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“An archive of things that never happened”. An in-character forum for fanfiction and roleplaying. Beware - spoilers abound!

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Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 126

5/24/2020
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Is it wrong to have doubts when suns are beginning to shine again?

Through luck and merit and support, one can plough their way through the mud. It is not an easy task, but one certainly achievable. It has been done before, and there are steps that have been taken already. Truly, in fact, the path has never been all that muddy.

Why, then, does every step feel like failure? Is it simply melodrama? A trick of the brain? A misfiring of misfortunes, aimed at the susceptible parts? Why, then, would one forget all that had been done and throw it all away?

It would be foolish to end here. It would be a heresy, truly. A dishonour to the legacy of those who came and went, an atrocity in the eyes of those who believe. A crime, perhaps, against nature herself.

No, this is not where things end. I know that much - that cowardice is a part of the package, to the strange benefit of the recipient.

Why, then, do I still desire an end?


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

Portrait of a Lady
by Arthur Cole




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

Incoming Storm Might Present Unexpected Setbacks

In latest weather reports, the Seventh Astronomer warns of a great Storm coming towards London. It is unclear when, how, or if at all this Storm will arrive; it is still said to be a big one.

The Seventh Astronomer, an oddity even amongst the blind astronomers, speaking only in fire and screams, has been conducting heavy research into the weather patterns of the Neath. This research is indeed publicly available, scrawled with a sharp piece of glim on the backside of a cave near the London Observatory.

The Astronomer warns that, to quote: “The eyes have been angered, the deed cannot be pardoned,” and “What was said cannot be unsaid,” and “White, three sugars, yolk.” We are still unsure whether or not the last citation pertains to the weather.

Further insights specify heavy rains, thunder and/or lightning, an array of frightening displays, and perhaps an incursion from Hell. As mentioned, time has not been specified, and the Storm may come anywhere between next Tuesday and the end of the Seventh.

Don’t forget your umbrellas, London!


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Am I destined to do nothing but stupid mistakes?
Wondering

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Wondering,
I am afraid that all evidence suggests such a trajectory.

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
Gone NORTH.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+1 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 126

5/31/2020
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

With age comes wisdom
Spring of life, one year older
Am I any wiser?


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

Portrait of Edward
by Arthur Cole




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

Crows By Any Other Name - The Debonair Dilettante’s Exhibit

The Royal Academy of Arts has recently sanctioned and hosted an even by one up-and-coming artist, the Debonair Dilettante. This particular exhibit is special for being a diversion from the usual bores of high society, an intriguing change we wholeheartedly welcome in the world of art.

The Dilettante’s exhibit bears the name of “Lycanthropes in spite”. It features several dozen pieces, all manticoric taxidermy. These lycanthropes, as the Dilettante calls them, are amalgams of various animals poised as bipedes performing various common tasks - chores, social engagements, et cetera. The bodies seem to be largely canine, and feature even parts of rare, exotic animals from the surface.

They all, however, share one commonality - that is, the heads of all of the lycanthropes are that or crows. A single crow’s head, perched upon an ill-fitting body, donning an expression of deep thought.

The statues have a certain air of unease about them, the kind that only comes with taxidermy, multiplied by the strangeness of their composition. Still, they are rather endearing, reflecting the daily struggles of the common person. One cannot help but feel a certain kinship with the lycanthropes. They, too, are simply doing their best in their day to day, unable to help but be exposed to the world at large.

The exhibit shall be open for the whole month of June. We have it on good authority that no animals have been purposely slain to create this piece, rather they are dear old pets passed away and donated to the effort.

We wish you pleasant pondering, dear London.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
What more may the heart weather?
Locked

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Locked,
A thousand novelties and an infinity of reprises.

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
Gone NORTH.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
0 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 126

6/7/2020
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Reality is incredulously fleeting. With a snap of one’s fingers things change from second to second. One cannot with absolute perfection define the reality of the moment. Truly, it is ludicrous to even consider two events as happening simultaneously. Time bends and twists through and around space and with it, reality.

A moment, then, cannot be simply defined. A moment now is the same as two moments earlier and a third one year from now. Reality overlaps, yet it does so constantly. A moment now is the same as three moments separated by centuries and a single moment best to be forgotten. To define such change is as futile as catching the wind with a net.

Even personal reality is a fickle thing. Our mind fabricates stability, but our hearts betray the truth. As change sets to motion, deep down the mind can sense the ebbs and flows of time. Such sensations are not to be taken lightly. The attuned mind may then, perhaps, even peer into the chaos. See beneath the veil of reality into the core of Law.

However great the cost may be - who could ever refuse such an opportunity?


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

Memories and Roses, Part VII
An Invocation
by Professor Wensleydale.

