---

Editorial

The Moon
by R. J. Frogvarian

The moon was fancy data. A distant page to observe, study, learn from. Countless hours we have spent gazing upwards, watching this silver disk. Its patterns, phases. The secrets whispered by its light. There were great many things to learn. We now know them all.

The moon is a curious public. As we have peered into it, so it peers into us. A well of light, so baffled by its observers. Now the light comes down, many rays as many peoples, yearning to know more. Beckoning us to come up and join them, each night, softly asking their many questions.

The moon will be a logical rope. The only thing left for us to do. The only outcome we can end on. Questions, answered. Agreements, made. We will know each other, us and the moon, and we will climb upon its rays, up, up, to join it among the stars, and to be propelled further yet. Through the moon, up high, we will become something more.

---

Art of London

Sun-Filled Stories, Chapter One
Part II
by Cassius Mortemer

The Author found himself sprawled on the ground. Several small jars were scattered onto the cobblestones, one or two broken, and a darkly-dressed stranger was busy fumbling about between them. The Author spots a pair of darkly tinted glasses amongst the jars. Does it belong to the stranger? He reaches for them the same time the stranger did. Their eyes meet.
By god. His eyes seemed to glow in the darkness. A yellow so bright, it almost seemed like…
“Sunlight,” he whispered. The Devil took his glasses and put them back on.
“‘Scuse me,” the Devil mumbled and proceeded to pick up what’s left of his fallen jars. Is that Prisoner’s Honey? Does Hell export honey? He seemed a little somberly dressed for a devil. Not to mention a little clumsy and awkward.
“Ah, excuse me, is that Prisoner’s honey?”
The Introverted Devil stiffened, then locked eyes with the Author – tinted glasses slightly askew. His lips moved but no words formed. He got up, clutching his jars, and hurried away.
But the Author wasn’t done with him.

“Wait! You missed one!” he lied, rushing after the Devil. The Devil didn’t seem to notice or perhaps even care what the Author had to say. He didn’t even change pace. The Author managed to grab him by the shoulder and pull him back.
“I said wait!”
The Introverted Devil stopped, stiff as a rattus-faber corpse during sackmas. How can a devil be so mousy?

“Where are you going with those?” the Author asked.
“None of your business”
“Actually, it is. I am a very well-known official in the honey-dens,” – not a complete lie – “I would’ve recognised you if you were a delivery boy.”
From this close, the Author could smell the sulphur on the him. There was no doubt that this man was a Devil – at least, no doubt in heritage.

The Introverted Devil shrugged the Author’s hand off his shoulder and started walking again, a bit more casually. He didn’t attempt running when the Author matched his pace.
“The Forgotten Quarter,” he finally says.
The Author’s eyebrows shot up and disappeared in his bangs. The Forgotten Quarter? What the hell would you need Prisoner’s Honey there for? Why would you need it there? The Author opened his mouth to ask as much, and the Devil interrupted him.
“I don’t know what it’s for. I’m just doing what was asked.”
“…Ah,”

The Author kept walking alongside the Devil. The Devil, no doubt uncomfortable with his entourage-of-one, pulled his shoulders up to his ears. They got all the way to Daughtry’s Passage before the Devil finally spoke again.
“Why are you following me?”
“Am I not allowed to?”
“That’s not what I asked.”
The Author shrugged and offered him a wistful smile.

---

News of Art, Art of News

The Advent Season Is Upon Us!

Rejoice, one and all! The 1st of December is here, and with such, the time of Advent. Soon, lacre will fall upon our shoulders, and a red-cloaked taker will visit us at our door. Such frivolousness is to come later, of course. For now, the various sellers and street urchins have begun distributing cards fancily painted with depictions of many Christmas’ characters.

Each day, perhaps, we will find a small gift from the stars, awaiting at our doorstep. With a cup of hot chocolate (or another beverage of your choice) in our hands we will open a small window of our advent calendar, the chocolate inside melting slowly on our tongues. We would light candles, of course, yet we are not so foolish as to truly do so.

Truly, London, this is the season of joy and jolly, on which we come together, us and our loved ones. Greet your neighbours with a smile, and do not forget to be kind.

---

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Am I perhaps not doing enough? Or is it just a time of drought?
Worried

---

Dear Worried,
We all experience lulls of feeling. One moment there is bright fire, the other only embers. They can be rekindled yet; they only need more fuel. A little rest. The flames require time and effort to come back to life.

---

Editorial

Art for art’s sake, as I had often said. Art, however, is not to be locked up in a cellar, or thrown in the fireplace, or hidden from prying eyes. Art is not for the benefit of the artist – rather for the benefit of the audience.

