The Goosey Gazette

-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------
Some days can feel empty. There is not always an absence, but there can still be emptiness. The emptiness can be ever present. Persistent. Lasting. Days, weeks, months. It is a dreadful state to be in, truly, yet it is possible to overcome. The void is not eternal, and never has been. Fulfilment can be found in the most unexpected of places. This search, in itself, will last for as long as the emptiness remains.

Emptiness does not mean absence. There are wonders to be found within and despite the void. There is brightness within. It simply has to be dug out. This is hard, work, of course. It does not come easily. It does not come alone. Yet the start is lonely.

There is a certain emptiness within everyone. Do not give up until it is filled.

------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

by Reinol von Lorica

Captain Whitlock had passed.

I wasn’t as sad as I thought I would be. It was…surprising. I was there when she spoke her last. As much as I wanted to yell, to scream, to shout, to ask why she did what she did…I couldn’t. I don’t know why. I just wanted to make her smile one last time.

We made it back to New Winchester not long after. To this day, I wonder that if I had been a second faster, might had she been able to survive? The doctor said that there wasn’t a chance but still…

The Stationmaster’s visit certainly didn’t help. But his questions helped to clear my mind at least. Made me remember who I was.

I was a zailor once. Just like my mother. And my father, or at least, that’s what she told me about him. She showed me the ropes, taught me how to sail the Zee, manage a crew, hold my grog, and bed the engineer. Useful things at the time, and even more useful now.

I sought fame in the Skies. Just like my father. I know that’s what he did, because I see his name in every book in every library in every settlement that dared call itself a dominion of the Empire. It’s not that I want to be like him. Quite the contrary.

I wish only to surpass and eclipse his name. To carve my own name into history, just like he did. I like to call this payback for what he’s done. To me. To mother.

I’ve been summoned to attend to the matters of our late captain’s will. Other than her passing of the locomotive onto me, it seems she left much more. And for that, I am glad.

17th of May, 1905
Fabian von Lorica

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

Art of Carnelian - Poetry of Khanate, Theater of Tigers

The works of the Carnelian Coast are, for many, exotic still, just like the Coast and the Elder Continent themselves. It is for your convenience that we bring you a short insight into the works of these places, but it is still for you to discover them for yourself. We picked the two most enjoyed forms of art at the Coast, one for each of the residing factions.

The Khaganians are fans of tea side poetry. In their tea shops you can often find a poet, sat among cushions, reciting words of love, joy, wonder, and of hatred, sorrow, loss. The poems are different from those of London. Rather than providing lyrical depth, the poets of Khanate recite epics, stories of heroes told throughout generations. None of these epics have ever been written down, and it is forbidden to do so by their ancient laws. Still, the poetry is beautiful. Truly, nothing matches the feeling of sitting with a cup of tea, listening to the heroics of times gone by, not only from the Neath, but also from the Surface.

The Tigers of the Coast bring another twist to a tried art form. Their main joy is theater, however the theater of tigers is lyrical. The actors play concepts rather than characters. They convey feelings through their performance. They relay what may be rather than what is. Truths are ever only hinted at. These performances, of course, are enjoyed with a hookah. A room filled with smoke, the performers covered in a thick mist of mystery. Their voices boom and echo throughout the hall as they reveal their secrets. This form of theater is truly otherworldly.

Do not be afraid to travel, London. There is much joy in the mystery to be found on the Carnelian Coast. We encourage you to seek art, always.

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
What is the price of fame?

Dear Wonderer,
Your whole self, and much more down the line. It is the ultimate price.
[i]edited by Frogvarian on 5/19/2019[/i]

From now on, the Art of London section shall come before the News section, to give the various contributing artists more recognition.

-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Sins spread through generations. The sins of our forefathers haunt us to this day. The sins of our offspring bring shame to our graves. What was it all for when the children forsake their parents? What is it for when the parents neglect their children? Hate breeds hate, even through time. Pain brings only more pain. There must be care for the world. Firstmost, care for your kin, as often your kin is the closest of the world. Have respect for those who are dead, care for those who are alive.

Is it wrong to, in kindness, bring pain? To aid in folly? Self-destruction? Mayhaps. Is it folly in itself to cajole one out of harm’s way? Or to join?

Be wary of your actions. Do not bring unnecessary pain. Strive to do good.

------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

Letters from the Surface: Part XIV
Vital Information
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

It was two weeks after that, when something new happened. I had been accustomed to prison life at this point, but I learned that one of the Cheery Man’s goons was in prison. Figures.

We met at mid-day to trade information. When I mentioned my adversary, the conversation took a turn for the worse.

&quotWhat happened?&quot

&quotI am trying to steal a diamond. He thought this was out of spi-&quot

&quotTHE diamond?&quot


&quotGuess you should be glad you aren’t on Mr Fires’ bad side.&quot

&quotHow do you know that?&quot

&quotIf you were, you’d be dead. The Orphanage burned down two days ago.&quot

Watchful is increasing…
Shadowy has increased to 150- Shrouded in Shadows!
An Occurrence! Your &quotLetters From the Surface&quot Quality is now 14!
An Occurrence! Your &quotRemembering the Orphanage&quot Quality is now 1-Haunted by Flames!
Your &quotCounting the Days&quot Quality has gone!

by Rowley Ruskin

In this place that is two places, the sea embraces the sky. Beyond the gate you see the infinite night and feel the cold wind of the High Wilderness upon your face. The sky has opened to you.

You allow the Flukes to enter first. That is their right. Their tendrils are restless as they rise. The water crackles with heat. There is a song in the air. A song that threatens to burn. HOME. They sing their wordless chorus. HOME. Their voice shines brighter than the stars. HOME. And then, in a tone that can almost be described as gentle: OUR GRATITUDE.

You watch them disappear into the night. The Neath grows darker in their absence. Your crew breathes a collective sigh of relief as the energies of the Correspondence quiet. Their anxiety disappears with the Flukes. They do not understand.

&quotCaptain.&quot Your navigator remains restless. &quotConsider the price.&quot

You look to the impossible vastness of the heavens, threatening to consume you whole. &quotA small price, all things considered.&quot

You give the signal. The sound of the engines is impossibly quiet after the Flukes’ song. Together, you take to the sky and claim your place among the starless nights.

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

An interview with a celebrated artist

It is my pleasure, dear readers, to present you with a wonderful and rare opportunity. It is so that our own humble Gazette was a guest of a great contemporary artist of London, one who has already written classics. We were blessed by their presence not only last week, as they have presented us with a story, but also today, as they agreed to a rare interview.

Without further ado, on the centre-page spread, Professor Reinol von Lorica.

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
I would love to meet again.

Dear Rayn,
Meet me in the depths.
[i]edited by Frogvarian on 5/26/2019[/i]
[i]edited by Frogvarian on 6/9/2019[/i]

Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lorine - or may I call you Reinol?

That’s Professor von Lorica if you must know, but yes, you may call me that.

Of course, Professor.
You have made quite the reputation for yourself with your writings down here in London. What is your muse, your main source of inspiration that lead you to success?

My muse? Well, I suppose you simply have to look into my roots as a Celestial. The long forgotten memories of the world above, the lost sky, the distant seas, the verdant ever green pastures that are out of our reach- those are what inspired me to write. Though I truly found my muse in sleep. When I close my eyes, I dream. I see that which we lost. I envision the planes behind mirrors, the amber skies of the sleep, the false sun of the dream. When I sit down to write, all I do is close my eyes, and imagine these two worlds in my mind…and the stories that could’ve been made

It is dreams what inspires you then - are they ever only pure dreams? Artists are known to utilize Prisoner’s Honey. Is this a technique you have adopted yourself?

Once in the past, I have relied on honey and wine to make art. Now however…I no longer need them to dream. After all, what is honey but a way to aid those who wish to dream? I have no need of such thing, not anymore.

A truly exquisite talent! Many would give much to be achieve this. Do you, however, consider this dangerous? It is a sweet apple to bite from, though offered by a snake.

It is only dangerous to those who bite more than what they could chew. The lords of the mirror can only do so much after all. Dangerous yes…but then again, isn’t everything down here?

Truly, there is little safety in the Neath. It is said that even you began your life down here with a bit of danger. Tell me, if you wouldn’t mind, a little more of your reasons for coming here, and reasons for staying.

Let us say I came here for a reason far more different than as to why I stayed. I came here in search of certain fellow who has escaped my grasp. I stayed to carve my name into history.

A noble goal, one many will consider successful. More to your work - it is cherished all over London. Do you have any regrets concerning your position?

That I’m afraid, implies that I hold remorse as to the methods of how I achieved this position. Which I do not, so no, I have none. Though, I suppose I do wish I had more free time on my hands. My work takes me not only to my writing desk, but to my office at my newspaper, the halls of Parliament, and the theatre-rooms of my rivals!

A man of many talents, of course, always suitably busy. I’m sure all of London is as familiar with your papers, London’s Reflection, as they are with your other works. Your membership in the Parliament, however, might escape the less politically inclined. Would you mind elucidating your position there to our readers?

Ah, yes, I’m glad to see that my less artistic endeavours are known to the public indeed. As for what I do in Parliament…well, my role isn’t much you see. I merely got there through more simpler means rather than by decades of political experience that my fellows have. I suppose you can call me a simple advisor. I do nothing more that to provide advice and suggestions regarding the new laws that are to be pushed forward.