I sat down to translate.

“Oh tell me the tale of a great King, a King who claimed the throne after his brother destroyed his home, a King who fought against the incursion of the unnatural, a King by the name of-”

Inspired… has increased to 5!
You’ve lost 1*F.F. Gebrandt’s Superior Laudanum (new total 2).



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

Wonderous Skeletons - Genuine Unearthings Or Deceptive Amalgams?

In hidden streets of Watchmaker’s Hill there lies an open secret, a market of bones. Those knowledgeable of its existence gather there to marvel at and deal in various bones, relics, unearthed fossils, and some more tasteful yet no less grandioze items.

Recently, London has seen a boom in palaentology. Amateurs and professional academics alike are unearthing all sorts of strange fossils and discovering yet unseen species. Such happenings are far from unexpected as the Neath offers many an oddity to be found anew. The sudden rise is, however, still rising eyebrows.

There are also those who display, offer, and successfully sell whole skeletons. Among these are seemingly impossible birds, proposed remains of saints, claimed rubbery amalgams - there are even rumours of one particular academic possessing a whole skeleton of a Master of the Bazaar.

While some claims are certainly dubious, these pieces may be considered collector, and thus it truly may be a worthy endeavour to seek to procure one such exhibit. For our own office, we have a charming mummified corpse of a saint with no less than a dozen legs.

Certainly not a purchase for the common man, perhaps this is a new opportunity for the crafty scholar.

Tread careful, London!


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Where are clouds when one needs an uplift?
Silver

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Silver,
Above our heads, so distant, unreachable, yet friendly and familiar.

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
Gone NORTH.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
0 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 126

6/14/2020
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

I have seen my fair share of atrocities during my lifetime. Murders in the name of justice and progress. Theft by exploitation, denial of rights, hate so seething it burns through to actions. It is truly the lowest of lows a person can hit, to turn so truly evil as to take lives for their own twisted pleasure.

In the presence of such hate one ought not to simply stand and watch. These are not the times to be silent, but to roar with the flames of revenge! Stand tall and loud and proud and defiant of evil! It is time we show those who think they can treat lives as manure that they hold power only because we allow it!

Do not hesitate to make things right, London. For too long have our words fallen on deaf ears - now, it is time to act! It is time to take arms with your fellow brothers and sisters, go out into the world, and make change happen!

We stand tall, we stand together, we stand and we will not fall.

I will see you on the front lines, London.


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

Almost Home
by Sevenix



See more…


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

A Rather Special Interview - Prof. E. M. Canning

We bring you today an interview with a well-known academic and author, none other than Professor Eva May Canning! You can find the full interview on pages 12-15.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Will we survive the night?
Hoping

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Hoping,
Tell the beasts to stride away, tell the ghosts to haunt elsewhere, tell failure there is no place for it here.
edited by Frogvarian on 6/18/2020

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
Gone NORTH.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 126

6/21/2020
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Moving on is simply a fact of life. All comes to an end, eventually. Though places and people remain, our ties and lives with them simply cannot be forever, as much as we may try.

Such is not always bad. Moving on, yes, it is often a good part of life. Look back at the path you have travelled, at the obstacles you have overcome. Look at the beauty you have left behind.

Moving on means growth. It means realizing who you are, where you are headed, and what path is best for you to take. It means taking your life into your own hands. It means reaching for that which you truly desire.

Change is a part of life, though not a part people are at any time ready to face. When it is your own will to change, when you are an active agent in your own destiny - just know that it is good.

And change for the better, London.


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

This War Of Ours, Part I
by Reinol von Lorica

Darkness folds over his eyes. Breathe. Listen to the sound of gunfire, of screams, and explosions in the distance. The frantic yells of a commanding officer.

“Get up private! Your empire needs you!”

He opened his eyes, breathing in the ash stricken air of the wasteland. Through the cracked lenses of his mask, he could just about make out the form of the major. Both of them were clad in the blacks and greys of the Reich uniforms. Both had that familiar coal-scuttle helmet. Both wore a gasmask.

“Just beyond that ridge! Victory will be ours!”

He didn’t recall getting up. But in that next moment, he was charging forward by the side of the officer and the rest of his comrades. He didn’t care for the sounds around him, choosing to ignore the bullets and the screams.

An explosion rocked the ground near him, sending limbs and gore flying. Blood splattered across his helm.

Just keep moving forward.


There, a trench choke full of Albion soldiers. Machine guns roared, gunning down troopers with no distinction. A grenade sails overhead, silencing it and those manning forever. Rifles cracked to life as they got closer.

“Bayonets ready! Char-”

The officer’s last words filled his ears as another explosion filled his world. He recalled flying through the air, before crashing down to the blood soaked mud.

