Author slumped back onto the couch. Staring at the Devil.
“What are souls like?”
The Devil stiffened.
“Do they taste a particular way, for instance?”
“Don’t be silly. We don’t eat souls,”
The Author thought for a bit, sitting upright.
“What do they look like?”
An idea occurred to the Devil. An awful one, yet an excellent one. It could answer all his questions, the ones just barely buzzing to the surface. Every…
“Why don’t I show you?” he said. He joined the Author on the couch, elbows rubbing together. It may be rather ill-taught to do this on a living room couch, but the Devil doubted he’d get the Author all the way to his bedroom and still manage to be charming.
“Do you know how this works?” the Devil asked. The Author’s throat bobbed. Nervousness, but not reluctance.
“On the couch?” he asked. The Devil smiled at him.
“Don’t worry about it,”
The Devil took his hand and leaned close, remembering all those lessons, all those well practiced words… The Author seemed surprised. Was he expecting something else? The Author was swallowed up by his words in no time at all. Warm, golden light, swimming behind his eyelids…
And then the Devil was gone.
News of Art, Art of News
Red Lights Overhead – Citizens Report A “Christmas Miracle”
Christmas may be nearly behind us, but the festive mood still remains. With some, even a little more than usual.
For several days, there have been many reports of strange occurances within the main London area. Citizens claim seeing a large silhouette of some sort of hansom with many horses, lead by a strange bright red light. There have also been reports of hearing a deep yet calming laughter from the false skies.
All of these reports, some overlapping, also claim having found small gifts on their windowsills the following morning.
While none of these claims have been confirmed as true, we would advise any and every citizen to stay vigilant and not fall victim to viles of some shadowy gift-giver.
Nonetheless, it could also be a big beneficial jest, or better – a performance piece! That would, of course, delight us.
Nonetheless, London, we do hope your holidays had been marvelous, and that good things will come to you within the new year.
Ask Mother Goose
Dear Mother Goose,
Once again, I have failed. Perhaps it is time.
Pleasing
Dear Pleasing,
It, fortunately, may never be the time – unless, of course, it comes of its own accord.
29th of December 1897
Editorial
The Urchin and the Noman
by R. J. Frogvarian
Day I
The urchin stood knees-deep in lacre. He was covered head to toe in soot after his daring intrusion through the chimney. The winds of the unterzee howled around his golden hair. Distant snores of great stone boars. He took a deep breath, one filled with salt and thunder. A blade ran across his palm; a droplet of blood in the vastness of white. In a wicked metamorphosis, from the lacre rose a replica of the boy – the urchin’s noman.
The two smiled at each other, pure white eyes facing eyes filled with stormy skies. Hand in hand, they ascended back to the Neath’s streets.
Day II
The first one came in the deep night. The day had been filled with conversation and play, joys interrupted with a heavy knock on wood. The two figures inside froze and turned. Looming in the entrance of the humble rooftop hideout stood a tall cloaked figure. From underneath the hood peered two glowing eyes, darting between the two boys inside. With a heavy cough it cleared its throat; the air was filled with a heavy, intoxicating smell.
“You have caused quite a stir. There is now interest, yes. Consider this a simple warning.”
It stood there only a few moments more, and then, just as fast as it had come, it was gone.
Day III
There was more tension on the third day, yes, though smiles were still exchanged. Despite the cold of the roof (and the cold of the noman’s body) the two felt quite warm. Yet, as they had feared, another knock interrupted their conversation.
The figure spoke, in a tipsy tone of voice.
“I am not one to dissuade from pleasure. There is a certain… quality we desire in a story. With a little nudge…”
With that, it was gone, and in its wake only wine and questions.
Day IV
There is much that a bottle of Greyfields will do to the mind. Neither of the boys had noticed the light reflected from the next figure’s robes. There was much blushing and holding of hands. Hot breath on breath and a single tear shed. The two danced – if it can be called dance – around a candle, enjoying the company to the fullest.
This visitor did not speak a word, only observed, took notes, and left quite soon.