An advisory position, of course. Still, you must have your own opinions on the going-ons in London in the Neath. Not too get too political, or to stray much to far from the topic of art, I must ask, what are your thoughts on the Masters and the Bazaar?

Why yes indeed, I do have many opinions about the current state of London, but I shall spare you the boredom and simply answer your question, and besides, some things are best held close to your chest. I admit, the way the Masters run London is not something that I can whole heartily support. There are many things worthy of complaint, but I believe that with cooperation and negotiations, that can change. No need for riots and revolutions. Through more peaceful and diplomatic methods, our troubles can be easily resolved. While I can make no comment on the Echo Bazaar, I will say that it is a wonder for our Economy. Anyone, as long as they have the skill, can easily climb the ladder, as most of us have.

Well there’s our bit of politics for today, thank you. Back to the art. Our own humble Gazette has been allowed to publish one of your very works. Would you care to tell us something about the work? How it came to be, your feelings towards it?

Ah, that one, yes. Well, let’s just say that’s it’s once again, something I thought of in a dream. I was having a particular fascination with the stars at a time, and so I dreamt of what was beyond. I admit, I do feel that it could be one of my personal favourites. It’s neither great nor classic, but I wrote it for someone else’s sake. And that’s all that matters.

That is what we value most of all; art for the sake of art. The emotion within the piece can be felt upon just a skimming.
What would you consider the best part of your art, Reinol?

The answer is simple. The meaning. The intent. The purpose. For every book I write, for every portrait I paint, for every story I regale, each one has meaning, regardless of the way they are produced. What is art but a way to express our unbidden thoughts and desires? Without meaning, our works are nothing but rubbish scribbled on parchment.

Wise words, so close to home they hit for artists.
Speaking of your various mediums, what is your favourite way to convey your art?

Without a doubt, it is through words and writings. It is how I started my path to notability, and it shall be that way until the end.

One last question - as parting words, what would be your advice for the artists of London, old and new, our dear readers of the Gazette?

Advice…well then. I know that many of London’s artists struggle to make their name in this city. Some, because of a dying muse and the deprivation of inspiration, others because they lose themselves to the temptations of wine and honey. My one piece of advice is this: when you find your pen-hand struggling to fill those pages with blessed words, do not use the freedom of honey-dreams or bouts of drunken frenzy to set your muse alight. No. Do as I once did; close your eyes, and dream of something far more better. Walk out of your homes, look to Zee, and think of the shores so far and away, yet so wondrous and magnificent. Set your eyes upon the Roof and envision the forgotten skies. Gaze to the South and imagine the splendors of the Mountain. Look North, and wonder what lies beyond.

-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Change is a part of our existence. We change, constantly. Every second, our very bodies change and rearrange. Time and space changes and bends and fluxes. Each moment, one’s whole life could turn over for good. In many moments, it will.
Sometimes, change is oddly subtle. A small shift in the paradigm. Barely noticeable yet so uncomfortable for its strangeness. Such change likes to travel in packs to completely turn a life around. Seemingly unrelated events can lead to an enormous change. One moment, there is status quo, the other, chaos. One moment there is the comfort of the routine, the other, the taste of adventure.

Welcome change into your life. It is what fills our life, drives it, gives us a reason to continue. The very promise of a better tomorrow. The very fear of a dark future.

It is what gives us life.

------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

A Lie and a Truth
by Chronic Dreamer

A farmer lived simple, his world right and tranquil
No one ‘ere did bother, none cared cause hassle
He tended to his land, few else could matter
Until came she, the witch of lies, wanderer Fos Tanther

Noble farmer ask she, her voice alluring and queer
Would you spare home, my body aches from tour
Bow does the farmer, in agreeance he leads her the way
Little to their knowledge, both hearts would be entwined

I must tell you this, for it is quite dire
How you appear here one day, unaided and without means
My door is ever open, no one shall I rebuff
But I have naught to offer, scant nourishment of muff

‘Tis fine for a roof, I needn’t much else
Could you be a dear, and tell me your wealth
Your farm is so lively, and your appearance quite fetching
‘Tis little to wonder, what spell you have to tie me here

Your flattery’s too kind, others think elsewise
Though you must be mistaken, neither farm nor I are lookers
A temptress I assume thee, despite I let stay
As I have said, I shall turn none away

His sight touched her heart, truth in tongue as well as thought
Her beguilement did not pass, enchantment held no sway
This man did yet keep her, honesty to fault
Her myriad of tricks yielded no fruit, her soul saut part

The night did roll in, a spark of passion then grew
These two became one, a lie coaxed in by truth
In tune with their clash, their hearts quite wavered
Neither could ever change, natures stout ‘ner tapered

In all of their difference, they managed to keep together
A farmer’s small home, Fos Tanther laid claim
None could trouble him, no one dare enter
A secret affair by two so stark, no one would think, not even those brought

Love is a string, binding even those who differ profound
Blind shan’t foresee who they might covet, they’re open to all
Let these words make lesson, to all who are willing
Yet whomst turn down, equal a villain

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

The Interpreter Of Dreams Takes London By A Storm

We all have been plagued by dreams. Many an artist have taken inspiration from dreams, honey or subconscious. What to make of dreams, however? What meaning to infer from nightmares?
The famous Dr. Scholmo has studied dreams, psychology, Correspondence, and the Neath itself for a long time in pursuit of revealing the meaning of dreams. We at the Gazette have visited the Doctor several times. The interpretation ranges from enlightening to bladderdash, of course, however it always brings unique insight into one’s mind. The Doctor succeeds in striking a cord of the human soul, if absolutely by accident. His speeches are, naturally, easily described as art within the field of psychology. He has produced rather fantastic results with his patients, and even though his services are rather prestigious for the common Londoner, we recommend paying him a visit if your nights are plagued by unrest and strange visions.

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
How to tell him? There is little I can do.

Dear Concerned,
It is not always up to you. Bite your tongue. Support. Let the responsible figure it out.
[i]edited by Frogvarian on 6/9/2019[/i]

-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

I was never one to forego a purpose. There is a meaning to life, after all - must be. So hard to find, of course. No matter, once found, it must be latched onto like a lifeboat. It is what I did, devoted myself to my meaning, my purpose.
Art is a purpose, in a way. News are a purpose. I am not going to pretend, however, that it is so ultimate and necessary to my life.

I have found a meaning in others, helping and reminding and guiding. It was my purpose from the day I was born, now I know. Though I may have signed away at a later age, I was always destined for, well, at least something like this. My happiness, I truly believe, comes from the happiness of others. It is only through my actions bringing the well-being of others that I can truly bring forth my purpose.

Meaning, of course, is not a one-time goal. It is not something you achieve easily and then die happily. It is eternal. It encompasses your life. It guides your every step. It follows you throughout, it is something you must adhere to, and something that you do adhere to, without even realizing it. It is the work of destiny that brings forth your decisions. We may be free to create our own, yes, but still we act towards this very purpose.

For one, I am very content with my purpose. I embrace it. I live and love for it.

For another, I am so terribly sorry, dear Rebeka.

------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

Letters from the Surface: Part XV
Casing the Remains
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

Fires was a fool to leave me alive. Now I can wreck it’s plans.
I remember what Vaughan said to me. Clarabelle was in love with the Orphanage, because of a Moon-Miser.
The moon-miser… Was my endgame- is my endgame.

I stroll through Spite, and see the remains of an old building. The Orphanage itself.
No one was left alive, but the Special Constables remain alert. Time to be one with the shadows.

A plan forms, in the back of my mind. But for ethics’ sake, I must cash in favors.

The urchins are willing to spread my good name through the Flit. Now I can analyze the Orphanage from all angles, with the help of some escapees.
This opportunity is mine, and mine alone.

An occurrence! Your &quotLetters from the Surface&quot quality is now 15!
Casing shows your progress in the venture.
You’ve lost 1* Favors:Urchins(new total 0)
You now have 1*Favors:Criminals

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

A Rubbery Lack of Artform

Through an anonymous, trustworthy source, news of the Rubberies living on Flute Street have reached the ears of our Gazette’s reporters. Most important for us, of course, was the art - though what we have found was surprising.

There are, of course, past experiences with Rubberies as artists, albeit under the supervision of a human. They are joyous and yearnful musicians, ecstatic to express themselves, yet in the depths under London, where Flute Street and its residents exist, there is an alarming lack of art.

Truly, despite the beauty of the amber streets, the Rubberies seem to not have any way of expression of their own. A few theories we have are, of course: oppression, lack of imagination, fear.

Further investigation is required, and shall be reported upon.

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
Is it right to feel this way? Is it not indulgence in itself?

Dear Special,
Do not be afraid of your feelings. Examine them further. There is truth to be found among the grain. Indulgence need not be incorrect. Remember your calling.
[i]edited by Frogvarian on 6/9/2019[/i]

-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Nothing lasts forever. Things come to an end. It is the natural way of things. Life, death. Creation, destruction. Beginning, end.
It has been an immense pleasure to publish Letters from the Surface, all the way until the story’s completion - today. We bid farewell to this tale, though, most hopefully, not to Sir Wensleydale, the author.

