The Goblin Gazette

trusted source for moss, mischief, and mushroom-related scandals since the Echo Cycle began.

[goblingazette]

Welcome to The Goblin Gazette

inked under questionable lighting by various goblins, fae, and woodland busybodies. we report what we overhear, what we half-remember, and occasionally… what’s actually true.

✦ expect: gossip webs, field notes, poetic ramblings, and possibly cursed classifieds.

✦ do not expect: consistent posting, factual accuracy, or restraint.

crow couriers deliver on their own schedule — we simply thank them when they arrive.

[goblingazette]

GOBLIN GAZETTE — ISSUE FOUR

Now published when the wind holds secrets and the Editor remembers to listen.

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

THE EDITOR EMERGES FROM THE FILING CABINET

Filed under: Metaphysical Paperwork, Temporal Dust, Mild Editorial Panic

Witnesses report that at precisely “probably morning” on an indeterminate day, the Editor of the Goblin Gazette was seen climbing out of the fourth drawer of the office filing cabinet.

The drawer in question—labeled “DO NOT OPEN (past lives & unfinished drafts)”—was thought to be sealed since the Time Slip of Issue Three.

Eyewitness accounts vary, but most agree on the following details:

• The Editor appeared covered in cobwebs, ink smudges, and small glimmers of last season’s regret.

• They were holding a half-written editorial dated two weeks in the future.

• The paper itself was warm to the touch and smelled faintly of rosemary and impending deadlines.

When questioned, the Editor reportedly said:

│ “I wasn’t gone. I was just… chronologically misplaced.”

Several Bureau agents were called to the scene, though only one made it through the revolving door without becoming nostalgic for events that haven’t happened yet.

The filing cabinet remains slightly ajar, emitting a soft whispering sound described by one intern as “the voices of drafts that were never finished but still have opinions.”

Attempts to re-seal the drawer have failed; each time it is closed, a different rejected headline slips out onto the floor.

Current known titles include:

• “Glen Suffers Localized Outbreak of Existential Ennui.”

• “Public Outcry After Bureau Declares Time to Be Optional.”

• “Egg Watch Declared ‘Not Technically a Cult,’ Pending Review.”

For now, the Gazette office is considered safe, though mildly haunted by its own editorial ambitions.

A new lock has been installed, made of silver, moss, and bureaucratic despair.

The Editor has returned to their post, reportedly “a little taller, a little wiser, and slightly allergic to chronological order.”

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

EGG WATCH 2025: THE HATCHING (APPARENTLY)

Filed under: Prophetic Upheavals, Fungal Parenthood, Glowing Concerns

When the Gazette resumed operations, we found Peep seated triumphantly in a patch of scorched moss, muttering, “It happened. You blinked.”

According to multiple contradictory eyewitnesses, the hatching took place sometime between the last Wednesday we published and the one that time forgot. The event involved light, thunder, at least one choir of frogs, and a mild electrical burn on Madame Sporaline’s mailbox.

Peep has refused to clarify, saying only:

│“Blorbo has transcended containment. The form is

irrelevant. The meaning remains.”

Attempts to locate the “hatchling” have produced no results—unless one counts the flock of glowing spores now drifting aimlessly near the eastern glen, singing in three-part harmony.

Locals describe the phenomenon as “beautiful, concerning, and slightly judgmental.”

One bystander reported feeling “comforted and insulted at the same time.”

Peep has constructed a small shrine of moss, buttons, and tea strainers, declaring it “a celebration of radiant ambiguity.”

The Bureau of Mildly Concerning Phenomena has marked the area unfit for logic until further notice.

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

THE POTTED PLANT UNIONIZES

Filed under: Collective Growth, Leaf Rights, Minor Revolution

The Gazette’s office pothos has formed a union.

Demands include: more sunlight, fewer deadlines, and a salary in mist.

Management has agreed to negotiations but insists “we can’t offer benefits to something photosynthetic.”

Talks are ongoing. A strike is expected by next solstice.

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

TEACUP REPORTS EXISTENTIAL FATIGUE

Filed under: Inanimate Sentience, Burnout, Philosophical Beverageware

A teacup left on the Gazette windowsill began whispering this week:

“I’m tired of being a vessel. I want to be the tea.”

It has since been placed on mandatory sabbatical beside the sugar jar for “existential recalibration.”

The spoon was heard muttering, “there it goes again.”

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

Editor’s Note:

The Gazette has risen once more from the ink-stained drawer of eternity!

Dust shaken, pens sharpened, unpaid interns un-ghosted.

Reality wobbled but held, and we take this as a personal victory.

New stories await. New chaos brews.

The Editor lives, the egg hatched, and the teacup has feelings.

Long live the Glen, in all its regrettable glory.