Art is what the artist wants to give the world. An idea, a way of thought, a desire for change. It is what a person wants to impart upon a world, and such a desire should always be honoured.

Art for art’s sake, yes, however the inherent purpose of art is to be seen. Art for art’s sake, yes, however it does not mean you should hide it away. Not everything, anyways. We never succeed if we first do not fail.

The fear of being out there is inherent in us all. The conditioning of perhaps not being good enough. Of our ideas being judged, our feelings shot down so openly before the crowds. Art, however, art has to be made for without it, well.

Without art, who will ever know who you truly are?

---

Art of London

Sun-Filled Stories, Chapter One
Part I
by Cassius Mortemer

Finally, he reached the Surface after all this time. He felt the sizzling touch of the Sun on his cheeks…
The Honey-Addled Author shook his head. No, that doesn’t sound right. Does it? He couldn’t tell anymore. He crumpled up the page and tossed it onto the ever-growing pile of failure. His failure. He needed inspiration.
He looked up from his cosy little perch on the roof of his home, looked up at the false-stars glimmering high above him. What did sunlight feel like, again?
“Maybe just a drop…?” he whispered to himself. It’s a terrible idea. He knew it was. But perhaps…

The Honey-Addled Author’s home was in a state of finely-tailored disuse. He could barely even afford food these days, let alone cleaning staff. He hasn’t sold a book in ages. Had his people forgotten him already? Are his Bohemian friends enjoying honey in Veilgarden without him, not sparing him a single thought? He wanted to join them in their revels. Who’s to stop him?

“Sorry, M’Lord. Just doin’ what I’m told,” the Burly Guardswoman blocking the entrance said. Since when were there guards in the honey-dens?
“You don’t understand, I’ve been coming here for a very long time,” he tried.
“I don’t make the rules. And you bein’ here is against one of ‘em,”
The Author felt his cheeks heat up in anger. He could almost hear his friends giggling at him inside. He stormed off before the guard decided to forcibly see him out.
Not allowed in honey-dens! The outrage! Was he caught honey-mazed the last time he was there? Did he do something even the Bohemians couldn’t tolerate? They didn’t tell him what he did. What a complete load of-!
Crash!

---

News of Art, Art of News

Value Of Struggle – The Divisive Nature Of A Recent Interactive Work

A recent hit has struck the artistic world, a work years in the making, surrounded by theories and hearsay. Its recent release has truly shaken the foundations of everything, dividing the artistic public like none other.

Of course, there is no need to mention the work by name, as we all know it, and neither is there much reason for us to give our own review – so many others have been talking about it for weeks on end, after all.

No, we at the Gazette want to bring you something else, and that is to pose a question.

Is there such a thing as a wrong way to struggle?

Struggle, of course, one of the main themes if this work, one of many, and one of great importance. We have all struggled with it, struggled through it. We have all found ourselves questioning the meaning of it all, sighing over banalities, picking up our pieces fall after fall after fall… some of us, of course, with more kindness and understanding than others.

If is easy to pick out flaws. What if, however, the flaw was not only within the work itself? Could it be that we are simply not prepared for its greatness?

With every person, there is a difference of approach. There is, of course, an intended approach. Community. A struggle not for oneself, but rather for others. Bringing the world of art closer together. Struggling, yes, but knowing that, on the other side, someone else is struggling as well and that, perhaps, you can ease each other’s suffering.

We have seen the differences in approach, London. There are those that bring pain, there are those that bring joy.

Is there a correct one?

Well… that is truly something to consider, dear London

---

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Again, I struggle. Will I never be worthy? How can one become what others would welcome?
Struggling

---

Dear Struggling,
It is not up to us to decide what others welcome. This, of course, you know. Perhaps it is time do ask them what such things are.

---

Editorial

We don’t always make the best of choices. Sometimes, one simple decision is all it takes for things to go to ruin. An unwise purchase, perhaps, a wrong word to the wrong person at the worst possible time. Unwillingness to confront one’s feelings. We all are plagued by some thing and there is a common trope in the things that plague us.

It can be hard to face one’s own mistakes. It is rare that an individual intends for things to go wrong – at the very least, intends for things to go wrong for them. All we can do is hold our head high and plunge deeper into the fray.

For it is always better to be alive than to regret at the worst and last moment.

---

Art of London

Erroneous Assumption That There Will Be a Tomorrow
by Sevenix

---

News of Art, Art of News

Death Of An Author – Who Shall Take Reins After An Untimely Passing?

In recent news, the untimely passing of the author of a well-beloved fictional series had shaken the artistic world, makers and audiences alike.

