The Goosey Gazette

[Frog]

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

Perhaps I am prepared to face my demons. There are only a few, after all, however haunting and powerful they may be. Or perhaps it is I that is the weak one.

I have concocted a plan. I’m still content with my purpose, of course. Such things are not to be forgotten, thrown away like a paper ball. Yes, my purpose still stands. However, it does not have to stand in the same way. It can be nudged, adjusted, rebuilt, even. The purpose does not have to manifest the same all the time.

There is Violant, there is Irrigo, there is the Correspondence. Powerful tools, if one knows how to use them well. I cannot act in haste, of course. Such things take time. Bit by bit.

Rebeka has been whiling away her days. The scars on her body make me shiver. She seldom smiles in a pleasant way nowadays. The well, the well, the well, it calls to her. The contract is clear, still burned into my mind.

I shall have to accompany her, yes. Afterwards, however, there can be freedom.

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

Journal of a Dead Man
by Samuel James

‘It couldn’t have been an animal, this happened in the middle of a city’

‘Then what else could have done that? It couldn’t have been a human’

‘I don’t know, but it couldn’t have been an animal either’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, it was some madman who did this’

‘Then why do the corpses look like they were torn up by mountain lions?’

‘I don’t know, he probably used metal claws or something’

‘Metal claws, yeah sure’

The onlookers talked among themselves as police removed whatever was left of the bodies of old Jules and the young factory worker Henry, it took them some time to identify the remains due to the state they were in. There wasn’t a whole lot left of either of them in the first place.

At least their respective families will save up on funeral costs somewhat since they’ll be able to just bury them in soup cans.

But that didn’t make it any easier for their relatives.

Jules’ death hit his granddaughter Lacey the hardest. She loved the old man, she was fascinated by the stories he told her when she was a child, much to her father’s dismay who hated how his father filled his daughter’s head with wild fantasies of monsters and all manners of creepy and terrifying creatures stalking the darkness.

And that’s exactly what got Lacey thinking on what it could have been that tore Jules to pieces like that.

It wasn’t a human or animal.

But rather one of the creatures Jules has been talking about his whole life.

‘Don’t tell me you believe in this nonsense as well’ Lacey’s childhood friend Liz said to her.

‘It’s not nonsense, when you think about it for a second or two, it makes perfect sense’ Lacey said as she thumbed through Jules’ journal, looking for any mentions of demons or anything else that might be up and about at night.
Liz rolled her eyes at her friend, ‘that’s how they always start, grandmother says Jules started out the same way, at first he said the monsters made perfect sense and then he descended into mad rambling and raving about demons, ghosts, vampires and all kinds of other creatures’

Lacey ignored her friend’s words as she kept looking through Jules’ diary, finding mentions here and there about something stalking the streets of Warumsgrad at night, but he didn’t go into detail about what it could have been.

With a sigh Lacey closed the journal and placed it on the small table next to the recliner, ‘I wonder where he got all of this information from’ she muttered to herself moments later and looked at Liz, who only gave a shrug in return.

‘I don’t know, other old crazy people? Maybe he found some occult book? Uh he heard those stories in a bar full of superstitious people?’ Liz rattled off some options on where Jules could have heard about the creatures, all of them met with a slow shake of Lacey’s head.

‘We’ll just have to do some digging on our own’ Lacey said and got up from the recliner, smoothing out her skirt and looking back at Liz, ‘and I think I know where we should start’

Liz let out a sigh and got up as well, ‘the crazy drunk who’s been yelling at bushes in the park?’

‘No’ Lacey said and shot her friend a dirty look, ‘I mean Jules’ room, he’s been hiding something there from me and my father, so I figured that would be the best place to start’

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

A Week Of Uneventfulness Impair This Report Does Not

It is with regret that we have to say - there are no news this week.

No news of art, certainly, perhaps none at all. All is quiet in the Neath, or, as quiet as can be. Rats bicker, bats flutter and chirp, cats sit their silent vigil of secret keepers. Even Jack has not shown his smile. Dames and lads walk, arm in arm, at a casual speed, as this is the week to do so. A gentle calm spreads around the streets of London.

On these blessed days, there is nothing exciting, not even a bit to report on - perhaps, of course, apart from the nothing itself.

Despair not, though, dear London! Despite such sloth all around, this reporter has hope, the hope of another week! Yes, as the Earth moves through the vastness of cosmos, a new day shall arrive, a new week. The calm will lift, yes it may seem sad but it is fortune that brings us the end of it. There are only so many days of rest one can use, London. Soon we will be thrust into another bout of happenings, hunted by boredom only to escape its grasp so expertly that you will look back on this week and think, have I ever truly enjoyed the calm?

Enjoy it you may, can, and should, dear London. This reporter will humbly see you next week.

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

Dear Mother Goose,
Am I who I thought I was?
Concerned

Dear Concerned,
Are such judgements truly up to us?
[i]edited by Frogvarian on 9/16/2019[/i]

[Frog]

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

There are many ways one can hurt. Scars are not the only impact. A gash across the flesh, skin, burnt, perhaps boiled. Scars of the mind will suffice for some. A word can cut just as well as any knife.

Such is an issue with self-appointed martyrs. They dive into the pain with open arms. The hurt is like an old friend. A warm embrace. A calmness. To hurt means for things to be as they always have been. It means for things to be right. The status quo, once again, restored.

Perhaps it is cowardice to sink back into the mud. A refusal to admit that there is responsibility on one’s shoulders. That, if they themselves are not dark, it is on them not to act as such. Or, perhaps, it is fear. Of change, of light, of good. Of one’s own soul.