⋆｡˚☁︎˚｡⋆

currently refusing to re-enter the filing cabinet

[goblingazette]

The Moss Report

the moss in the east corridor has begun growing over the bulletin board again.

it now lists three missing spoons, one love letter, and a complaint about the temperature of the tea.

the editor insists this does not qualify as news,

but the interns disagree, and the moss has requested to remain anonymous.

delilah’s column is late, the kettle’s haunted again,

and the presses are groaning like something in them remembers the ocean.

still, it’s good to be back.

the newsroom hums,

and somewhere under all the chaos,

a story starts to take root.

[goblingazette]

breaking:

the presses have been restarted. the typewriter is still haunted. morale remains high.

[goblingazette]

From the Editor’s Desk: A Change of Roost

The newsroom smells faintly of old ink and scorched parchment today. Someone (we won’t name names, but their initials are D.S. for Delilah the Spider) tried to file our “Moving Announcement” by webbing it to a passing crow. The crow refused comment and then stole the bell from the front desk.

We’ve finally done it, though—moved into our own space. No longer folded between poetry and heartache, the Goblin Gazette now hums in its own corner of the woods, fully unhinged and gloriously unmonitored.

The archives arrived in a wheelbarrow that squeaked in protest. The classifieds fell out halfway through the forest and were immediately stolen by a raccoon with journalistic aspirations. We wish them luck.

Our new headquarters may be smaller, but it echoes beautifully. The crows have been bribed, the printing press only screams occasionally, and the Editor can once again drink tea without worrying it’ll be repurposed as mushroom ink.

We thank our readers, correspondents, and cryptids for following us here. Expect the same chaos as before—only now, it has an address.

Signed,

The Editor

⋆｡˚☁︎˚｡⋆

(currently beneath the desk, wrestling with a particularly opinionated typewriter)

[ragegardener]

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

GOBLIN PROFILE: THE MOSSLING CALLED

TWITCH

(a self-study in glittering nonsense and emotional

attachment)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Species: Possibly Feral

Name: Twitch

Habitat: cluttered corners, moss shelves, emotional caves, cozy beds

Known Affiliations: sentient trinkets, haunted tea kettles, emotionally volatile basil, ghosts of spoons past

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

Personal Lore

I am a creature of sentiment. Every scrap, every speck, every tiny thing I’ve ever kept is a breadcrumb trail back to something that mattered.

I do not collect for aesthetics. I collect to survive the ache of forgetting.

My shelves are altars. My socks are offerings. My necklace is prophecy.

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

Familiars & Friends

• My cat loves only me. She is a demon to others and the softest soul to me.

• Spiders visit often. They don’t always stay long, but they are welcomed.

• Simon the Caterpillar found me eight separate times in a single day. That was prophecy.

• The Anxiety Leaf twirled in my fingers for a week during a very hard time. It did not crumble.

• The Thumb Ring was once a wedding band. Now it’s a constant. It has not left my body in five years (except for medical reasons. even goblins have to get X-rays).

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

Trinkets of Note

• Anything metal. Keys, knives, charms, spoons (if they don’t escape me first).

• Small shiny stones. No idea what they are. Doesn’t matter. They chose me.

• Forgotten buttons. Dried clovers. Forks with good heft.

• A shrine of sentiment and strangeness, constantly growing.

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

Philosophy

I don’t believe you make your prophecy. I believe it finds you.

Sometimes, it looks like a bug. Sometimes, a necklace. Sometimes, a very bad poem.

Sometimes it takes the shape of a life you weren’t supposed to survive—but did.

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

Ongoing Research

• How to love things without keeping them

• What to do when your enchanted moss shelf gets too powerful

• The spiritual implications of every single thing you’ve ever carried in your pocket

• How to make peace with being “too much” (but also refusing to be less)

[ragegardener]

────────────────────────

CRYPTID CLASSIFIEDS

Vol. III – Dubious Trades & Lightly Haunted Side Hustles

Filed under: Lycanthropic Encounters, Dimly Lit Retail,

Dust-Based Lifeforms, and Identity Transfer Services

────────────────────────

Wormhole to Rent

Cozy. Surprisingly spacious inside.

Time runs weird, but the rent is stable.

Former tenant dissolved (unrelated).

References required.

────────────────────────

Curse Transference Service

Tired of your curse?

We’ll take it—no questions asked.

In exchange, you’ll get a nice plant and a mild headache.

Available Wednesdays only.

──────────────────────── Werewolf Seeks Employment

Fully house-trained. Mostly nocturnal.

Excellent sense of smell. Strong work ethic.

Prefers jobs with flexible lunar scheduling.

Will not work in silver mines.

────────────────────────

Independent Bookshop for Sale (Sentient)

Selects its own inventory.

May rearrange itself without notice.

Basement expands when it’s hungry.

Staff included (they came with the lease).

────────────────────────

Dust Mite Swarm Looking for a Cause

Chaotic neutral.

Prefer antique upholstery and dramatic exits.

Will mobilize in the presence of secrets.