He recalled the sounds of fighting, of a fierce melee in the trenches as soldiers amassed and fought. Dying screams filled the air amidst the battlecries of troopers.

“For the Kaiser! For Reich! Albion stands!”

Yet all he could feel was an immense wave of drowsiness as thoughts of sleep wandered into his mind. He felt his eyes drooping shut as the sounds of battle were slowly drowned out.

“Lieutenant.”


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

New Clubs Open Their Doors - Sophia’s & The Clay Tailor Reach For High Status

Two new clubs have been making waves amongst those enjoying prominence. They have opened their doors what seems to be just a week ago, yet their popularity has risen at an unprecedented speed.

Sophia’s, a club governed by its eponymous leader, the Monster-Hunting Academic, is a society for (not only) ladies to share their love of gentle acts, such as crochet, knitting, reading, anatomy, and, of course, butchering of various dangerous beasts. The club promises a slew of fun company, respect for all, and, of course, many hours of glorious monster-hunting.

The Clay Tailor, as the name suggests, is a club for those of sartorial persuasion, or at least interest. The club strives to stay at the height of fashion, though never uniformity, lest the world becomes boring. Indeed, each member is encouraged to express their individuality through that most wearable of arts - tailoring.
The club offers not only fellow tailors, tips, and pleasant political talks, but also numerous rooms for indulging their passion of garment making. Indeed, it is a wonderous opportunity for all those wanting to show their true colours in a rather tangible manner.

We at the Gazette are, of course, delighted by the appearance of these new social communities. It never hurts to break the mould after all!

Choose well, London, and enjoy communitas.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
A broken record I am. Yet my heart cannot stop, and I know not what to do next.
Deer

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Deer,
It is simply a matter of time. For either side, truly. Nothing lasts forever, and nothing will cease eventually. It is a matter of time before a decision must be made. Just know that neither path is truly bad or truly good. Act for the embetterment of all.

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
Gone NORTH.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
0 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 126

6/28/2020
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

It is a slow process, waiting.

I feel as if I have waited my entire life. For what? There is not a singular answer. I have waited, yes, for stretches of time until events had passed. Action, wait, resolution. Wait, action, resolution. Wait, wait, wait.

Perhaps such is the way of living. To wait, always, from moment to moment. Seldom are we the true actors in our fate. Seldom is full control given to us. That is not to say such is impossible. That is only to say that we, in fact, are not alone in this world.

We are all actors and the world is but a stage. Know your lines and cues, carry yourself as you should, reap the spoils and learn from the failures. Wait. Wait for your moment. Wait for when you know it is your own time to shine. Once it comes, yes, then even you will have your moment in the spotlight. Together, in our waiting, we shall create something beautiful.

At last, I wait again.


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

This War Of Ours
Part II
by Reinol von Lorica

Perhaps sleep wouldn’t be so bad. It would almost be a relief after all this fighting. If only that blasted noise could stop…

“Lieutenant.”

As he drifted off to the unknown, he could’ve sworn that a change had happened. The mud was awfully soft. And the noise seemed to have actually quieted down. Was this…

“Lieutenant!”

Emerald eyes opened. Breathe. Those years were gone now, taken away when the new Kaiserin of Reich vied for peace and ending the seven year long war. It was just another dream, one of many he had these nights.

He was not in the muddy wastelands of Europa. Nor was he in the midst of fighting and war. No. He was instead in a small steel room, lying comfortably on a small bed. A desk was pushed up against a wall, laden with books and papers .A half open wardrobe. It wasn’t the best of accommodations, but it was one nonetheless.

Quietly, the soldier sits up on his bed, wincing at a few creaks in his back. He stretches, ignoring the knocking on his door and the female voice calling out his rank as he stands. Time for a new day, he supposed.

“I’m coming.” He approaches the wardrobe, and opens it, revealing the very same grey uniform he wore during those war stricken years, albeit cleaned up and updated.

With a sigh, he put it on with haste, almost relieved at the comfort to be back in a uniform again. A quick look in the mirror, and soon, he had opened the door, revealing the youthful face of the trooper.

“Lieutenant von Lorica, sir!” she snapped to attention, which was returned. Seeing no reason to hold him up, she spoke. “Colonel Schmidt wishes to meet you on the bridge. We’re making touchdown on Port Weiss soon, sir.”

He nods and waves her off, dismissing her. “At ease, get some food, and thank you for informing me of this.” Whatever else she did was tuned out as he stepped out of his room and into the steel hallways of the Reich Airship Siegfried.

Walking through them revealed no further enlightenment. A few crewmembers nodded at him as he walked by, though he encountered no fellow soldiers. Perhaps they were all in the mess hall. In less than five minutes, he had entered the bridge.