Day V
All revels have their price. As usual, it was a headache. Still, the two remained in each other’s arms, and talked. When the next visitor arrived it was polite enough not to knock.
“Some are pleased with the two of you. Some doubt the value. It is clear that there will be consequences. Simply put, there are secrets that are beyond normal value. I would advise you to consider.”
As it had departed, the two sat in a stir. In each other’s embrace, they pondered of what their bond might reveal.
Day VI
“Most unscrupulous! So preposteriting in nature! Bards have never sung such spurnous tales as this – the bond of man and no man! Or… boy and no boy! The pellucidious depth of feeling, we are quite impressed. Yet salacity rises to the surface! Commingling of despicablenesses brings to us the impenetrablest of choices. To go down in the books, to be told and untold for ages to come. To thwart such wiles of secret unearthing, we musn’t fall into complicitude, no, to be eternally so vigilant is our predicament!
“Be warned, you in fatuation, for there are prices to be paid… for knowledge! Now, though, for me to abscond.“
Art of London
Sun-Filled Stories, Chapter Two
Part II
by Cassius Mortemer
The Author followed the Devil down Blackfinger Street, past the Bridge Without and countless stalls of all sorts of wonders he has never seen before.
“Is that a… what is that?” The Author asked. The Devil followed his gaze.
“What? The whirring contraption?”
The Author’s eyes seemed to sparkle with curiosity. The Devil was smiling, despite himself. He made sure to hide it as soon as he realized he had it. The Author, despite the Devil’s low-effort attempt of restraining him via hand-holding, was absorbed in his surroundings. Pointing out curios and oddities, asking about things he’s never seen before… The Devil found it increasingly difficult to focus on his own problems.
“You live in Veilgarden, don’t you?” the Devil asked while the Author was fawning over some wines. The Author looked at him, seeming a little dazed. As if his mind took a moment to catch up with his words.
“What..? Oh! Yes, Veilgarden. Are you taking me home?”
“Yes. Well. Just somewhere not here.”
“What’s wrong with your home?”
“I don’t want you there.”
The Author gave him that look again – an offended pout with brows furrowed together – and the Devil still didn’t feel like explaining to him how that wasn’t meant as an insult.
“Yours is just… easier,” he muttered after a little while. The Author didn’t say anything. The Devil was biting his lip again, fangs digging into his skin this time. He knew exactly what was happening. It was completely normal for a devil. It’s their nature.
“Deep breaths, don’t fall in love…” he said. He could almost feel those spires looming over him, watching him. Could almost feel the crowd pressing closer, threatening to keep him here forever.
The Devil pulled out his handkerchief and covered his mouth and nose. The Bazaar Side-Streets were packed with brilliant souls, and he could smell each and every one of them. It’s too much. Other devils don’t go through this, of course. Other devils don’t get overwhelmed by the very thing they should be yearning for.
Just a little bit more, he promised himself. Veilgarden isn’t that far…
They squeezed past a particularly dense crowd and the Devil held his breath. He doesn’t know why he’s so sensitive to souls, or why no one else wasn’t. He doesn’t-
“Are you alright?” the Author asked. The Devil shook his head, stifling a sneeze. The Author pulled his hand free from the Devil’s, earning him an annoyed scowl. As if he would disappear the moment he lets go.
“What are you…?”
“What’s wrong?” the Author said, “Is something bothering you?”
The Author eyes the handkerchief still pressed against the Devil’s face. The Devil shook his head again and grabbed his hand.
“Not now!”
The Devil’s head was pounding by now. There’s just too many of them. He surges onwards without any mind to direction. Eventually he became aware of the Author pulling him forward, instead of the other way around. He didn’t even try focussing on his surroundings anymore.
It’s just too much for him…
Poor Edward
by Idelia Lockwood
News of Art, Art of News
All-Bird Review – Halmet
As false snow falls and covers the roofs above, we turn our heads to a humble stage on a humble town square…
The Bard’s great tale of a Danish prince is one oft replayed and rewritten, perhaps in an attempt to bring modern audiences to enjoy the classics. While the All-Bird Theater Troupe does not present any special story gimmicks, it does, of course, bring its own novelty to the table.
