All posts by Nimue Brown

Births, Deaths, Marriages, Island News, Mrs Beaten

Kit Cox had no one to blame but himself

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By Mrs Beaten

Kit Cox, dandy and self-proclaimed ladies man got no more than he deserved, if you ask me. He has been flirting his way round the island for some time, making a nuisance of himself and lowering the tone with his immodest behaviour. While his shirts are indeed immaculate, his manners are sadly lacking and his wanton antics have clearly led to his undoing.

As far as Kit Cox knew, he went as he might have wanted to go – dying in the arms of a beautiful monster. For the rest of us, it was a somewhat different experience.

I do not blame the mermaid. They are not human creatures and cannot be held to the same standards. Anyone not ruled by the uncivilized lusts of the body can see them for what they are – hideous, hungry and persuasive. They are not to blame for what men do in response to them. Perhaps they are here to judge us, and bring down those who are too involved with their own base instincts. In this way, I feel some empathy with our water-dwelling neighbours. I would not object to being such a creature.

We had all gone down to the beach to watch the Mari Lwyd’s shout at the sea. It is a perplexing ritual, but a good opportunity to see, and be seen. Kit Cox had positioned himself so as to be seen, in a waistcoat of such bright colours as to be wholly indecent. Standing near to the sea – where all attention was then directed, he was rather close to the mermaids.

She surfaced, turning a terrifying visage towards the land. I thought that her long teeth sparkled. Seaweed tangled in her hair and fell down across her chest, failing to obscure the exposed bones of her desperately thin body. Anyone could see she was hungry. Kit turned towards her, his expression one of rapture. And thus began the most shocking litany of improper statements.

“I love you…. you are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen! What exquisite eyes you have! Will you not come closer? How have I lived so long without you in my life? What are your plans for the evening? Would you like to see my other waistcoats?” And so on, and so forth. Those of us who have experienced his courting behaviour before were all too familiar with these lines.

The mermaid opened her mouth wide so that we could all see her teeth. Several gentlemen rushed forward, while averting their eyes from the sea monster, to try and pull Kit away. To no avail. He walked towards the surf, crying out his ever more ridiculous expressions of love and longing. We watched, powerless to help him. Or too entertained to help him. Or in my case, too delighted by the poetic justice inherent in the scene, to help him. He splashed in the surf, protesting his love, while the mermaid wriggled and gyrated in the water, and licked her lips in evident anticipation.

He kissed her with shocking abandon, right there in front of everyone. It was as well, for the moral defence of the islanders, that the mermaid did not toy with him longer, and we were not seduced into watching anything worse. She plunged with him beneath the waves.

Some hours later, the remains of his waistcoat washed ashore, and we gave it a decent burial on the beach and made a little cairn next to the other little cairns for people who have not listened to warnings about mermaids.

 

This death was brought to you by the Hopeless Maine kickstarter, in which there are now stretch goals and extra rewards… https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/countrostov/tales-of-hopeless-maine 

Births, Deaths, Marriages, Island News

Potia Pitchford defies explanation

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By Frampton Jones

Potia Pitchford will no doubt be remembered for her kindness. She was a quiet person, too easily overlooked amidst the dramas of island life. The good she did will linger on.  It makes a rather nice change to imagine something lingering on in a non-sinister way and without distinct connotations of threat.

Hers was an odd departure, to say the least. Numerous eyewitnesses have largely agreed over what happened, and I will share their combined story to the best of my ability.

You may recall the most recent shipwreck was largely a washing ashore of bits of wood, with little semblance of boat and no apparent survivors. We haven’t even had any bits of bodies to bury from this one. There are however, quite a few extra nails, which is always a source of excitement.

Potia was in the party responding to the shipwreck. She usually has been, turning up with blankets for anyone emerging from our viciously cold waters. Witnesses tell me that the sea was in an especially odd mood that day, with larger and more impressive horses in the surf than is normal. They tell me she walked out to one of those incoming horses, mounted it, and rode away into the surf. She has not been seen since.