Instantly, he was greeted by the sounds of working pilots and mechanics. The chatter of the crew as they eased into their flight. The whirs and hums of machinery and screens.

And then, there was the view. Past the glass screens, the skies, untainted by smoke or smog. Clouds drifted lazily past as the vast expanse of the bright blue sky stretched for what seemed to be an eternity.

For a moment, he loses himself in the beauty. Truly, airships were one of the greatest miracles of the Age of Steam. Even now, he was still surprised how this hunk of metal stayed flying.

“Ah. Good morning lieutenant,” the words snapped him out of his reverie, and the soldier stood at attention to his superior officer. “Colonel Schmidt.”


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

The Great Hellbound Railway - Construction Begins!

From the office of our Lord Mayor, Virginia, comes a diplomatic treaty - with none other than Hell itself. It seems that the Hell-owned Moloch Station railway shall not be the only one connecting our fair city to the land of the devils. Indeed, contracts have been struck with many a side, the Bazaar had given its blessing, the Tracklayers’ Union is in full force, and a board of distinguished and prominent figures now overlooks and bickers over every detail of this upcoming project.

An ambitious one it is indeed, and we, as anyone else, are looking forward to seeing not only the speed and efficiency of the construction, but also what profits, benefits, and general outcomes such a connection to Hell will yield for the public at large.

Indeed, perhaps a sanctioned vacation in Hell itself is not far off from the table now! Certainly, there are many of those who would kill to have a peak at those brass gates - yet we advise patience! The first leg of the tracks has been laid, and we now await further comments from the Great Hellbound Railway Board.

In the meantime - stay safe, London!


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Oh what joy self-discovery is.
Spade

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Spade,
No virtue, truly, holds more glory than the knowledge of oneself.

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
Gone NORTH.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
0 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 126

7/5/2020
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

The nature of complicity is that of a boiled frog. The heat slowly rising as the water around you boils and you do not even notice so preoccupied with your own self you are. Perhaps such sentiment is a tad cynical. After all, we are good people, are we not?

One’s emotions are difficult to reconcile with. It takes practice, effort, will. Then come the questions of morality. Is it best for the world? For the relationship? For them? For them? What might the best be, in any case. To ask oneself such questions ad infinitum is, perhaps, at least a step in the right direction.

I do not want to see the world burn. I do not want to see hate spread. Best smother it in its cradle, though it is no longer an infant. Best pluck it by the roots. No, I only fear I have grown far to complicit to do what is necessary. Perhaps I fear that which is necessary.

Frogs, by all accounts, do not let themselves be boiled alive. They have a sense of self-preservation, and they certainly know when water is too hot for them.

No, truly. Frogs are not complicit in their own demise. They, however, have an easy choice to make.


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

This War Of Ours
Part III
by Reinol von Lorica

Irvin Schmidt was a tall individual. Pale and blue eyed, with dark blonde hair and smooth features. His dark grey uniform contrasted with his bright features. The commander nodded and gestured for him to come over.

“I suppose you’ve heard of our assignment?” he inquired. To his side, a brown haired officer with dark eyes stared. Lieutenant Colonel Hans Meyer. While he never got along with the younger officer, he admired his sound head for tactics. Irvin however, was another matter entirely.

“Yes sir,” he replies. His thoughts wandered. Behind them, a flock of birds flew past the screens. Idly, he wondered what it would be like to fly like them. To be free and unidbidden by the duty that burdened him. Those thoughts are quashed by the words from the fourth officer who had joined their group.

“Those damn rebels really don’t know when to quit do they?”

Irvin said nothing, but Hans flinched at his harsh words. He always was a soft man. “Richter. Mind your words,” he lightly scolded. “We’re supposed to act professional.”

Captain Arnold Richter was anything but a professional man. His features were tanned and rugged from years of fighting, his dark hair cut short and his beard even shorter. The man scowled and folded his arms. “You know I’m right.”

A brief silence ensues. He supposed he was. The rebellion was far more fierce than what the government or the military had expected. So much so that the uprising had spread to the colonies.

Any reply he had in mind was soon cut off by the captain of the ship, who approached them, her bright eyes gleaming with amusement. “If you fine gentlemen would allow me to interrupt, we’re almost at port. I suggest getting your troops ready to disembark. We’re on a schedule.”

Irvin nods and gestures for the trio to get ready. “I will, captain,” he said nothing else, and it was clear they were dismissed. “Pardon me for cutting this short. We’ll talk again when we land.Get some breakfast while you still can.” Nods and ‘yes sirs’ were his reply, and soon they found themselves marching towards the corridor to the mess hall.

“And Fabian,” Irvin spoke. The lieutenant stops, startled by the older man’s call. “Try to get more rest.”