Though we are sad to see the story go, we are eager to work with Sir Wensleydale in further endeavours, new stories, open reaches. The story had truly been a beacon of light for the Gazette, and, hopefully, fun and an inspiration for our readers.

Without further ado, let us commence this week’s edition.

Still, you have been a beacon of light for this small paper. To many great stories to come, to inspiration, to art.

------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

Letters from the Surface: Part XVI
Penning a Letter
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick

I wrote a letter, up to one of England’s colonies. It went like this:

&quotTo Anyone This Concerns-
London is a hub of intrigues. All scandals that you hear of are true. People go mad in pursuit of knowledge. The Empress has lost most legal power, and her replacements have plots against each other. Many speak of revolution, but said revolution is worse for the common man.
It is also an opportunity for wealth. My venture down here has become more of a permanent residence, and I have been in pursuit of a diamond that is not a diamond. Art is also flourishing.
Write to the papers! Tell them stories of the Fallen city of London, and it’s predecessors! And yes, it has predecessors!

Professor Wensleydale of Hardwick&quot

Persuasive has not increased from 200.
Making Waves has increased to 25!
You’ve gained 10*Influence(new total 43)
An occurrence! Your &quotLetters from the Surface&quot quality is now 50- Master of Communications!
An occurrence! Your &quotSpider in the Web&quot quality is now 1-Honest!
A Defender of Truth is increasing…
An occurrence! Suspicion is now 15- Imprisoned!
An occurrence! Scandal is now 15- UNTHINKABLE!

The papers devoured this letter. Constables from the surface began showing up. I’d seen this intrigue through.

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

A Celebrated Artist of the Surface Arrives in London This October

In the latest piece of art news, we have a tasty treat for loves of music, especially violins. A celebrated violinist of the surface, certain V______ M__ shall arrive to our very London this mid-October to grace us with her wonderous music.

We know, of course, that the lady cannot stick around for long. Her all-round trip shall take only a day, a few hours of which will be dedicated to her performance. Do make sure to grab your tickets, London…

…but, of course, just that wouldn’t do for our Gazette! We are giving out tickets to front seats in a contest of sorts. The details can be found in the middle-page spread.

Besides seats, a stand-in area shall be open to the public - once again, courtesy of our very Gazette! We had to pull some strings to make it happen, London, we are sure you will appreciate.

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
What if I lose her?

Dear Denial,
Place your trust in the right place.
[i]edited by Frogvarian on 6/16/2019[/i]

-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

If you love something, let it go, as they say. This applies to people, of course, though pets as well, to an extent, even opportunities, or items. It is against our nature, in a way, to let things go. There are ways to cope, of course. Close your eyes, pretend it never had been in the first place. What the mind no longer considers the heart cannot hurt. What the eyes cannot see could possibly be only misplaced. Waiting for you, perhaps, at your doorstep, at your aunt’s house, propped against the clock as if counting the minutes until you reunite once more. One may fear opening the door, knowing in the back of one’s mind that the fantasy will not become reality.

It is, of course, ridiculous to think that the world revolves around one’s needs. It is equally ridiculous to think that no part of the world revolves around them. It is simply preposterous to think there is no care for a particular thing, or a person, a feeling, or a position. Where there exists possibility there exists want, and care. People have a lot of care, after all, and the need to put it somewhere, to utilize it. To cherish, to protect, to raise and see grow. To teach, and to learn.

To love something, truly, is to be able to let it go, to give hold to that primal instinct, and to trust that, if it is meant to be, you shall be reunited once again.

------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

Artwork of Idelia Lockwood
In a special edition today we bring you the paintings of one artist going by the pseudonym Galvatyr (do press onto the name, will you?).

Hotshot Blackburn and The Tree of Liberty

Poor Edward

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

Mahogany Magician’s Act Goes Awry, Audience Evacuated

During last Saturday’s performance of an illusionist (whose name we shall omit, for the sake of discretion) there had been quite the unexpected and unfortunate twist. Whilst most of the show went by without a hitch, the Illusionist able to pull wonders out of their sleeves and bewilder minds with ease, the last act, consisting of mirrors, deadly pendulums, and audience interaction, went horridly wrong.

It started quite usual – a few volunteers, the contraption had been set, the Illusionist strapped to a chair. The mirrors were prepared, the performer reciting his speech, instructing the brave volunteers. The illusion began, and then, in a short moment, everything went horribly wrong. One of the volunteers, just a little too close to their mirror, stood there, missing their cue. In a short moment a maelstrom of misfortune swept through the stage. The control of pendulums was lost almost immediately, the doves fluttered into the air, the Illusionist was decapitated. The audience, fortunately, was ushered towards the exits in haste and none of the seated folk were injured. Besides the Illusionist, who is now in the process of recovery, the volunteers and assistants were all only injured. The one who had caused this accident, however, had disappeared, though our sources say they had been seen entering the Labyrinth of Tigers accompanied by several cats.

This short surge of excitement has, of course, not impeded the good spirits of the audience nor the Hall management, and all shows shall continue as normal. Investigations of the causes are in progress.

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
How to contain one’s feelings?

Dear Brooding,
Yelling at the zee always helps.

-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Home is a nebulous thing. It resides only within the mind, one could argue, even if we connect the word to a place as we so often do. Yet home can stretch to horizons of various sizes. A home can be a town. A home is often a room within a house - or the house itself. A home can be as vast as a country. A home can be the Neath, if one ventures to the surface for a while.

Is a home the place of our origin? The one at which we live now? How many homes can a person truly have?

The qualities of home:
A warm meal
A lockbox full of secrets.

The romantically inclined so often ascribe the qualities of home to people. I myself am prone to agree; home is where the heart is, as they say.

It is everyone’s hope to have a home, one day. It is my hope that it is what everyone shall have.

------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

We present to you works of contemporary modern art from two readers of our Gazette.

A bold piece by Plurnes.
“The L________n of N___t”

A work by an anonymous artist, with a critical analysis of the very Johnattan Hoppskotch.

The work “SHEEP” is a deep and meaningful satirical statistical parody on the current state of art, politics, and agriculture.
On the surface level a obvious parodic analogy emerges, the darkness surrounding the sheep represents the darkness of the Neath while the almost brightness of the sheep represents the light of art and journalism; I believe this is why the artist chose a sheep and not a cow or a pig - cows would be hard to draw in the background of the piece and pigs are considered to be a criticism of authority because more wealthy people tend to eat pigs more.
However when the work is studied and carefully observed deeper truths emerge, the style is very similar to that of what First City art is speculated to look like according to my academic associates, and the darkness surrounding it represents the lack of civilization at those times. This leaves us with an even deeper question. What does the sheep represent? I intended to ask the artist only to learn that he is apparently in prison, the Tomb Colonies, dead, and might have not legally existed in the first place.
So in my opinion the piece is meant to be interpreted by the observer as they see fit. Do tell me what you think of its meanings and send monetary incentives to 34 Takepenny Street.

  • Johnattan Hoppskotch

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

The Art of Devils - Baroque, Indulgence, Needlework

The devils, an enigmatic presence not liked by all, yet now such an integral part of life down in London. They keep their gates locked to those not at least tolerant of their presence, though, naturally, we have seized an opportunity to explore their artwork in-depth.

Devilish art is as one would expect; it is a thing of grandiose, artwork with make and content of epic proportions. Devils do love their visual art, covering whole walls with them, or even ceilings. The anti-church has to be complimented - their love for such art matches in scale even the grand temples of worship of the Christian church.

An interesting factor of the devilish art are, however, their intriguing tapestries. Woven of the finest sorrow-spider silk, sewn with the most minute of needles, sharp enough to pierce a hair. This art does not lack in grandiosity, though it’s breathtaking factor is in the craftsmanship itself. One’s mind is sure to be enamoured, bewildered, boggled.

We do recommend admiring a devil’s tapestry with a spoon of honey.

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
What is work if not hell?

Dear Questioning,

-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

It is easy to be overwhelmed. By the good, by the bad, by the bland. Overabundance is the true poison; just like not even cyanide can kill in minute doses, and honey will bring a slow death if consumed by the gallons. It is never good to ride a tide so long - one is bound to fall.

The mind, of course, if unused to a sensation. has a harder time processing and accepting it. That much may be ruinous, in a way, to begin the process of change. Yet it is always upon us to find balance, to bring an equivalence to our life. The aforementioned process, after all, has a benefit to it. Once the tides change, the impact is all the sweeter, more bitter, blander. It is the impact of the flavour that brings true feeling.

Do not be afraid of what is to come. Embrace it, with your whole heart, and let the future bring forth more courses.