The dearly departed was an author of a rather enviable age – enough so that his hands had stopped working and his tongue had fallen out. As one can imagine, this is a rather big dent in the continuation of his work. The author had already been transported to an unspecified Tomb-Colony under the false moonlight.

As the future of a yet-to-be-finished work is now uncertain, a meeting was called and shall be held within a week’s time by a consortium of prominent authors, a few men of the Ministry, and the one and only Mr Pages. All fans of the dearly departed’s work, of course. This consortium is to decide who of the artistic world of London is worthy enough to take up the pen and continue this magnificent work.

Some have expressed concern over this, stating that the only mind that should be allowed to expand on the words is the mind that had originally written them upon the parchment.
“What if some fool meddles in the laid-out affairs and absolutely ruins them? Or pushes their own relationship propaganda!? We can’t have that!” said an outraged reader to our reporter, “Simply get him to write – somehow, that’s what I say.”

Our reporters have not been allowed into the meeting hall for unspecified reasons. We shall, however, do our best to hunt down any information on this story as it develops.

---

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Will sleep never come? Will peace never be in my life? Will rest ever be allowed?
Concerned

---

Dear Concerned,
There are hardships to attend to. Then there is the bliss of work well executed. There will never be rest if we never allow for it.

---

Editorial

Moment For Me
by R. J. Frogvarian

I stole a moment.
Spirited away, hidden,
deep in my pocket.

It is a moment for the world,
moment to be shared,
from pauper to lord,
please no one be scared.

While I’d love to share
It is not the time just yet
Wait just a small while.

Just this little notch
that I had made with glee.
Just this little moment,
this one is for me.

---

Art of London

Fallen London – The Crossword Puzzle
by Senforza

Fill it out on the centre-spread page.

---

News of Art, Art of News

Standing Ovation – A Way To Combat Discomfort?

Think on this, London. Has your bottom ever hurt after a hours of sitting on a theatre seat? Has the wood made you shift your weight in desperation, attempting to find a single position where your ample buttocks do not constantly ache?

A new theory within the theatre-going world claims that, as opposed to a celebration of performance, the phenomenon of a standing ovation is simply there to relieve such pain. A standing ovation grants the audience an early release, as their legs can stretch, bottoms rest, and now their hands do the talking – though, of course, in a socially acceptable, even pleasant, way.

Such polemics, though intriguing, hold little value for art itself. Conspiracists claim this is a ruse by shabby theatres to get unwarranted feeling of praise, while purists deny they would ever stoop so low as to give into their primal instincts when it comes to giving a proper, performance-worthy ovation.

We at the Gazette, of course, remain neutral. We will, however, say that, be the truth wherever, the Antimacassar Theatre’s number of standing ovations has (allegedly) increased by quite a few numbers ever since the installation of their new seats. Not to point any fingers, yet this in this reporter’s humble opinion, the seats are rather ache-inducing. On the opposition, Mahogany Hall’s recent renovation has left all buttocks unhurt – with no decrease in standing ovations, of course.

Nevertheless, you can always draw your own conclusions – and keep your rears from hurting!

---

~*~*~
CONFESSIONS AT HALLOWMAS
~*~*~

I’ve dirtied my hands more than I have intended. For the sake of the Game, for the sake of pleasing the Masters, for sake of being closer to insanity. I never should have listened to that man’s words, and yet I now find myself tempted to throw everything away. Throwing everything away for what? The Seven which is not Seven now plagues my curiosity, and my thoughts, and my hunger.
-Misfortune

---

As the mist has set, so the revels have ended. Time of confessions is behind us. Oh, woe are we, still bound to carry the weight of our sins. Such is the time after Hallowmas.

---

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Oh, the anticipation! Will it ever cease?
Eve

---

Dear Eve,
Simply focus on the good things.

---

Editorial

Here’s the desire for a touch of fame. Just a little bit. Ever so closer. Imbibe it. Consume it.

My friend’s father was a musician. My aunt met a religious leader. I saw the Queen shopping for pomegranates one time.

Do we all yearn for the lights, the shouts, the shadows, the whispers? Signed cards and special treatment. Ballrooms and beds of the highest echelons. Oh, to get just a taste. Illusions of grandeur haunt our little existence.

There is little wrong with mediocrity. Who can say they are truly destined for greatness? With power comes the ability to abuse; oneself, others, strangers and friends alike. Tread lightly with the screams of thousands. It takes a special sort not to go mad in such a world.

After all, ambitions are one thing. Pure, godless yearning is another.

---

Art of London

Messidorist Panopticot
by Eastern, F. B. G. Dscd.