For a moment, Fabian von Lorica stood on the bridge, waiting for the colonel to say something else. But when no other words came, he sighed, and made his way to the mess hall. Partially to gather the troops and partially so that he could get some more sleep after a quick meal.

If he closed his eyes, he could still see the blasted wasteland of the fields.


--------------------------------- ~ * ~ * ~ Electorial News ~ * ~ * ~ ---------------------------------

Election 1898 Candidates Announced

Three prominent Londoners have announced their candidacy in the year 1898 Lord Mayoral elections. This year, something truly exceptional has happened. Perhaps we can thank Lord Mayor Virginia for opening the door for non-humans - whatever the case, the candidates are truly exquisite!

F. F. Gebrandt - a chemist and an academic, planning to build a palaeontological museum in London; her candidacy, of course, is in support of progress and the sciences.

The Viscountess of the Viric Jungle - an honourable cat candidate. As the first cat-candidate, she promises to protect the dreams of Londoners from the wiles of nightmares (and, perhaps, snakes).

The Tentacled Entrepreneur - a well-respected Rubbery candidate! The Entrepreneur is respected not only by other Rubberies but also by many humans. A businessrubbery to be sure, he has taken to liking the arts of not only humans, but also other Rubberies, and promises a Renaissance of Rubbery Culture!

Indeed, we are proud and excited beyond belief to announce that not one, but two candidates are of non-human disposition in this year’s election! With these candidacies comes a more diverse, and hopefully more just, London.

Elections proper are still two weeks away, and we patiently await to hear more of the candidates’ platforms! Do let us know what you think, London!


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

First Great Hellbound Railway Station - Ealing Garden One Train Closer!

The Great Hellbound Railway is making headway as the very first station opens its doors. Passing through the Ealing borough on the edge of London proper, this station signals great progress in this Hellbound venture.

Ealing, as some may know, has been out of the reach of London’s powers-that-be since the fall. Home to outcasts and criminals, it also houses the unwelcome Rubberies who form more welcome (though still suspicified) communities. The Tentacled Entrepreneur also has his first and largest factories there.

Seeing as Ealing is a more underprivileged part of London, yet still a part of London, the question becomes how this connection will affect life. With a train connecting this distant part from the centre of our city, perhaps business can prosper and life can become better. It is also left to see what the Great Hellbound Railway Board (on which the very Entrepreneur sits as a member) will act to possibly support Ealing.

While still under minor construction, trains should start running to and from Ealing Station in a few day’s time.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Oh how I despise the thoughts. Cannot financing be a simpler matter?
Swamped

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Swamped,
Everything has its place and time. Perhaps consider waiting next time. Though, of waiting there has been enough. Perhaps, well, perhaps I can grant it just this once.

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
Gone NORTH.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
0 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 126

7/12/2020
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

One might be hard pressed to believe my humility. Grandiose is what we sell, after all. Settling for any less would simply be a disservice to all. Nonetheless, I will be first to admit that the breadth of my wisdom is far lesser than what might present itself. That, in itself, is not a humble act - I know I know nothing.

Acts, however, are perhaps not the goal of this editorial. I simply aim to redeem the past in what little ways I can.

I bring to you, then, not a moral teaching, not a lecture, but a few simple lines of advice.

Be kind to yourself and others. Strive to better yourself. Remember to rest.

Above all, stay true to yourself.


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

Waiting for the sun in a stolen city
by Sevenix



See more of their art.


--------------------------------- ~ * ~ * ~ Electorial News ~ * ~ * ~ ---------------------------------

Elections Begin Tomorrow!

Tomorrow at noon, the official electorial season begins! Candidates reveal their platforms and campaigns, secret hunters shall aim to properly do their job.

Our own Gazette brings you a survey of popularity - let us see who has the most support! As there is a whole week of campaigning before the next edition comes out, do not be afraid to mail us when you are sure of your answers!

Find the survey at the middle page spread, and send it to us at the address provided at the back of the paper.


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

Journalism Of Smears Running Rampant

It is our own displeasure to bring your attention, dear readers, to the dishonesty and slander that still course through the veins of London’s journalist community. What’s more, it seems that not even our own humble paper can escape such conflicts.

A so-called “defender of truth” that is the Phlegethonian Gazette seems to disagree with our efforts to bring London’s artistic community closer together. If such an attack would only be to our paper itself, we would not bat an eye; Lord Gazter, the owner and chief editor of the Phlegethonian Gazette, however, seems to take it upon himself to slander even the community itself!

To call contemporary art “dull, dreary, and otherwise lacking [a] spark” is perhaps the most blatantly blind blabber dear Lord Gazter could come up with. One might even think that he does not even read The Goosey Gazette! For if he did, not only would he see that the art of London is vibrant, overflowing with creativity, and full of heart, but that the powers that be are not always kind to the artists that such art make!