I do not mean to meander on the point, but it is a gnawing hatred. A warm blanket made of teeth.

Truly, the worst critic is yourself.

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

Assorted Artwork
by Nihil

A Rubbery Scholar

A portrait of a Master

A painting of sure fiction

See more at the artist’s gallery.

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

Famous Artist’s Last Performance? A Challenge Of Life And Death

In the latest news of the art world, the Renowned Performer faced accusations from one V. S____, a critic of some acceptance. S____, in his latest review of the Performer’s work, called it, to quote:

“Uninspired, a blasphemy of sight and sound, outrageous and outrageously dull to boot. A man so lacking in soul and virtue is fit more for the circus than the gentle arts.”

While we could write litanies on each word of such a claim, the Performer himself has responded with a less than expected act - he has challenged S____ to a duel of the Black Ribbon. We need not remind, if only for dramatic effect, that it is a duel to true death, as is common both in the high echelons and in the artistic circles.

S____ has, graciously, accepted, throwing a velvet glove into a well of blue hue.

The duel is to be in a fortnight, and we shall waste no time in bringing you the news of such occasion.

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

Dear Mother Goose,
I am so very, very tired.
T. J. W.

Dear T. J. W.,
There is a strong sense of deja vu.
[i]edited by Frogvarian on 9/23/2019[/i]

[Frog]

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

There are a handful I have faith in. Faith, as opposed to trust. Faith, specified more often than generalized. One such individual is Kid Nullman, the Saint of Tears and the Kollector.

Mr. Tears, for those of you that do not know, is the Noman to arrive and be alive for a year. Nullman is the foremost prophet of Tears, and leader of his kind religion.

I truly have faith, London, faith in Tears and faith in Nullman. A good acquaintance of mine, they have been a presence of wonder and determination, gathering resources for the coming of Tears. There are those who deny the wonders of Tears, yet I firmly believe that there shall be success.

There is something calming about putting your faith into someone. To not be on the lookout for failure, but rather for success, to believe deep in your heart that the efforts shall bear fruit.

Once again, dear London, do be so kind as to support Nullman and Tears with a fistful of coins of the First City.

Shall we all be blessed by his cold wonders.

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

Reinol von Lorica
by Ted Brown

A portrait by Professor von Lorica’s protege, to celebrate his 30th birthday.

Happy birthday, Professor!

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

Second All-Bird Play To Debut Soon

After the vastly successful run of Ravemeo and Doviette, the crew behind this all-bird production is to debut a whole new play. This time it is an original of a Prussian playwright, Wheelwright Brides. It is a heartbreaking comedy, sure to leave you in tears one way or another.

While the play itself is, of course, well known, the all-bird production is what interests us greatly. We at the Gazette have some backstage information, which, of course, we are obliged by etiquette not to disclose in such public manner.

The information we can share, of course, is that it is all and more we could hope for, dear London. The birds chosen are all exquisite actors, very fit for their roles. The direction, also handled by a bird, could not be more perfect.

We, then, hereby invite you to the debut of this production at Mahogany Hall. Join us, next week Saturday.

Moreover, the first ten readers to find buried leads within this week’s edition will win free tickets to the front seats of the production!

Happy hunting and we hope to see you at the debut, dear London.

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

Dear Mother Goose,
Where is the goal I so elegantly sought?
Worried

Dear Worried,
There was little elegance to begin with. Please try again.

[Frog]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Low Claim
by Chronic Dreamer
TW: Gruesome murder

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today we bring you the results of the conflict.

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

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

Then, in a flash, it was over.

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

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

Then, his own sword pierced his chest.

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

She waited, patiently.

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

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

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

Remember the art, London.

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

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

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

[Frog]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Them
by Samuel James

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Them’ Hazel simply replied.

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

A Brief Report From The Museum Of Mistakes

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

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

[ul][li]The paintings, all covered by a cloth, only sneakily peaked unto
[/li][li]The statues, always missing an important part
[/li][li]Molds in dishes, murmuring
[/li][li]Wax figurines, stuck mid-play (were they truly wax?)
[/li][li]A crystal orb with a singular blowfish within
[/li][/ul]
The trip was not just for pleasure of journalism, it was also the business of mistakes themselves. The Ministry was reluctant to let us enter, however the fact we had mistakes to offer smoothened out the dealings.

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

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

Ah, perhaps, we have said too much.

Rest well, dear London.

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

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

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

[Frog]

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

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


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


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


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


Life is not a linear procession of events.


Life is to be lived.

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

Woods In Winter
by Silurica

&quotI last saw him in the woods one winter - surrounded by black bark and white snow. It was Vienna, long ago. I proved myself there, and…&quot

Find more of their art…

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

The Clown - A Review Of Contemporary Drama

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

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

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

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

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

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

See you in the theater, London.

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

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

Dear Edge,
The very wait itself.

[Frog]

Delicious friends,

Hallowmas is here! The season of Confessions, of course, is upon us. To celebrate, we at the Gazette would be delighted to help you confess your own sins and regrets!

Send us a Confession in any way you desire! Until the very end of Hallowmas, they shall be - anonymously, of course - posted here, within The Goosey Gazette! Do not fear, London, share with us your secrets.

[Frog]

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

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

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

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

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

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

All shall be Well.

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

What we can wish for
by Wilbur

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

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

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

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

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

And became one of them.

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

Hallowmas - The Season Of Fog, Masques, Confessions

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

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

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

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

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

enjoy yourself, dear London.