------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

House of Troubles, Part I
by Tuesday Next

They were halfway through their second set when Eli saw Martin in the crowd. It was a miracle he could see that much of the crowd at all–the stage lights in the inner-city club were less blinding than usual, although they were still hot enough that he felt like his makeup should be melting off. Lights like that were a side effect of doing a secret show, he figured–and not that long ago that it seemed like all their shows had been secret. Now crowds of people showed up to see them, singing along, wearing their T-shirts and painting their faces in an attempt to match the band’s elaborate makeup. The House of Troubles was just over the edge of success. They weren’t one of the big names (yet, some would say), but they opened for them enough times to be recognizable.
Eli strode across the stage, half-singing, half-yelling the well-practiced lyrics into the microphone as the crowd whooped. This wasn’t exactly planned—normally he and Doug would yell into each others’ faces during the tag of this particular song—but he had to get a better look at the crowd, make sure the face he saw was really who he thought it was. Besides, the crowd, at least, would forgive him a little change in behavior. He was supposed to be the Madgod, right? And how could he claim that name, that persona, if he didn’t break the rules once in a while? Never mind the fact that he was starting to have to hold back flinches when fans called him that. He could still use the persona as an excuse if he wanted to.
It was him. The lighting was bad, and they hadn’t seen each other in years, but Eli could never forget Martin’s face. He’d seen it often enough, first in second grade, then almost daily until high school graduation. Of course, he usually associated that face with his sister’s, as the three of them had been practically inseparable for most of their young lives, but mercifully, he only saw Martin, not Marina. At that point, Eli made up his mind. He had to track Martin down after the concert, just to talk to him. Maybe meeting with someone who knew him before the Madgod and the House of Troubles would help with how he’d been feeling recently. At that moment, Martin looked up, not yelling, not singing, just looking. Their eyes met, and someone looking close enough may have been able to see past the butterfly wings painted on Eli’s face and realize just how tired the Madgod looked.

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

Ravemeo and Doviette – The First All-Bird Play Takes The Mahogany Stage

A new production of the Bard’s immortal “Romeo and Juliette” has just appeared at Mahogany Hall, having already premiered earlier this week. This production is curious, however, for its unusual casting – all the actors are rather well-trained birds.
In the role of Ravemeo is, of course, a raven. This bird fit the character simply perfectly, the rash and violent nature of the main character combined with the black brooding of love.
Doviette, played by a bleeding-heart dove, was another wonderful role. The gentleness of the young maiden, as well as slight rebellion of her actions, and, of course, the final death have all been beautifully portrayed. The origin of this actress is, despite our best efforts, still unknown.
The rest of the cast was suitable, though largely unremarkable, consisting of the common crows, ravens, and surface parrots of the Neath. For birds, however, the acting was exquisite. The ravens’ and the parrots’ mimicry of sound came in handy, and Doviette’s lines were, even if not in human language, frankly tear-inducing in their delivery.

No bird-related accidents were present during the play, either, and a pack of swift and silent Rattus Faber cleaners were employed to rid the stage of any potential white spots, a job which they had done with welcome expertise.

Overall, the production was a success, and we at the Gazette are looking forward to further adaptations (or original works) by this troupe.

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
I do not want to let her go. I do not know if she wants to let me go. I feel afraid

Dear Cornered,
It is not up to us to choose. Everyone is their own beast.

-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

It is important to enjoy the little things. Listen to the wind’s whistle, observe the snail slowly slime, caress a flower’s gentle petals.
It can be a dreary world in the Neath. You might wish for the sunlight of the surface. Or you might enjoy the darkness. There are stances to be had, of course, but also a reality to face. It is dark, damp, cold, bitter. Yet it is ours.

Look at the glimmering side of life, London. The one showing you treasures, wonders, niceties, and joy. Hold the hand of those you love. Smile from ear to ear. Emotions fuel our art, and happiness creates the most beautiful art of all.

Do not be afraid to dream. Do not be afraid to be happy. Damned be all those who shun us for our joy, for they themselves lack it. Do not be afraid.

There is art everywhere in the world around us.

------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

House of Troubles, Part II
by Tuesday Next

The club was crowded, loud, and already full of the smell of alcohol and sweat. Eli had been in what felt like hundreds of places like this over the past few years, but this one was different. It wasn’t anything to do with the music or the decor and everything to do with who was there. He’d been watching the door as much as he could after the concert, and as far as he could tell, Martin had yet to leave. All he had to do now was find one man in a crowd of people, most if not all of them his fans. Easy, right?
Eli pushed through the crowd, straining to see if he could find that familiar face, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around, hoping, only to be met with a young woman, bright red hair hanging about her face.
“Hey,” she shouted over the music, “You’re him! You’re the Madgod, right?” She took his silent half-nod as confirmation–he supposed his face was that recognizable, especially with the butterfly–and continued, “Man, I’m, like, your biggest fan. ‘Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to Know’ totally changed my life. Can I get a selfie with you?” It was all Eli could do to keep from sighing. Yes, he’d wanted this life once, but now, after so many late nights and hearing the same fannish statements over and over again, it was getting stale. Eli put on his ‘smiling for the fans’ face and positioned himself next to the young woman long enough for her to pull out her phone. However, just as she was about to snap the picture, Eli finally saw Martin walking by.
“Sorry!” he said to the woman, “I have to go. There’s someone I’m supposed to meet…” It was only halfway a lie. He dashed off, leaving the fan with a blurred image of her idol, and chased after the familiar man. This time it was Eli’s turn to put a hand on someone else’s shoulder.
“Martin?” he asked, “That is you, right?” For a split second, he had a sudden doubt. What if he had been wrong? What if this was just someone who looked like his old friend? But his fears were abated as soon as the other man turned around, smiling. It was definitely him.
“Eli Bereth,” Martin said with a smile, “It’s good to see you again.”
“Why’re you here?” Eli asked. He vaguely remembered a conversation where Martin mentioned that he lived in this area, but that didn’t explain how he’d heard about the concert. The only advertising had been on the band’s social media, and far as Eli knew, The House of Troubles wasn’t exactly the sort of music that his friend usually listened to.
“One of my coworkers is a fan of yours,” Martin answered, “he told me about this show when I mentioned I knew you, and I thought I’d try to catch up.” Right at that moment, someone backed into Martin, almost sending him smack into Eli.
“Sorry!” the person yelled, then they looked at Eli, recognition dawning on their face. Eli called, “C’mon,” to Martin and walked away, to a different area of the club. The fans were inescapable, it seemed.
“This isn’t the best place for talking, is it?” Martin commented, “C’mon, let’s go somewhere else. I can’t hear myself think in places like this.” Eli, who was used to not being able to hear himself think, nodded. It was an impulsive decision, sure, and really he should’ve stayed at the club, but what was life without adventure? God knows he needed a moment of escape.
“Go ahead,” he told Martin, “I’m gonna get this shit off my face.” It would take a moment, but it’d be infinitely more convenient to go out without the butterfly. Besides, for the rest of the night, he was going to be Eli, not the Madgod.

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------
Mayoral Elections Are Upon Us – Candidates Revealed! Vote For Change!
The Mayoral Elections are here once again, dear London! We now know all of our candidates; the business woman, Mrs Plenty; the deviless scholar, Virginia; the famed medium, Madame Shoshana. We at the Gazette are excited beyond belief to report on the on goings of the election. While we do plan on staying apolitical, we also believe that engaging in your local government is one of the most important a citizen can attend to. Vote for change you want to see, London! Vote for what you think is best.
From our point of view, all the candidates are known lovers of art, thus the choice indeed boils down to policies. Let us see what sorts of campaigns they will lead!
As the elections are only starting, we at the Gazette are running a popularity poll. Vote for your favoured candidate! The results shall be published with the next edition!

Please, vote!

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
I feel as if in a web I have spun for myself.

Dear Cornered,
We catch ourselves in the strangest things. It is then up to us to create a way out. As slow as it may be.

-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

To truly know oneself is a chore. An identity is something to be discovered, built up over decades, found in the gutter of one’s subconscious. It is tiresome, it is messy, it is a dive deep into one’s psyche. To truly know oneself is a curse and a blessing; to reach such a point is a journey few dare to fully undertake.

What makes an identity? Views, opinions, favourite flavours of cake; who you love and how you love them, the way you let the world see you. It is a daring act, to express oneself. Foolish, some might say, in a world that is not kind to the different. It is a sort of performance art in itself, to be so daring. For one’s body to be the canvas upon which they paint their identity, as if to tell the world: Judge my every move, for I can take critique with a smile and criticism with a fist.

Do not be afraid of those who reveal their wings, London; be afraid of those who would rather hide them from you, as they are the ones with evil written upon them.

Like a rubbery emerging from sea foam, embrace your self.

