Category Archives: Hopeless

Hopeless

Why we don’t have gun fights

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Steampunks tend to be fond of preposterous weaponry with things you can point at people being popular features for costumes. Hopeless, from that perspective, is disappointedly short of things you can shoot people with. 

Part of the problem is the damp. Which is relentless and gets into everything. Gunpowder is notorious for needing to be dry in order to work and so mostly… it doesn’t. 

If you were going to try and make your own gunpowder, you would be further thwarted by the total lack of saltpetre on the island.

Import used to be a thing, back in the days when boats managed to get to the island deliberately, and it wasn’t all accidental shipwrecks. If you’ve wondered about salvaging gunpowder from a shipwreck, let me refer you back to the issue of dampness and the impossibility of drying anything out without using a fire.

This, incidentally is almost certainly how Ignatious Chevin blew up his house a couple of years ago. His grasp of chemistry was not all that it might have been, and he had managed to get a lot of barrels of gunpowder from the beach.

About the only reliable ways of firing weapons is either to get some wood and gut and make a bow, or you have to stuff a demon up your blunderbus (not a euphemism) and keep it angry enough that it will attack someone else when you fire it, but not so angry that it blows up in your face. Firing an apathetic demon who is sick of your shit can lead to results that will amuse onlookers but will do nothing to help you in a fight.

Hopeless

How Hopeless changes people

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The Aunties are agents of change, tiny Gods of changemaking and mayhem. Perhaps you’ve met them already. If you’ve read Keith Errington’s Oddatsea – published by Outland in the ‘Hopeless, Maine’ volume – you’ll have met The Aunties. You may also have found them here on the blog, in Merry’s story – https://hopelessvendetta.wordpress.com/2018/07/06/the-aunties/

Often the changes in the world made by Agents of Change are pretty random – at least from the perspective of people seeing the impact. They like a bit of asymmetry, hence the three legged chickens. They like getting in your storage jars and creating surprise flavours, for better or worse.

Most islanders prefer to think of fate as either cruel, or random. Life is considerably more bearable when you don’t have to take it so personally. Terrible things happen all the time for no reason. If you thought there was a reason for it you might go mad trying to find a way of keeping yourself safe. We can say with some confidence that placating the terrible gods of callous indifference gets you nowhere, and tends to make everything that little bit worse.

The Aunties are not distant, powerful beings who care nothing for your irrelevant mortal life. The Aunties are mighty, they believe in justice and they suffer dreadfully from boredom. As a consequence, they may do to you that which they believe you truly deserve. Unfortunately, the logic by which they operate is incomprehensible to the fragile human mind. Why one person grows a tentacle from their elbow, while another sprouts antlers from their head is utterly mysterious. 

The Aunties wish to make it known that they are not responsible for recent outbreaks of vampirism and people getting especially hairy at full moons. They have no idea how donkeys get on roofs, or where all the blood came from the other week. They are not all powerful and it annoys them immensely when people imagine they are *that* sort of gods, and can be expected to Do Things on demand. 

Do not pray to them, for they are not persuaded either by your distress or your ideas about how to fix things. Do not ask what sort of problem they thought you had that they felt could be solved with the sprouting of tentacles, or antlers, or whatever else they may have done to you.

(With thanks to Rostov for the loan of his face. By using his face on this post we are definitely not implying 1) that he’s actually Keith Errington or 2) that he really does have antlers. We’re fairly confident the hat is real.)

Hopeless

Inheritance Manifests!

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Outland Entertainment are publishing the Hopeless, Maine graphic novels in hard cover editions. Some of you lovely folk backed the kickstarter that helped made this possible. Then, sad to say, things got messy.

This wasn’t a problem specific to us, or to Outland. We know of other comics people whose comics did not reach them in a timely. Rail strikes in the US, along with paper supply and distribution problems have caused a lot of issues this year. We 100% support strike action, but it has made life complicated.

Finally, our books are getting into the hands of our splendid kickstarter backers. We’ve seen a few photos on social media already – we love it when people post photos of themselves with our books, so please do that and tag us if you have a moment to spare.

The image above was sent us by the splendid and massively supportive Brenda Nix Lively. Many thanks for that.

Hopeless

Welcome to Hopeless, Maine!