We all have a fair idea how long someone can survive in the water at this time of year. Clearly, she could not have survived in the water.

We all know that surf horses aren’t substantial and do not last for long. Clearly, no one could ride a surf horse.

We all know that it is impossible to leave the island. Clearly, she cannot have successfully left the island. Especially not on an insubstantial surf horse.

And if all of that is so, then there is no accounting for what really happened.

We will have to chalk it up as one of life’s many mysteries.

In the meantime, let me remind you that the sea is very cold, and that surf horses are largely insubstantial, and that trying to leave the island in this way is very likely to kill you. Failure to find a body does not mean that death has not occurred. We often don’t find the bodies. Bodies are highly edible and we are surrounded by hunger.

 

The Kickstarter that caused all these obituaries is still running – we have funded, and you can still pledge https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/countrostov/tales-of-hopeless-maine 

Births, Deaths, Marriages, Island News

Michelle Souliere has perhaps melted away

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By Frampton Jones

No one quite knows where she came from or how and when she arrived. When did you first become aware of her? For me it began on an unusually bright spring morning outside the library, when I approached a pair I believed to be the Ephemerys, only to find them staring at each other in bemusement. “Why are you here?” he asked. “Why would I not be?” she replied. Then another long silence followed, during which I deduced that something odd had happened. How odd – I did not begin to imagine.

Such scenes played out many times, especially in the day. Those of us who know Mrs Ephemery well know that she no longer goes out in the daylight. This also took a while to establish, as for a long time many of us thought we were seeing her around town. We were not. Anyone we have seen outside in the last few years was very likely Michelle Souliere.

It is an uncanny phenomena I cannot begin to explain. I believe I have scrutinised both of them most carefully. It wasn’t until my scrutiny lead to the question, “Do I know you, sir?” that I realised just how odd things might be. Mrs Ephemery and I have been acquainted our whole lives. I wondered if she had some kind of temporary memory loss, or other affliction. She identified herself to me as Michelle Souliere and told me she was lost and touch confused by how everyone was treating her. I took her to The Crow, and we established beyond any shadow of a doubt that there are indeed two of them.

I have never been able to tell them apart by looking, although they were discernibly different in voice and manner. I am not entirely sure when our strange visitor left us, and she was never able, or willing to tell me how she came to be on our island or what her purpose was. Has she simply stepped back into the mist and returned from whence she came? Did we dream her into being and are we now waking from that dream? We will never know. But, there have been no sightings of her in more than a month, and that is usually my cue to suggest that a person may be lost to us, and that henceforth we must think of them as dead.

I admit to finding it difficult thinking of dead a woman whose whole person I see fairly regularly. It has been a most peculiar business and I am at a loss to explain what happened.

 

Michelle Souliere kindly loaned us her face for the Hopeless Maine character Mrs Ephemery. You can see her in the New England Gothic art remix in Sinners, and also here –

This declaration of probable death was brought to you by the Hopeless Maine kickstarter – https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/countrostov/tales-of-hopeless-maine

Births, Deaths, Marriages, Island News

Chris Mole joins the ranks of the uncertain

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Chris ‘The Mole’ Mole shipwrecked on Hopeless Maine five years ago, the sole survivor of a ship that had, as far as anyone could tell, been swept backwards through time. Where most shipwrecks just lie around breaking up while we frantically try and salvage them, The Eldritch Whale simply blinked in and out of focus for a couple of days. There was one, final damp plopping noise, and the strange craft was never seen again.

For the duration of his time with us, Chris Mole perplexed islanders as much as we seem to have perplexed him.  His questions were always challenging, especially his desire to know when people come from, and not where. We know Hopeless Maine has an odd relationship with the state of Maine to which we properly belong. None of us have seen the mainland in a while. We know from what washes in that our attire and speech may be a bit eccentric compared to what goes on inland. But the suggestion that we are temporally out of place has been unsettling.

