Category Archives: Births, Deaths, Marriages

Births, Deaths, Marriages, Island News

Cliff Cumber has drawn his last weapon

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By Frampton Jones

Friends, only yesterday we were mourning the demise of Moog Gravett, trampled and eaten by a giant cow. Today, the terrible truth about the cow has come to light, and the terrible consequences continue. I feel partly responsible – I did see the cow from afar and I might have recognised it.

When Cliff Cumber came to the island, we had to take all his pens away. You may remember what happened with the scantily clad women he drew. What it is about his art that caused it to gain partial, misty form and walk amongst us, no one has ever established. What we do know for certain is that if Cliff Cumber draws, the drawing comes to life.

Being a passably sensible chap, he stopped doing this after the third alluring lady was released upon the populous. Or at least, he seemed to have stopped. It may have been a heroic inclination on his part to draw something that would eat the red weed. I feel certain he had no intention of killing Moog. But then, I don’t think he meant to drive Phum Chevin into a fit of psychotic madness with the naked ladies, either. Such is life.

Once formed, Cliff’s previous creatures have remained semi-substantial until they eventually blew away in the mist. The cow, designed to be able to eat red weed, had far more substance. It ate several chickens this morning and threatened a number of people. Being not quite real, the cow was able to harm us, while we could do it no damage at all. Missile weapons passed through it. Panic typical of a Thursday morning on the island was settling in before Cliff turned up at the scene with a massive spear he had drawn. He went into battle, and the fight was furious. The cow is gone, and Cliff did not survive his many injuries.

His art supplies will be buried with him. I am sure nothing could possibly go wrong with this arrangement.

 

You can find one of Cliff’s infamous naked ladies in this Hopeless Vendetta post – https://hopelessvendetta.wordpress.com/2017/08/29/betty-butterow/

 

Last few days of the kickstarter – https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/countrostov/tales-of-hopeless-maine

Births, Deaths, Marriages, Island News

Moog Gravett – if only his beard had been some other colour

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By Frampton Jones

Of course these recent fallings out of the sky are by no means the first that we’d had to deal with on Hopeless. Those of you who have not yourselves recently wrecked here in one way or another, will recall that Moog Gravett also fell out of the sky.

He had an odd tale to tell. Apparently he had boarded some kind of flying machine belonging to one Professor Elemental. I have, ever since this time, been one of the many islanders to be inflicted with re-occurring nightmares about this gentleman and his inventions. Given the many horrors that have left little or no mark on me over the years, this is quite some achievement.

Moog has been a delightful chap to have around, I will miss him. I will miss his unique approaches to the maintenance of facial hair, and the things he did to ducks. I try not to be sentimental about the dead – we have so many of them after all. I may make an exception in his case. Thus far there are no signs that he will return to us in spectral form and I admit to being disappointed.

His death was as bizarre as it was pointless, and my being proved right about everything gives me little comfort. Of course the red weed menace was part of a larger cycle. The red weed has gone now, entirely eaten by the giant cow that solidified out of the mist. Unfortunately, said giant cow trampled Moog to death and ate his beard before going on the red weed eating rampage I had been hoping for.

Whether there were further fatalities, is not currently known. Please do check and count the children in your household and be alert to the possibility that absent relatives may have been ground under hoof rather than whatever fate you had assumed was theirs.

The giant cow is at present mostly active in the Gaunt Street area, and seems inclined to eat anything red. You have been warned.

 

Moog and his beard can be found on youtube – https://www.youtube.com/user/iammoog/videos where there is nothing at all about ducks and quite a bit of his work with Professor Elemental.

The kickstarter we’re currently doing is over here, and also, thanks to the stretch goals, has a bit of Professor Elemental in it. https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/countrostov/tales-of-hopeless-maine 

Births, Deaths, Marriages, Island News

Mark Hayes and the red weed menace

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By Frampton Jones

Like many people who have washed up on the shores of Hopeless, Maine, Mark Hayes has told us many tales of his previous experiences. Some of those tales have been rather fanciful, and one always has the sense that he might be making things up. Which is, when you get down to it, probably why he is now dead.