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

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

• Old Man

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

• Masked Midnighter

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

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

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

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

[Frog]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Interview With The Prophet Of Mr Tears

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

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

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

• Masked Midnighter

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

• Kin

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

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

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

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

[Frog]

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

Well, if you insist, yes, sure, it’s fine.
~
Very well then. So, Kid, you are a Midnighter by trade. What had brought you to the rites of St. Joshua?

Let’s say, it’s family affairs. Yes. Private occurances.
~
Private, of course. It is a role of importance within the Game, after all. Not something to be pried at, however a position that comes with a certain inherent understanding. What are your thoughts on the Game itself?

I wouldn’t say I’m always very comfortable with the occurances, especially not the part that includes taking others out of the Game. That’s why I try to not be employed by any high bidder, but instead just work organizing masses and as a correspondent between pawns. I feel… mixed about it, but at the same time I found an uncanny safety within.
~
I suppose uncanny is the baseline, nowadays. Well, let the Game be the Game. You have become known for another thing entirely - as the Prophet of Tears. Would you care to tell our readers a little about Mr. Tears?

Ah yes, Tears. Well, he has contacted me through a mirror, actually. It has been a few months already, and since I first saw him I knew I wanted to help. I never expected that it would all turn into what it is today. He wants a body, one of lacre, and until then he will stay nothing but a mirage behind glass. I wouldn’t want it to be left like that, though.
~
A mirror! Quite intriguing, might I say. One would - purely hypothetically - assume that such is the reason you have been rumoured to collect many snakes, recently?

Well, yes, snakes. The official name is &quotHound of Heaven.&quot It’s a lengthy process, but these Hounds are then used by the Bishop of Southwark. Don’t understand this wrong, I have nothing to do with his plans, but he does offer wines in return. And then there are even more eccentric individuals that offer Bazaar Tears for these wines. I’m sure that the ordinary Londoner doesn’t know of these, but these tears then shall be frozen when the time is right and used as a vessel for the manifestation of Mr Tears himself.
~
Hounds and wines and tears, of course. It is much work to be done for Tears, to bring his vessel here. Do you see this as a predicament or rather as a privilege?

Well, it is definitely unheard of. Children and adults alike tend to make nomen for their enjoyment, but what I have been chosen for really is something much grander. It is difficult, I must admit, but the support I get from people that never even heard of me really does push me forward. It’s a blessing, I hope. I don’t believe that I am bringing anything evil into this world. I hope the rest agree, even with the cult-like title.
~
Prophet of Tears, of course, is at least peculiar. Support, of course, there is much of. It is true that one can send a handful of First City coins your way to give support to you and to Tears. How do such coins help, and are there any other ways for one to show their devotion?

Oh, yes! Tears is, so he says, a lot older than we might think, and one of his earliest fascinations was the First City. He has asked me to actually keep note of everyone that does donate, because he would like to thank them individually. There have been donations already, yes, many, and I am not sure what he plans to do with the coins, but certain necklaces and other wearables have already been made from said coins. As for the use… we will see. Suppose non-material devotion is a possibility as well, because the more people know of him, the better.
~
Enigmatic still, without a physical body. For those devoted to Mr Tears, you are quite the inspirational leader. Though we know there is still much time to go, is there a possibility for the devoted to feel closer to Tears before his arrival?

Leader? Maybe not nearly as charismatic as other religious groups have it, but I am trying my best. As for the question, I don’t know. The mirror where I saw him first I have in my home, but I hope you understand when I say that I wouldn’t want anyone parading through it, like some kind of pilgrimage. There are a few extraordinary individuals though that have aided a little in the spreading of the word and general planning, so they might soon get the chance to meet him, and hopefully for everyone else their word will suffice. The point is to see him when he is here, after all.
~
Truly so. We cannot speed the coming by much, after all. Good things take their time. You are the most devoted of devotees, such is an admirable quality in a leader.
Not to bring attention to you once again, but I understand you are Neath-born, yes? What do you make of the current political climate within London?

Yes, I was born here, and I can proudly say that I have so far managed to avoid political influence. If you mean the recent mayoral elections, I know better than to speak my mind, but I can say that I didn’t really vote for the new mayor. I’m not complaining either about what she has done with her time so far. Mr Tears on the other hand really likes delving into these things and, well, let’s just say he wants to give it a shot when he is with us. What exactly he means…
~
Truly exciting! Though his time with us will be just shy of a year - limitations of lacre and all that - I believe that, with enough support, London will warm up to Tears enough to allow one such creature to engage in… politics.
A few more things. As you know, our Gazette is a paper of art. What thoughts on art do you have, Kid?

Well I hope London doesn’t warm up ti Tears, ahah. Art, yes, even though the first association is usually just a brush, I know art can vary so much more! And, well, while none of my creations would - or should, in some case - count as art, I really can only sit back and appreciate the lengths to which someone longing for beauty can go to. A heads up to all the free souls out there!
~
A heads up to the free souls indeed. Some might say what you are doing is a form of art by itself. Well. Time is drawing short. Kid, is there anything else you would like to tell our dearest readers?

I am not sure. I suppose a little ‘Thank you’ to the lot of them is enough already. I do hope Tears will bring enough wisdom for the lot of us. One can only imagine what a noman that is given so much time can conjure up to tell us.
~
One can only wonder, truly. We shall, however, not wonder forever. Thank you as well, Kid Nullman, for the exquisite interview. May the word of Tears reach many ears.

[Frog]

-------------------------------------- [u][b]Editorial[/b][/u] --------------------------------------

Moment For Me
by R. J. Frogvarian

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

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

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

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

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

Fallen London - The Crossword Puzzle
by Senforza

Fill it out on the centre-spread page.