It makes far more sense to assume that we are perfectly fine here on this island, and that Mr Mole had somehow moved through time towards us.

None of this goes any way towards explaining the digging. My personal hunch is that nominative determinism was at play here. How could a chap called Mole not feel a tug towards the pick and spade? For five years, he dug small holes all over the island, and still, no one knows why. What did he hope to find, or achieve? What did he dig up? No one knows.

As is often the case with island deaths, we can only infer the demise of Chris Mole. No body has been found – he may have fallen from a cliff, been swept out to sea or eaten by something. He may have become undead. He may be with us still but in some non-corporeal form brought on by something he dug up. He may have fallen into one of his own holes and somehow buried himself.

What we do know is that his pick and shovel were found beside a small hole just off the Fish Hill road. There has been no sign of him in any of his usual haunts in the past week. Until or unless a body appears that might be attributed to him, he will join the ranks of the uncertain – and we will shout his name at the sea, the sky and the land on each full moon until we know what happened, or we forget to mention him.

 

Find out about Chris Mole’s comics here – https://www.chrismole.co.uk/comics/

And join the kickstarter that killed him – there’s plenty of room in the mass grave for anyone who regrets not having got in for a personal obituary – just let us know! https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/countrostov/tales-of-hopeless-maine

 

Births, Deaths, Marriages, Island News

Paul Mitchell’s Indecent End

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By Frampton Jones

I’ve made several attempts at drafting this obituary with tact and delicacy, but the results have proved almost incomprehensible. Readers of a delicate disposition are advised not to read on – suffice it to know that Paul Mitchell died as he lived.

For those of you who are made of stronger stuff, here are the details.

One of the young ladies from The Red House came to my office yesterday to report Paul Mitchell’s demise. She was almost inarticulate with grief. I visited the scene and attempted to interview the others, but there was rather a lot of sobbing, so I may not have the details in perfect order, but here is my best understanding of events.

Paul Mitchell departed this life from The Red House in the early hours of this morning. Of the seven young ladies currently resident at that establishment, three were too exhausted to talk to me for long. All seven blamed themselves for overtaxing the deceased gentleman. It is evident that rum was involved.

Perhaps the most telling comment from the whole debacle came from Esmerelda, who told me, “He was never a customer. We just used to invite him round.” The further explanation of why they used to invite him round cannot be printed in a publication such as this. Clearly, he will be much missed in certain quarters.

Reverend Davies preached an impromptu sermon outside The Red House on the sins of the flesh and the way in which a debauched life is bound to bring a person to such an end as this. His words only seemed to encourage people into The Red House, which was not, I imagine, his intended purpose. Reverend Davies has been a long standing critic of Paul Mitchell – frequently speaking out about the ways in which his bawdy and irreverent music would corrupt the young. I might comment that many of our younger, and less young people have been entirely open to such ‘corruption’ and readily persuaded that there is no particular virtue in misery.

There will be no official funeral – not that I imagine Paul Mitchell would have wanted Reverend Davies to bury him. The young ladies of The Red House have set their hearts on a burning ship burial, notifications of the date and time to follow. Bring musical instruments, rum, improper poetry and songs that cannot be sung in polite company.

 

If you would like to be led astray by Paul Mitchell’s music, start here – http://ragingpagan.yolasite.com/

And to get involved with the kickstarter that killed him, https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/countrostov/tales-of-hopeless-maine

Births, Deaths, Marriages, Island News

The highly suspicious deaths of our island’s only fashion icons

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Written by Mithra Stubbs

Do you remember when the only questions we asked of our clothes were whether anything else might be living in them? Do you remember when Mrs Beaten was the only person making a fuss about properly starched shirt collars, and Frampton Jones was the only person wearing them? Those were the old days, before Fiona and Nimrod Lancaster floated ashore with characteristic grace and aplomb.