Returning now are the two stars, the raven and the dove of Ravemeo and Dovette fame, in the roles of Hamlet and Ophelia respectively. We must say, the two do have a rather pleasant chemistry (and a knack for tragedies).
The dove did not excel so well in the portrayal of Ophelia’s madness, coming out more as a mild hysteria, though such state was, of course, short-lived for the character.
Hamlet himself did a fantastic job, even through the caws and cawks, the magnificent soliloquies were as heart-wrenching as always.
A quite exciting appearance was of Halmet’s father – for the role of the ghost, the production had managed to secure an albino raven – and even a (perhaps) real bird skull for poor Yorick. The rest of the cast was exquisite, of course.
The technical side of this play was rather simple, as the others in this Christmas trio had been. For a rather wonderful effect, the production claims to have used lacre of all things to produce non-lethal smoke. Such a secret, we are sure, will soon get patented.
All in all, we had immensely enjoyed this production of Hamlet, and have it on good word that it will continue playing for the subsequent couple of weeks before (for now) retiring.
That, of course, concludes the trio of plays by the All-Bird Theater Troupe for this festive season. We hope you you, just as we, have enjoyed it immensely.
We wish you pleasant a holiday season, London, and many sleepful, snow-covered nights to come.
The Starveling Interview – A Rare Occasion Of Feline Insight
by Rubbered Ginny
One of our top reporters has recently decided to perform quite the feat. Indeed, the Starveling Cat, a menacing companion indeed, had been interviewed! Quite thoroughly, might we add. Do find this journalistic gem on pages 7-14.
Ask Mother Goose
Dear Mother Goose,
It was not me! It was the devilry! The Prophessed that spoke to me!
Innocent
Dear Innocent,
I am afraid the decision is not up to me. Though, if it were, I am afraid I would not have mercy.
by Rubbery Ginny
THE STARVELING CAT! THE STARVELING CAT! I WILL TRY MY HARDEST ‘TIL IT KILLS ME FLAT!
Yes, the Starveling Cat, menace of larders, subject of songs, stalker of places best left to their own devices – and recent resident of my very own larder. As I first found the wretched thing, wrapped in a package left for me by an ‘anonymous admirer’, I considered it a menace and a pest. Who wouldn’t? Its hiss makes one’s eardrums ring, its claws cut to the bone, and it smells like a drownie orgy. But then I got to thinking – for a beast as notorious and well-known as the Starveling Cat, we know so very little about it! What wondrous knowledge could a creature this enigmatic and this infamous possess?! Mayhaps this was not a cruel joke of fate, but a golden opportunity presented to me on a silver platter! So I silently thanked my mysterious benefactor, and I got to work!
The first hurdle I ran into was luring my new furry friend out of the larder. Any attempt to enter it was met with a furious whirlwind of claws and teeth, accompanied by hisses so potent and deep they made my gums bleed! I decided to find another approach before I lost my other eye. Being forced to eat outward due to my larder’s inaccessibility, I visited a lovely café near Ladybones Road, deflected any questions regarding the copious amounts of blood on my face and whether I would like some bandages, and enjoyed a few cups of black darkdrop coffee. It was while I was nursing my third cup, trying to lead the heavy liquid past my bleeding gums, that my eye was caught by the beautiful floral arrangement on my table. They were false, of course, made from coloured paper and scented with perfume… and a little gem-cut figure of a bee was sitting in one of the petals. This is when I decided that it was bound to be more fruitful to procure a lure (ha!) for the hungry beast instead of attempting force.