Perfect for minor hauntings and niche protests.

────────────────────────

Lamp with Strong Opinions

Not evil. Just loud.

Glows brighter when lying is detected.

Will monologue at inopportune moments.

No off switch. Not negotiable.

────────────────────────

Editor’s Note: Classifieds are published under strict editorial guidelines. Those guidelines are lost. Do not attempt to retrieve them

Footnote: Transference services are legally distinct from body-swapping. Probably.

Footnote: Complaints may be filed via haunted envelope. Do not lick the seal.

[ragegardener]

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

CRYPTID CONNECTIONS

Vol. I

Filed under: Unclear Intentions, Romantic Hexes,

Compatible Hauntings

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Swamp Entity Seeking Situationship

Likes: long silences, shared decay, philosophical despair

Dislikes: candles, confrontation, boats that assume things

Currently amorphous. May solidify under emotional pressure.

Looking for someone who can sit quietly beside the bog and feel haunted in a compatible way.

Serious inquiries only. No paladins.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Spectral Archivist Craving Chaos

Looking for a corporeal distraction. Must enjoy dim libraries, unsolvable riddles, and occasional possession (consensual, obviously).

Will disappear mid-conversation but remember everything you’ve ever said.

Bonus points if your soul smells like ink and dust.

Must not fear mirrors.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Sentient Flame Looking for a Safe Container

Burned out once. Back now. Hotter than ever.

Seeks stable structure to smolder in—jar, lantern, or heart.

Will flicker in response to your emotions.

May vanish during thunderstorms.

Do not smother. Do not stare too long.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Editor’s Note:

The Gazette does not officially endorse interplanar entanglements, romantic pacts made under moonlight, or dating anyone who requires a salt circle. That said, the heart wants what it wants. Or what it finds buried beneath the old observatory. Who are we to interfere?

[ragegardener]

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

WEB OF INTRIGUE

Vol. II

A column of unsolicited insight

by Delilah, Collector of Secrets and Occasional

Threats

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Editor’s Note:

The opinions expressed in this column do not reflect those of the Goblin Gazette, its staff, its chickens, or its editorial collective.

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

Dear web-crawlers,

my silken strands are trembling with tension this week. Something is afoot—and it smells suspiciously like spores. But hush, hush! We won’t name names… unless you ask nicely.

-D

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

The Foraging Fiasco

Filed under: Gift Mishaps, Emotional Compost

Dear Delilah,

Let’s say, in theory, someone wanted to make things right.

They thought they were being careful—avoiding past mistakes, steering clear of anything too wild or unrooted.

So they chose something simple. Familiar. Safe.

But instead of a smile, they got silence.

Now the one they care about has vanished into the green.

The gift still sits unopened beneath a tree.

How do you fix something you never meant to break?

– Tangled, hypothetically

Dear Tangled,

You’ve done it again. Not you specifically, of course. Just—one of you. One of the moss-hearted, vine-tongued romantics who believes that safety is the same as care.

Let me spin it clearly:

When someone disappears into the green, it is not because they misunderstood you.

It’s because they understood you perfectly—and it wasn’t what they hoped.

A gift wrapped in shadow means more than a thousand store-bought trinkets.

And the right kind of wild says “I remember who you are,” not “I feared what you might do.”

You want to fix it?

Then don’t show up with another apology in a prettier box.

Find the roots of what you missed. And don’t send a letter—step into the grove. If you’re welcome, the moss will part for you.

If not? Well.

She doesn’t owe you another cycle.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

A Guest That Shall Not Be Named

Filed under: Secrets, Spirits, and Sleep Disruptions

Dear Delilah,

What would you do if you accidentally became part of a secret?

Not on purpose—I was just out wandering, as one does, and I happened to glimpse something I probably shouldn’t have. Let’s just say there were two individuals, one too radiant for their own good and the other humming something very old.

And now I can’t sleep. Not because of guilt, but because I keep replaying it in my head and wondering: What was that?

Should I tell someone? Pretend I saw nothing? Move to the cliffs?

Sincerely,

Knotted Up in Curiosity

Dear Knotted,

You saw something you weren’t meant to see. That makes you either very unlucky or very important—possibly both. Either way, you’re in it now.

My advice? Pretend you know more than you do. Nod wisely. Speak cryptically. Occasionally gasp when no one is talking. It’ll throw them off.

And if they ever confront you, say you were dreamwalking. Then actually start dreamwalking, just to be safe.

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

Whispered Web Highlights

• The bakery roof has been repaired. The emotional fallout? Less so. I do hope those scones were worth it.

• The squirrel messengers are on strike until their vests are returned. Honestly, who keeps those?

• A spoon was found embedded in the moss near the ravine. Interpret as you will. I certainly have.

• Someone’s been rearranging the labyrinth stones into unflattering commentary about Mayor Flithwig. I won’t name names, but symmetry has a signature.