When Fiona Lancaster died from a head injury last month, we all mourned her passing. Doc Willoughby said it was probably an accident, and that she had fallen all the way from the bottom to the top of the stairs in a moment of freak unreality that probably happens around the town hall all the time. Some of us muttered to each other then. Some of us had suspicions – but there’s not much you can do with suspicions. If we lynched everyone we felt suspicious of, who would be left to tell the tale? Because while Fiona was much loved, and much emulated, she was also the focus of much jealousy.

In light of the recent accidental death of Nimrod Lancaster, all of these suspicions seem more reasonable. According to Doc Willoughby, he appeared to have backed carelessly into one of his own shoe-making devices, and stayed there until it hammered him to death. It seems an odd way to go for a man who had always seemed so thoughtful and careful. Not all of us hold much stock by Doc Willoughby’s ability to assess cause of death. Only last week he proclaimed that someone who had clearly been savaged by werewolves was in fact a victim of chronic indigestion.

It is my suspicion that whoever killed Fiona, did so in the hopes of better being able to get something out of Nimrod, and on failing to achieve that end, killed Nimrod as well. Clearly they were not after his shoemaking machine, which will never be quite the same again. Who had the motives? Who had the opportunity? And will they strike again? Because this may not be a case of perfectly reasonable private assault, but may be the opening moves from someone bent on a killing rampage, and no one wants to go through all that again.

I think it was Mrs Beaten. She’s always seemed jealous of Fiona, and a bit obsessed with Nimrod. There was that time when she fainted in the street as a consequence of his especially beautiful shoes. With Fiona out of the picture, she might have imagined she stood a chance with the island’s best dressed gentleman. And then, when he resisted her advances – as any sane man would – she fell upon him in a rage – probably quite a literal falling that pushed him accidentally into his own machine.

I look forward to hearing other people’s murder theories. There won’t be any justice for these needless deaths – we’re rubbish at justice. But what we can do is make a series of ever more unlikely accusations and become paranoid about each other, and suspicious of anyone well dressed, and then we can get back to being the dirty, slightly infested wearers of whatever held together when we pulled it on this morning, and that would be much better for all of us.

And before anyone suggests that this kind of clothing Puritanism might be a motive for murder, let me just say that if this is some kind of killing spree, it’s best not to offend the perpetrator and therefore you should pick less likely suspects to accuse.

Births, Deaths, Marriages, Island News

Frampton Jones pays tribute to Gregg McNeill

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Many years ago, Gregg McNeill saved my life. It is with great sorrow, then, that I must report upon his death, and the probable connection with my own terrible experiences. Those of you who have lived on the island for some years, will remember that I went rather awkwardly mad.

There was that business with the beautiful baby competition, and all that followed. I became convinced that my camera showed me true reality, while what I saw with my own eyes was nothing but illusion. The camera showed me horrors, and things I shudder to recall and will not describe. I came to believe in the truth of my camera, and would not relinquish it.

Gregg McNeill sat with me as I raved, and calmly explained the technical details of cameras to me until I was persuaded to relinquish my grip on the device and hand it to him for repair. My recovery began at that moment, and I have no doubt I would have done myself some terrible harm, had I been allowed to continue. I did not ask what became of the camera, thereafter.

Gregg himself appeared to live a normal enough life, with no more fits of mild and temporary insanity than is normal for those of us who live here. I recall with some fondness the night he climbed onto his roof and refused to come down because of the way the chickens had been looking at him. There was the time he became convinced that the sea creature he had eaten had in fact eaten him – but these things pass in their own way. Who amongst us has not done something of that ilk at one time or another?

Only after his unexplained demise have I come to realise the full extent of the horror that possessed him. Despite what he claimed at the time, he never did destroy that camera, but continued to take photographic likenesses with it, and to develop them. A room in his house was devoted to the images – strange, uncanny things that they are. Faces unknown to me peer back from the walls. Eerily attired, sometimes inhuman – somehow he has drawn these beings from beyond the veil, or through the void and captured them.