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

Standing Ovation - A Way To Combat Discomfort?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Eve,
Simply focus on the good things.
[i]edited by Frogvarian on 11/11/2019[/i]

[dov]

[quote=Frogvarian]------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

Fallen London - The Crossword Puzzle
by Senforza

…

Fill it out on the centre-spread page.
[/quote]
This is amazing! Thanks a lot!

[Frog]

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

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

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

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

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

Erroneous Assumption That There Will Be a Tomorrow
by Sevenix

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Concerned,
There are hardships to attend to. Then there is the bliss of work well executed. There will never be rest if we never allow for it.
[i]edited by Frogvarian on 11/18/2019[/i]

[Frog]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry, M’Lord. Just doin’ what I’m told,” the Burly Guardswoman blocking the entrance said. Since when were there guards in the honey-dens?
“You don’t understand, I’ve been coming here for a very long time,” he tried. 
“I don’t make the rules. And you bein’ here is against one of ‘em,”

The Author felt his cheeks heat up in anger. He could almost hear his friends giggling at him inside. He stormed off before the guard decided to forcibly see him out.
Not allowed in honey-dens! The outrage! Was he caught honey-mazed the last time he was there? Did he do something even the Bohemians couldn’t tolerate? They didn’t tell him what he did. What a complete load of-!
Crash!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is there a correct one?

Well… that is truly something to consider, dear London

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

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

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

[Frog]

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

The Moon
by R. J. Frogvarian

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

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

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

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

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

The Author found himself sprawled on the ground. Several small jars were scattered onto the cobblestones, one or two broken, and a darkly-dressed stranger was busy fumbling about between them. The Author spots a pair of darkly tinted glasses amongst the jars. Does it belong to the stranger? He reaches for them the same time the stranger did. Their eyes meet.
By god. His eyes seemed to glow in the darkness. A yellow so bright, it almost seemed like…
“Sunlight,” he whispered. The Devil took his glasses and put them back on. 
“‘Scuse me,” the Devil mumbled and proceeded to pick up what’s left of his fallen jars. Is that Prisoner’s Honey? Does Hell export honey? He seemed a little somberly dressed for a devil. Not to mention a little clumsy and awkward.
“Ah, excuse me, is that Prisoner’s honey?”

The Introverted Devil stiffened, then locked eyes with the Author - tinted glasses slightly askew. His lips moved but no words formed. He got up, clutching his jars, and hurried away.
But the Author wasn’t done with him.

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

“Where are you going with those?” the Author asked.
“None of your business”
“Actually, it is. I am a very well-known official in the honey-dens,” - not a complete lie - “I would’ve recognised you if you were a delivery boy.” 

From this close, the Author could smell the sulphur on the him. There was no doubt that this man was a Devil - at least, no doubt in heritage.

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

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

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

The Advent Season Is Upon Us!

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Frog]

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

I love her. Too much, perhaps. From the days we have played together as children. From the moments we have spent together in the class chairs, in the tree branches, on the doorsteps of our rooms. I loved her through the storms and through the waves and through the falls.

I love her and I am determined to help her. That is my purpose, after all. Purposes be damned, Law knows I would help her no matter what. There is no coming back from beyond the snow. I know that well. Could I deny her? When I look into those tired eyes. How much pain and suffering can one soul bear? Not all by her own choice. We don’t get to choose why we live, perhaps only how we do it.

I love her and I will remain after she does not. I could never follow. I will hold her hand as her rowboat slowly departs for the Gate, our fingers slowly parting, neither of us wanting to truly let go. Or, perhaps, not both. I could never be angry with her. I have supported her decisions. I like to think I have helped her find the right path. We may not get to choose why we live, but we get to choose how we do it.

I love her and I will weep silent tears for years to come.

Perhaps the snow will not be so cruel.

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

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

Another good distance of silence. The Devil still didn’t chase him away. The Author took that as an invitation.
“I noticed that you were not particularly bothered with those broken jars earlier…”
“You may not have any of these,”
“Not even a drop?”
Finally, the Devil stops walking, right on the side of the street. He was looking about, left and right.
“Do you need a cab?”
The Devil ignored him. How was he going to hail a hansom cab when his arms are full and he was trying his best to disappear into his own coat? The Author hailed them a cab, making sure the Devil gets on first. Mostly so he won’t just run away.

The Devil furrowed his dark eyebrows together.
“I don’t need help”
“That doesn’t mean you do not deserve it,”	

The Devil pressed his lips into a tight line, but didn’t protest.
“You’re very easy to push around. Rather uncommon for a Devil”
The Devil continued to ignore him. The Author started grinning.
“You’re not dressed as flamboyantly as your hell-mates, either,”

The entire ride to the Forgotten Quarter kept on like this. The Honey-Addled Author asked question after question, all very innocent and polite (in his opinion). The Introverted Devil made a point of staying quiet, hiding deep into his own coat.
“Alright, I know you’re just ignoring me out of spite, but we’re already here and you’re about to burn a hole in your seat. Why are you so nervous? Surely it can’t be me, I’m a human!”
“It’s not you,”

The Author waited for an elaboration with barely-concealed impatience. The Devil sighed and shook his head.
“It’s the devils waiting for me,” he said, then got out of the cab, barely waiting for it to stop properly. The Author, obviously, followed.

Turns out, devils aren’t only unkind to humans. They also seem to enjoy bullying their own. The weak and the vulnerable. Like the Introverted Devil. It still wasn’t apparent what the honey was for, but the rowdy bunch of devils took every single jar. They were roughly grabbing, shoving, and teasing the Introverted Devil, and the Devil didn’t even attempt fighting back. The Author knew better than to directly interfere. Mostly.
“Excuse me, what is the honey for?”