This round of blood rain has brought us some unusual red plants – a rather cheering addition to our often drab and dreary landscape, I thought. Mark Hayes was the only one of us to react to them with absolute horror. He even suggested that we should set about destroying them at once on the grounds that they would take over everything. It reminded me (and no doubt others) of that time Ezekiel Marmalade tried to persuade us all that night potatoes are the seed of the devil and should be burned to ashes, rather than the better procedure of slightly charring them so they keep still while you eat them.

Mark Hayes went alone to try and wipe out what he called the menace of the red weeds. A few people went along to watch, but no one really took him seriously. I gather from them that the weeds resisted him strenuously. Some of them have gone so far as to develop faces, full of teeth. While horrified onlookers stood around and watched and made no effort to help, Mark was eaten by the plants.

The red weed appears to be expanding much as Mark said it would. Unfortunately, now that he’s dead we can’t find out anything useful from him about how to deal with it. Staying away from the teeth is clearly a good choice. Perhaps this is simply a natural extension of the natural cycle that brought us the blood rain, and thus we can expect something even more alarming to come along and eat the plants in the fullness of time.

In the meanwhile, we should all learn from the death of Mark Hayes – stay away from the red plants, and don’t do anything heroic. Just because a person turns out to be right about something being a problem, it doesn’t mean it is also advisable to leap into action. Apathy saves lives, but not all newcomers to the island always appreciate this.

 

Find out more about the kinds of stories Mark Hayes makes up over here – https://markhayesblog.com 

While the kickstarter for which he so nobly died is over here – https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/countrostov/tales-of-hopeless-maine 

Births, Deaths, Marriages, Island News

Rob Rowell was not responsible for the blood rain

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By Frampton Jones

Those of you who saw Rob Rowell fall from the sky during the blood rain can be excused for thinking it was his blood. It wasn’t. Those of you who were alive and present for the previous rampage of giant slugs will remember the sinister birds and the blood rain. This is clearly a natural cycle and we should not worry ourselves overly about it.

This cycle however has now brought us two gentleman, neither of whom has had the pleasure of being a Hopeless Maine citizen for long. Rob Rowell lived long enough after his plummet to tell us his name, that the Martian Expeditionary Force needs us, and that terrible things are happening in the skies over Hopeless Maine.

Of course terrible things are happening in the skies over Hopeless Maine. It’s hard to work up any specific enthusiasm or anxiety over something so routine as that!

I tried my best to interview Rob Rowell before he died – I for one would like a better sense of where these fine gentlemen are plummeting from. His speech was sporadic, but he held on heroically, determined to tell me how important it is that we, as an island, enlist to fight the Martian menace. I tried to explain to him that any menace coming here will have to deal with the assortment of menace already living here and that we usually leave them to fight it out amongst themselves.

It is my understanding that at this very moment, there are people in some kind of sky craft above us fighting with something fairly unspeakable. We may see more of them join us – however temporarily – as a consequence of this fight.

As an aside, this blood rain seems to have brought on the flourishing of red plants, the like of which I do not recall seeing before.

 

You can join the Martian Expeditionary Force on Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/groups/1826177650991929/ 

Or help Hopeless Maine see off the red menace by backing the kickstarter (we’ll work on how this functions as a causal relationship, bear with us…. ) https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/countrostov/tales-of-hopeless-maine

Births, Deaths, Marriages, Island News

Lady M – another suspected murder victim

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By Frampton Jones

What a devastating loss to the island! Cling to your remaining bottles of gin, ladies and gentlemen, cherish every last remaining drop, for Lady M has been cruelly taken from us and we may never see her like again. As far as I know, the secret of her ‘botanicals’ that transformed dubious attempts at alcohol into sustenance for the soul, has gone with her. It is a loss we are all bound to feel most keenly.

I suspect foul play. Doc Willloughby tells me that such lacerations and bruising may reflect wholly natural causes – that it is very much what happens when a person has a hungry sea creature latch onto their head. Had Lady M’s remains been found on a beach, or other body of water, it may have been more convincing. “Air kraken,” Doc Willoughby suggested. “Tree lobsters. Sky sharks. Lots of options.”

