I like to imagine this work-in-progress as a book illustrated by Gorey.
But that seems quite unlikely at this point.
This is the log (including Last Will and Testament) of Captain Reginald Neversligh, who led the crew of the Nancy Manners God-only-knows-where.
Requiescant in pace.
I fear the men are against me. Some of them are beginning to say we should have never entered this polar terrain after September. They say the natives had warned us that September's first wind holds in it the wail of all those who came before us, who entered here, and who never returned.
Evers got this crazy notion in his head that we should have gone left at the Mayonnaise jar. It took two hours of expostulation and an appeal to the men's patriotic instincts to rid the majority of the crew of this preposterous notion. Evers went on alone and is surely already lost to the Mission--for now and forever. May God rest his Weary Misguided Soul.
A left at the Mayonnaise jar!
Do I truly need to remind anyone of what happened to the Twillingsworth Party!?
It took all the strength of eight men and myself to ply the strange cover from a pink monolithic drum which was left here by another culture, as-yet alien to our race. They seem to write their language in circles. For example, we found these characters incised on the drum: ERWARETUPP.
None of our party has any idea what this means, but the men all agreed it looks exceedingly ominous.
I do not believe it is a civilized tribe which created this strange artifact.*
*We were much pleased to find great manna inside the pink vessel. It was stocked with vegetable matter rather resembling the vegetable we know as haricots verts, but insanely large!
After consuming our fill of this lucky find, it took all the strength of our party jumping up and down on the top of this drum to reseal the strange vessel!
We ate Gibbons today.
I am not proud of the fact, and worse, I cannot justify it in any way whatsoever, as we are surrounded now by a bewildering array of foodstuffs.
It's just that everbody agreed he had always looked so damn...edible.
This isn't "a perverted, typically British navy thing."
As one of the party said.
I want to say that really hurt.
And that that notion is completely wrong.
If we get out of this alive, we shall remember his widow and seven children and console them heartily, and take up the usual Christian subscriptions for their maintenance and well-being.
I'd like to point out I partook very little.
I was quite occupied with my spyglass.
For there were an extended few moments of Sun, and I felt the need to take advantage of this opportunity.
I believe I may be falling prey to The Vapours of Hallucination my predecessors to this forsaken zone have described in their writings, as I could have sworn I heard a voice across the sea say, "Could you shut that damn thing, please?"
And then the Sun was eclipsed so fast it shocked all greatly, and a collective gasp of dejection from the men rose up to Heaven!
I nearly dropped my spyglass into the frozen sea below my boots...that strange northern sea where glaciers calve in nearly perfect cubes on a fairly regular basis.
What is this frozen Hell?
Nobody understands this strange clime, not even the most scientific-minded of our party!
Sometimes it is suddenly bright and the Sun shines in the sky.
Often we notice a distinct warming during this period, and it suddenly feels as though spring were ready to burst upon us! It gets our hopes up so!
Then it vanishes and we are plunged back into the frigid darkness of the Wasteland of Food.
Most of the time we must carry lanterns through that constant inky blackness.
I had expected to find The Land of the Midnight Sun...and its opposite...
But this is madness.
It's as though we have stepped right off the planet!
Glen Baxter is an artist who was born in Leeds, UK in 1944. Mr. Baxter primarily creates single panel absurdist cartoon panels that are available as coll...
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