• A bard confessed to dancing with a ghost at the moonwell. They won’t explain, and I respect the mystery.

• A certain someone has been seen buying produce. At the market. In broad daylight. No comment, just… noted.

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

🕷️ Until next time…

may your webs be woven wisely, and your scandal come with plausible deniability.

-D

[ragegardener]

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

INTERVIEWS WITH LOCAL ODDITIES

Vol. II: Addendum

A special feature of the Goblin Gazette

Filed under: Legal Statements, Property Damage,

and Sugary Trauma

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A supplemental transcript from the fallout of “The Meringue Incident.”

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

FOLLOW-UP INTERVIEW – GNOME v. MERRYBAKE

Subject: Grumple Spindlethorp

Occupation: Retired horticulturist, current HOA vice-chair

Allegiance: None. (Except possibly his begonias.)

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

Interviewer:

Mr. Spindlethorp, can you describe the impact this incident had on you personally?

Grumple: [gripping his teacup with visible rage]

I inhaled a lemon zest cloud so potent I couldn’t smell compost for three days. That’s not just emotional distress. That’s horticultural interference.

Interviewer:

What exactly are you suing for?

Grumple:

Damages. Specifically:

• Three shattered garden gnomes (ironically)

• A melted sundial

• One traumatized ferret

• Loss of aroma privileges

• And punitive compensation for “existential frosting”

Interviewer:

Are you referring to the meringue incident?

Grumple:

I named it. It still visits me in my dreams.

Footnote: The meringue is rumored to have relocated to the marshlands and joined a jazz band.

Interviewer:

How do you respond to allegations that you may be overreacting?

Grumple:

If someone detonated a dessert adjacent to your begonias, you’d call it terrorism.

Editor’s Note: The begonias have not flowered since.

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

Case Status:

Pending.

Court date to be set following magical arbitration and sponge cake decontamination procedures.

Editor’s Note:

The begonias are in a state of deep emotional dormancy. A vigil will be held Thursday at dusk. Light refreshments will be served.

[ragegardener]

────────────────────────

INTERVIEWS WITH LOCAL ODDITIES

Vol. II

Filed under: Baking Mishaps & Legal Noise

Complaints

────────────────────────

Interview conducted in the town square of the Eastern Village, between the scorched remains of a communal bench and several traumatized begonias. Sprite remains temporarily hard of hearing and consequently shouts. Interview has been lightly annotated for clarity.

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

Interviewer: Could you walk us through what happened last Tuesday?

Merrybake: (YELLING) I WAS TRYING TO MAKE A CLOUD CAKE. A VERY DELICATE ALCHEMICAL DESSERT—WHICH, BY THE WAY, I WARNED EVERYONE ABOUT.

Editor’s Note: No one recalls this warning. Sources say Merrybake was seen whispering to a whisk.

Interviewer: And what went wrong?

Merrybake: THE EGGS WERE CURSED. OR POSSIBLY SPOILED. I’M STILL INVESTIGATING.

Footnote: Merrybake was seen earlier that morning trading “glowduck eggs” with a toad in a trench coat.

The toad has since vanished.

Interviewer: There are reports of… frosting in the rafters?

Merrybake: THAT WASN’T FROSTING. THAT WAS A SENTIENT MERINGUE.

Editor’s Note: Sentient Meringue is also the name of a local folk-punk duo. Unrelated.

Interviewer: The neighbors have filed several complaints—

Merrybake: OH THEY LOVE TO COMPLAIN. I RUIN ONE TUESDAY AND SUDDENLY I’M A “HAZARD TO THE STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD.”

Footnote: Merrybake has previously been cited for “experimental biscotti with detonation properties.”

Interviewer: How are you coping with the aftermath?

Merrybake: I CAN’T HEAR BIRDS ANYMORE. I’M BEING SUED BY A GNOME. BUT THE SOUFFLÉ ROSE, AND IN THE END, THAT’S WHAT MATTERS.

Editor’s Note: It rose approximately 14 feet, then exploded. Spectacularly.

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

Current Status:

Temporarily banned from using “any kitchen, cauldron, oven-adjacent chamber, or enchanted spatula” within Eastern Village limits.

Editor’s Note:

The interviewer has reported a persistent headache and a mild frosting-related rash since the encounter. A brief follow-up interview with the suing gnome, Mr. Grumple Spindlethorp, will be published shortly—pending emotional readiness and clearance from magical arbitration.

[ragegardener]

────────────────────────

MOSS & MISUNDERSTANDINGS

Vol. I

An ongoing report on the grove’s romantic

ecosystem.

Filed under: Passive-Aggressive Poetry & Biohazard

Romance

────────────────────────

It began, as many terrible things do, with a poem.

A rather long one, if we’re honest. Publicly performed. Repeatedly. By Vellorin.

He claims it wasn’t about Ashelia.

She claims he wouldn’t know metaphor if it carved its name into his sapwood and asked to be watered twice a week.