Perhaps that is where the issue lies. After all, our own Gazette must sometimes be distributed through secret channels and allied distributors in the artistic world, lest the Ministry confiscates further copies of certain editions. As Lord Gazter is who he is – namely, a lord – it is only reasonable that his access to the finer editions is restricted, if not non-existent. Worry not, dear readers, as we have taken it upon ourselves to educate Lord Gazter, and will be mailing all redacted copies directly to his estate.

As apolitical as we try to be, dear readers, it seems that it is time for actions. As The Tentacled Entrepreneur’s candidature has been announced with a platform of patronage for the arts, a spark of hope arises. We at the Gazette firmly believe that it will be only beneficial to the more marginal forms and ways and themes of art.

Tomorrow start the campaigns, and with the Entrepreneur’s further agenda, we ask you, dearest readers – support the Tentacled Entrepreneur! Support Axile, support art and the Arts!


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

Dear Mother Goose,
Oh my tired bones, bury me deep and leave no mark.
Striving

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Striving,
Wishes may be for all, but their fulfilment is but for the damned.

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
Gone NORTH.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+1 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 126

7/19/2020
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

With the storm comes a flood. A flood of emotions, of problems, of solutions, of questions and answers. The ratios vary, it’s true. Worst of all, I have called the storm all by myself. Bit by bit one wrong decision after another.

There were not many decisions to be made. Simply, they were all the ever-so-slightly wrong ones. One might generously simply call it incompetence of life. One might also be correct. Who is in the right to say.

I have been noticing a trend. A trend in which I am tired, and yearning, and despising, and wanting, and postponing, and simply trying.

I am not sure I want to try anymore.


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

A colleague of mine and I have recently had an exchange of ideas. So splendid his proposition was, I had decided to (with his permission) share it with you, our dear readers. Without further ado, a contemplation on the Correspondence and Art with Arthur Nethell.

~~~~~

[The letter is decorated with a sigil of Correspondence, meaning "To its receiver" - one of the rare symbols safe to put on paper.]

[An expression in Quander - most likely, the receiver's name, or term of address.]

Dear [The receiver's name is smudged out with a splotch of light blue ink]!

Two years ago, my friend and I have visited a honey-den for the first time. We weren't of any significance: we were amateur artists, writers, musicians... Bohemians. People of the art. This art is what I want to talk to you about.

As you may know, I am currently a professor of the now-unnamed Department of the University. I study the Correspondence. The Last Alphabet. The language in which the laws of the world are written, and the language in which you, too, are a renowned expert.

A year ago, I have arranged for a performance in the Magohany Hall: a symphony designed to convey a feeling of nostalgia. The song poisoned those present: the performers and the audience alike. The xylophonist, whom you might have known as [REDACTED], incinerated himself with a box of sunlight - and miss [REDACTED], who was in the first row, attends the Hall's performances each Thursday, as if waiting for the symphony to play again.

[Pictured below: an oversimplified Correspondence sigil for "An old orbit, formerly remembered."]

This is the expression I have played. Well, its most debased form - the one that is safe to inscribe - in a form that allows it to be inscribed. There are other forms to express this particular symbol - and each of them will carry the same meaning: "An old orbit, formerly remembered." We interpret this meaning as nostalgia.

I am a Correspondent: my undertaking is the study of those expressions. I can write the glyph, compose a symphony, describe a dance or assemble a delicate glass artifice to refract the light just so - and all of those shall speak nostalgia to the observer. I could, in theory, say it out loud if my vocal chords were suitable. An expression of Correspondence is as much a statement as it is a command: not only does it convey nostalgia, it induces it. Even a cricketeer who knows the movements can, in theory, induce the effect - this, I reckon, is what transpired on the February of '97.

I still create works of art, even to this day, with and without Correspondence.

[Pictured below: an oversimplified Correspondence sigil for "A shadow which is the light that casts it"]

A poem which carries a symbol for sorrow within it may drive a reader to tears, but so can a skilled poet who knows nothing of the Last Alphabet. An opera which conveys glee with such a command is of the same nature as an opera which does not employ Correspondence - differing merely in potency. A song which enrages need not compel its reader with the language in which the laws of the world are written to enrage.

Our work, our art, our passions are mere shadows of their celestial versions - and yet it may not be denied that these shadows are the same as the light which casts them, merely lacking in intensity.

Are we not gods on our own? Do we not live immortal in our works? Do artists not command the observers with what they create? When a child learns to write, their scribbles are unwieldy yet clear.

Is the work we conduct, in essence, said scribbles?

Are artists - are we - nascent gods?

I would love to hear from you on this.

Yours truly,
Correspondent Arthur Nethell.

[Another expression in Quander.]

