New Sea life discovered!

Your publisher may be cool, I grant you. Your publisher may be very cool indeed, *but* you will have to go a long way to find a publisher as cool as ours (Sloth Comics) Example- Our publisher-editor Nic Rossert has created and drawn a new form of Hopeless, Maine sea life. Here it is…

Now, Nic is a busy sort of chap. He’s got the publishing editing stuff to do, plus he is a comics creator (Steam Hammer, for instance) So… let’s take a job off his hands, shall we? WHAT IS THIS THING? Also- can we eat it? Additionally, what are its habits and nature??

 

Suggestions/ideas in the comments, please!

 

Hoping (as always) this finds you well, inspired and thriving.

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Mrs Beaten is judging herself

Mr Beaten. He had a face, I feel certain. I suppose there must have been all of the usual features in about the expected size, number and locations. Surely, if his face had been peculiar, I would remember that much, at least.

A woman should remember her husband. It is a terrible thing to have had a husband and not quite feel certain about why one does not have a husband now. There is a hole in my mind, and I do not know what may have fallen into it. Were we happy? Did he love me? I feel certain that I did not feel any great passion for him, only that which is decent and dutiful. From what I have seen of other people’s great passions, I am fairly certain that I have never entertained any such excitement of the nerves in any context whatsoever.

I feel reasonably certain about myself, but he is mystery and absence. I remember his voice. I think. A remember a voice, that told me what to do, and was stern and sensible. It told me essential truths like ‘always hang the socks in pairs on the washing line, one must have order in all things,’ and ‘none of us are meant to know what we look like on the inside.’

It is not that I miss him, not precisely. How can one miss what one barely remembers? It is more that I feel I should miss him, that there is something indecent in my not remembering, and not grieving. It is not proper, to be the wife, or is it widow, of an uncertainty.

In which the island is invoked by Craig Hallam

Gentlefolk here gathered, I thank you for your attendance…and your bravery.
I introduce you to a place which, as a concept, evokes the untamed imagination, encourages fraternising with the dark and embracing of the weird; as a quirk of geography, cosmology and fickle theology, it has been known to shatter the mind and baffle the sensible.
(Luckily there aren’t any if that sort here)

Maybe this is your first time, perhaps this is your prophesized return, some might say you never left…
Either way, we arrive.

The day’s last embers fade into the horizon and Night awakens, stretching its lithe frame over the uncertain terrain of the island of Hopeless, Maine.

The stars do not twinkle above. They cajole. The shadows do not gather, or creep, but walk brazen on the cobbles.

Cottages knot together, hastily made by those who must constantly glance over their shoulder with little time for aesthetic or architectural standard. Only the knowledge that they need shelter. And soon.

Beside rune-etched doors, chimes tinkle on a breeze that isn’t there. Dreamcatchers twist above beds encircled with salt.

Part of the island’s eerie soundscape the sound of lapping waves on this forsaken pebbled shore, is a wordless lullaby sung by that which waits beneath the brine.
Whispers from the woods in a voice half-remembered, perhaps once loved, threatens sweets things to those who wander too close.

But not all inhabitants of Hopeless are so. Though they choose different weapons (rationality, faith, hearsay) they all stand against the What-might-it-bes and I’ll-never-tells that rattle the locks and skitter along rooves.
Make no mistake, there are no winners, here. Only those who survive a little longer.

Of course, none of this is any fault of the night. It is merely witness to all that happens below its silken arches. The only witness. As forgetfulness, here, is a tool of survival. Those who remember are doomed to ramble in step and word. Those who question, may regret the answer.

Sit back. Set your drink on the table before you,
lest your hands begin to shake.
Welcome to the impossible isle. Hopeless, Maine.

As the title suggests, this is an invocation of the island of Hopeless, Maine by the bloody fantastic (literally) author, Craig Hallam. It was read aloud as the opening piece of the Hopeless Vendetta Live during the Asylum steampunk festival. We all had goosebumps. If you have not yet encountered Craig’s work, you would do well dive into the Adventures of Alan Shaw. (The third and final book in this series is eagerly awaited in this household!)

 

Art by Tom Brown

In which Mrs Beaten does not see a Punch and Judy show

A man set up a booth outside The Crow.

I think he is a man. He has a beard. I used to think that beards signified men, but there is a Mrs Jones who has a beard and all is now uncertainty and dismay in this regard. What hellish place is this where a person cannot put their faith in the implications of a beard?

There was a puppet show. I think I have seen such a thing before but have no memory of where, or when. The red curtains, the sausages, the crocodile. There is a meaning here. I do not remember there being so much screaming, either from the puppeteer, or the audience.

I do not remember the crocodile breaking out of the booth, and savaging someone in the front row.