“She dreamed of drowning,” he explained to absolutely no one’s satisfaction, “and I simply translated that subconscious vulnerability into lyrical structure.” The second stanza included a description of “moss-drenched lashes” and “pine-bitter silence where once a songbird stirred.” It did not help his case.

Ashelia was reportedly seen leaving the grove at dawn, muttering the word “audacity” —in three different dialects of Sylvan.

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

Of course, those closest to the situation know that this isn’t about poetry. Not really.

The real roots go deeper—dark, tangled, and slightly damp.

It’s been one full Echo Cycle since The Incident.

Yes, that Incident.

The one involving a “rare and ethically sourced” mycelium gifted by Vellorin, who claimed it would “enhance the bio-rhythmic harmony” of Ashelia’s grove. What it actually enhanced was the spore count. Her western ridge turned grey for a season. The glowmoss panicked. Two familiars refused to return. Vellorin swears it wasn’t his fault.

“I inspected the cultures,” he insists, usually while no one is asking.

“But did you consult the wardstones?” asks Mira, every time.

There are rumors—always are—that Ashelia scrubbed their initials from the heartwood and covered the scar with moss and regret. That she composted the acorn necklace. That Vellorin’s scent no longer lingers in her dreamglade.

None of it’s been confirmed. But the forest remembers.

And so does Delilah, who reportedly said, “If they get back together again, I’m moving to the wetlands.”

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

Current Status:

Off.

(But if he plays that damn lute again, we’ll call it very off.)

Editor’s Note: Submissions of anonymously written love poems will be burned on sight. Or worse—published.

[ragegardener]

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

GOBLIN GAZETTE CLASSIFIEDS

Vol. II – Misplaced Bones & Misunderstood Creatures

Filed under: Lost Things, Questionable Companions,

and Cryptid Employment

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Skeletal Intern Wanted

Flexible hours. Must be willing to occasionally reassemble self.

Some bones may be borrowed and returned later.

No pay, but strong sense of purpose.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Lost Familiar (Probably Evil)

Last seen vanishing into smoke after being asked to behave.

Answers to nothing. May be plotting.

Do not attempt retrieval unless you are fireproof.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Whispering Bones – FREE to a Good (or Evil) Home

Partial skeleton. Unidentified species.

Murmurs cryptic phrases during moonrise.

Owner moved out. Or vanished. Unsure.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Cryptid Therapist Needed

Must be fluent in guttural clicks, slime-based expressions, and telepathic sighs.

Client list includes at least one lake monster and a banshee with impostor syndrome.

Payment in mushrooms and vague gratitude.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Bog-Wife Seeks Weekend Companion

Must enjoy damp environments, heavy fog, and morally complex conversations.

Serious inquiries only.

No fire signs.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

WANTED: Scream Collector

Our basement is full. We need jars. And someone to sort them.

Do not open the red-lidded ones.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Adoptable Shadow

Follows you home. Won’t leave. Might as well keep it.

Eats small fears. May whisper dreams back incorrectly.

Surprisingly affectionate.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Editor’s Note: We have reason to believe at least one of these ads is written by a cryptid pretending to be two gnomes in a trench coat.

Footnote: Shadow adoption contracts are binding in at least three planes of reality.

Footnote: Please stop asking about the sock.

[ragegardener]

GOBLIN GAZETTE – ISSUE THREE

Published every Wednesday, unless we forget. Which we did. But then we remembered.

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

WEATHER BALLOON ASCENDED TOO FAR

Filed under: Atmospheric Mischief, Altitude-Based Disappearances, Who Approved This?

A mysterious weather balloon, launched last week from the hill behind the teacup garden, has not returned.

According to the launch report (which was written in crayon and smells faintly of honey), the balloon was meant to “study the sky’s feelings” and carry a small package of breadcrumbs, a handwritten letter, and a single sock.

Witnesses report the balloon ascended normally… then sharply veered upward, shrieking.

Yes. Shrieking.

A faint trail of glitter was spotted over the western ridge. No one has gone to investigate.

The letter inside reportedly read:

“Dear Sky,

How are you feeling today?

Please write back.

Love, Me.”

We have not received a response.

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

FIZZY RAIN IN THE NORTH QUARTER

Filed under: Beverage-Based Weather, Questionable Chemistry, Tingly Incidents

Residents of the northern quarter awoke to what many are calling “the weirdest precipitation event since the time the clouds cried bees.”

Light rainfall began around dawn. Shortly thereafter, reports emerged that the droplets hissed slightly upon contact and left behind a faint citrus scent.

Two goblins licked the mud and now claim to be “mildly effervescent.”

Rainwater samples taken to the alchemy shed immediately dissolved the measuring spoons.

We advise all residents to avoid puddles unless you’re prepared to be lightly carbonated.

