PROVIDENCE horrors
"An occultist an artist & a hedonist walk into a bar..."
Okay not really. Not exactly. But "an occultist finds an artist through the newspaper, and meets both him and his partner, a hedonist, in the art gallery" doesn't sound nearly as good, now does it?
And that's what this whole thing is about, right? Making my as of yet unfinished, and therefore unpublished work sound good. Making it catch your eye, before I even finish writing the blasted thing. Of course to do that, I do need to actually talk about the novel, don't I?
I suppose we ought to begin with the plot. Though that might give too much away. The setting? 1890s Providence, Rhode Island, with a few small sidebars toward Arkham. That is to say, the setting is Lovecraft Country.
Continued on page 2.
Daniel Davies named leading man
Daniel Davies, 32, one of New England's foremost occultists, has found himself out of luck and shut out of every door in every circle of society. Proper society doens't want anything to do with the morbid death-talker, scarred and smelling constantly of ozone, smoke, and a faint metallic tang. Occult circles want nothing to do with a man who so clearly has touched beyond the veil, beyond death and will never properly be the same. He seems not quite close enough to human anymore for them.
Unfortunately, the underground and illicit queer circles don't want him around either. Davies brings too much attention, and too much heat from the law, neither of which the community can withstand. It's a dangerous world, made all the more dangerous by cops looking too close.
Continued on page 3.
Spalding Gallery Exhibition to Open
A new art exhibit is set to open at the gallery on First and Grape. Peter Spalding, 34, has created an entirely new set of paintings to tantalize and tease the senses.
Continued on page 5.
E. A. Poe's "The Conqueror Worm"
LO! ‘tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!
Continued on page 2.