Landscape painting of the Messidorist Panopticon, a fabled fortress in Downside. Artwork commissioned by Hotshot “Messidor” Blackburn, the proprietor and renovator of the fortress.

---

News of Art, Art of News

An Interview With The Prophet Of Mr Tears

On a very special occasion, we at The Goosey Gazette have just recently had the chance to interview the one, the only, Prophet of Tears, Kid Nullman. Without further ado, seek the interview on the centre-page spread.

---

~*~*~
CONFESSIONS AT HALLOWMAS
~*~*~

They can pry, search, and threaten all they want, but they will never obtain this truth. I confess that the Khan of Dreams’ confession is still in my possession, and mine alone. One day, this secret will be able to control or destroy a Master in itself. London should look forward to it.
– Masked Midnighter

---

It feels like there’s a wick in my throat. Seven flames. Seven letters. Seven eyes. Seven sins. Seven cities. Seven regrets. Seven times have I failed myself. All shall be Well. All shall be Well. All shall be Well. All shall be Well. All shall be Well. All shall be Well. All shall be Well. The name the number the name the number the name the number the name the number the name the number the name the number the name the number
– Kin

---

Submit your own delicious confessions to us! The last confessions will be posted in the next edition!

---

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
How can I know what is right and what is wrong?
Desperate

---

Dear Desperate,
When one’s heart is not enough, perhaps it is time to follow another’s mind.

A Rather Special Interview

---

Pleasure to meet you, dear Kid Nullman – may I call you Kid?

Well, if you insist, yes, sure, it’s fine.

---

Very well then. So, Kid, you are a Midnighter by trade. What had brought you to the rites of St. Joshua?

Let’s say, it’s family affairs. Yes. Private occurances.

---

Private, of course. It is a role of importance within the Game, after all. Not something to be pried at, however a position that comes with a certain inherent understanding. What are your thoughts on the Game itself?

I wouldn’t say I’m always very comfortable with the occurances, especially not the part that includes taking others out of the Game. That’s why I try to not be employed by any high bidder, but instead just work organizing masses and as a correspondent between pawns. I feel… mixed about it, but at the same time I found an uncanny safety within.

---

I suppose uncanny is the baseline, nowadays. Well, let the Game be the Game. You have become known for another thing entirely – as the Prophet of Tears. Would you care to tell our readers a little about Mr. Tears?

Ah yes, Tears. Well, he has contacted me through a mirror, actually. It has been a few months already, and since I first saw him I knew I wanted to help. I never expected that it would all turn into what it is today. He wants a body, one of lacre, and until then he will stay nothing but a mirage behind glass. I wouldn’t want it to be left like that, though.

---

A mirror! Quite intriguing, might I say. One would – purely hypothetically – assume that such is the reason you have been rumoured to collect many snakes, recently?

Well, yes, snakes. The official name is “Hound of Heaven.” It’s a lengthy process, but these Hounds are then used by the Bishop of Southwark. Don’t understand this wrong, I have nothing to do with his plans, but he does offer wines in return. And then there are even more eccentric individuals that offer Bazaar Tears for these wines. I’m sure that the ordinary Londoner doesn’t know of these, but these tears then shall be frozen when the time is right and used as a vessel for the manifestation of Mr Tears himself.

---

Hounds and wines and tears, of course. It is much work to be done for Tears, to bring his vessel here. Do you see this as a predicament or rather as a privilege?

Well, it is definitely unheard of. Children and adults alike tend to make nomen for their enjoyment, but what I have been chosen for really is something much grander. It is difficult, I must admit, but the support I get from people that never even heard of me really does push me forward. It’s a blessing, I hope. I don’t believe that I am bringing anything evil into this world. I hope the rest agree, even with the cult-like title.

---

Prophet of Tears, of course, is at least peculiar. Support, of course, there is much of. It is true that one can send a handful of First City coins your way to give support to you and to Tears. How do such coins help, and are there any other ways for one to show their devotion?

Oh, yes! Tears is, so he says, a lot older than we might think, and one of his earliest fascinations was the First City. He has asked me to actually keep note of everyone that does donate, because he would like to thank them individually. There have been donations already, yes, many, and I am not sure what he plans to do with the coins, but certain necklaces and other wearables have already been made from said coins. As for the use… we will see. Suppose non-material devotion is a possibility as well, because the more people know of him, the better.

---

Enigmatic still, without a physical body. For those devoted to Mr Tears, you are quite the inspirational leader. Though we know there is still much time to go, is there a possibility for the devoted to feel closer to Tears before his arrival?