There have been no reported sightings of any such things in a while, and the last occasion was just after Armitage Chevin’s seaweed cider party. That was the night people claimed to see the Devil rising from the sea, there were eleven rather awkward instances of mistaken identity, and I ended up with a small stain on my collar.

What makes me suspicious was the way in which Lady M’s body had been carefully laid out, her hands folded neatly across her chest and her skirts straightened and smoothed. It all points at one person – Mrs Beaten, who I recently suspected of murdering poor dear Fiona.

I am not alone in my suspicions. I spoke with a gentleman who wishes to remain anonymous this morning, and he told me he was afraid that his relationship with Lady M may have led to her death, because Mrs Beaten had taken to staring at him in the street and following him round. The anonymous gentleman in question has gone into hiding for the time being, in light of what happened to Nimrod.

Someone needs to sit Mrs Beaten down and give her a stern talking to. She can’t go round wiping out beloved members of our community in this way, it isn’t proper – and that may be the most persuasive thing anyone can say to stop her. It is undignified behaviour to murder one’s rivals, it is unbecoming and unseemly. I sincerely hope that there are no further incidents of this nature.

It has been mooted that we might best honour Lady M by pickling her in gin and installing her at a public location. The consensus however, is that we want to keep all the gin we’ve got. A more conventional burial will take place in a few days time. In the meantime, careful searches continue for any paperwork that will enable us to keep her gin-making wisdom alive.

Births, Deaths, Marriages, Island News

Craig Bean has fallen from the sky

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By Frampton Jones

Those of you who remember what happened last time giant slugs appeared from cracks in the island, will have been waiting for the birds to come.  Even so, I don’t think anyone was expecting Craig Bean to fall from the sky. To clarify, Craig Bean is not a large bird capable of eating giant slugs, he simply turned up with them. He may be one of our most unlikely arrivals and perhaps the person whose time with us has been briefest.

Having fallen from the sky, Craig Bean made some very peculiar utterances, and then departed this life. The great minds of the island have been chewing over his words for some days now, and have come to no agreement.

“They are coming,” he said. “It will be terrible.” He pointed at the sky, which was then full of hungry, giant birds, so the most obvious conclusion is that he meant them. Except that we’ve not had a great deal of trouble with birds eating people in the past.

Perhaps by ‘they’ he meant whatever came along last time to eat the birds, leading to a rain of blood across the island. We never did find out what that was all about – which may be as well. There can be mercy in ignorance.

Diligent islanders went through the gentleman’s pockets, thus establishing his name, and his involvement with a Martian Expeditionary Force. After some debate, we think this may be some kind of theatrical performance, or some kind of society for people who like air balloons – hence the fall from the sky. There are a few islanders convinced that this means our newly arrived and deceased islander either came from Mars, fell from Mars or was alluding to something coming here from Mars – all of which is patently ridiculous.

The unseasonably warm weather that bought us the giant slugs means that for a change, almost none of us has a cold and we’re all looking less pallid than usual! I haven’t felt so well in ages and it is hard to imagine that anything else falling out of our skies will be any more terrible than the horrors we are already perfectly accustomed to.

 

You can find out about the last time the birds came in this post – https://hopelessvendetta.wordpress.com/2009/08/28/the-horrors-continue/

And join the Hopeless Maine kickstarter for adventures in death and stretch goals here – https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/countrostov/tales-of-hopeless-maine

Births, Deaths, Marriages, Island News

Susie and the giant slugs

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By Mithra Stubbs

(Yes, this obituary title sounds rather a lot like a children’s story, perhaps it will become one in the fullness of time…)

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” she said. Perhaps she did, but clearly the giant slug also knew exactly what it was doing. They often do, and this is by no means the first reported case of one eating a person. Island veterans will know that giant slugs ate three people last time they appeared.

The unseasonably warm weather and dry spell have of course caused areas of land to dry out. Vegetable plots are especially hard hit. And as is inevitably the case, when the land dries, the soil cracks open in slightly disturbing ways and then the giant slugs emerge and we have to deal with them.