By the time the gas lamps had been dimmed, I had hired some very foolhardy and eager chefs to prepare a scrumptuous buffet in my humble lodgings. Three courses consisting of the finest fruits of the zee the Bazaar would part with, pies and pastries, several large vats of varying puddings – the small fortune I paid for the assembly of this meal was only topped by the second fortune I paid to get its remnants removed from the carpet. But it was worth it, for the Starveling Cat was out of the larder! It waited patiently for the final course to be assembled before it pounced. As the chefs fled the room, I remained as long as I was able, attempting to ask the Cat some light questions regarding its opinions on the current mayor, the newly instated import taxes regarding nouveaux branches of love poetry, and the weather. The chefs swear that they heard *something* come in reply, but the cacophony and the blood in my ears prevented me from picking up anything. Maybe that’s for the best, as the chefs were only able to tell me about any of it after they had concluded their lengthy stays in the Royal Bethlehem Hotel. Suffice it to say, I did not manage to take any notes, and I left the ordeal rather peckish and scarred. But is that not true of most things worth pursuing?
After the feast, it seemed the Starveling Cat’s ravenous hunger had been momentarily satisfied, and it had taken the opportunity to take a stroll through our fair city. Staying on its trail proved easy enough – the sounds of screaming from society ladies with torn whalebone corsets and the angry hissing of street cats could likely be heard all the way to Polythreme. After bribing a few urchins and a quick snogging session with a Desolate Artist who claimed to have seen the beast, I managed to follow its trail all the way up to the peaks of the Flit. It had taken up residence in a raven’s nest at the top of a tall chimney. The raven was not too keen on his new housemate, and voiced his complaints at length and at high volumes. (His metre left much to be desired.) After artfully scaling the bricked pillar, my advances were swiftly delayed by a flurry of claws, and I decided a more subtle approach would be necessary. By the end of the hour, I was soaring through the sky, launched off a particularly bendable flagpole, and straight into the Cat’s current residence. A thick flurry of soot, fur and feathers later, I had confirmed to my satisfaction that the Starveling Cat does not have a strong opinion on the activities of our Lord Mayor, but would have preferred to see Mrs. Plenty in the office this term. I had also lost a lot of blood and most of my left pinky toe, and the Starveling Cat was nowhere to be found to answer my remaining 76 questions.
After a day of attempted rest rendered fruitless by vicious nightmares concerning a haunting marsh filled with flickering lights, I decided that I would have to carefully plan a new strategy that involved less bodily and mental harm. Luring the Starveling Cat was all well and good for getting it to occupy the same room as you, but allowing its gaping maw to be filled with food did not aid conversation any. And using physical force to make a being – nay, a CONCEPT such as the Starveling Cat conform to mortal whims was akin to emptying out the Unterzee by drinking it up. No, what I needed was a lure that kept the beast’s mouth free, yet also kept its claws otherwise occupied. Luckily, I had just such a thing.
What happened next, I will only gloss over, as despite the rebellious appeal it may hold, I would rather not the entire run of this edition be confiscated by the Ministry of Public Decadence (ha!). Suffice it to say that I was chased off by no less than seven chandlers while procuring the necessary materials, and that more than one Drownie gave up their eyes to me. By the end of that eventful night, I found myself drenched to the bone in the most literal sense, my soul ached like a festering tooth for weeks, and I still haven’t gotten my Peculiar Enhancements to stop twitching erratically. But the interview, dearest reader, the interview was a success! Let me now enrich you with the knowledge I have gleamed from speaking to the Ruler of the Roofs!
Firstly, it may surprise you to know tha-
[Oh dear. As soon as your gaze makes contact with this last paragraph, the paper bursts into flames in your palms. Stomping it out takes minutes, and your new boots are ruined! Still, it may have been worth it for the glimpse you caught of the contents. They remain seared onto your retinas for days.]
22nd of December 1897
Editorial
There was a man long ago. A polymath, an explorer; a man of riches. First, a sailor. He contributed to the monarchy, his family prospered. He searched for a treasure untold. He zailed the Neath in search of power, of Law. West, south, east. North. His riches and fame fell into Obscurity. They still exist, in the far and long away. For his family to claim, for his dynasty to prosper. The man had lost his name. His name is the key. The Name is the key. His children, their children, children of their children ever after, Seek to gain their prosperity. They give up everything only to gain nothing.