The devils stop their teasing to stare at the Author. As if just now realizing he’s there. The Author cleared his throat.
“Just out of curiosity, you s-”
“Oho, what’s this? Brought a friend with you?” the Churlish Devil taunted. The Introverted Devil looked away.
“He’s not my friend. I just met him,”
But the Churlish Devil was still smirking. He approached the Author, and the Author attempted to avoid that. The Devil grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Not a bad soul, I must say,” he said.
The Honey-Addled Author didn’t know whether he was flattered or afraid.
“My good sir, my soul is not for sale!” he said.
“We’ll see about that.”

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

Festive Plays At Midnight - All-Bird Theatre Group Takes The Holidays!

While it has been some time since we have heard from the All-Bird Theatre Group, they have now announced their comeback with a full kabang! Introducing three new plays - a reenactment of A Christmas Carol, a festive Hamlet, and a Neath-based retelling of the classic tale of Bethlehem (fit for even the youngest of believers).

These plays will hit the midnight stages from the very first day of lacre-fall, and will be continued up until the tail end of the holiday season. Returning bird stars will all be present in various roles, and the production team promises a truly unique audience participation experience.

Best of all - attendance is all free! Donations will be accepted during performances or at the Mahogany Hall box office.

We shall, of course, give our impressions once the plays hit.

Do not be shy, London, support art, and we hope to see you there!

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

Dear Mother Goose,
I’ve not felt anything for a long time.
P. Dying.

Dear P. Dying,
There are dark and bright days. On the poles, one can overtake the other. There is a need for balance, always. This too shall pass.

[Frog]

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

The season of Lacre is upon us!

Feel the caustic burn of this white and cold substance. Oh how it flakes, this false snow of our host and jailor. What secrets does it hold? Soon, a figure of red robes will leave trails in this snow, intent on taking but never on giving. The cruelty of the season.

Moreover, the joy to be found within the cruelty. Nomen to roam the streets, Tears to lead them. Londoners, huddling around fires, intent on staying the holidays within their chambers. Togetherness that keeps us content. Presents unwrapped in clandestine meetings underneath a decorated tree. Dinners to be enjoyed with those we love.

A bottle of wine, perhaps? Rest now your tired eyes. The year has been long. Arduous. For just a moment, do not mind the worries. For just a while, think of a brighter tomorrow. Windows wrapped in a blanket of snow, hushed sounds to lull you to sleep.

Rest now, London, for you have a life to live.

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

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

Now, the Introverted Devil rarely ever speaks up. Normally, this is the part where he would play hero by breaking out of his shell and saving that oddly annoying fellow he came to adore. Just like in the Author’s books. Instead, the Introverted Devil was staring at them, somewhat mortified.

“I assure you, you do not want my soul,” the Author tried.
“It’s not stained. A little lost, but not stained by any means. Kind. Well loved, once. A hint of sorrow even,” The Churlish Devil said. 

The Introverted Devil hated this part. With some willpower, he forced his legs to move…! Backwards. He bumped into one of the other devils, the one now holding the honey.

Well… used to hold the honey.

Almost every jar of honey slipped from his arms, crashing onto the floor. Tiny shards of glass scattered. Some particularly sticky ones got stuck on their trouser legs. Prisoner’s Honey treacled between glass shards and cobblestones. The Introverted Devil felt his heart do a pirouette in his stomach before springing for his throat.

All eyes were on him.

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

All-Bird Review - A Christmas Carol

The first of the All-Bird Theatre Production Christmas plays is here, London! As false snow falls and covers the roofs above, we turn our heads to a humble stage on a humble town square…

A Christmas Carol, classic of a literary giant, a heart-warming tale of ghosts and generosity. In the main role of Ebenezer Scrooge, the troupe had quite a surprise for us - a real vulture! We must say, the performance of this star actor was truly phenomenal; we could practically see the transformation from a scary and imposing being to a bird of a warm and noble heart.

The ghosts of past, present, and future, were all hauntingly well portrayed by owls, whose hoots echoed through the silent night in the most bone-chilling of ways. To round out the presence of ghosts, a hawk in the role of Jacob Marley was just the kick both Ebenezer and we needed.

The technical production of this play, more of which we can surely expect moving forward, is also exquisite. The audio as well as visual effects, none of which we dare spoil in such a short review, are something that surely is not possible without the help of avian features.

One of the first theatrical adaptations of this sombre tale, A Christmas Tale by the All-Bird Theatre Troupe is sure to capture hearts and smiles of all ages and walks of life.

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

Dear Mother Goose,
Have I done enough as of yet?
Waiting

Dear Waiting,
The work never stops, oh, no, we can never rest I’m afraid.

[Frog]

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

There was a man long ago. A polymath, an explorer; a man of riches. First, a sailor. He contributed to the monarchy, his family prospered. He searched for a treasure untold. He zailed the Neath in search of power, of Law. West, south, east. North. His riches and fame fell into Obscurity. They still exist, in the far and long away. For his family to claim, for his dynasty to prosper. The man had lost his name. His name is the key. The Name is the key. His children, their children, children of their children ever after, Seek to gain their prosperity. They give up everything only to gain nothing.

There was another man, loyal to the forefather. A humble servant, a trusted friend. He knew of the folly. Still hee aided his friend. Forever so loyal. This man never had children of his own. He took only an apprentice, raised them as his own. This apprentice grew alongside the forefather’s kin. A loyal and humble servant, a trusted friend. Again and again and again. An unending chain. The Servants aid the Seekers. Willingly, they give up their name. Erased with Irrigo. Contract written in Violant. Never shall they forget. Never shall we forget.