I remind you all to stay away from the cracks and to carry at all times something you can use to fend off the giant, flesh-hungry slugs.

Susie’s plan involved salt from sea water, which I grant you would have had the desired effect on our regular slug population. And it acts as a sort of marinade which may make them fractionally less disgusting to cook. Giant slugs, it turns out, are not especially troubled by salt. As they emerge only in the hottest conditions, they seem unbothered by drying out, or by flame attacks. Perhaps it’s because of all the blood they consume. Susie was a particularly healthy islander with a reputation for her vegetable based diet. I can only assume this will have made her an especially nutritious snack for the slugs and that as a consequence, this lot will be worse than the ones who were feeding on the shrivelled bodies of longer-standing denizens.

They have of course also eaten everything in her vegetable patch, but I do not think this will change their fondness for flesh, sadly. If only vegan principles might be absorbed from within, we would all be safe from further predations!

Whether there is anything left of Susie that we might bury is at present unknown – no one wanting to take their chances with a well fed slug at this point. It seems a pity not to have a funeral of some sort, so we’ll need some collective consideration of the objects that both best represent her and have least use for anyone else, and we will of course bury those with all due ceremony.

Find the first giant slug incidents here – https://hopelessvendetta.wordpress.com/2009/08/21/beneath-us/ 

And part 2 here – https://hopelessvendetta.wordpress.com/2009/08/28/the-horrors-continue/

And the kickstarter responsible for the carnage (but not eating the remains) is over here – https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/countrostov/tales-of-hopeless-maine

Births, Deaths, Marriages, Island News

Cat Treadwell – the afterdeath

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By Frampton Jones

Several months ago, Cat Treadwell installed herself in one of the empty warehouses, and began knitting. Many islanders responded to her request for knittable materials – although I think we have stretched that concept to its very limits. In the week that followed, Cat knitted with every scrap of wool we could find for her. She knitted with hair from cow’s tails, unpicked strands of rope, even seaweed. By the end of that week, she had knitted herself into a giant, impregnable cocoon.

Of course the strange cocoon spectacle drew attention, visitors, and attempted sabotage. The cocoon held firm, and from inside it, the sound of knitting continued. None of us knew what was going on in there, but for a while, the cocoon became a popular visiting point and an object of excitement. Island life can be so tedious and predictable, it’s always a delight when something like this comes along.

Three days ago, the cocoon was found to be moving. All knitting sounds had ceased. Rumour spread quickly and a sizeable crowd gathered on the off-chance something would happen. Nothing happened that day, but, given it was that or watch the Chevin twins setting fire to each other’s trousers outside the town hall, most of us stayed to watch anyway. We’ve all seen the trouser lighting act before, and it wasn’t that entertaining the first time.

Yesterday, the cocoon began to open. It was a slow process of a seam unpicking itself. A reverent silence fell towards the end, broken only by the sneezes of unwell orphans. At last the cocoon fell away and we watched as a large, dark, moth-like creature emerged into the night. It flew up into the rafters of the warehouse, and has been there ever since. A number of people have gone to it for advice and predictions.

In the cocoon we found bones that must fairly be assumed to belong to Cat Treadwell. There is some uncertainty about what has happened, and we have two opposing schools of thought. School one believes that Cat had moth eggs laid in her – no doubt a consequence of her wandering round in the woods at night. According to school one, the moth is a creature who has eaten Cat Treadwell and should therefore be reviled and probably killed so as no one else has eggs laid in them. School two says that Cat Treadwell clearly knitted herself out of her previous shape and into this moth form, leaving only her unknittable bones behind her, and that we should treat this moth as a friend and source of wisdom.

As the moth remains in the roof of the warehouse, school one is currently losing the argument. I expect we will follow our most usual course of action and do nothing and then get distracted by something else, leaving only a small, devoted cult behind to keep alive the memory of what might or might not have happened.

You can find Cat Treadwell’s Hopeless Maine story here – https://hopelessvendetta.wordpress.com/2018/06/22/threads/

And the kickstarter that has taken so many lives, is over here – https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/countrostov/tales-of-hopeless-maine

 

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