There was another man, loyal to the forefather. A humble servant, a trusted friend. He knew of the folly. Still hee aided his friend. Forever so loyal. This man never had children of his own. He took only an apprentice, raised them as his own. This apprentice grew alongside the forefather’s kin. A loyal and humble servant, a trusted friend. Again and again and again. An unending chain. The Servants aid the Seekers. Willingly, they give up their name. Erased with Irrigo. Contract written in Violant. Never shall they forget. Never shall we forget.
Art of London
Sun-Filled Stories, Chapter Two
Part I
by Cassius Mortemer
The Introverted Devil held his breath, counting the seconds.
One, two, three…
They’re all staring at him. The Author’s green eyes, wide as saucers. The Churlish Devil’s sulfur-fire blues…
Seven, eight, nine….
There was not a sound in the Forgotten Quarter. Not even the whispering wind that never fails to unnerve newcomers. Even the horse statues seemed to be staring at them.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…
“What… did you do…?” the Churlish Devil asked.
The Introverted Devil forced himself to suck in a lungful of air. The Churlish Devil had released the Author who was, frankly, surprised to be alive. With his soul.
“It was an accident!” the Introverted Devil said.
“An accident is one or two jars breaking. You already lost a few before coming here,”
The Introverted Devil looked just about ready to run. The Author was already doing so. The Introverted Devil watched the Author dart past dead trees and horse-head statues. He chuckled sheepishly, barely making any noise.
Then he sprinted after him.
The Introverted Devil had absolutely no reason to follow the Author. None at all. Not even a little bit. The Author wasn’t that far ahead.
“Wait for me!” he yelled. The Author stumbled, jerked his head back so fast that the Devil feared his neck would snap, then slowed down for him. Despite his better judgement.
“You’re not taking me back to them, are you?” the Author asked in between huffs of breath. The Devil merely shook his head and kept running. If they were worth chasing, the other devils will catch up to them in no time, after all.
The Devil ended up leading the way out to some side streets of the Bazaar. It was safer than the Forgotten Quarter. For now, at least. They slowed down to a walk and the Devil bit his lip. Where do they go now? What is he going to do now? Those devils knew him personally. They’ll find him and get their revenge. They’ll… where is the Author? The Devil looked around wildly, searching for the by now familiar shape of the Author. He spotted him staring at a stall selling jewels. The Devil rushed over and pulled him away.
“This is no time for shopping! Just… don’t look at anything!” The Devil said, dragging the Author away by hand.
“I’ve never been here before,” the Author said, awestruck.
“You’re not important enough,”
“Hey!”
The Devil sighed. He didn’t feel like explaining this to him right now. He has other matters to worry about that doesn’t include watching someone of very little importance get lost in the crowd. He had to warn him, though…
“Also…” – The Author stops his pouting and looks at him – “Don’t fall in love.”
News of Art, Art of News
All-Bird Review – The Star of Bethlehem
As false snow falls and covers the roofs above, we turn our heads to a humble stage on a humble town square…
Ever since the Fall, many reforms of the Church of England had been put into place to accommodate the knew worldly knowledge. Truly, our faith and believes had been shaken. Even with radical changes, the slightly satirical new retelling of Christ’s birth is sure to stir the waters.
It is, of course, a play for children, designed to teach good morals and a supposed origin of one’s faith. That, of course, does not mean that adult audiences will not find gratifying moments and surprisingly humorous comedy. The parrot in role of an innkeeper who sends the holy family away is a rather great comedic actor. In a similar vein, the three heart doves in roles of Mary, Joseph, and little Jesus were a beautiful sight, and the bluebird angels sang rather pretty.
The inclusion of devil-eyed crows as the three kings was, however, a rather surprising moment. Such acts surely allude to current debates within the Church, radical ideas of devilry surrounding one’s faith. Their gifts of golden honey, while par for the course, were perhaps a little on the nose.
Nonetheless, we still encourage you to give the play a try, London. It is sure to enamour your littlest ones and hopefully bring your own mind to intriguing topics.