I do not remember crocodiles having so many legs, or eyes.

And yet, an hour later, many of them returned to watch the whole process again. I did not stay to see if the crocodile had come back, or if new sausages had been made, or what sausages in this macabre theatre might be made of. The children, revolting beasts that they are, seemed very much to like it. I think one of them may have eaten the sausages. And the crocodile. I closed my eyes at the critical moment.

Journal of Doctor Hedley Case

First Entry

I have found myself somewhat delayed in my jaunt to the colonies. Our ship ran aground in the middle of the night and gave us all a terrible fright! Fortunately I was able to get to the life boats in plenty of time, so much so in fact, that I was able to bring quite a few of my books along. I really must thank Mother dearest for splashing out on the top notch rooms so close to the lifeboats. I’m not sure how many of the crew made it out, but there does seem to be decidedly less of us, oh well!

Fortune smiles upon me a second time, the Island is inhabited! However, the locals seem very odd. They were eyeing us from a distance. But being the “man of the world” I am, I marched up to the crowd and introduced myself with all the gusto I could muster. “I am Doctor Hedley Case, pleased to meet you all!”

I won them over in an instant! I’ve never seen such a miraculous change in demeanour. “Doctor!?” they said “We’ve needed a man like you on the island” and helped to carry both my scientific journals and the more maimed of the survivors to the town proper.

Almost everyone seemed to want to buy me a drink, which would have been marvellous, but for the exotic beverages they drink here. What do you do to beer to turn it green? I could not identify a single flavour. Never mind, “when in Rome” and all that. Fortunately, my public school background means I have excellent gag reflex control and could act perfectly natural.

I have a feeling I’m going to really enjoy my time on this jolly little Island.

Second Entry

Tragedy and woe. All that was looking up is now obscured by the bleak sphincter of despair.

One of the townsfolk insisted on escorting me to where he said I would be “working,” as if a man of my breeding did such things. But try as I might to explain to the little chap that I would not be staying on the island for long, he seemed impervious to the very notion I would ever leave.

He took me to the residence of one Doctor Willoughby. What an inscrutable fellow. Before he had even laid eyes upon me I’m sure he had made his mind up to dislike me.

He was curious to know all about my Doctorial experience. So I regaled him on all my academic achievements. Studies into the darkest regions of the mind! Modern science attempting to dissect the human soul and understand its inner workings. Truly I stand as a man at the threshold of a bold new frontier.

His reply wounded me as if he had cut me with one of his wretched knives. “So you’re not a real Doctor”. What backwards terrible dark age have I been marooned upon?! It was worse than talking to Father. Psychoanalysis maybe in its infancy, but to dismiss it so callously as poppycock?! The silly old fool! This man has clearly never read the works of Cidney Fraud.

Well, that was it. The whole town changed before my eyes. Where everyone had been so generous in offering me food and bed to sleep upon, now they are asking me to kindly remove my belongings and shove off!

It’s a bloody good thing my pursuit of knowledge has given me such a robust and enduring mind. A normal man would have been rocked by such harsh rejection. Yes, he’d be rather upset I’d say.

Third entry.

*This page is indecipherably water damaged. As if someone has spent a great deal of time crying over it.*

Forth entry.

I have found a mostly unoccupied and mostly upright abandoned house in the less trendy part of town. I think this will suit me just fine as temporary accommodation. By my reckoning it will be two weeks before our ship is reported missing. A Further four weeks before news could reach Mother, and then a further three weeks till rescue. I just have to hold on until then.

Fifth entry.

Catching something to eat isn’t working out as well as I envisaged. If I am going to eat again in the next few months, I am going to need a job. It can’t be that hard. I’m sure I have a cousin who had a job for a few weeks; it practically runs in the family. I shall play to my strengths. I’m going into town to find someone mentally disturbed that needs analysing.

Sixth entry.

Off to a good start! This town has a wealth of disturbed and unhappy people. My first patient, Mr Derrick Jones is a veritable encyclopaedia of problems. He is plagued with vivid nightmares that his mother is trying to feed him to a sea monster with big wavy tentacles.

Well, it couldn’t get any more rudimentary than that for dream interpretation! So I confronted him head-on. To rip the bandage off, as it were!

“I say, good fellow, do you worry about the size of your Johnson?”

He was so overcome with both conscious and subconscious emotional realisations that he accidentally lashed out punching me square in the face. After committing such a social faux pas he stormed off, no doubt overwhelmed by the revelation I bestowed upon him.

Fortunately, I have decided that all consultations must be paid for in advance to mitigate the effects of such extreme reactions. Thus tonight I dine upon something very turnip like but with more eyes.