Leader? Maybe not nearly as charismatic as other religious groups have it, but I am trying my best. As for the question, I don’t know. The mirror where I saw him first I have in my home, but I hope you understand when I say that I wouldn’t want anyone parading through it, like some kind of pilgrimage. There are a few extraordinary individuals though that have aided a little in the spreading of the word and general planning, so they might soon get the chance to meet him, and hopefully for everyone else their word will suffice. The point is to see him when he is here, after all.

---

Truly so. We cannot speed the coming by much, after all. Good things take their time. You are the most devoted of devotees, such is an admirable quality in a leader.
Not to bring attention to you once again, but I understand you are Neath-born, yes? What do you make of the current political climate within London?

Yes, I was born here, and I can proudly say that I have so far managed to avoid political influence. If you mean the recent mayoral elections, I know better than to speak my mind, but I can say that I didn’t really vote for the new mayor. I’m not complaining either about what she has done with her time so far. Mr Tears on the other hand really likes delving into these things and, well, let’s just say he wants to give it a shot when he is with us. What exactly he means…

---

Truly exciting! Though his time with us will be just shy of a year – limitations of lacre and all that – I believe that, with enough support, London will warm up to Tears enough to allow one such creature to engage in… politics.
A few more things. As you know, our Gazette is a paper of art. What thoughts on art do you have, Kid?

Well I hope London doesn’t warm up ti Tears, ahah. Art, yes, even though the first association is usually just a brush, I know art can vary so much more! And, well, while none of my creations would – or should, in some case – count as art, I really can only sit back and appreciate the lengths to which someone longing for beauty can go to. A heads up to all the free souls out there!

---

A heads up to the free souls indeed. Some might say what you are doing is a form of art by itself. Well. Time is drawing short. Kid, is there anything else you would like to tell our dearest readers?

I am not sure. I suppose a little ‘Thank you’ to the lot of them is enough already. I do hope Tears will bring enough wisdom for the lot of us. One can only imagine what a noman that is given so much time can conjure up to tell us.

---

One can only wonder, truly. We shall, however, not wonder forever. Thank you as well, Kid Nullman, for the exquisite interview. May the word of Tears reach many ears.

---

Editorial

My arrival to the Neath was just before Hallowmas. How many years ago now I cannot recall. Treacherous time. It is a charming tradition, that of secrecy. Masks, confessions, revelry the likes of which the surface could only ever dream of. All endorsed, of course. All par for the course.

Traditions are to be upheld, to the extent of one’s want and like at least. In keeping with such, here’s a confession for you from yours truly, dear London.

I despise my predicament. Not a day passes when I am not filled with anger and anguish at the position my love had wrought. To see one you respect indulge in such self-destruction… it can drive a person mad, truly so.

This Hallowmas is the beginning of the end. Another candle for the count. Everything has been prepared. I made sure of that. Only the necessities, of course. There is no longer a need for careful protection. A gentle flower has thorns. Thorns turn into barbed wire, coiled around a being. The being, under the protection of its own deformity, plunges through crowds towards a singular goal. Certain destruction.

I have made more than just simple preparations, of course. Double the pain. I shall accompany dear Rebeka. I shall not be allowed to cross the gates.

All shall be Well.

---

Art of London

What we can wish for
by Wilbur

Once upon a time, there lived a starfish who wanted to become a star. It spent its days in the ocean and, at night, came to the surface to watch the stars, dreaming of being among them.

One night, as the starfish rose above the waters, the moon was big and blue, and so close the starfish thought it could reach out and touch it. After a while of silence, the starfish sighed.
„Oh, if only I could be a star…“
The blue moon turned to the starfish.
„You wish to be a star?“ it asked.
„Oh, yes, very much,“ the starfish replied.
„You already are like a star, I think. You spend your days hidden and come out at night, as if to accompany me,“ the moon said.
This made the starfish happy, but it still wasn’t enough. It wanted to shine as bright as the stars above.
„But, can I be a real star?“ it asked.
„No… I’m not sure,“ the moon sadly replied.

For many nights thereafter the blue moon remained, keeping the starfish company. They emerged together at dusk, talked through to dawn, and watched the stars together, though the starfish still wished it could be one of them.
One night, one of the stars themselves came down to the surface of the ocean. Its light turned night to day. It spoke to the starfish.
„You want to be one of us?“ it asked.
„Yes!“ the starfish replied with a glimmer of hope, „Yes, more than anything in the world!“
The star smiled. „You already are a star inside. You are only so gloomy and cloudy, you do not let your shine come out. You do not need any glimmers or sparks. You only need to let your brightness out and be happy.“

The star faded back into the sky, and the starfish remained hopeful. It continued wishing to be a star. It tried to make its shell as bright as it could be and came up every night to gaze at the stars.
However, as time went on, it realized it liked being itself. It liked the warm sun during the day. It liked the water. It liked to converse with the moon throughout the starry nights. It did not make it want to be a star any less, but it calmed it down, made it happy with its life.