~~~~

Dear Arthur,

What magnificence, what nuance, what splendor! Upon reading, rereading, contemplating, and recontemplating your letter, I must say I cannot contain my further interest. I am nearly ashamed that I myself had not thought these thoughts sooner. We are, of course, not all perfect, and I must bow to your excellence.

I applaud and thank you for removing the thin veil between the language of Law and language of art. It is not all uncommon for those inclined to our profession to create art with the concepts, meanings, even symbols and theorized phonetics of the Correspondence; yet I feel that the use itself is not often discussed.

They way one weaves the Law into one’s work, or weaves the work itself to fit or break the Law. The way that skilled artists need not rely on the Law, for they themselves understand their craft so well that by breaking the rules of it, they might as well be breaking the Chain itself.

I would like to bring to your attention a poem by one N- [The next several paragraphs are there and have a meaning, yet while reading them and the Correspondence symbols intercutting the words, the mind slips and eyes slightly sting.]

- it was a bold move, yes, yet the fellow once told me he does not regret the exile. In my own humble opinion, the power was not in the Correspondence there. Perhaps it brought the work to the attention of the authorities, yet it was the ideas themselves that helped reach its true potential.

Perhaps we are gods, yes. I am never one to refute greatness. Perhaps not all artists can reach such potential, yet all artists have it within them.

Yours delightfully,
R.


--------------------------------- ~ * ~ * ~ Electorial News ~ * ~ * ~ ---------------------------------

The Goosey Gazette Electorial Candidate Popularity Survey;
Results Are In

We would like to thank you, our dearest readers, for your contributions towards our survey. The results are truly quite intriguing, and we are aching to share them with you.

A small foreword - do not despair if you have missed the vote, or voted against your current ideals, as the second round for the election proper can be found in the middle-page spread once again.

Without further ado, the results:

Currently, the Tentacled Entrepreneur is a clear leader in popularity, followed by the Viscountess, with F. F. Gebrandt trailing behind. While science is a concern of all, many of our readers, understandably, are intrigued by the possibility of a non-human candidate in the office.

Just as Londoners are split on the popularity of candidates, so are they split on which way to cast their vote. More of our readers are inclined to vote for the Viscountess than the Entrepreneur, by a small yet noticeable margin. The supporters of the arts and the rubberies are rather strongly poised towards the respective candidate, however more are indeed concerned with the safety of their dreams. Sorrowfully for F. F. Gebrandt, her platform seems to not incite much excitement.

The voting populace is also rather indecisive about whether they would change their votes, were secrets revealed. Perhaps this is all a matter of the weight of the secret - after all, no price is too big sometimes. Still, there are those intent on changing their minds, as well as those who insist on their first choice an do not plan to budge.

For the division of popularity and voting choice - those who like F. F. Gebrandt are nearly equally likely to vote for either of the other candidates; those who most like one of the other candidates, however, more often choose to vote for Gebrandt instead.

Furthermore, the Tentacled Entrepreneur has strongly committed supporters, with more than twice as many voters not wanting to change their vote for him. Gebrandt and the Viscountess have proportionally similar rates of voter commitment, though the Viscountess wins by a small margin.

Such are the results of this poll - and to remind you again, take the second survey which you can find in the middle-page spread!


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

Art Of Axile - Rubbery Artform On The Rise!

We have touched on the art of the Rubbery Folk - or rather lack thereof - quite a while ago. Back then, it was true that the Rubberies in their communities had tangible nor visible nor audible art. Though there were a few who gladly lend their talents to a pre-composed performance, be it dance or music in most cases, there was simply no art that Rubberies themselves had created. For a long time there were no further developments, yet it seems that something had stirred in secret after all.

As we all know, the Tentacled Entrepreneur’s platform is that of the arts; more specifically, the arts of Axile and the Rubbery Folk. The most prominent of these arts seems to be sculpting. The Rubbery artists shape amber into quite magnificent shapes that, while indescribable, or at least incomparable to any human analogues, elicit strong and precise emotions. Whatever methods the artists use, they must truly give their all into their work.

Some may describe such art as primal, akin to the painted walls of cavemen, yet we see something more. This is no mere sudden discovery; the art of the Rubbery Folk is a deep meditation on their own emotions, refined in its roughness, and thoroughly beautiful.

As you all know, we do our damndest to stay apolitical here at the Gazette, yet from this week’s survey results, we want to highlight a few lines from a certain prominent citizen:

“Ever since the Bazaar arrived in the Neath, the Rubbery Men and their Fluke creators have been persecuted by all manner of denizens and monsters due to their peculiar nature. Lacking the social grace of the devils of Hell and the ability to integrate with humans like their Snuffer cousins, the Rubberies have been hated and feared for apparently no reason. Even now, in a city more tolerant and accepting than any other in human history, us Londoners have yet to appreciate the value and promise that the Rubberies bring to our society and would destroy them at a moment's notice. [...]