Seventh Entry

Hugo survived the shipwreck! He was found later than the rest of us on account of there being no room in any of the lifeboats. The poor Devil had to swim to shore. The careless chap has lost an arm somewhere along the way. He never did seem to have any luck the poor old bean.

He was ranting about a malicious rumour among the survivors. Apparently, someone took up a large proportion of a boat with books, leaving less room for people.

I have moved my books to the attic for safe measure. Unbalanced people can sometimes overreact in preposterous ways when they are emotional. I suspect Hugo may have been breastfed for too long the poor fellow.

Still, the public school boys are reunited! What a force we shall become. I have already encouraged him to start to repairing and maintaining the house if I am to peddle my skills to earn us coin.

Eighth entry.

Hugo really is being impossible. He is taking forever to fix the hole in the kitchen wall. His excuse? “It’s very difficult to hammer in nails with only one arm”. With such an attitude he will never overcome adversity. I am refusing to help him in anyway so that he can grow as a person. He really is very lucky to have such a supportive friend in me.

Ninth Entry.

I’m having a surprisingly difficult time in helping the residents of Hopeless Maine. None of them seem to be responding to my therapy sessions in the way that’s laid out in Fraud’s case studies. Indeed, I felt so exasperated listening to Mrs Cheesewright’s problems I exclaimed “Well I think I would be pretty traumatised if I had been through all that! That’s ridiculous!” She said it was the most helpful session yet, even though I didn’t in anyway manage to connect the trauma to her parents. I am at a loss.

Tenth Entry.

The residents of Hopeless Maine are clearly too demented for just a “talking cure”, I’m going to have to find helpful medicines on the island through trial and error.

Hugo isn’t talking to me at the moment. He lost an eye trying to hold a nail in place with his teeth. The trauma is causing his anger to misdirect at me of all people. Sometimes, being the only person to truly understand the human mind can be a lonely existence.

Eleventh Entry.

I have selected an interesting assortment of plants, fungi and …other to experiment with their possible medicinal effects. I shall begin trials today. I’ll show that so called Doctor Willoughby who’s qualified!

Twelfth Entry

The Ocean has been explaining to me why everyone is so unhappy. It’s the miasma in the air. I have created an air tight fortress by putting the duvet over my head and asking it to hold its breath.

Hugo has outdone himself being passive aggressive this time. He inflated his head to three times its normal size, melded into an armchair and then refused to do the washing up.

Thirteenth Entry.

I now see a massive flaw in my drug trials. I’m already a picture of perfect mental health. There can be no point in studying the effects of those drugs on me. I need to study the effects on someone who requires mental correction.

Fourteenth Entry.

I spotted Derrick Jones leaving something outside my front door this morning. He had left a human skull! How wonderful! I have longed for one of these for my office. I have begun drawing the diagrams on its delightful dome so I can be the proud owner of a Phrenology head. The sweet man must have felt dreadful after bashing me. Gosh, it feels really wonderful to be appreciated.

Fifteenth Entry.

The blue mushrooms with indigo fins are deadly poisonous. Another secret of this unforgiving landscape uncovered by yours truly.

Hugo’s funeral was a touching event. That Reverend Davis seems pretty glum though. I left a few of my cards at the orphanage in case he wants to make an appointment to talk about it.

The house seems much bigger and more solemn now. Still just as drafty! I shall have to get a man in to accomplish what poor Hugo could not.

Sixteenth Entry

That Damn Mrs Beaten! I go through the sufferance of attempting to explain psychoanalysis to a Woman, (which is of course completely futile) and she spurns my polite gesture and starts a damn crusade against me.

The front page headline of the Vendetta today reads “All feelings are obscene”, Mrs Beaten goes on to clarify that it’s okay to express feelings of moral outrage and at certain times disapproval and disappointment, especially where children are concerned.

She has smeared my practice as “nonsense at best” and at worst “corrosive to the moral fabric of society”. She asks, “If we start asking people how they feel, soon we might start asking them what they want! Where will it end?”

Well, this is me well and truly dashed. I always knew it would be a woman that would be the death of me, but this is even more depressing than even I dared imagine.

 

Here, we welcome the utterly brilliant poet, Rebecca Willson to the island. As this proves, she also has a penchant for comic prose! The art may have been done by Tom Bown (possibly)

Mrs Beaten worries about tables

It is Mrs Beaten’s life philosophy that on the whole it is better to cover everything up and never to ask what is going on underneath.

We can only speculate as to the kind of life experience that has led her to this conclusion… We can also observe that while she doesn’t want to know, at the same time, she spends a lot of time thinking about the things she is clear she doesn’t want to know about.

Why Do I Paint Monsters?