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

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

The Introverted Devil held his breath, counting the seconds.
One, two, three…
They’re all staring at him. The Author’s green eyes, wide as saucers. The Churlish Devil’s sulfur-fire blues…
Seven, eight, nine….
There was not a sound in the Forgotten Quarter. Not even the whispering wind that never fails to unnerve newcomers. Even the horse statues seemed to be staring at them.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…

“What… did you do…?” the Churlish Devil asked.

The Introverted Devil forced himself to suck in a lungful of air. The Churlish Devil had released the Author who was, frankly, surprised to be alive. With his soul.
“It was an accident!” the Introverted Devil said.
“An accident is one or two jars breaking. You already lost a few before coming here,”
The Introverted Devil looked just about ready to run. The Author was already doing so. The Introverted Devil watched the Author dart past dead trees and horse-head statues. He chuckled sheepishly, barely making any noise.

Then he sprinted after him.

The Introverted Devil had absolutely no reason to follow the Author. None at all. Not even a little bit. The Author wasn’t that far ahead.
“Wait for me!” he yelled. The Author stumbled, jerked his head back so fast that the Devil feared his neck would snap, then slowed down for him. Despite his better judgement.
“You’re not taking me back to them, are you?” the Author asked in between huffs of breath. The Devil merely shook his head and kept running. If they were worth chasing, the other devils will catch up to them in no time, after all.

The Devil ended up leading the way out to some side streets of the Bazaar. It was safer than the Forgotten Quarter. For now, at least. They slowed down to a walk and the Devil bit his lip. Where do they go now? What is he going to do now? Those devils knew him personally. They’ll find him and get their revenge. They’ll… where is the Author? The Devil looked around wildly, searching for the by now familiar shape of the Author. He spotted him staring at a stall selling jewels. The Devil rushed over and pulled him away.

“This is no time for shopping! Just… don’t look at anything!” The Devil said, dragging the Author away by hand.
“I’ve never been here before,” the Author said, awestruck.
“You’re not important enough,”
“Hey!”

The Devil sighed. He didn’t feel like explaining this to him right now. He has other matters to worry about that doesn’t include watching someone of very little importance get lost in the crowd. He had to warn him, though…
“Also…” - The Author stops his pouting and looks at him - “Don’t fall in love.”

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

All-Bird Review - The Star of Bethlehem

As false snow falls and covers the roofs above, we turn our heads to a humble stage on a humble town square…

Ever since the Fall, many reforms of the Church of England had been put into place to accommodate the knew worldly knowledge. Truly, our faith and believes had been shaken. Even with radical changes, the slightly satirical new retelling of Christ’s birth is sure to stir the waters.

It is, of course, a play for children, designed to teach good morals and a supposed origin of one’s faith. That, of course, does not mean that adult audiences will not find gratifying moments and surprisingly humorous comedy. The parrot in role of an innkeeper who sends the holy family away is a rather great comedic actor. In a similar vein, the three heart doves in roles of Mary, Joseph, and little Jesus were a beautiful sight, and the bluebird angels sang rather pretty.

The inclusion of devil-eyed crows as the three kings was, however, a rather surprising moment. Such acts surely allude to current debates within the Church, radical ideas of devilry surrounding one’s faith. Their gifts of golden honey, while par for the course, were perhaps a little on the nose.

Nonetheless, we still encourage you to give the play a try, London. It is sure to enamour your littlest ones and hopefully bring your own mind to intriguing topics.

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

Dear Mother Goose,
Tired, now, so tired, so many hours behind, so many hours ahead, yet I sleep through them all.
Disappointed

Dear Disappointed,
Truly, so am I.
[i]edited by Frogvarian on 12/27/2019[/i]

[Frog]

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

The Urchin and the Noman
by R. J. Frogvarian

Day I
The urchin stood knees-deep in lacre. He was covered head to toe in soot after his daring intrusion through the chimney. The winds of the unterzee howled around his golden hair. Distant snores of great stone boars. He took a deep breath, one filled with salt and thunder. A blade ran across his palm; a droplet of blood in the vastness of white. In a wicked metamorphosis, from the lacre rose a replica of the boy - the urchin’s noman.

The two smiled at each other, pure white eyes facing eyes filled with stormy skies. Hand in hand, they ascended back to the Neath’s streets.

Day II
The first one came in the deep night. The day had been filled with conversation and play, joys interrupted with a heavy knock on wood. The two figures inside froze and turned. Looming in the entrance of the humble rooftop hideout stood a tall cloaked figure. From underneath the hood peered two glowing eyes, darting between the two boys inside. With a heavy cough it cleared its throat; the air was filled with a heavy, intoxicating smell.

“You have caused quite a stir. There is now interest, yes. Consider this a simple warning.”

It stood there only a few moments more, and then, just as fast as it had come, it was gone.

Day III
There was more tension on the third day, yes, though smiles were still exchanged. Despite the cold of the roof (and the cold of the noman’s body) the two felt quite warm. Yet, as they had feared, another knock interrupted their conversation.

The figure spoke, in a tipsy tone of voice.

“I am not one to dissuade from pleasure. There is a certain… quality we desire in a story. With a little nudge…”

With that, it was gone, and in its wake only wine and questions.

Day IV
There is much that a bottle of Greyfields will do to the mind. Neither of the boys had noticed the light reflected from the next figure’s robes. There was much blushing and holding of hands. Hot breath on breath and a single tear shed. The two danced - if it can be called dance - around a candle, enjoying the company to the fullest.

This visitor did not speak a word, only observed, took notes, and left quite soon.

Day V
All revels have their price. As usual, it was a headache. Still, the two remained in each other’s arms, and talked. When the next visitor arrived it was polite enough not to knock.