One night, as the starfish talked to the moon, it did not come up to gaze at the stars. It came up for its own happiness.
As this realization came over the starfish, its body started shining, bright as a real star. It floated up above the ocean waters and, just as the stars could come down, it rose to the sky.

And became one of them.

---

News of Art, Art of News

Hallowmas – The Season Of Fog, Masques, Confessions

Hallowmas! Oh, the fog that hides spirits past, present, future. The time has come to don your masks, dear London, and attend one (or all) of the many balls and parades organized around our fair city. Disguise yourself, and confess your regrets.

This year, Attendants roam the streets. Convoys of the Bazaar, they are here to unburden us of our woes, listen to our sins, uphold ancient promises. Seven of them appeared, early in the morning brought out to the pyres, emerged only as bearers of their mask. Let the Fool judge you.

The Masques, of course, balls of extravagance. St Dustan’s, of the Devil Mask. Pavilion of Butterflies, of the Moth Mask. Wreck of St Elmo, of the Crown Mask. In compliance with the spirit of Hallowmas, attend these balls. Don your masks. Speak to the Fool of your tragedies.

With keeping with the traditions of Hallowmas, we at The Goosey Gazette have decided to publish (anonymous) confessions of you, our faithful readers, our dear Londoners. Find this week’s confessions on pages 7҉̷̶̶-҉̢8̵̴̀̕.

So, dear London, as the night is dark, as blood is red, as our hearts flutter at clandestine meetings by the Hallowmas candles,

enjoy yourself, dear London.

---

~*~*~
CONFESSIONS AT HALLOWMAS
~*~*~

I need to tell someone. My guilt is too much to bear.
I have killed so many – the captain, the games operatives, I failed to save my beloved Constable. I have written a newspaper in her name. I have got rid of Jack but still the shame remians. I left the orphanage, a damned place of hell I left it. I should have put it to flames but I couldn’t bear to hear the screams. I was weak. I had seen too much death to see more. Whenever I have nightmares I see the faces of those I have killed. Those I have failed. Its too much to bear.
– Old Man

---

I still have it, A WORD BROKEN uttered from the mouth of a king turned beggar, and I will not share. The agents and Constables may try to take this knowledge for themselves, but only those who walk in the Courier’s Footprints will truly appreciate the beauty of this Correspondence.
– Masked Midnighter

---

Submit your own delicious confessions to us for publishing until the end week of Hallowmas.

---

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Is it so, that perhaps not all doom is justified?
Ponder

---

Dear Ponder,
By many merits, it never could justified.

---

Editorial

Today’s modern age is so reliant on timekeeping. Our minds race with ticking seconds. Gentlefolk wind their clocks and watches imported from the surface. Tick; tock; tick; tock. Bells in their towers still ring their sad, needless chimes.

It is as if one’s mind might malfunction when not in the presence of a timepiece. Seconds unperceived are seconds wasted. Sit a while and listen. Listen to the screams of your own thoughts. The silence of others’. The night all around you. Whispers of choirs.

The Neath does not like Time. There is a certain judgement that comes with such, I suppose. Earth’s secrets shall not be judged, no. We are all secrets of the Earth, whether by choice or by circumstance. Time shall have little meaning to us, now. Such is to be Lawless. Such is to be a Londoner.

Sit a while and listen. Listen to the flow of your presence. The drums of the future. The wheezing of the past. How long has it been since you last looked at a clock?

Life is not a linear procession of events.

Life is to be lived.

---

Art of London

Woods In Winter
by Silurica

“I last saw him in the woods one winter – surrounded by black bark and white snow. It was Vienna, long ago. I proved myself there, and…”

---

News of Art, Art of News

The Clown – A Review Of Contemporary Drama

The recent debut of a comedy playwright, The Clown, is a matter of apparent controversy. This dramatic play, a truly psychological study of character, has its supporters as well as naysayers. Here is our own humble review of the piece.

In the main role, with a stunning performance, J. Bird portrays the titular clown, a funnyman with little fun in his heart. Throughout the play we learn of the bozo’s dark past and woeful current circumstances which cumulate into a breaking of psyche and burning of a town. Mr. Bird gave a seamless and terrifying transition from a fun-loving funnyman to a murderous lunatic.

The production of the play was phenomenal, the effects, especially the blood, were truly state of the art for theaters. The makeup and costuming was top-notch, and the inclusion of the audience was one never before seen. Yet another show of the technological innovation in art that Mahogany Hall truly holds.