 

They say I am veiled as the paintings in my attic

that I keep my life concealed like skeletons beneath white sheets

that only hair pins hold me together and a spinster’s habits

that I am pale because only tentacles touch my heart.

How little they know what goes on in my secret place,

my haven, where I keep my paintbox, my paints, my easel,

which always tells the truth whoever steps from behind the curtain

into the frame and by the steady brush of my hand coalesces.

Why do I paint them? You ask. Why do I keep their faces

emptied out with a candle above as a nod to their puttering souls

lit without a single match by flames that grow ever brighter

as this island gets more hopeless and I grow wiser?

My life has not been easy. Read this in my downturned lips –

this would not have been my first choice, but now they want me

to oversee the rules of a new game I am hiding my damp brushes

and paints away and smiling a small smile like a masquerade.

 

Words by Lorna Smithers, who we welcome to the island with this piece. I have had the honor and pleasure of doing the art for two of her book covers- The Broken Cauldron and Gatherer of Souls. It is beautiful writing of the sort that will change your internal landscape.  Please visit Lorna here.

 

Art- Tom Brown

Mrs Beaten dreams of an orphan fund

Mrs Beaten does not like children. She detests their sticky hands and snot encrusted faces, and lives in fear that some horrible, uncouth creature will touch her when she is outside. She is very glad that nature did not see fit to make her the mother of such monsters. Mrs Beaten is uncertain of the exact process leading to the presence of yet more vile children in the world. Mr Beaten never expressed a desire for children. He tended to say thing like “you are both my child and my wife.” Mrs Beaten did not find this statement creepy.

On those nights when she cannot sleep, Mrs Beaten lies in bed and thinks about solutions for children. The island seems to have rather a lot of them, and the excess ends up in the orphanage. She suspects islanders of giving away children they can no longer bear. She understands this – she would give away her own children, she feels certain. However, she has managed not to have any and she feels that other islanders aren’t doing enough in that regard. Sometimes she worries about where, exactly, all these children come from, but has been unable to imagine the mechanism. She assumes it must be rather unseemly.

Mrs Beaten wonders if she could lead a fundraiser to provide the orphanage with swimming lessons. The fundraiser is mostly to legitimise the whole process. She would give the lessons herself, she thinks. She would stand on a big rock and encourage them all to get into the sea. Some of them would probably die of cold. Some would be eaten. A few might learn to swim. As she sees it, there would be nothing but win, here.

No one really has a problem with death, she understands. It’s just that these things must be seen to be done properly. One cannot simply murder orphans for being annoying. One must have a publicly endorsed program that appears to be for some other purpose entirely.

The Jester

 

Riddle me this, riddle me that
What am I sowing under my hat?”

Gifting hallucinatory dead flowers
at the Bridge of Bottles underpass
The Jester bites his teeth
and swirls his swanky walnut hourglass
Jabbing japes and swastika shapes
he slinks the serried lanes
and covets nocturnal landscapes
with those knotty sweat-soaked veins
residents pass scornfully dumb
he amuses dogs and orphans
laughing and trustingly they come
as lambs to the terrible slaughter

“Riddle in laughter, riddle in tears
What am I knowing between my ears?”

Playing imaginary dead reality
at the cold and broken children’s home
The Jester tastes his tongue
and masks his manic antique metronome
Flaunting flouts and swiping clouts
he sinks the barley wine
and communes with gnarly snouts
with motives of ill design
naked and torn willingly shoved
the dispossessed son and daughter
hurting like they’ve never been loved
as fish out of turbulent water

“Riddle your heart, riddle your brain
Where are you going in Hopeless, Maine?

Here we welcome, bus driver, poet, artist, photographer, ponderer of the imponderable, worker of miracles- Derek Dohren to the island. We very much hope to hear from him again soon, as this is a brilliant addition to the lore of Hopeless, Maine.

 

Art-Tom Brown

Steampunk Summer Postcards: Greetings from Hopeless Maine!

A postcard from Hopeless, Maine. May contain tentacles and tea.

Blake And Wight . com

Welcome to Steampunk’d Lancaster my dears! I am Mrs Baker, otherwise known as The Last Witch Of Pendle. My soup kitchen is rather quiet now for the summer, Max and Collin and all the little street urchins are out selling Lemonade, everyone else seems to be off on their holidays and things are overly quiet around the bakery. Nevermind, it gives me a chance to go through all the lovely postcards I have been receiving – although some appear to be mis-directed and others seem to be from dimensions I have never even heard of! Still, it is very nice to have mail, let us see now what have we got in the letter box today… Why it’s a postcard from our dear friends on the island of Hopeless Maine, our favourite gothical place to be! (As long as one is armed with a sturdy rolling pin to ward off…

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News for the residents of Hopeless, Maine.