Should a Rubbery Man win this election, even one as capitalistic as the Entrepreneur, its mere inauguration into the mayoral office will be the catalyst of a greater change than the combined policies of all previous mayors. It will force not only the xenophobic masses, but perhaps the Bazaar herself, to reevaluate their standards of decency and widen their perspectives for a glorious future unbound by one's shape, into something better. Next, it will allow us to forge diplomatic relations with the Flukes at Flute Street, a potential ally when dealing with their Lorn brethren and the Fathomking, whose ties were previously botched by the Admiralty and led to the dreadful Agreement of Nothing of Consequence Beneath the Zee.”

With that, we encourage you all, dear readers, to visit the Tentacled Entrepreneur’s galleries, the ones officially held on Ladybones Road, as well as the ones established by his supporters in various parlours of Veilgarden.


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

Dear Mother Goose,
For once, rest.
M

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear M,
And so it shall be.

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
Gone NORTH.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+1 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 126

7/26/2020
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Respite at last.

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

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

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

Perhaps I shall ponder that.


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

Dance of the Embers
by Sevenix



See more of their art.


--------------------------------- ~ * ~ * ~ Electorial News ~ * ~ * ~ ---------------------------------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Jericho Station Opening Soon After Elections!

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

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

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


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

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

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
Gone NORTH.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+1 link
Eugenie Antontsev
Eugenie Antontsev
Posts: 4

7/26/2020
Frogvarian wrote:
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Perhaps by the nature of our readership, the overwhelming majority of this week’s votes goes to the very Tentacled Entrepreneur



My salutes to Mr Fires, then.
https://community.failbettergames.com/topic27999-the-tentacled-entrepreneur-for-mayor.aspx?Page=2#post250781
0 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 126

8/3/2020
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

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

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

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

Sincerely,
Chief Editor of The Goosey Gazette,
R.


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

Better Luck Next Time
by Cef Havoc



Visit the artist.


Self-Portrait
by Elvira Blake, pen name Millea




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

Gondolas And Marshes - Jericho Locks Station Opens Its Doors!

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

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

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

Safe travels, dear London.


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

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

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Tired,
Perseverance is a virtue, after all.

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
Gone NORTH.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+1 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 126

8/9/2020
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

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

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

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

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

Thank the stars for well-directed pedanticism.


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

Various Portraits
by Elvira Blake, pen name Millea


Celiapor



Poor Edward


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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
Gone NORTH.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
0 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 126

8/17/2020
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

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

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

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

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

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


- R.


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

Various Portraits
by Elvira Blake, pen name Millea


Mayoral Term


Edward, yet


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

E_____’s Exquisite Confections - Moloch Street Stall Open!

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

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

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

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

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

Sweet tasting, dear London.


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

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

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
Gone NORTH.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
0 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 126

8/24/2020
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

Today - a class on punctuality.

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

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

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

History, after all, is written by the victors.


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

Portraits of Wax
by Elvira Blake, pen name Millea


Skins


Candles


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

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

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

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

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

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

Rejoice, dear London.


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

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

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
Gone NORTH.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
0 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 126

8/30/2020
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

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

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

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

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


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

Temple in the Neath
by Sevenix



See more of their art.


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

The Magistracy Of Evenlode - The Last Outpost Of The Constables

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is hope yet, after all.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


It Feels Like Nothing
a report by Ruddertail

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Tired,
Forgive, never forget.

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
Gone NORTH.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
0 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 126

9/6/2020
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Two Tears and a Moon
by Sevenix



See more of their art.


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

Minding The Gap - The Great Hellbound Railway

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

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

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
Gone NORTH.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
0 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 126

9/13/2020
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

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

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

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

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

Othatarooth!


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

Held Lost
by Chronic Dreamer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Helicon House Opens Its Doors - Rubbery Art For All!

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
Gone NORTH.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 126

28 days ago
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

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

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

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

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

Use your words wisely, dear London.


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

A Duel to Death
by Tris Ghost



Visit their gallery, observe more art.


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

Tracklaying Efforts Unearth Ancient Art - A Look At Railside Archaeology

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
Gone NORTH.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 126

21 days ago
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

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

To all whom it may concern,

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

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

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

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


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

How did it end up like this
by Tris Ghost



Visit their gallery, observe more art.


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

Tomorrow Stubbornly Refuses To Arrive

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

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

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


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

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

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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

--
R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.

Rebeka Frogvarian
Gone NORTH.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+1 link




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