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The Hopeless Vendetta started life as the newspaper for a fictional island. These days, the site is a mix of fiction, whimsy, and news about other Hopeless, Maine projects. 

Hopeless, Maine is a haunted island off the coast of America. It first put out its tentacles as a graphic novel series. The project now includes a live performance team – The Ominous Folk of Hopeless, Maine, a role play game, tarot deck, prose fiction, music, puppets, costumes and a film project. Check out the static pages for further information on those.

Hopeless

Making Night Potato Vodka

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Human residents of the island make night potato vodka whenever they forget what a bad idea this turned out to be last time someone tried it. The usual method is to capture and kill night potatoes, then ferment them – usually in some sort of bucket. The bitterly cold weather in winter makes it easy enough to freeze off the excess water. What results is often excellent for starting fires, and likely to leave a drinker mad, blind, glowing, or all three. 

This is as nothing when compared to the night potato vodka made by night potatoes. Night potatoes are not known for eating each other. However, sometimes a night potato dies of natural causes, and this will go unnoticed by their comrades until decay starts to set in. There is a particular sort of fungi that grows on the eyes of decomposing night potatoes, and it is from this fungi that the night potatoes themselves brew their vodka in tiny receptacles.

Whether it is the naturally glowing eyes of the night potatoes that result in the fungi also glowing, or whether it is the fungi that glow and the night potatoes gain their eye glow through drinking it, is hard to say. My suspicion is that this is a more complex and circular relationship.

If a human has ever partaken of the vodka made by night potatoes, none has ever survived to tell the tale. It does not suggest itself as an especially survivable experience but no doubt at some point, someone will be willing to test this theory – either for science, for poetry or in the hopes of finally escaping from the island.

Hopeless

Werewolf love song

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Werewolf love song

(Chorus)

The scent of you under the moon

your flower/salt tang in the air,

makes me so glad that it hurts,

makes fur stand.

I must taste again, your skin.

Your soul calls me always.

I would follow you into the sea.

We spoke on the bridge for an hour or more.

I waited there for you for most of the day,

to hear your soft voice and make it seem chance.

I do not touch you but hear you.

I hear you still in my mind.

The scent of you under the moon

your flower/salt tang in the air,

makes me so glad that it hurts,

makes fur stand.

I must taste again, your skin.

Your soul calls me always.

I would follow you into the sea.

We “chance” meet again in the morning near town,

Your dark eyes alive with finer feeling.

I offer my coat for your shoulders,

our hands touch as you thank me.

I hear you still in my mind.

The scent of you under the moon

your flower/salt tang in the air,

makes me so glad that it hurts,

makes fur stand.

I must taste again, your skin.

Your soul calls me always.

I would follow you into the sea.

I’ve asked you to meet in the evening at last,

We speak of the trees by the rising moonlight.

You share your dreams of the ocean,

Your head on my shoulder, you murmur.

I hear you still in my mind.

The scent of you under the moon

your flower/salt tang in the air,

makes me so glad that it hurts,

makes fur stand.

I must taste again, your skin.

Your soul calls me always.

I would follow you into the sea.

The light of the moon and your nearness,

make me feel as if i’ve lost my mind,

I howl my pleasure and madness

I must taste again, your skin.

I would follow you into the sea.

The scent of you under the moon

your flower/salt tang in the air,

makes me so glad that it hurts,

makes fur stand.

I must taste again, your skin.

Your soul calls me always.

I would follow you into the sea.

This is a new song featured in this year’s Hopeless, Maine show. It’s the first of our original songs to be written by Tom, and the tune for it was composed by Tom and his son Cormac – who is a fantastic musician.

Hopeless

The Queen of Crows

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The Queen of Crows came into existence because, thanks to Laura Perry, we have a crows suit in the Hopeless, Maine tarot deck. The image of her is based on me. This led me to an idea for a song and that song is part of this year’s Hopeless, Maine show.

If you’d like to hear a recorded version, I’ve put that on Patreon – https://www.patreon.com/NimueB

Like most people in comics, we aren’t rolling in money. Patreon support helps keep us viable, and at the moment it’s the only predictable income we have! Life is an adventure. Being able to afford more time for Hopeless and no needing to chase paying gigs so much means more Hopeless things can happen.

The Queen of Crows

When you are broken

The queen of crows will come to you

The shattered last remains of you 

And all the empty places will be feathers.