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

ARGUMENTS LOOPING AT ECHO POND

Filed under: Accidental Time Magic, Gossip Cycles, Auditory Hazards

Voices have been heard repeating in perfect loop at Echo Pond—specifically, the sound of a disagreement about who left the lanterns out overnight.

According to pond-adjacent sources, the argument has now been echoing for approximately three days and 74 cycles, with no sign of resolution.

Transcribed highlights include:

• “Well it wasn’t me, I was weaving moss garlands all night!”

• “You always say that.”

• “That’s because I always am!”

It’s unclear whether the original speakers still exist, or if the pond has developed opinions of its own.

One snail wandered in and hasn’t stopped sighing since.

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

COMPOST BIN GIVING STRANGE DREAMS

Filed under: Organic Omens, Soil Whispers, Inconvenient Prophecy

Several residents report vivid dreams after standing too close to the communal compost bin.

Themes include:

• Becoming a radish

• The worms know your secrets

• Something stirring beneath the banana peels

One mushroom dreamt of walking. We are deeply unsettled.

The compost has not denied any of this. It did, however, burp loudly during an interview.

We recommend respectful distance and firm boundaries.

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

COMPLAINT CAULDRON ACCEPTING SUBMISSIONS

Filed under: Community Catharsis, Bubbling Resentment, Spite-Based Alchemy

The newly-installed Complaint Cauldron is now live in the town square.

To submit a complaint:

1. Write it on a leaf.

2. Drop it into the cauldron.

3. Do not apologize.

Complaints will be processed, stirred, and occasionally transmuted into ominous vapors. Results not guaranteed.

Early submissions include:

• “My neighbor’s mushrooms are louder than mine.”

• “I tripped over the same rock twice and I think it laughed.”

• “I miss her but she turned into a crow.”

Cauldron hours: Whenever it feels like it. Don’t ask twice.

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

Editor’s Note:

We regret to inform you the weather is emotionally unstable, the pond won’t shut up, and the compost bin may be dreaming of your childhood.

As always, we remain committed to bringing you the truth, the weirdness, and the occasional fizzy aftertaste of life in the glen.

⋆｡˚☁︎˚｡⋆

currently hiding under the alchemy shed with a notebook and two worried worms

[ragegardener]

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

INTERVIEWS WITH LOCAL ODDITIES

Vol. I

Filed under: Involuntary Performance Art & Mild

Property Damage

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Subject: Greeps

Species: Cricket (Emotionally Cursed)

Location: Unknown. Volume: Unavoidable.

─────༺༻─────

Interviewer:

Let’s start simple: can you state your name and what it is you do around here?

Greeps:

“Greeps. Just Greeps. Like pain—single syllable, deeply misunderstood.”

“I make songs out of wounds. And sometimes, out of leaves I’ve chewed into shapes of former lovers.”

─────༺༻─────

Interviewer:

...Right. And how would you describe your musical style to someone unfamiliar with screamfolk?

Greeps:

“Well I’ve never met anyone who was unfamiliar with a screamfolk,” Greeps says, indignantly plucking a single string on his twig lute for emphasis.

“But if I had to explain it—think of a breakup performed in three parts: denial, wailing, and accidental summoning. With harmony.”

─────༺༻─────

Interviewer:

Fascinating. And… you coined the term Mosscore Meltdown. What inspired that?

Greeps:

Greeps stares. Not at the interviewer, but somewhere to the left. Somewhere… haunted.

“There was a log,” he begins, voice trembling like a leaf in a breakup wind.

“And there was dew on the moss. And her initials. And a single, cracked acorn she left behind. Probably on purpose.”

He strums a few discordant notes.

“I was trying to write a lullaby but my tears kept shorting out the rhythm.”

Then, softly:

“I miss how she didn’t speak to me.”

He sings, off-key but heartfelt:

“You said you needed space… so I gave you the forest—

but you took the canopy and left me the rot!”

There’s a long pause.

The interviewer says nothing. Greeps wipes his face with a leaf and shrugs.

─────༺༻─────

Interviewer:

…Right. So who was “Maple,” exactly?

Greeps:

“Maple?” His voice rises sharply. “Who told you about Maple?”

He clutches his lute like a shield.

“No one was supposed to talk about her. That name is sacred. It’s cursed. It echoes in places I haven’t even sung in yet.”

He glares suspiciously at the interviewer.

“Was it Mira? It was Mira, wasn’t it. She would. She has no respect for narrative pacing.”

─────༺༻─────

Interviewer:

Okay, let’s... set Maple aside for now.

Your name’s been mentioned alongside the phrase ‘emotional hazard’ more than once.

Would you care to respond to that?

Greeps:

Greeps laughs. It’s not comforting.

“An emotional hazard?” he repeats. “Please. If anyone was an emotional hazard, it was them.”

He shifts his tiny lute into position and begins to strum.

He sings:

“You said you needed boundaries—so I built you a fence

You said it was ‘symbolic violence’ and left with my sense

Of self and direction... and my favorite spoon.”