“Some are pleased with the two of you. Some doubt the value. It is clear that there will be consequences. Simply put, there are secrets that are beyond normal value. I would advise you to consider.”

As it had departed, the two sat in a stir. In each other’s embrace, they pondered of what their bond might reveal.

Day VI
“Most unscrupulous! So preposteriting in nature! Bards have never sung such spurnous tales as this – the bond of man and no man! Or… boy and no boy! The pellucidious depth of feeling, we are quite impressed. Yet salacity rises to the surface! Commingling of despicablenesses brings to us the impenetrablest of choices. To go down in the books, to be told and untold for ages to come. To thwart such wiles of secret unearthing, we musn’t fall into complicitude, no, to be eternally so vigilant is our predicament!
“Be warned, you in fatuation, for there are prices to be paid… for knowledge! Now, though, for me to abscond.“

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

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

The Author followed the Devil down Blackfinger Street, past the Bridge Without and countless stalls of all sorts of wonders he has never seen before.
“Is that a… what is that?” The Author asked. The Devil followed his gaze.
“What? The whirring contraption?”
The Author’s eyes seemed to sparkle with curiosity. The Devil was smiling, despite himself. He made sure to hide it as soon as he realized he had it. The Author, despite the Devil’s low-effort attempt of restraining him via hand-holding, was absorbed in his surroundings. Pointing out curios and oddities, asking about things he’s never seen before… The Devil found it increasingly difficult to focus on his own problems.

“You live in Veilgarden, don’t you?” the Devil asked while the Author was fawning over some wines. The Author looked at him, seeming a little dazed. As if his mind took a moment to catch up with his words.
“What..? Oh! Yes, Veilgarden. Are you taking me home?”
“Yes. Well. Just somewhere not here.”
“What’s wrong with your home?”
“I don’t want you there.”

The Author gave him that look again - an offended pout with brows furrowed together - and the Devil still didn’t feel like explaining to him how that wasn’t meant as an insult.

“Yours is just… easier,” he muttered after a little while. The Author didn’t say anything. The Devil was biting his lip again, fangs digging into his skin this time. He knew exactly what was happening. It was completely normal for a devil. It’s their nature. 
“Deep breaths, don’t fall in love…” he said. He could almost feel those spires looming over him, watching him. Could almost feel the crowd pressing closer, threatening to keep him here forever. 

The Devil pulled out his handkerchief and covered his mouth and nose. The Bazaar Side-Streets were packed with brilliant souls, and he could smell each and every one of them. It’s too much. Other devils don’t go through this, of course. Other devils don’t get overwhelmed by the very thing they should be yearning for.
Just a little bit more, he promised himself. Veilgarden isn’t that far…

They squeezed past a particularly dense crowd and the Devil held his breath. He doesn’t know why he’s so sensitive to souls, or why no one else wasn’t. He doesn’t-

“Are you alright?” the Author asked. The Devil shook his head, stifling a sneeze. The Author pulled his hand free from the Devil’s, earning him an annoyed scowl. As if he would disappear the moment he lets go. 
“What are you…?” 
“What’s wrong?” the Author said, “Is something bothering you?”

The Author eyes the handkerchief still pressed against the Devil’s face. The Devil shook his head again and grabbed his hand.
“Not now!”

The Devil’s head was pounding by now. There’s just too many of them. He surges onwards without any mind to direction. Eventually he became aware of the Author pulling him forward, instead of the other way around. He didn’t even try focussing on his surroundings anymore.
It’s just too much for him…

Poor Edward
by Idelia Lockwood

See more of their work…

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

All-Bird Review - Halmet

As false snow falls and covers the roofs above, we turn our heads to a humble stage on a humble town square…

The Bard’s great tale of a Danish prince is one oft replayed and rewritten, perhaps in an attempt to bring modern audiences to enjoy the classics. While the All-Bird Theater Troupe does not present any special story gimmicks, it does, of course, bring its own novelty to the table.

Returning now are the two stars, the raven and the dove of Ravemeo and Dovette fame, in the roles of Hamlet and Ophelia respectively. We must say, the two do have a rather pleasant chemistry (and a knack for tragedies).
The dove did not excel so well in the portrayal of Ophelia’s madness, coming out more as a mild hysteria, though such state was, of course, short-lived for the character.
Hamlet himself did a fantastic job, even through the caws and cawks, the magnificent soliloquies were as heart-wrenching as always.

A quite exciting appearance was of Halmet’s father - for the role of the ghost, the production had managed to secure an albino raven - and even a (perhaps) real bird skull for poor Yorick. The rest of the cast was exquisite, of course.

The technical side of this play was rather simple, as the others in this Christmas trio had been. For a rather wonderful effect, the production claims to have used lacre of all things to produce non-lethal smoke. Such a secret, we are sure, will soon get patented.

All in all, we had immensely enjoyed this production of Hamlet, and have it on good word that it will continue playing for the subsequent couple of weeks before (for now) retiring.

That, of course, concludes the trio of plays by the All-Bird Theater Troupe for this festive season. We hope you you, just as we, have enjoyed it immensely.

We wish you pleasant a holiday season, London, and many sleepful, snow-covered nights to come.

The Starveling Interview - A Rare Occasion Of Feline Insight
by Rubbered Ginny

One of our top reporters has recently decided to perform quite the feat. Indeed, the Starveling Cat, a menacing companion indeed, had been interviewed! Quite thoroughly, might we add. Do find this journalistic gem on pages 7-14.