When you are bleeding

Your life released into the dirt

When all you know is shame and hurt

Nothing else remains but bones and feathers.

When you are dying

Her darkness is your last embrace

Your only comfort is her face

Her gaze upon your bones, the touch of feathers.

When you are silent

She puts her beak between your lips

And from your throat the crow caw slips

You scream and in her gaze are bones and feathers.

When flesh falls from you

And all your life is stripped away

She comforts you in your decay

You are falling screaming bones dressed all in feathers.

When they forget you

And all your truth becomes their lies

The world seen only through her eyes

You are peaceful you are drifting, you are feathers.

And when the light within you dies

The crow queen comes to take your eyes

And when your soul has lost its grace

The crows will tear into your face

And when your heart can beat no more

The crows will find you on the shore

And when your life is torn away

The crows will come to make you stay

And when your breath you cannot bear

The crows will feed on your despair

And when your mortal time is through

The queen of crows is born anew.

Hopeless

A Semblance of Truth

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We’re delighted to announce that the Kickstarter for Hopeless, Maine Inheritance (Outland editions) has funded and we’re now in the exciting realm of stretch goals. If the project reaches $6k, everyone who backs it will also get a pdf of the novella A Semblance of Truth. Wander this way – https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/hopelessmaine/hopeless-maine-2-inheritance-by-tom-and-nimue-brown

Here’s a bit of that book to tempt you in…

This is not a diary. That would imply an inward focus and a degree of self obsession that I find distasteful. It is to be a record of impressions and insights. While my weekly newssheet, The Hopeless Vendetta permits me to share key moments of local life with my fellow citizens, I feel strongly a need to leave a more lasting and detailed record. There are things I do not know how to speak of publically, but there must be truth, somewhere. For weal or woe, this is my testament.

Why do the Jones’s chickens have three legs, more often than not? Other people’s chickens seem perfectly happy with two. Birds, I have observed, do not generally favour the three legged option and yet, on the Jones farm, there they are. I visited today to record events at their open farm day. Sadly the mutant goat has passed on, so I can no longer observe it. Is there some connection between the three eyes on the goat and the three legs upon the chickens? I cannot conceive of a way of making that connection unless perchance there is something in the air or the soil of that particular spot leading to extra features. However, to the best of my knowledge, that branch of the Jones family remains unafflicted by additional limbs or eyes. It troubles me that I can think of no way to better study or observe these curiosities.

I had considered studying the births and deaths of this island as a separate project, but paper is in short supply. I haven’t heard of a birth for weeks, and by my calculations at this rate we won’t have a population here at all in fifty years time unless a great many more people are shipwrecked. Then there is the matter of death. Millicent Cobbage, 84, dismembered. By whom? There is no apparent evidence, only the gruesome remains. Jobe Mathias, 26 ex-sanguinated . How? I have no idea. The doctor has examined him and there is a remarkable dearth of blood in his body. Regan Higsbottom, 42, missing for two weeks, declared dead. Too many questions and seldom any answers at all. I have published all, and perhaps someone will step forward with insight.

Last night, a bloodstorm swept the island. I saw the first of it fall as the light was fading, the violent red drops cascading from the sky, while the smell of iron hung in the air. I stayed out for as long as I could to make observations. My clothes were badly soiled and will bear the stains for some time to come, I fear. Fortunately I was not wearing my good suit. By dawn today, houses, windows and roads alike were stained with this most disquieting substance. It made for a strange spectacle with the pale orange of the sunlight. By the viscosity and the way in which the liquid soon crusted, I am confident this was indeed blood. I spoke with Doc Willoughby who confirmed my fears but he could not say if it was animal or human in origin. Where did all the blood come from? I think of ex-sanguinated Jobe Mathias and wonder if others shared his fate. But if so, then how was the blood transmitted? Why did it fall from the sky? Does this shocking event represent some unimaginable horror that has happened beyond the boundaries of our beloved island? How could so much blood have become airborne, with no trace of any body parts? Are there monsters in our skies? Perhaps time will present answers. I want to believe that it was no more than colourful dust swept up by a rain cloud, that the iron came from desert sands, a mere illusion of carnage, the horror a product of my own troubled mind. But surely such dust would have washed from my shirt? I cannot get the stains out, no matter how I try.