------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

House of Troubles, Part III
by Tuesday Next

A few minutes later, Eli walked out of the club, his smile at the rush of quiet and cold air only intensified when he saw his friend standing on the sidewalk.
“Took you long enough to get out here,” Martin said, “I was afraid you’d gone back to your adoring public and forgotten about me.”
“Nah,” Eli shook his head, a stray droplet of water falling from his hair, “I needed a break from the adoring public.” He wore a hoodie over his shirt, although the tight black pants he’d worn on stage were still there. He had tried to wash his stage makeup off, but the combination of his hurry and the low water pressure of the sinks in the club’s bathroom meant he was left with limited success. What had once been a vivid orange and purple butterfly was now a collection of smears around his face. He looked a mess, but hopefully no one would recognize The Madgod based on just a few smears.
“So, did you drive here?” Eli asked, looking around the street as if expecting a car to just pop up. Martin laughed and said, “With how awful parking is around here? No, I just took an Uber. Anyway,” he added, “you wanna get something to eat? According to Google, there’s a 24-hour diner nearby, and I could really go for something cheap and greasy.”
“That sounds fucking perfect,” Eli answered enthusiastically. It wasn’t quite the adventure he was expecting, but it was the journey, not the destination—even if the destination still sounded really appealing. Cheap, greasy food in the middle of the night with Martin? They hadn’t done something like this since high school, when they were too young to even act like they knew what they were doing. He could think of no better oasis.
“Great.” Martin tapped his phone screen a few times, “looks like it’s within walking distance, if you’re up for it.”
“Works for me. Legs could use a good stretching.” In the early days of the band, his legs would almost give out after a performance, leaving him held up by adrenaline and little else. Nowadays, he could manage it easily and even preferred walking around afterwards, “Which way?” he asked, beginning to move in the direction Martin indicated.
“So,” Eli said after they were moving in the right direction, “How’ve you been? It feels like it’s been a lifetime since we talked.” In a way, it had.
“I’m doing pretty well,” Martin answered, “Finished my Masters last year, right now I’m part-timing at a museum while I try to find someone who’ll hire me for something more substantial. How about you?”
Tired. Burnt out. Not sure if I can keep doing this. Eli thought.
“Fine,” Eli said, “Band’s doing well.”
“I could tell. They really seemed to like you up there. I don’t really do the whole metal thing, but that coworker who told me about the show? He just about exploded when I told him that I know you…” As they kept up conversation about the present, exchanging anecdotes about their daily lives, Eli felt his lips curving upward and settling into a resting smile. He liked the other members of the band. They’d never felt like family, but they harmonized as people as well as musicians, and he couldn’t see himself anywhere but onstage with them for as long as he could manage. But he didn’t have the same history with them that he had with Martin. They didn’t have the same inside jokes, the same shared experiences, and he couldn’t separate interacting with them from the exhaustion of being in the band like he was now. But then Martin had to ruin it.
“So, how’s Marina doing?” Martin asked, “I haven’t seen her since your mom’s funeral.” Eli almost stopped in his tracks. Why, of all things, did Martin have to bring that up? The one thing about home he’d been trying very hard to not think about, and he just throws it out into the open.
“She’s fine, I guess,” he said after a moment, once he could make himself walk again, “We haven’t talked in a while.”
“Since the funeral?”
“Yeah. Since the funeral.” He’d barely been able to look at his sister after they’d seen pictures of the drunk driver that had hit their mother, the man’s House of Troubles T-shirt still visible in the mugshot.
“You haven’t talked to her since then? Why not?”
Because Mom was killed by one of my fans.
“Dunno. Too busy with band stuff, I guess.”
“Oh.” Martin half-nodded, “I guess that would explain why you left so soon after the funeral too.”
“Yep,” Eli said quickly, then pointed at a dimly lit neon sign up ahead of them as eagerly as if he was actually hungry, “Oh hey, This must be the diner. Let’s go on in.” Hopefully Martin would take the hint. He wanted to chat, to take a break from being tired and upset, not become more of both.

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

Mayoral Election 1897 - Popularity Votes Coming Through!

Dear London - thank you all for voting! The results of our Gazette’s popularity vote are in:

Among yourselves, you have decided that the most attractive of candidates is Virginia, with Mrs Plenty just behind, and Madame Shoshana hanging lower yet.

We at the Gazette, of course, aim to remain sideless, though we cannot forgive ourselves a few stray comments.
It is peculiar for a devil to be making such headway, though we believe this simply shows London’s progressive nature, even a desire to purify London, as Virginia plans to do.
The second and third place, of course, are not to be taken as losers - opinions could change as easily as hats! Mrs Plenty has a bold (if unknown) plan for London, and Madame Shoshana plans to be a saving grace to us all. The policies of all candidates are so far unknown at best, maybe more so to the investigative sorts.

It is, as we see it, anyone’s game, London!

Alas, this little poll is only for the pleasures of our speculative readers! The real voting begins - today! Off to the polls, London, for it is our civic duty!

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
Will rest ever come?

Dear Cornered,
After many tired nights.

Due to the timing of the Election, this week’s edition of the Gazette shall be posted tomorrow, with news on the results!

-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

I do believe there is a sense of greater good in all of us. We fear for the future, we want it to be the best it possibly can. We, of course, cannot predict the future. There are possibilities, of course, some more plausible than others. There are many who say they have had a glimpse into what is to be. There are those who had deduced the progress of things long ago. There are those who know the secrets of the Neath.

It is noble, of course, to want to save what is dear to us. To fight for what we believe is right. Yet there can be folly in the short term. Future is a thing of mystery, thusly it is something beyond the scope of what we can know or see. When a seer sees the future, they see what will be, yet the true unknown is beyond even that. We can never plan, only prepare.

I welcome our new Lord Mayor, Virginia, and am eager to see what her leadership will bring. For the purity of soul - London had truly needed a spa for a long time.

------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

House of Troubles, Part IV
by Tuesday Next

The diner’s waitress didn’t bat an eye at the two men, one overdressed for three AM anywhere, the other in black skinny jeans and a hoodie, but instead seated them quickly in a booth by a foggy window, told them someone would be there to take their orders, and went back to the front and whatever was on her phone. Eli immediately opened his menu, blinking a couple of times as his eyes adjusted to the relatively bright light of the restaurant.
“So,” he said, lowering the menu and looking over the top of it, “one of the appetizers is something called blueberry pancake dogs. Wanna see what the hell that is?” Martin hesitated before saying, “Sure. Sounds interesting.”
“You don’t think they, like… flatten dogs, do you? With blueberries in their mouths?” Eli grinned at his own joke, his smile widening when he heard Martin chuckle.
“I doubt it,” he replied, “can you imagine how much of a fit PETA would be throwing over it if they did?”
“Oh yeah, I can see the billboards now.” Eli laughed, back at ease, “So I’m also thinking of trying those chocolate banana pancakes. Sometimes you just need a flavor combination that just doesn’t make sense.” Martin snorted, and Eli could’ve sworn he’d seen his friend’s eyes roll.
“Chocolate and banana isn’t that weird, you know,” Martin pointed out, “You just think it is.”
“I think, therefore it is. Isn’t that how it goes?”
“No. No, that’s barely even close to how it goes. Points for trying, though.” Just then, a different waitress came by and took their orders. After she left, Eli leaned back in the booth.
“Man, this is nice,” he said, “I needed a break from the whole band Madgod thing. It’s fucking exhausting.”
“I’m sure,” said Martin, “having to be on all the time like that must wear you out.”
“Well, I mean, I don’t have to be on all the time. Sometimes we’re just traveling. Then it’s playing cards with the others.”
“So do you ever regret doing it? The whole band thing?” Eli paused, considering, then shook his head.
“Nah. I still enjoy performing, and god knows I can’t see myself doing anything else. But I can’t really talk to any of the other band members, not like I can talk to you, or other people from home.”
“Not Marina, though?” Eli scowled at Martin’s mention of his sister’s name.
“Look,” he snapped, “I promise you she doesn’t want to talk to me anymore than I want to talk to her, so let’s just drop her as a topic, okay?”
“I doubt that she doesn’t want to talk to you, unless she’s changed drastically from the last time we talked.”
“Maybe she has. Or I have. Can we please talk about something else?”
“Eli,” Martin looked down at the table, took a breath, then looked his friend in the eye, “I need to tell you something.”
“What, did you talk to Marina recently?”
“Yes, actually. She’s the one who told me about your show tonight. Not my coworker. She saw on the band’s Instagram that there was gonna be a concert here and she called and asked me to check up on you.” Eli’s eyes narrowed, the purple and orange smears on his face wrinkling into creases as he nearly snarled, “What?”
“She’s worried about you.”
“Oh, is that what she calls it?”
“She said she’s afraid that you might be feeling alone after your mom’s death.”
“And whose fault is that?” Eli’s face was still hidden by the menu, but his grip on it had tightened, his knuckles whitening.
“What are you talking about?” Martin asked, “it’s not anyone’s fault.”
Eli slapped his menu down, “I guess you don’t have the whole story, then.” He sighed, took a deep breath, then stared into his friend’s face.
“Do you know why I left town right after Mom’s funeral?” Eli asked. Martin hesitated before giving his answer.
“You said it was band stuff.”
“That was a lie. As soon as the funeral was over, Marina told me that I shouldn’t go home. That she needed to handle this without me.”
“What? Why would she do that?”
“The drunk driver who killed Mom,” Eli’s looked down at his hands, now resting on the table and clenched into tight fists, “He was one of our fans. One of my fans. He had my goddamn butterfly on his t-shirt.”
“That doesn’t mean it was your fault.”
“Try telling Marina that. Clearly she’s so afraid of what I do that she got you to fucking spy on me.” Eli stood up, bracing his hands on the table, “Well you can go back and tell her that I’m just fine and fucking dandy, although I’d be better without-”
“Elijah.” Eli stopped in his tracks. No one called him Elijah. He hadn’t even heard the name in ages, not since he was a teenager and his mother was scolding him for his latest stupid stunt. Martin continued, a steel in his voice that hadn’t been there before, “Your sister was worried that you might be feeling alone after your mother’s death. Like she is. All she wanted was to know if you’re okay. After this, I don’t know what to tell her.”
“Don’t tell her anything,” Eli growled, sinking back into the booth. He crossed his arms, glaring at the placemat in front of him like it was suddenly the most interesting thing on the planet, “She’ll just use it against me.”
“Is that really what you think?” Martin asked, “Because I don’t think that’s the Marina we grew up with, or the Marina that called me. I think she made a mistake, and she wants to make up for it. I know she misses you.” He leaned down, trying to look Eli in the face, “And I think you miss her too.”
Eli blinked, and if his eyes seemed wetter, it must have been the light, or maybe the sweat from the walk causing some of the makeup to slip into them. After a long pause, he said softly, “She misses me?”
“Yes,” Martin replied, “Enough to talk me into going to a metal concert.”
“Tell you what,” Eli said after another long moment, “I’ll call her, and we’ll talk. You don’t tell her anything about this, because I will. Got it?”
“Works for me,” Martin said with a nod, “Now where do you think our food is? Staff here’s sure taking their time.”
“It’s what, three something in the morning?” Eli looked at his phone, then looked up. If there were tracks in the makeup remnants, Martin didn’t mention them. “They’re probably too busy wishing they were asleep right now. Oh, and speak of the devil,” he added as the waitress arrived with their food.
The rest of the time in diner passed peacefully, as Eli stuffed his face with pancakes, Martin nibbled at a sandwich, and they both discovered that pancake dogs were surprisingly decent. When they finished—Eli insisted on paying the bill—they stood outside, each waiting for their respective transportation and reflecting on the type of Uber driver who would pick someone up outside an inner-city greasy spoon diner close to four in the morning.
“Hey,” Eli said, “let me see your phone. You’ve probably still got my old number in there.” When Martin handed it to him, Eli quickly updated his cell number, then handed it back, saying, “Make sure you text me or something. I wanna keep in touch.”
“Of course.” Martin typed up a quick text and sent it, causing Eli to feel a buzz in his pocket, “In case you get sick of playing cards with the rest of your band.”
“And so you can tell me when you get a better job.” Eli smiled and added softly, “Thanks.”