The use of comedy within the piece as a metaphor for our own society was quite thought-provoking; laughter and tears permeated throughout as reactions to said comedy and thusly the feelings of the characters to the society itself, sometimes intermingling into a sort of crying laughter.

The piece does, however, feel too long in its meanderings. The point it presents is clear and well-examined by the half of the second act. Moreover, the action and the emotion of the third act is so full of feeling and empowerment that it would’ve been worthwhile to either extend it or bring the catharsis of it to us sooner.

Overall, we at the Gazette hold rather positive feelings on The Clown, and encourage anyone to give it a view.

See you in the theater, London.

---

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
What is the price of time?
Edge

---

Dear Edge,
The very wait itself.

---

Editorial

Thoughts creep into my mind. I swat at them like flies. Equally unwanted. Thoughts of betrayal. Uncaring. Selfish, dark thoughts. Their very existence is a concern. To me, to those who might discover them. It is peculiar to feel alone while surrounded by love.

I suppose it is fear of what is to come. I would rather draw my sword before the gun can be aimed. I do not want to act upon these thoughts. I truly do not. I would prefer for things to smoothen. Wouldn’t we all?

Perhaps I am afraid I will be the one holding the gun.

There is the certainty of pain. In the back of my head, prickling, stabbing knowledge that there is no easy way out.

We cannot predict the future. We cannot plan for it. Only prepare.

I simply want the time to pass faster, is that so much to ask for? Perhaps, when I blink, it will be another month entirely.

---

Art of London

Them
by Samuel James

Their search of Jules’ room turned up nothing but a few stray papers of shadowy figures scribbled onto them, and the usual items one would keep in their room. ‘Face it Lacey, your grandpa was simply mad’ Liz said when she pulled another stray paper out of a drawer, turning it over she saw the familiar scribbled figure she’s seen on the other pages.

‘He wasn’t always like this though, something must have driven him mad’ Lacey retorted as she looked over the papers they’ve uncovered so far.

‘Yeah, old age’ Liz said in a sarcastic tone and turned to Lacey, ‘old people eventually go crazy, some sooner than others. Grandma Lena went mad a few years ago, couple of years before that grandpa Harris went mad as well, it happens to all old people’ Liz was getting tired of Lacey’s search for something that might not even exist. They’ve turned Jules’ room upside down and found nothing but mad scribbles.

Lacey shook her head, not believing that it was old age that did that to Jules, ‘didn’t seem like old age to me. One night he was fine, telling me and my brother stories of his various travels, then the next day he’s muttering about shadow people and constantly looking over his shoulder’.

‘I’ve heard of sudden onsets of madness like this, it’s nothing new’ Liz said with a roll of her eyes and shoved the page in Lacey’s hands before making her way over to the door, ‘let me know when you find something that’s not another drawing of a “demon”‘.

Lacey grabbed Liz by the sleeve of her dress, ‘come on Liz, you were always up for an adventure or two, why are you backing out of this one?’ she asked her childhood best friend.

‘Because I have things to do today, mother needs my help with her garden and then I have to bring some fresh herbs to grandmother when I’m done’ Liz said, which was enough to make Lacey let go of her sleeve.

‘Well alright then’ Lacey said, a little bit quieter than her usual tone. And with that Liz disappeared down the hallway and out the door.

---

It wasn’t long after Liz left that Lacey gathered up the papers she’s found and headed down the street to Hazel’s place, the poor girl hasn’t been alright ever since she found Jules and Henry all torn up in that alley and she could use a bit of a distraction, but she spent the last month locking herself away in her husband’s house, refusing to let in anyone she didn’t know.

Lacey walked up the few steps to Hazel’s house and knocked a few times, calling out ‘Hazel! It’s me, Lacey!’ she said, waiting for an answer, but she didn’t get one. After a long enough pause she continued, ‘It’s been weeks since anyone has heard anything from you and we’re slowly getting worried!’.

Lacey waited around for a few more moments before deciding that Hazel might not be here, but is instead probably with her grandfather in the countryside, far away from the city where she stumbled upon a scene straight out of a nightmare. She was about to turn around and leave when the door was suddenly flung open and a hand shot out, grabbing Lacey by her elbow and pulling her in, slamming the door shut behind her.

‘What the-! Who do you think you are!’ Lacey yelled and turned around to face the person who just pulled her inside. Who she was met with was a rather disheveled looked Hazel, ‘Hazel? I almost didn’t recognize you for a second’ Lacey said, now much calmer than before.

Hazel shushed Lacey, ‘not so loud, you don’t want them to hear you’ she said in a harsh whisper.