The last image Gregg made was of himself, gazing mournfully at the camera. I have no idea how he achieved this self-likeness. I took it home, along with the cursed device, which I will keep safely and make sure no one ever uses again. No matter how tempted I may feel. Gregg stares at me from my mantelpiece. Sometimes I feel that he is trying to speak to me, but I do not know what he is trying to say.

 

You can find out more about the beautiful babies here – https://hopelessvendetta.wordpress.com/2010/03/05/what-beautiful-babies/

And you can find out more about Gregg NcNeill’s Dark Box Photography here – https://www.darkboximages.com/

To get involved with the Hopeless Maine kickstarter – source of all the carnage – throw your non-corporeal self this way – https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/countrostov/tales-of-hopeless-maine

Births, Deaths, Marriages, Island News

Lyssa Lopez Wain has finally unwound

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Self-winding automaton Lyssa Lopez Wain was one of the many curious inventions of Testimony Albatross. Most of us do not remember the great inventor himself but everyone will have seen his remarkable creations. The church’s fish powered organ was restored some years ago thanks to the efforts of Balthazar Lemon. The giant musical cockroach no longer plays tunes, but waves its legs mournfully upon the hour, while making sad, crunching noises. And of course there’s the automated glass washing machine at The Hand Of Glory – which still operates late at night. There’s a reason no one drinks at the Hand of Glory any more.

Lyssa Lopez Wain was in many ways, his finest creation. Able to self-wind, she continued for many decades after the inventor’s death. Stunningly lifelike and remarkably communicative, she thwarted many attempts to contain and control her. I believe there were five separate exorcisms carried out upon her on the grounds that she was ‘unnatural’. She fended off all kinds of other uncivilized approaches with considerable style, leaving her would-be attackers humiliated but bodily unharmed. She always did have a rare knack for rapidly un-making garments and many the fool found his undergarments exposed for having tried to meddle with her affairs.

The true purpose of Testimony Albatross’s creations is seldom clear. Lyssa has been no exception in this regard, although I wonder if he created her with an eye to search and rescue missions. How many people has she successfully pulled from the sea? I do not know, but she was always there when a shipwreck had been spotted, striding into the waves to find survivors. Her largely inedible status no doubt helped her greatly when venturing into our hungry waters.

It is possible that at some future time, Lyssa may be fixed. At present, there is no one on the island with the skill to restore her to life. Conscious that her immobile form may attract attention from those who harassed her in the past, a few of us have taken her to a safe place where she can stand, unmolested, until such times as we have a genius inventor amongst us again.

There will be no funeral. Partly because death may prove temporary, and partly because Reverend Davies refuses to acknowledge her as having been a living person. It is my understanding that a number of people she rescued from the sea intend to go to the approximate places where they shipwrecked in order to offer tributes to her. Hopefully no one will be eaten by sealife during these rituals, as that would be no tribute to her legacy.

 

Lyssa is of course another victim of The Hopeless Maine kickstarter. It’s not quite funded yet, so if you’d like to make sure that she did not die in vain, wander this way… https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/countrostov/tales-of-hopeless-maine

 

Births, Deaths, Marriages, Island News

Gary Death by Poetry

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“It was undoubtedly the poetry that killed him.” So said Edgar Melon Foe, the infamous blind poet of Hopeless, Maine.

(It is to be noted that Infamous Blind Poet of Hopeless, Maine, is Edgar Melon Foe’s official title at this time.)

Sources close to the recently departed Mr Gary Death have suggested to me that it might have been because he recently tried to set up a rival poetry event. Or it might have been because of the satirical pamphlet he printed last month. All three copies of it, because that was all the paper I could spare him. Perhaps it was his insistence on driving rhythms and the use of rhyme, suggested another observer who wished to remain anonymous. Edgar Melon Foe supports unstructured, free verse and is staunchly opposed to anything that smacks of traditionalism.