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

The Mayoral Election Is Behind Us - First Lord Mayor Of London Revealed!

Dear delicious denizens! The election is behind us! We know the results now - of course, we also know that there is no longer a Mayor in London! As the Jovial Contrarian had revealed, as his last act, he asked Her Majesty to abolish the post, and instead, London now has a Lord Mayor.

This post, without further ado, of course belongs to Lord Mayor Virginia. The devilless has swept the polls, her plans of a spa and purity of soul surely speaking to many. We at the Gazette, apolitical as we stay, are still excited for a breath of fresh air in the Lord Mayoral office, and are eager to see the building of her proposed spa.

Glory to the victors, honour to the defeated, and power to the artists!

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
Why calisthenics?

Dear Confused,
It is the noblest of exercises.

-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Little indulgences can be forgiven, even if one’s stomach ends in aches. Pampering oneself is not a crime, after all. Each spark is to be stoked into brightness, even if it takes one’s own initiative. Wonders are what fuels them, transforms them into flames.

Wonders, the stuff of dreams. Dreams coming true - well, that is the specialty of artists. To bring the works of the mind to the canvas of the world. Anyone can be an artist, as I like to say. Everyone should.

In some ways, I would call it a crime to not indulge. To deny that which makes us us. A single decision can stand between regret and content.
In a similar way, I would call it a crime not to help the indulgence of others. To douse the flames instead of stoking them. To put a lock on want and gulp the key. It can be monstrous, to be denied.

It is my hope there can one day be fires within all of us.

------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

House of Troubles, Part V
by Tuesday Next

Eli was surprised to discover that the high from spending time with a friend that didn’t see him as the Madgod hadn’t worn off by the time he got back to The House of Troubles’ RV, which was parked in a tiny lot near the club. The lot was silent, only the RV and a few other cars standing up from the dark ground. If Eli had to guess, at least two-thirds of his bandmates would be in there, depending on whether Barron had met someone interesting. Either way, he didn’t hear anything as he approached it, so whoever was there was most likely sleeping, which suited him just fine. He had a phone call to make.

Eli leaned up against the side of the RV, staring at his phone. His sister’s contact entry stared back at him, a stupid selfie they’d taken together not long after The House of Troubles’ first show. She had painted a small butterfly on her cheek, a miniature of the face-covering one that had become his trademark. Once someone had asked him why he chose a butterfly motif and whether it fit the ‘Madgod’ image. He’d answered that being the Madgod was all about chaos, and what could be more chaotic than a creature that completely transforms itself? It wasn’t the best answer, but it had been less embarrassing than the truth—his mother had loved butterflies. She had taken her children to a butterfly garden once, and Eli would always remember seeing a massive cloud of the insects, their wings fluttering as they flew around. His butterfly had transformed into a memory of her death after he’d seen it on her killer’s shirt, but maybe now it would transform once again.

Eli took a deep breath, then hit the call button. As the phone began to ring, he realized too late that it was either too late or too early in the morning for her to be awake, but hopefully he could at least leave a voicemail. He leaned harder against the side of the RV, his legs jellylike and held up only by adrenaline until finally, he heard a voice on the other end of the line.

“Hey, Marina, it’s me. Shit, did I wake you up? Sorry. Anyway, I ran into Martin after my show tonight…”

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

Et in Arbor Ego - A Walk Through The City of Roses

Arbor, the city of marvels, the city of roses, built on and by and within dreams.

Last year, the Envoy from Arbor had visited our fair London. They appointed an Ambassador to this city of Rosers, and allowed a few to pass through its magnificent streets. Recently, one of our very own Gazette’s reporters had such same privilege; a visit to the city of Arbor.

The currency of Arbor, as it had been revealed, is Attar. Rose powder made of dreams, congealed at one’s eyes at the sight of the city’s marvels. Only those who truly see the wonders of Arbor can gain Attar, and with it, they may proceed to even more astonishing sights.

Foreword, a concern. We at the Gazette would like to express bewilderment, if not outright worry and outrage. It is a law in Arbor that the artists must be kept in cages. Cages! It is a disgrace, surely, a prohibition of art. Arbor is a city of labour, though no wonders as such could be built without the artistic spirit. Indeed, we propose that even the most common of craftsmen can be an artist! Fashion, architecture, even common carpentry are all to be used for art. It is our hope that this will not stand between us and Arbor in further relations. Nonetheless, without further ado.

First, Near Arbor. A place for craft – labourers, merchants. At the gatehouse there is a market. Each stall is filled with amusements and joyous knick-knacks. Our own editor left with a deck of tarot, each card a masterpiece on its own. The inhabitants – the Near Arbori – do not seem to notice these wonders. They do not have enough imagination, enough wonder, so the reasoning goes, to accrue much Attar.
Second, Far Arbor. This is the true place of dreams. Towers in incredulous heights, buildings of impossible architecture, palaces littering the streets and the skies. The inhabitants, the Far Arbori, don gowns with trains that gather crushed petals as they move. The Near Arbori cannot see the wonders of Far Arbor, for they are lacking in Attar. The city is guarded by walls, and surrounded by jungles.

Within Arbor, beyond the Attar, there are rumours of another city. Grander, more beautiful. The envoys do not want to speak of this place.

Such was the experience of ours within the dreams of Arbor. London’s Ambassador has requested entry for citizens of London, at least for visits. Though the opportunity is rare, it exists. Seize it, London, may it reveal itself to you.

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
Oh, how many times more?

Dear Unprepared,
As fools learn.
[i]edited by Frogvarian on 8/4/2019[/i]

-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

There are times we can feel betrayed by the rational actions of a loved one. We all act in a manner of self-preservation, after all. It is hard to despise decisions which are made in best intentions to the self. We can, however, be hurt. There may even be a good reason for such a thing. We can be confused, and we may not have the answers soon, if ever.

There is care one must put into one’s life. Steps we must take, obstacles we must cross. There is care we should put into the lives of others. That care, sometimes, requires us to hurt. True love means sacrifice, after all.

One should not ponder far too hard of the intricacies of another’s soul, however. Put trust into their betrayal. In many cases there is only ache to be found.

People are not a puzzle to be solved, but a forest to be left to its own devices.

------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

The Deal Made On A Comet
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick
Submitted close to 27th of July

The complex was alive with chit-chatter. The clocks began to ring. Odin… Dva… Tri… Chetyre… Pyať… Shesť… Sem’.

The doors opened. The President walked out of them. He overlooked the river that continued past the Kremlin. The ripples succeeded each other.

Dvenadtsať. An old woman gingerly entered the hall. She spoke, with a voice clearer than should be, and an accent that no-one else possessed.

“Whom did you love?”

“My daughter. Olga.”

“I loved my fianceé. He’d got bit by a snake, and this wonderful man- his name was Syd Alshumue. He offered to save my bethroted’s life. Actually, it offered anything, just for the city. I accepted his bargain. Much, much later, (though it felt like a couple of years to me), this merchant was murdered in such a despicable manner.”

“Similar situation with my daughter. She was my firstborn. When the revolutionaries began to riot, they threatened to shoot her if I did not back down. A man by the name of Gospodin Stranitsy offered to protect her, at the price of the city. …he gave his word, but unsuccessfully. She was killed eight years after the bargain.”

“And how did you feel?”

“Frightened. Confused. Doomed. But mostly, I felt a primaeval rage. When my fifth-born, Alexei, was acting up again, I killed him. Not out of a personal rage for him, but out of an anger and a hunger to avenge her.”