Ask Mother Goose
Dear Mother Goose,
Tired, now, so tired, so many hours behind, so many hours ahead, yet I sleep through them all.
Disappointed
Dear Disappointed,
Truly, so am I.
15th of December 1897
Editorial
The season of Lacre is upon us!
Feel the caustic burn of this white and cold substance. Oh how it flakes, this false snow of our host and jailor. What secrets does it hold? Soon, a figure of red robes will leave trails in this snow, intent on taking but never on giving. The cruelty of the season.
Moreover, the joy to be found within the cruelty. Nomen to roam the streets, Tears to lead them. Londoners, huddling around fires, intent on staying the holidays within their chambers. Togetherness that keeps us content. Presents unwrapped in clandestine meetings underneath a decorated tree. Dinners to be enjoyed with those we love.
A bottle of wine, perhaps? Rest now your tired eyes. The year has been long. Arduous. For just a moment, do not mind the worries. For just a while, think of a brighter tomorrow. Windows wrapped in a blanket of snow, hushed sounds to lull you to sleep.
Rest now, London, for you have a life to live.
Art of London
Sun-Filled Stories, Chapter One
Part IV
by Cassius Mortemer
Now, the Introverted Devil rarely ever speaks up. Normally, this is the part where he would play hero by breaking out of his shell and saving that oddly annoying fellow he came to adore. Just like in the Author’s books. Instead, the Introverted Devil was staring at them, somewhat mortified.
“I assure you, you do not want my soul,” the Author tried.
“It’s not stained. A little lost, but not stained by any means. Kind. Well loved, once. A hint of sorrow even,” The Churlish Devil said.
The Introverted Devil hated this part. With some willpower, he forced his legs to move..! Backwards. He bumped into one of the other devils, the one now holding the honey.
Well… used to hold the honey.
Almost every jar of honey slipped from his arms, crashing onto the floor. Tiny shards of glass scattered. Some particularly sticky ones got stuck on their trouser legs. Prisoner’s Honey treacled between glass shards and cobblestones. The Introverted Devil felt his heart do a pirouette in his stomach before springing for his throat.
All eyes were on him.
News of Art, Art of News
All-Bird Review – A Christmas Carol
The first of the All-Bird Theatre Production Christmas plays is here, London! As false snow falls and covers the roofs above, we turn our heads to a humble stage on a humble town square…
A Christmas Carol, classic of a literary giant, a heart-warming tale of ghosts and generosity. In the main role of Ebenezer Scrooge, the troupe had quite a surprise for us – a real vulture! We must say, the performance of this star actor was truly phenomenal; we could practically see the transformation from a scary and imposing being to a bird of a warm and noble heart.
The ghosts of past, present, and future, were all hauntingly well portrayed by owls, whose hoots echoed through the silent night in the most bone-chilling of ways. To round out the presence of ghosts, a hawk in the role of Jacob Marley was just the kick both Ebenezer and we needed.
The technical production of this play, more of which we can surely expect moving forward, is also exquisite. The audio as well as visual effects, none of which we dare spoil in such a short review, are something that surely is not possible without the help of avian features.
One of the first theatrical adaptations of this sombre tale, A Christmas Tale by the All-Bird Theatre Troupe is sure to capture hearts and smiles of all ages and walks of life.
Ask Mother Goose
Dear Mother Goose,
Have I done enough as of yet?
Waiting
Dear Waiting,
The work never stops, oh, no, we can never rest I’m afraid.
8th of December 1897
Editorial
I love her. Too much, perhaps. From the days we have played together as children. From the moments we have spent together in the class chairs, in the tree branches, on the doorsteps of our rooms. I loved her through the storms and through the waves and through the falls.
I love her and I am determined to help her. That is my purpose, after all. Purposes be damned, Law knows I would help her no matter what. There is no coming back from beyond the snow. I know that well. Could I deny her? When I look into those tired eyes. How much pain and suffering can one soul bear? Not all by her own choice. We don’t get to choose why we live, perhaps only how we do it.