I have always said that it is better if what goes on between poets, stays between poets. It seems that most of the island agrees with me, as in the days since Gary Death’s death, Edgar Melon Foe has continued unimpeded in his business. I can’t say I’m surprised – although it seems to bother the newcomers. This island has a fine tradition of treating murder as a personal, private sort of matter so long as a person doesn’t make too much of a habit of it. And while Edgar Melon Foe has smacked a few people around the head with his cane, he usually considers it sufficient to cause a few bruises.

Gary was, on the whole, quite a popular islander and his humour and helpful inclinations will be much missed. But not missed sufficiently for anyone to consider a revenge attack, by the looks of things.

It seems fitting to end this obituary with the elegy written by Edgar Melon Foe who insisted I also mention that the elegy is a specific poetic form that he has entirely ignored.

I did not like him

He is gone

We do not need poetry obsessed with rhythm

And I find rhymes annoying.

Free verse triumphs again.

Because sometimes the cane is mightier than the pen

And you have to stand up

For what you believe in.

I was merely the instrument of fate.

The hand of the universe.

It was undoubtedly the poetry that killed him.

 

Gary Death brought this upon himself by being an early bird funder of the Hopeless Maine kickstarter. https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/countrostov/tales-of-hopeless-maine

Those of you who have been following the Vendetta for a while may recall that Gary wrote us a poem about the blind poet of Hopeless, Maine… https://hopelessvendetta.wordpress.com/2018/06/08/the-blind-poet/ 

Births, Deaths, Marriages, Island News

Barry Dodd has thwarted the psychics, again

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At some point or another, every known mystic on the island has predicated something terrible about Barry Dodd. Slightly Mystical Mary was adamant only a few months ago that Barry would be killed by a hideous monster from beyond the stars. Clearly she was wrong.

Some of you well remember when, ten years ago or so, Agatha Innovation Jones had a series of highly accurate predictive dreams about future events. The one thing she got wrong during that period of extreme enlightenment, was that Barry Dodd did not go on a sudden killing rampage in the vicinity of Old Gaunt Town. It is of course possible that her prediction prevented the attacks as for weeks afterwards people shunned the old town even more thoroughly than usual, and shunned Barry for good measure. We had a special food parcel delivery team leaving sustenance at his door in case the cause of the anticipated killing rampage was transformation brought on by extreme hunger, or death.

But in the end, none of it happened, and Eustace Pennygoat had had some kind of vision about how Barry was going to summon an elder God so a lot of people wanted to follow him round and keep an eye on him instead. He ended up also being followed about by a swarm of teaselheads, which as far as we know don’t constitute an elder god even when they band together in large numbers.

I remember when part time astrologer Leniency Jones predicted that Barry Dodd, under the influence of the sign of The Cuttlefish Overlords, would return to the sea and assume his true form. He didn’t.

I remember when Barry started an ambitious allotment scheme to try and grow vegetables that would not fight back. Cuthbert Rockbottom – a recently shipwrecked rune master – assured us that Barry’s digging would uncover the grave of an ancient monster that would devour us all. This did not happen. Cuthbert Rockbottom died shortly thereafter – apparently he got lost in the dark and walked off a cliff. He may not have been the island’s greatest seer.

There are of course many other such examples, but these remain my personal favourites. Barry has foxed the would-be prophets one final time by dying quietly at home in an entirely unpredicted way. Both Eustace Pennygoat and Leniency Jones assured me that it was just a ruse, and that all the signs made it clear to both of them that on the seventh day he would rise up and eat the faces of anyone who saw him. It is day eight, readers, and I have no eaten faces to report to you.

 

Barry Dodd is the director who gave us Ragged Isle (which we love)  http://www.raggedisle.com/ . His current project is Night Is Falling https://www.nightisfalling.com/

Barry’s death was brought to you by the Hopeless Maine Kickstarter. We’re all out of individual graves, but if you back the project and would like to be killed off with a bunch of other people and stuffed into a mass grave, just let us know. We’d be delighted to throw you on the pile…

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/countrostov/tales-of-hopeless-maine