“That’s the thing about these merchants. In their intrigues, in their deepest matters… look to love. Always.”

Odin Kormovy, the clock struck. The woman left, leaving the czar alone. The river rippled. Perhaps, when Halley’s Comet came again, the pain would be over. Perhaps he would live to see the day it did. The woman, he saw, was tired. Tired of the pain, of the Neath. But lastly, tired of life, and it’s miseries.


Then he remembered. There had been inhabitants of the Neath a’fore he. Paris had become Moscow. The adobe labourers. London as well. Karakorum. Hopelchen. Amarna. Another city. But most of all, these Maîtres du bazar. They had been there. They had seen the suffering, the grief, and the torture. And what had they done?

“…look to love.”

And with that, his business continued.

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

Summer’s Heatwave Comes - Londoners Not Safe From Collapsing Even In The Neath!

It is a great shock to us to see the seemingly impossible come true - the yearly summer heatwave of England had reached even the Neath! In a span of just a few days, the temperatures have gone from mild, to only bearable, to rather uncomfortable. There were even several corset-clad gentlepersons who could not withstand this sudden shift, and have collapsed on the very streets of London (or, in some cases, coffee shops, art shops, and so forth)!

The origin of this heat is, so far, unknown. Leading theories propose Mr Fires’s meddling with the furnaces, or perhaps the Devils truly bringing Hell forth. Either way, we advise you hide in a gentle breeze or sip a refreshing glass of cold milk as we await for the heatwave to pass.

Stay cool, London!

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
Fun, fun, fun, fun, fun! How to have such, all the time?

Dear Rupert,
Why, that is a solidly good question. Perhaps, engagement.

-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

I have thought far too long about many of my predicaments. There is danger in getting locked in one’s own mind for such lengths of time. I have never been one to go into a battle unprepared, no, though I am afraid I have been preparing alone for a job for several. I am afraid I have let emotions take too strong a hold of me.

I fear I have little positive to say today, dear London. I have been fighting with myself for too long. Tugging and pushing and pulling in all the wrong directions. Overthought my place into paranoia; all that’s left is a straight jacket to match my inane grin.

So many things come down to the relations we create. Any good spy will tell you that the most valuable asset one can have is a contact. A friend, perhaps. Never make friends with spies. People are so unfortunately complex. Like clockwork that reconnects its gears whenever it feels like it.

Some battles are to be fought with compliance.

My only hope is that there is still warmth to be salvaged.

------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

Excerpts from Parabola
by Kimberlea Heili
More works to be seen.

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

Myth Or A Gruesome Reminder – The Tale Of The Drowning Dutchman

Today we commemorate a special legend in the hearts of zailors. Today, the ̷̵̶͠8̡͢͢͝҉8̶̴̸͘th anniversary of a zhip known as The Drowning Dutchman being lost at zee. Captained by one F_________, the Dutchman was a vessel of great renown. With a skilled and loyal crew, a smart and brave captain, surely the fastest in all of Neath, it was a true naval jewel. It had discovered many a treasure and secret, mapped much of the Neath, and brought glory to London.

It is sad to say that its tale does not end well. During what was to become its last and most infamous voyage, the Dutchman was caught in a Storm, much greater than it had survived ever before. This was, indeed, the last we have heard of it – none of the crew had made it out alive to tell the tale.
Still, legends persist. Reports and rumours of a ghostly zhip have spread through the ranks of zailors. Crew with hollow eyes, a captain with no soul. A vessel followed by mist and storm. All shall fear this vessel, they say, as all should, and never to follow, but turn ‘round and flee at first sight.

Such are the tales of the Dutchman, if one is to believe the tales, of course. Though much bizarre is to be found within the Neath, a healthy dose of skepticism never hurts.
However, be the tales truth or tosh, they serve as a reminder to all zailors, a reminder that it is not wise to challenge the Neath’s treacherous waters, and especially its Storms. It is a reminder for all that nature is not to be meddled with.

It is a reminder to us, dear London, that a good story persists.

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
Why, why, why, when, why, how?

Dear Madma,
I am afraid we are alone in such ponders.

-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

One important thing to note is that our actions have consequences. It seems logical in hindsight, always, yet it is important to keep in mind. That is not to discourage from any singular action. Perhaps it is only a reminder to be prepared for what is to come.

Consequences may be positive as well as negative. Such a distinction is, of course, subjective from each point of view. To be considered by each individual. Neutrality, however, is not a matter of consequence. It is the default state, a change of nothing. Not worthy to be spoken about at length.

Neither should we give attention to positive consequences. It is not that they do not matter, rather that none would dispute them. Subjectivity aside, of course, the assumption being of net good.

That leaves us with the consequences negative. One should always be aware of these. Prepared for the sword to strike, so to speak. They can have many impacts; the worst of which is, arguably, the emotional one. We rarely allow ourselves to think that something will come out of our behaviour. We coddle ourselves into a false sense of security. It is important to stay sharp!

What, then, is one to do when the pain comes knocking? Only hold your head high and prepare further. A life on the lamb is better than a life of regret.

Everything is wonderful, dear London.

------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

A Dawn of Something New
by Reinol von Lorica

“I know it may come off as a shock to you.” The Dark Spectacled Admiral demurs. “But I’m afraid that it is the single, unquestionable truth. Your room at the Blind Helmsman has already been prepared. I bid you a good evening.”

A firm hand grasped on his shoulder as the Brusque Secretary promptly steered her away from the desk.

She quickly found herself shoved into the main workplace of the Admiralty Survey Office. Men and women in the blues of the Navy ambled about, someone seated at desks filing reports while others walked in and out, bearing recent news of ships. Occasionally, a zee-captain would stumble in, and make their way to give out reports of ports across the Underzee…

“Try not to think too much of what happened, Miss Delamere.” The Dark Spectacled Admiral says his voice still audible from halfway across the room. “Some things are just strange down here. Especially that far out North.”
With those finishing words, she found herself thrust out in the foggy streets of Fallen London.

The Blind Helmsman was an inn.

Run by a blind helmsman.

“Carried away by spiders.” He said with a chuckle when she first asked him about the matter. She wisely chose to abandon the subject shortly thereafter.

Her room was frugal, and smelled of stale beer and honey, and it was to no surprise that she spent most of her time away from that place. Besides, the Blind Helmsman was hardly a good place for company, unless you were a zailor.

Nowadays, she spent most of her time wandering the streets of Fallen London, though she limited herself to Wolfstack Docks.

Not that she minded of course. Wolfstack was a fascinating place, a thousand ships a day, or so they say, make their way in and out of the port, to old far off places she only knew by name.

If she was lucky, then she sometimes found herself listening to the boasted tales of zailors returning from months spent out at Zee.

Though today, she had a different purpose.

The Admiral was kind enough to provide her with a respectable amount of ‘Echoes’, that was, Fallen London’s currency, that should be able to last three weeks at the very least.

That meant she had three weeks to find a job before she got kicked out of the Blind Helmsman, and though she never really liked the place, it still served as the closest thing she had as a home down here.

She sighed, taking her place on a nearby bench. How did she get here? Briefly, she recalls what the Admiral had told her regarding her past.

Or perhaps, her lack of one.

Simply put, there was nothing at all. Not even a sliver of her name or appearance had ever been seen in London. Not that mattered, considering where she was found…

The creaking of the bench as a weight came upon it interrupted her thoughts.

A gentleman dressed in black had chosen to sit next to her. She noted his appearance; a smooth pale face, auburn hair, green and orange eyes, spectacles, a dark three piece suit, and a fedora with several small mirrors attached to it. He seemed to be a respectable, if rather grim sort of person.

“The Admiral told me I’d find you here.”

She couldn’t help but flinch at the tone of his voice. It wasn’t cold, but it certainly was emotionless. He gazes at her impassively as ge turns to face her completely. She squirmed under his stare, for she could feel nothing from him.

“I am the captain of the ship that rescued you.” He says in the same, monotonous voice. “We were on an expedition on Irem of the Pillared Sea when a Riddlefisher led me to you. You were asleep, on a bed of roses. Almost angelic I might add.”

She looked at him in slight confusion and wonder. This was the man who found her? The words he said were already known. The admiral had briefed her about this. Still, it was always odd to hear them, especially considering she had no idea what half of them meant.

The captain tilts his head curiously towards her. “Now you look just like your everyday Londoner…not very angelic if you ask me.”

He leans back on his seat before stretching out a gloved hand. “Professor Reinol von Lorica.”

For a while, she simply stared at the gloved appendage. She wonders who this person really was, and why he even bothered coming to her. To meet her? Though she knew she shouldn’t be too surprised. If what he said was true, then he would be most curious about a girl who was asleep on a bed of roses.

Almost hesitantly, she grabbed his hand with her own. She didn’t exactly trust him, but he was the closest person she could, save for maybe the Dark Spectacled Admiral.

“Evensong Delamere.”

Reinol lets go of her hand and stands up, before gesturing her to follow him with an emerald topped silver came. “You live in the Blind Helmsman, yes? I won’t be having that.”

She blinks, unsure how to react. Unrepelled, Reinol speaks on. “Come with me Miss Delamere. London is a strange and dangerous place.” She could’ve sworn there was a glint in his eye as he spoke his next few words.

