Tag Archives: Hopeless Vendetta

Ghost Writers In The Sky

A strand of folklore common to various cultures throughout the western world is that of The Wild Hunt. From the Viking settlements of Scandinavia to the plains of Arizona, via several points in-between, many attest to having seen this ghostly cavalcade of wraiths racing across the night sky, filling the air with the clatter of hooves and the baying of hounds.
No one would express surprise to learn that Hopeless has more than its fair share of Wild Hunts. On a particularly busy night two or three can run into each other and the result is invariably chaotic. There are always tantrums, hissy fits and disagreements regarding rights of way and inevitable disputes about who is entitled to pursue what or whom. Occasionally a scuffle ensues, which is one of the more entertaining spectacles for anyone brave or foolhardy enough to be abroad on such a night.
One of the lesser known and least exciting of these chases across the sky is locally referred to as The Mild Hunt. Legend has it that many years ago a group of six lady authors set out from England to seek intellectual freedom in the New World. They had little money and their only possessions were three mules, a pair of springer spaniels and enough paper and ink to keep them occupied on the long sea voyage. The journey was largely uneventful and the ladies spent their days sitting on deck, laboriously writing improving pamphlets, which were intended to be distributed among the grateful inhabitants of New England when they eventually reached their destination. Sadly, just as they had sighted Maine, a terrible storm arose, as if from nowhere. The wind picked up and every one of their pamphlets was swept into the air. The ladies scuttled around the deck trying to retrieve them but all to no avail. Before long, near one of the many little islands that cluster around that coastline, the ship struck an outcrop of rock and quickly sank; every living creature on board descended to a distinctly watery grave. Under normal circumstances that would have been the end of the tale but this particular rocky outcrop was part of an Island that is frequently omitted from the charts. An island that seems reluctant to let its dead rest for very long…
As far as anyone knows the drowned crew all retired to a happy eternity drinking rum in Davy Jones’ locker. The ghosts of the ladies and their livestock, however, had a different fate. So distraught were they over losing their handwritten pamphlets, they vowed to scour the skies until each one was retrieved. Doubling up on the mules, with the spaniels at their heels, they rose into the heavens, amid a chorus of brays and irritating barks, eternally damned to fulfil their quest. Occasionally, when not unceremoniously falling off the mules, they can be spotted taking tea and cake with other wraiths, notably The Mad Parson of Chapel Rock and The Headless White Lady who is known to haunt The Squid and Teapot (though how she manages to consume tea and cake is a mystery in itself).
The legend gave rise to a popular song, often heard around the island.

Ghost Writers in The Sky

A night-soil man went strolling out across the darkened land,
Upon a ridge he rested, his bucket in his hand.
For all at once he spied some paper flying through the air
Ghostly pamphlets, by and large, littering everywhere.

The edges of these pamphlets burned with a fiery glow,
The ink was black and shiny and the paper white as snow.
A bolt of fear went through him as they fluttered through the sky
For he saw the riders plodding up and he heard their mournful cries

Dearie me, oh
Dearie me, oh gosh.
Ghost writers in the sky

Their faces gaunt, their glasses blurred their skirts all creased and stained,
With wraith-like spaniels at their heels they clung on to the reins.
They’ve got to ride forever across the Hopeless skies
On flatulent old mules, you can often hear their cries.

As the riders loped on by him he heard one call “Yoo hoo,
If you want to help us out, young man, there’s something you can do.
If you should see some pamphlets a-fluttering in the breeze,
Stick them in your bucket, lad, and put the lid down, please.”

Dearie me oh
Dearie me, oh gosh!
Ghost writers in the sky
Ghost writers in the sky
Ghost writers in the sky

 

art by Tom Brown

A Rather cross letter.

Dear Mr Jones,

We are writing to express our displeasure with your report on the Children of Thasaidon’s annual feast of the lunar eclipse in last week’s Vendetta.

We were very distressed by your one-sided coverage of this year’s event.

You made it sound as if almost everyone present was some sort of deranged cultist, when in fact, the meeting was a philosophical and spiritual conference aimed at raising awareness of our beliefs.

We feel that the worship of The Demon Lord Thasaidon has been demonized since we arrived on the island and this article doesn’t help matters!

Implying that we are a secret society, and referring to us as a “lunatic fringe” in your article was misleading and insulting.

First of all, the feast was not limited to a “fringe group” of one particular religion, but had the support and participation of a broad cross-section of this island’s community.

Nothing was said about the charity raffle, children’s workshops or free auguries from our seer – for which, I would like to point out, we didn’t charge a penny. In fact, your article seemed to focus on one minor incident in which a rather excitable member of our brethren plucked the still-beating heart from a goat and howled at the moon (all done in a good-natured spirit of fun I might add).

This was hardly what the feast was entirely about. In all, your coverage was so inaccurate that it could lead one to believe that your publication has significant prejudice against religious groups, regardless of their activities.

Furthermore, each time I try to get through to your office telephone number to put our case forward, Mr Jones, you act as though I were an annoyance!

An apology is in order. You should consider the ramifications of such irresponsible reporting, which will surely not go unnoticed by the public. As for the undersigned and those who were in attendance, we have lost confidence in the credibility of your news reports. We hope you are interested in regaining this confidence and look forward to your correcting the problem.

Kindly retract your statements and apologize. We understand that it may be difficult for the island’s sole local newspaper to be impartial in reporting such matters, but impartiality is important if you wish to have any credibility at all.

Yours sincerely,

Tycho Marcellus

Chief Hierophant of The Church of  The Children of Thasaidon, The Blood-Coloured, Jackal-Headed Lord of the Seven Hells of Zothique. (Bingo every Saturday).