I love her and I will remain after she does not. I could never follow. I will hold her hand as her rowboat slowly departs for the Gate, our fingers slowly parting, neither of us wanting to truly let go. Or, perhaps, not both. I could never be angry with her. I have supported her decisions. I like to think I have helped her find the right path. We may not get to choose why we live, but we get to choose how we do it.
I love her and I will weep silent tears for years to come.
Perhaps the snow will not be so cruel.
Art of London
Sun-Filled Stories, Chapter One
Part III
by Cassius Mortemer
Another good distance of silence. The Devil still didn’t chase him away. The Author took that as an invitation.
“I noticed that you were not particularly bothered with those broken jars earlier…”
“You may not have any of these,”
“Not even a drop?”
Finally, the Devil stops walking, right on the side of the street. He was looking about, left and right.
“Do you need a cab?”
The Devil ignored him. How was he going to hail a hansom cab when his arms are full and he was trying his best to disappear into his own coat? The Author hailed them a cab, making sure the Devil gets on first. Mostly so he won’t just run away.
The Devil furrowed his dark eyebrows together.
“I don’t need help”
“That doesn’t mean you do not deserve it,”
The Devil pressed his lips into a tight line, but didn’t protest.
“You’re very easy to push around. Rather uncommon for a Devil”
The Devil continued to ignore him. The Author started grinning.
“You’re not dressed as flamboyantly as your hell-mates, either,”
The entire ride to the Forgotten Quarter kept on like this. The Honey-Addled Author asked question after question, all very innocent and polite (in his opinion). The Introverted Devil made a point of staying quiet, hiding deep into his own coat.
“Alright, I know you’re just ignoring me out of spite, but we’re already here and you’re about to burn a hole in your seat. Why are you so nervous? Surely it can’t be me, I’m a human!”
“It’s not you,”
The Author waited for an elaboration with barely-concealed impatience. The Devil sighed and shook his head.
“It’s the devils waiting for me,” he said, then got out of the cab, barely waiting for it to stop properly. The Author, obviously, followed.
Turns out, devils aren’t only unkind to humans. They also seem to enjoy bullying their own. The weak and the vulnerable. Like the Introverted Devil. It still wasn’t apparent what the honey was for, but the rowdy bunch of devils took every single jar. They were roughly grabbing, shoving, and teasing the Introverted Devil, and the Devil didn’t even attempt fighting back. The Author knew better than to directly interfere. Mostly.
“Excuse me, what is the honey for?”
The devils stop their teasing to stare at the Author. As if just now realizing he’s there. The Author cleared his throat.
“Just out of curiosity, you s-”
“Oho, what’s this? Brought a friend with you?” the Churlish Devil taunted. The Introverted Devil looked away.
“He’s not my friend. I just met him,”
But the Churlish Devil was still smirking. He approached the Author, and the Author attempted to avoid that. The Devil grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Not a bad soul, I must say,” he said.
The Honey-Addled Author didn’t know whether he was flattered or afraid.
“My good sir, my soul is not for sale!” he said.
“We’ll see about that.”
News of Art, Art of News
Festive Plays At Midnight – All-Bird Theatre Group Takes The Holidays!
While it has been some time since we have heard from the All-Bird Theatre Group, they have now announced their comeback with a full kabang! Introducing three new plays – a reenactment of A Christmas Carol, a festive Hamlet, and a Neath-based retelling of the classic tale of Bethlehem (fit for even the youngest of believers).
These plays will hit the midnight stages from the very first day of lacre-fall, and will be continued up until the tail end of the holiday season. Returning bird stars will all be present in various roles, and the production team promises a truly unique audience participation experience.
Best of all – attendance is all free! Donations will be accepted during performances or at the Mahogany Hall box office.
We shall, of course, give our impressions once the plays hit.
Do not be shy, London, support art, and we hope to see you there!
Ask Mother Goose
Dear Mother Goose,
I’ve not felt anything for a long time.
P. Dying
Dear P. Dying,
There are dark and bright days. On the poles, one can overtake the other. There is a need for balance, always. This too shall pass.
gooseygazette.art.blog 