“You’ll never survive without my help. So do yourself a favour and say yes. I hate repeating myself.”

Evensong Delamere didn’t know why she suddenly trusted this man. If anything, she should stand, and scream for help. But instead, she finds herself looking back at him. There was something compelling her to accept. Something that she couldn’t explain at all. Was this fate?

Then, without a word, Reinol turns and leaves.

And Evensong followed.

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

Wonders Of False Summer - The Fruits of the Zee Festival

The time has come once again, dear London; the Fruits of the Zee festival is here! Ferries to and fro Mutton Island leave every half an hour from Wolfstack Docks. Imbibe the scenery, take a boat for a relaxing rowing trip, enjoy mingling with the locals, perhaps try fishing!

Not a perfect holiday resort, certainly, Mutton Island is still fabled all around London, for worse or for better. The famous Rubbery Lumps originate here, a wonder of Neath’s cuisine. Drownies, who inhabit many nooks and crannies of the island, deliver the mystery meat for these lumps to the locals for preparation.

Lord Mayor Virginia is, of course, present and enjoying the festival herself. Word has it that Mariam Plenty, a Mutton Island local, was forbidden from attending. She has many contacts and supporters on the Island, and while she has not been yet spotted, the truth of this claim is still up in the air.

The empty chair, it seems, is not present this year.

Nonetheless, we encourage you, dear London, to go out and catch yourself a juicy one!

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
I only wish there was noone left to mourn for me.

Dear Tired,
This too shall pass.

-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

by R. J. Frogvarian

&quotThe revel, the revel!&quot the crier cried. All around wine and spirits flowed. &quotJoin the jolly jesters!&quot

High echelons and low gutters do not mix so well. The upright worker looks down upon the displeased lady. Who’s in the wrong? It is any one’s judgement to say? The intricacies of a bond are not up to an onlooker to decide or decipher. Fueled by the intoxicating brew the pair sit arm in arm, an arm’s length apart. What blessed togetherness.

The two leave together. The bark seems worse than the bite. Through the darkened streets there is only silence. Neither is eager to admit a wrongdoing. As the silence grows unbearable, their humble abode makes its appearance. Glances are exchanged and words forgotten. Actions speak louder, after all.

Such sweet actions they are, under the sheets and around the limbs. The two are now one, as poets oft like to remind us. They diverge with bliss. Two again, in each others’ arms. Silent words are exchanged only now, at last ready to break free what was unwanted back then.

Though this might be only in the onlooker’s mind.
There is hope for happiness.
One would rather disappear than have to face the reality of living.

------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

In The Shadows
by Samuel James

Jules was right about the dark, that people should be scared of it, that all manners of evil lurk around in the shadows once the sun goes down. He tells them to get inside their homes, lock their doors and windows and close the curtains until the sun comes back up, because there’s things out there in the dark that want to harm others.

But no one listens to him.

Nobody takes him seriously.

They all just write him off as an insane old man who’s gone crazy of old age, they say ‘yes old Jules, we’ll do as you say’ but then ignore his advice. They think he’s just a crazy old man. Just another crazy old man who has gone crazy of old age and solitude.

But he was right.

He was always right.

He’s seen things in the shadows at night. Things with red eyes, red eyes no normal human can possibly have. He’s seen things with teeth sharper than any teeth he’s ever seen in all his years he’s spent on this planet. He’s seen things most other people brush off and try their best to ignore.

But he knows he’s seen them.

He’s looking at one of them right now.

Old Jules is looking at a man, a young man with bloodied hands and nails too long and sharp to be those of a human. Nails that are claws. Claws that just tore another man to bloody ribbons of flesh and fabric. The young man is staring at Jules with eyes as black as coal. Eyes that stared right at Jules and are making the old man back away from the scene he just walked into.

But the young man won’t let him go.


Not after what Jules has seen.

The young man takes a step towards Jules, snarling like a vicious dog and baring his too sharp teeth at poor Jules. All Jules can do is back away, back away from the demon slowly closing in on him, bloodied claws twitching. Itching to dig themselves into more flesh tonight, to tear another soul from its body.

Jules knows he won’t make it out alive. He knows they’ll find his torn-up corpse in the morning, that there won’t be much of him left to bury, that they might not even recognize him once he’s been reduced to strips of meat and fabric.

Jules says one final prayer.

One final prayer as the demon closes in on him, raising a clawed hand high above his head and bringing it down in one swift blur of dark red. Jules doesn’t even let out a scream when the talons tear through him. All that can be heard is his body hitting the paved ground and animalistic snarls as the fiend descends upon poor old Jules.

The first one to discover the remains of Jules and the unknown man is a young woman who will never forget the bloody scene. A woman who now firmly believes that there’s something out there in the dark, because she has seen what happens to people who go out in the dark.

Nobody will believe poor young Hazel.

Nobody will believe her about the things that lurk in the dark.

Nobody believes in things skulking around in the dark.

That’s why they go unchecked.

That’s why nobody ever catches them.

That’s why they’re free to take as many lives as they please.

Because no one believes in them.

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

The Drownie Troupe - London’s First All-Drownie Theater Group Makes Its Debut

In the marshes of our fair city, secrets swim and gurgle. The Drownies lie in wait just below the surface, just behind the zailor’s fears. A new Drownie troupe named The Marsh-Mired, however, lies in wait for you to buy tickets to their debut performance!

The troupe has made its venue on the Thames, with the stage just below the surface, water up to their knees. The audience seats are both on and off-shore, accompanied with chains to secure yourself once the actors start singing; a truly admirable dedication to art and safety.

We had the pleasure to see one of their performances, a play full of sorrow and love and death. Not one eye was left dry. The actors were truly wonderful, full of emotion, their songs mesmerizing (and the chains truly secure!). Despite the water they waded in - or, perhaps, thanks to it - they moved effortlessly, as if floating. Combined with the early morning mist, the spectacle was rather ominously charming.

We encourage you, dear London, to give The Marsh-Mired a chance. Tickets on sale now!

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
Oh how damnably myself I am.

Dear Lazy,
It is hard to forget one’s roots.

-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

by R. J. Frogvarian

“But what if you disappear?”
“I will return, in an uncertain amount of time.”

I made nothing of it at the time. It seemed almost routine. You roped your waist and descended into the dark abyss. Slow, steady, sure. I should have spotted the fear in your eyes.

I stood guard every day near that wretched hole. Not a bit of light dared penetrate the darkness. The rope was still stretched and tightly wound, twitching ever so slightly with any bigger movement. I waited and the days went by. Other guards gave nods of your progress, ever so sparse. Then.

The rope went limp.

It all seemed so routine and now I was scared. I would like to say I tried to pull the rope out but I have not. I would like to say I tried to help but I did not. Only a thousand yard stare and my mouth agape.

Others have returned from the darkness. They solemnly shook their heads and said little. I know you’re not dead. They say you are not dead. I hoped you were dead. The dead do not haunt me as much as you do.

I have ventured into the darkness before, of course. We all have. There are depths into which none dare cross. Only the foolish ones have no rope and no guard. Only the truly desperate ones cut their ropes.

I still wait at the edge if the darkness. Lantern lit. The rope, limp. I await even the smallest tug, a sign of return.

I am so very, very scared.

------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

The Zong of the Isle
by Ultimoto, Hershel Ingram, Elias Pembleton III, and The Avid Perfectionist

Oh gather round me bully boys!
For a tale of Mutton Isle
Of RNG and devil-girls
And a mask that’s really vile!

The horse that rides a bicycle
A well that’s not (so) swell
The wheels they clack mechanical
And the wounds the zailors quell

The mayors come to celebrate!
But Virginia’s only dour
Her hat is threatened by the 'Lloyd
And she’s done within the hour

A telling of the mayors past!
The mayor in a chair
Feducci never ever showed
And Jenny was quite fair

A vision from the men of Zee!
The Mountain, the lights, the Flukes!
Sample the feast you scallywags!
Accept your newfound dukes

Hop on, and catch a fish me lad!
The fish are sure to bite
And if they hang us out to dry
Set us up some dynamite!

We wait for the lady in the hood
The RNG is hell
The drowned man slowly, slowly stirs
We’ll join them in the well.

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

The Devils’ Circus Takes The Train Stage

It seems that with the election of Lord Mayor Virginia, there are other devils keen on showing their colours. Whether they agree with Lord Mayor’s candidacy or not, the Devils’ Circus has just arrived by the way of Moloch Street train. Their tents are now propped up around the station, a collection of twenty four small yurts spread around nearly chaotically.

There are many wonders to be found within the circus, including a mirror hall, flame jugglers, rubbery sideshow, misfortune teller, a remote refreshments and honey den, and so on. The circus has appeared overnight and quite unexpectedly. While we are quite excited to explore this newly presented novelty, we only have a rudimentary knowledge as one of our journalists is still trapped within the fabrics.

Mariam Plenty, the purveyor of Mrs Plenty’s Carnival, was unfortunately not reachable for a comment on this new occurence. Neither were any other London officials, and we are, frankly, a little freaked out by that.

Still, there is no reason for us to not recommend it - go on and explore the Devils’ Circus, London!

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
Is there no solace for the gloomy and the weary?

Dear Diined,
None know what the future holds, truly.