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

Dear Mother Goose,
It was not me! It was the devilry! The Prophessed that spoke to me!
Innocent

Dear Innocent,
I am afraid the decision is not up to me. Though, if it were, I am afraid I would not have mercy.

[Frog]

THE STARVELING CAT! THE STARVELING CAT! I WILL TRY MY HARDEST ‘TIL IT KILLS ME FLAT!

Yes, the Starveling Cat, menace of larders, subject of songs, stalker of places best left to their own devices – and recent resident of my very own larder. As I first found the wretched thing, wrapped in a package left for me by an ‘anonymous admirer’, I considered it a menace and a pest. Who wouldn’t? Its hiss makes one’s eardrums ring, its claws cut to the bone, and it smells like a drownie orgy. But then I got to thinking – for a beast as notorious and well-known as the Starveling Cat, we know so very little about it! What wondrous knowledge could a creature this enigmatic and this infamous possess?! Mayhaps this was not a cruel joke of fate, but a golden opportunity presented to me on a silver platter! So I silently thanked my mysterious benefactor, and I got to work!

The first hurdle I ran into was luring my new furry friend out of the larder. Any attempt to enter it was met with a furious whirlwind of claws and teeth, accompanied by hisses so potent and deep they made my gums bleed! I decided to find another approach before I lost my other eye. Being forced to eat outward due to my larder’s inaccessibility, I visited a lovely café near Ladybones Road, deflected any questions regarding the copious amounts of blood on my face and whether I would like some bandages, and enjoyed a few cups of black darkdrop coffee. It was while I was nursing my third cup, trying to lead the heavy liquid past my bleeding gums, that my eye was caught by the beautiful floral arrangement on my table. They were false, of course, made from coloured paper and scented with perfume… and a little gem-cut figure of a bee was sitting in one of the petals. This is when I decided that it was bound to be more fruitful to procure a lure (ha!) for the hungry beast instead of attempting force.

By the time the gas lamps had been dimmed, I had hired some very foolhardy and eager chefs to prepare a scrumptuous buffet in my humble lodgings. Three courses consisting of the finest fruits of the zee the Bazaar would part with, pies and pastries, several large vats of varying puddings – the small fortune I paid for the assembly of this meal was only topped by the second fortune I paid to get its remnants removed from the carpet. But it was worth it, for the Starveling Cat was out of the larder! It waited patiently for the final course to be assembled before it pounced. As the chefs fled the room, I remained as long as I was able, attempting to ask the Cat some light questions regarding its opinions on the current mayor, the newly instated import taxes regarding nouveaux branches of love poetry, and the weather. The chefs swear that they heard something come in reply, but the cacophony and the blood in my ears prevented me from picking up anything. Maybe that’s for the best, as the chefs were only able to tell me about any of it after they had concluded their lengthy stays in the Royal Bethlehem Hotel. Suffice it to say, I did not manage to take any notes, and I left the ordeal rather peckish and scarred. But is that not true of most things worth pursuing?

After the feast, it seemed the Starveling Cat’s ravenous hunger had been momentarily satisfied, and it had taken the opportunity to take a stroll through our fair city. Staying on its trail proved easy enough – the sounds of screaming from society ladies with torn whalebone corsets and the angry hissing of street cats could likely be heard all the way to Polythreme. After bribing a few urchins and a quick snogging session with a Desolate Artist who claimed to have seen the beast, I managed to follow its trail all the way up to the peaks of the Flit. It had taken up residence in a raven’s nest at the top of a tall chimney. The raven was not too keen on his new housemate, and voiced his complaints at length and at high volumes. (His metre left much to be desired.) After artfully scaling the bricked pillar, my advances were swiftly delayed by a flurry of claws, and I decided a more subtle approach would be necessary. By the end of the hour, I was soaring through the sky, launched off a particularly bendable flagpole, and straight into the Cat’s current residence. A thick flurry of soot, fur and feathers later, I had confirmed to my satisfaction that the Starveling Cat does not have a strong opinion on the activities of our Lord Mayor, but would have preferred to see Mrs. Plenty in the office this term. I had also lost a lot of blood and most of my left pinky toe, and the Starveling Cat was nowhere to be found to answer my remaining 76 questions.

After a day of attempted rest rendered fruitless by vicious nightmares concerning a haunting marsh filled with flickering lights, I decided that I would have to carefully plan a new strategy that involved less bodily and mental harm. Luring the Starveling Cat was all well and good for getting it to occupy the same room as you, but allowing its gaping maw to be filled with food did not aid conversation any. And using physical force to make a being – nay, a CONCEPT such as the Starveling Cat conform to mortal whims was akin to emptying out the Unterzee by drinking it up. No, what I needed was a lure that kept the beast’s mouth free, yet also kept its claws otherwise occupied. Luckily, I had just such a thing.

What happened next, I will only gloss over, as despite the rebellious appeal it may hold, I would rather not the entire run of this edition be confiscated by the Ministry of Public Decadence (ha!). Suffice it to say that I was chased off by no less than seven chandlers while procuring the necessary materials, and that more than one Drownie gave up their eyes to me. By the end of that eventful night, I found myself drenched to the bone in the most literal sense, my soul ached like a festering tooth for weeks, and I still haven’t gotten my Peculiar Enhancements to stop twitching erratically. But the interview, dearest reader, the interview was a success! Let me now enrich you with the knowledge I have gleamed from speaking to the Ruler of the Roofs!

Firstly, it may surprise you to know tha-

[Oh dear. As soon as your gaze makes contact with this last paragraph, the paper bursts into flames in your palms. Stomping it out takes minutes, and your new boots are ruined! Still, it may have been worth it for the glimpse you caught of the contents. They remain seared onto your retinas for days.]