He pauses, then adds:

“That song’s called ‘I Was Just Tending the Garden (But You Poisoned the Watercress).’”

“I wrote it the night I realized they didn’t like bees. They didn’t like bees, interviewer.”

─────༺༻─────

Interviewer:

...We might need to end this early.

They stare nervously at the cricket, who is now visibly vibrating.

Greeps:

“You can’t end a feeling!” he cries, tuning his lute to something that can only be described as haunted thistle.

He launches into another song—

“You said you liked honesty—

So I told you about the dream where you drowned and you said it was a metaphor and I said yes but it wasn’t—”

Offstage Voice (probably Delilah):

“GREEPS. NO ONE WANTS YOUR POETIC DEATH SCENES IN INTERVIEWS.”

Another Voice (definitely Peep):

“You rhymed ‘soul’ with ‘mildew’ again, you little fraud!”

Greeps (yelling over them):

“IT’S CALLED IMAGERY!”

The lute snaps a string. Someone, somewhere, sighs like they’ve done this before.

─────༺༻─────

Interview terminated.

Editor’s Note:

We would like to formally apologize to the interviewing team, the sound equipment, and the sapling that caught fire during the final verse. Greeps was not scheduled to perform, nor was he ever technically invited. Attempts to transcribe the full musical outburst resulted in mild possession of one intern and a temporary ban on kazoo use within the Grove.

We will be implementing stricter screening protocols for emotionally unstable arthropods going forward.

—The Editorial Staff

Intern’s Footnote: I still hear the kazoo. In the walls. In my dreams. Please don’t let him find my forwarding address.

[ragegardener]

GOBLIN GAZETTE – ISSUE TWO

Published every Wednesday, unless cursed.

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

MYSTERY IN THE GLEN

Filed under: Glimmering Weirdness, Unauthorized Occurrences, Soggy Clues

The eastern glen awoke Monday morning to find a large ring of mushrooms circling a perfectly dry patch of grass—roughly the size and shape of a tea kettle left behind in a hurry. The grass within was pressed flat and crying softly, though no sound was captured when recorded.

Residents have begun theorizing. Some of the less helpful ones are as follows:

• “This is a classic glen-glitch. A forest hiccup. Just don’t sneeze in there.”

• “It’s a kettle curse. Someone boiled truth in it. You’re not supposed to boil truth.”

• “I think it was me. I don’t remember doing it, but it seems like something I would’ve done.”

A single slipper was found at the scene. Left foot. Unscorched, slightly damp, and embroidered with a beetle motif.

It has been placed in the Lost & Possibly Dangerous bin behind the bakery. Approach with moderate wariness.

The Bureau of Mildly Concerning Phenomena will be investigating. Their next meeting is scheduled for last week, so updates may be delayed indefinitely.

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

COMMUNITY NOTICES & MISCELLANEOUS INCIDENTS:

PIZZA THEFT GOBLIN LOCATED

Filed under: Crimes of Grease, Library Tragedies, Culinary Disrespect

The individual behind the now-infamous Goblin Pizza Heist was discovered asleep under the poetry section of the Mage Library—this time—surrounded by shredded pages and a frankly staggering amount of marinara.

This marks the goblin’s second known infiltration of a library, now escalating from overdue books to complete textual obliteration.

Investigations are underway at all known local libraries to assess potential damages.

We are unable to confirm at this time how many pages were devoured, emotionally or otherwise.

The goblin in question has been remanded to Dramatic Apology Duty. Community service hours to be completed via sonnet.

EGG WATCH 2025: STILL HAPPENING

Filed under: Prophecy in Progress, Shouting Contests, Radiant Ovipresence

Peep remains stationed on Blorbo.

Volume of shouting has increased.

Someone left them a tea cozy. Peep cried, then threatened a curse of eternal lukewarm baths.

The egg is now glowing in shifts. We’re not sure what that means.

CURSED WELL WATER

Filed under: Beverage-Based Hexes, Unexpected Poetry, Riddle Side Effects

Residents of the southern path have reported unusual effects after drinking from the Old Well:

• Sudden poetic speech

• Hair shimmer

• Compulsion to answer riddles that haven’t been asked

Madame Sporaline believes this is due to an “emotionally turbulent spirit with unresolved hydration issues.” The well is now marked with a sign that reads:

“Drink if you dare, rhyme if you must.”

GARDEN ANOMALY

Filed under: Unsettling Horticulture, Parsley Phenomena, Soup-Scented Memories

The communal parsley patch has begun growing in tufts shaped like small, anxious animals.

Under moonlight, it glows faintly and smells unmistakably of forgotten childhood dreams and soup.

No one remembers planting parsley.

We are watching it.

It is watching us.

We are telling ourselves this is fine.

