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Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 68

9/15/2019
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

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

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

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

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

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


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

Journal of a Dead Man
by Samuel James

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Metal claws, yeah sure'

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn't a human or animal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

A Week Of Uneventfulness Impair This Report Does Not

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

--
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
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 68

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

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

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

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

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

Truly, the worst critic is yourself.


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

Assorted Artwork
by Nihil



A Rubbery Scholar



A portrait of a Master



A painting of sure fiction


See more at the artist’s gallery.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

--
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
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 68

22 days ago
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

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

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

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

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

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

Shall we all be blessed by his cold wonders.


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

Reinol von Lorica
by Ted Brown


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

Happy birthday, Professor!


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

Second All-Bird Play To Debut Soon

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

--
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
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+5 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 68

15 days ago
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

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

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

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

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

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


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

Low Claim
by Chronic Dreamer
TW: Gruesome murder

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

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

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


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

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

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

Today we bring you the results of the conflict.

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

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

Then, in a flash, it was over.

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

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

Then, his own sword pierced his chest.

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

She waited, patiently.

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

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

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

Remember the art, London.


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

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

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

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

--
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
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 68

8 days ago
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Them
by Samuel James

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Them' Hazel simply replied.


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

A Brief Report From The Museum Of Mistakes

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah, perhaps, we have said too much.

Rest well, dear London.


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

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

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

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

--
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
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

Publisher of The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+1 link
Frogvarian
Frogvarian
Posts: 68

1 days ago
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

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


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


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


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


Life is not a linear procession of events.


Life is to be lived.


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

Woods In Winter
by Silurica


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

Find more of their art…


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

The Clown - A Review Of Contemporary Drama

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

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

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

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

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

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

See you in the theater, London.


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

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

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

Dear Edge,
The very wait itself.

--
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
A zee captain of some renown. Seeking the name that was forgotten.
Open to interactions, intrigues, sparring bouts, and fellow Seekers.

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