‘Don’t want who to hear me?’ Lacey said, now in a whisper.

‘Them’ Hazel simply replied.

---

News of Art, Art of News

A Brief Report From The Museum Of Mistakes

After months of waiting, the moment is finally here, dear London. One of our very own reporters has been approved for entry into the Ministry of Public Decency’s coveted institution, the Museum of Mistakes.

While the trip, for such an opportunity, was brief, and the matters legally restricted for us to write about, there are a few interesting bits we are obliged to share:

• The paintings, all covered by a cloth, only sneakily peaked unto
• The statues, always missing an important part
• Molds in dishes, murmuring
• Wax figurines, stuck mid-play (were they truly wax?)
• A crystal orb with a singular blowfish within

The trip was not just for pleasure of journalism, it was also the business of mistakes themselves. The Ministry was reluctant to let us enter, however the fact we had mistakes to offer smoothened out the dealings.

The nature of our mistakes, of course, shall not be disclosed; they can, however, be viewed within the Museum itself. Not that we recommend such foolish things as attempting entry.

Some of the mistakes were of the more speculative sort. Was that Lord Mayor’s shoe? The Contrarian’s torn coat? It is hard to say what a Master-

Ah, perhaps, we have said too much.

Rest well, dear London.

---

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
I only want the best for them.
Yearning

---

Dear Yearning,
There are many places to look before the last.

---

Editorial

The Boatman is a good friend of mine
by R. J. Frogvarian

The boatman is a good friend of mine.
He smiles as my feet touch the sinking wood,
A slight, boney smile, intentions to boot,
Inviting me, “Roll the dice, pass the time.”

Such perverse joys I no longer hide,
Light vanishing as we leave behind the world
Of the living. All around the mood
Of death, and dying, and denial.

Corpses, sitting, praying not to reach the other side,
The black shores glistening with pain and regret,
I only take the cup and shake it a while.

On my lips sits a slight, boney smile,
Moments that, while I live, I will not forget,
As the boatman is a good friend of mine.

---

Art of London

Low Claim
by Chronic Dreamer

TW: Gruesome murder

There was an old man living away and alone in his cottage. This day, two villagers who hated him deeply came for a visit. Without greetings, the intruders bind the old man to a wall. While keeping him as their audience, one beats the man while the other heats up a branding iron in the fireplace. They then take turns burning and beating, malicious grins pulled across their faces.

While the two took recess to gobble the old man’s food, he freed himself and fled. Unhappy with their missing play thing upon their return, the two decide to methodically destroy all the old man had. The old man did not get far before a third stranger finds him. The shadowed figure takes a cast iron poker with four prongs and impales the old man; the red tips sizzle as they pass through and out his back.

A little girl who cared for the old man hurries after hearing rumor of the two villager’s nasty plan. She finds the villagers drinking and eating in the old man’s kitchen. Without the two noticing, she rushes upstairs to see how badly the villagers had treated her friend. She finds him unmoving, slumped over with a wicked poker through his chest. She confronts the two villagers and screams at them. The villagers, mortified, flee, claiming they only went as far as poking him with a branding iron.

---

News of Art, Art of News

Famous Artist’s Last Performance – A Duel Of Life And Death

Barely two weeks ago, the announcement of a duel to true death between the Renowned Performer and V. S____, a critic, made rounds in many artistic circles, our humble Gazette included.

Today we bring you the results of the conflict.

S____, as the one challenged, was also the one to pick the weapons. He chose a classic – arming swords.
The duelists met at dawn, heavy mist sat low on the pavements of the Forgotten Quarter.
A reporter of our own was, of course, present, herself a good friend of the Performer.

The bout began. Both men were skilled. A slash. A sidestep. A parry. They traded blows, gauged each other in the morning cold.

Then, in a flash, it was over.

S____ fell to the ground, a terrible gash across his chest.

The Performer smiled. A cigarette was lit. He said his goodbyes to our confused reporter.

Then, his own sword pierced his chest.

As life slipped away, the reporter knew, the duel is not over yet. The men shall fight now, again, on the other shore. Only one shall return.

She waited, patiently.

Then, one of the corpses moved. It was S____. With a grim, gloomy glare, he sat upright. His face fell into his hands.

“I have never known such grace.” He reportedly said before leaving into the darkness of the morning.

We shall all miss the Performer, dear London. In his honour, raise your glasses high tonight.

Remember the art, London.

---

Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
So many changes, so little time. I wonder, is the world kind, or cruel.
Wonderer

---

Dear Wonderer,
There are ups and downs in life. Turns, twists, loops, dead ends. Life is like a boat ride, really, in that it ends only in death. Might as well try to get a little joy out of it.