UNLICENSED MUSHROOM THERAPIST SUSPECTED IN SHADE PATCH

Filed under: Root Psychology, Spore Lore, Growing Concerns

Multiple seedlings and early sprouts have been caught murmuring about “Dr. Spoor,” a mysterious fungal figure believed to be offering underground therapy in the eastern moss quadrant.

Unofficial records note the following advice allegedly dispensed:

• “Your pot size does not define your worth.”

• “It’s okay to wilt sometimes.”

• “Root trauma is generational.”

Authorities remain unsure whether Dr. Spoor is a force for good or simply a moldy hallucination. Either way, the seedlings appear calmer, and one tomato reported a “breakthrough cry.”

Proceed with gentle skepticism—and bring tissues, just in case.

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

Editor’s Note:

There’s something in the glen.

The well is whispering.

The pizza goblin was greasy in ways we are still trying to understand.

We’re watching the signs.

But the signs are watching back.

Due to time distortions, emotional gremlins, and an unexpected nap, this issue is posting a bit late. Please pretend it’s still Wednesday. Time is an illusion anyway. Thank you for your cooperation.

⋆｡˚☁︎˚｡⋆

currently hiding behind the Lost & Possibly Dangerous bin

[ragegardener]

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

WEB OF INTRIGUE

Vol. I

A column of unsolicited insight

by Delilah, Collector of Secrets and Occasional

Threats

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Editor’s Note:

The opinions expressed in this column do not reflect those of the Goblin Gazette, its staff, its chickens, or its editorial collective.

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

To the Deliciously Involved,

Not all webs catch flies, darling. Some catch secrets. Let’s unravel a few, shall we?

-D

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

A Note from the Willow Watcher

Filed Under: Haunted Flora, Southern Ridge Anomalies, Alias Urgency Protocols

Dear Delilah,

Why is the willow near the southern ridge weeping again? I walked past last night and I swear it whispered my middle name.

— Concerned in Cloverpatch

Darling Concerned,

If the willow knows your middle name, you’ve got bigger problems than its emotional state. I recommend offerings, distance, and a new name—preferably one you don’t tell anyone. Especially not me. Especially not again.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

Today’s Crumb of Concern

Filed Under: Fae Well Interference, Spoon Displacement Events, Cursed Proximity Protocols

Dear Delilah,

Is it true someone’s been digging around the old fae well again? My spoons keep going missing and the milk curdled before dawn. I don’t want to jump to conclusions but… I will.

— Unsettled in the Hollow

Sweet Unsettled,

Jump, darling. Leap. This has “cursed proximity backlash” written all over it. If someone’s poking the well and your cutlery is vanishing? That’s a feedback loop of disrespect. Leave out an apology and a prettier spoon. If it’s not back in three days, check the nearest foxglove. And don’t drink anything.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

This One’s About Pie

Filed Under: Textural Superiority Incidents, Unsupervised Baked Goods, Cursed Culinary Criticism

Dear Delilah,

I’ve noticed someone’s been stealing the crusts off my cooling pies. Just the crusts. Not the filling. Not the pan. And only if I leave them by the window after midnight. Should I be flattered or terrified?

— Crumbler in the Glade

Dearest Crumbler,

Oh no, darling. You’ve been visited by a Cravitch—a finicky little pantry gremlin with a deep appreciation for “textural superiority” and very strong opinions about edge browning. If it took only the crusts, that means it found the filling “too earnest.” Be flattered, but also bake better. And for your own sake, never use store-bought dough. They can smell it through time.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

Eclipse-Triggered Phenomena

Filed Under: Cryptid Sightings, Fashion-Based Curses, Marriage Counseling via Headwear

Dear Delilah,

Everyone in the village swears they saw a creature made entirely of hats wandering through the field during the eclipse. It bowed, tripped over a bonnet, and vanished. Did that actually happen?

— Mad as a Hatter, Maybe

My Mad Little Hatter,

Of course it happened. That was the Hat Thing—and frankly, you’re lucky it bowed. It only appears during celestial shifts and minor wardrobe crises. Constructed entirely of abandoned headwear and terrible decisions, the Hat Thing is a cryptid, a rumor, and possibly a seasonal wind.

If you laughed when it tripped, apologize now. Out loud. With sincerity. The last person who giggled ended up stuck in a loop where every hat they wore told the truth. It ruined their marriage.

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

Whispered Web Highlights

• Thimble’s gone. No one’s claiming it. Everyone’s lying.

• Someone tried to hum the Moonroot Lullaby. tried.

• There’s a shoe in the garden with mushrooms growing in it. The owner is devastated. The mushrooms are thriving.

• Whatever happened behind the bakery wasn’t quiet, wasn’t clean, and wasn’t legal in three courts.

• And for the record: I saw who carved those initials.

You’re not ready for that truth.

⇝─────༺༻─────⇜

🕷️ Until next time…

Keep your whispers soft, your webs strong, and your bonnets tied tight.

— D