 

This gem was brought to you by none other than the esteemed MR Charles Cutting. (Who is no stranger to dark regions and has explored such places as Kadath and environs)

Artwork by Tom Brown

Hopeless, Maine lonely hearts

Gentleman of the Green house, Hopeless, Maine. Seeks Lady of supportive means for future relations. Must not be of lower classes, interest in anatomy and Babylonian texts preferred. Interested parties should leave details along with a quartz crystal in a favour of their choice, at the crossroad oak past the Inn. Full moon essential.

The Dowager McAdams, formerly of Suffolk, England. Current resident of Hopeless, Maine. Seeks suitable discreet Gentleman with good blood stock, unsullied reputation and minimal deformities by wart. Must like cats, lace and water lilies. The ability to swim is no longer necessary though steadiness underfoot would be a boon. Enquiries by postal correspondence to this publication only.

Incubus seeks lonely housewife for nights only the damned could dream of. Moonlit strolls along windswept clifftops your thing? You dream it, I’ll make it real for you. Want to make love on the beach as the tide laps up around your hips? I can take you there without ever having to leave the comfort of your bed. Let me bring your darkest desires to life. Let me break you on the wheel of sex and feed on you to your heart’s desire. Your body isn’t as important as your mind. That’s where I work my magic. Good sense of humour not essential.

Well to do couple seek partner for daughter struck down with a terrible case of ‘The Hysteria’. Doctor preferred or good understanding of the affliction. Family will provide safe haven and privacy, efforts are being made to procure suitable invention to alleviate the suffering. Discretion required, enquire at the Stocksmans hut on the outskirts.

I would like to meet someone I am not related to and have babies with them. Symmetrical people preferred. Left to right symmetrical, not back and front cos that’s bit weird. Own toes and fingers and none of anyone else’s. Replies to the Vendetta please.–

Lonely hearts contributed by

Adrian Trevelyan (Dr Porridge), Nimue Brown and Steven Savile

 

 

Dusting off our tentacles

 

 

 

We have slept for a while.
Dark things dreaming.

Now we stretch, unfurl,
Unravel and recall.

Just a little bit hungry,
We are most fond of you.

Come and play with us.
Stay for tea.

For we are returning
As the year wanes

With plots anew,
Our tentacles resplendent.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Hopeless Vendetta rises from the dead this Autumn. Keep an eye on this page as we shake off the dust, for there is much afoot and we have plans for you.

Death at Twilight

Lost souls
Lost Souls

(by Frampton Jones)

 There have been ghosts on this island for as long as there have been people. Most residents will have seen one or two in their time, I have no doubt. Most of our departed did not appear to stay on, but every so often some pale echo of a lost citizen would manifest. Tragic and disturbing though they are, these ephemeral echoes of the once living are a familiar part of life.

 I have noticed this year that the numbers of ghosts have increased significantly. They have gone from being a rare, uncomfortable occurrence, to being a frequent sight across the island. Some, like Vortigern Frog and Greta Calder retain many of their human qualities and will even converse with the living. However, many of the shades we are now seeing are far less substantial. I can only speculate as to why the dead are no longer departing as they once did. Are these echoes, or are we seeing spirits, doomed to continue here for all eternity? It is a hellish thought.

This week’s photograph shows a trio of the dead. I cannot identify them, they retain so little of their original humanity. I have never before been especially fearful of dying, but the horror and pathos of these figures fills me with dread. I fear we will none of us sleep easily in our graves, nor ascend to some better place.

Spoonwalkers

(by Frampton Jones)

In the absence of any better news to report, I have printed my nephew’s latest attempt at journalism. It may divert people. I have spoken with Miss Calder, but her recollections of dying are so fragmented that I can make little sense of them. As for the spoon business, it is simply another spoonwalker epidemic. Little creatures are stealing our spoons and using them as stilts. It’s happened before. I remember it very clearly and am certain others must as well. The less experienced amongst us are perhaps too hasty in jumping to improbable conclusions.

O’Stoat Sightings

 

Mellisandra and Durosimi O'Stoat

 

In the last week, there have been three separate sightings of the missing O’Stoats. Archibald Buckets claims to have seen them in the graveyard. Serendipity and Felicitations Jones both report seeing the pair walking at twilight on Hunger Hill. Jed Grimes tells me he woke in the night and saw Durosimi O’Stoat stood beneath his window, staring up at him.

Are these ghosts? Hauntings seem to be on the increase, so this is a possibility. Are they alive and in hiding? The weather has made any serious searching impossible. Given the horrific fate of their son Drustan, these two are not to be trusted, and if you see them, do not approach them on your own. They are very likely dangerous. Hopefully in time we will have opportunity to see justice served to this unnatural pair.

12th Night

 

12th Night revels

 

 
The evening was crisp with an unusually clear sky, which may be why we had one of the best 12th Night turnouts for many years. Torches and masks made a dramatic show as we paraded around the town centre, and the traditional dance was a great success. I know there are some who want to modernise the event with lively tunes, but the traditional, mournful dances and slow airs have a certain majesty that suits the dark time of the year.

Why?

 

leaving the scene of the crime.
leaving the scene of the crime.

 

Some bright spark left the word ‘Why’ outside my front door the day after last week’s Vendetta came out. Once again, the word was formed out of sea life, although this time there were several crabs and a starfish. At least I assume the word was ‘why’ as what may have been part of the central bar of the ‘h’ was still alive and some distance down the road. I beleive this to have been a childish prank.

No big news story this week, dear readers. The excitement with the new grave has led to much speculation, but as yet no answers. Science is slow, I am told. Anyone wishing to view the bones and grave goods can do so at the library.