Jace "Patience" van Kaathoven 🏳️‍⚧️ 🐸 🫜 🐰

@jacevk.bsky.social

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🏳️‍⚧️🐰🐸🏳️‍🌈 ~ 31 ~ transfem (she/her) ~ Sydney ~ 🧠💦 cPTSD survivor 📗 Writing weird words (Frogbo) 🎮 And games and stuff! 🌧️ Loves rainy days & YOU 🔞 MINORS DNI 🚫 NO AI 🚫 used in making Me or the Cool Stuff I Do ~alt text 24/7~ https://jacevk.neocities.org

A snippet (of a snippet) of Jace highlighting in red pen an error from today's snip she finds upsetting: "THE CLOCKMASTER" ✅ is incorrectly written in mixed lower and uppercase as "the CLOCKMASTER" ❌

>:c

~An excerpt from the WIP Frogbo written by Jace—that's me :) (word of the day "root” -> “[plant]” (originally did use root; changed to a faceplant because I will NEVER pass up on a chance to alliterate all and anything)~

A hazy wave of wax rushes out the woodwork, each-every stick tipped with flamelit wicks. Could thee be… Candles? Have not we heard tell of Candles tending to bear arms or legs or faces or thoughts or any such of sort. We're not sure *why*fore these candles happened on all the extra features, though nay may be we picky; so-spent us from a nine-hundred and ninety-nine-stepped ascending re-descencion. Plus the dais.

THE CLOCKMASTER is kicking their little feets away—their first sign of life since landing face-[plant]ed and prostrate gainst marblemake tiles. Ten belly-tall Candles position themselves in tandem pon the CLOCKMASTER's dial.

As flame-tipped heads melt and wane and flicker and waft, the Candles grab THE CLOCKMASTER—

and *rip their head off*.

So THAT'S what the arms are for! Noted.

~An excerpt from the WIP Frogbo written by Jace—that's me :) (word of the day "pyramid" ——→ "[ziggurat]"~

FALLING.

Wait, no. No, that's wrong. Sincerest sorries. Other way around:

*RISING*.

…Or rather—bouncing. *One step. Two steps. Ten. Fifty.* Each dribble tread up and along the [ziggurat] of steps lands with a quicksure and fastidiousmost force springing us closerpon THE CLOCKMASTER's downwards descent. *Two hundred and fifty*.

Something unprecedented is happening again. *Five hundred and eighty*.

Good morning, Frogbo. *Nine hundred*.

You have a purpose now.

*Nine-hundred and ninety-nine*.

Right as THE CLOCKMASTER was to take their first of at least nine-hundred and ninety-nine (plus dais) tumbles, Frogbo's there, being tumbled into, their greenly round and rubbery form—body-ball, head, stretch-legs, heart-and-all, winding itself clockwise across THE CLOCKMASTER's lofty bodice: loftier than our Frog's frailty can raise.

THE CLOCKMASTER falls—safe and snugly encased pon the confines of a rogue rubber frog fated to brace the brunt of each step down whence we came.

*Nine-hundred and ninety-eight*.

FALLING.

~An excerpt from the WIP Frogbo written by Jace—that's me :) (word of the day "[finale]"… No synonym this time? COULDN'T BE)~

"…BUT YOU, GREENIE," THE CLOCKMASTER casts their stopwatch-tipped sceptre down pon Frogbo from top their immeasurable staircase (plus dais), "YOU ARE NOT MEANT TO BE HERE." *Clearly*.

"MATTER 'FACT," with a bang of their sceptre, THE CLOCKMASTER rises from their high-horse. Surprisingly tiny feets peek out below their royal red robe. "YOU SHOULDN'T EVEN E-"

What is an 'Even E'? We'll never know; listen close. The house is breathing.

Remember that, Frogbo? The expanding and contracting that caught us in this mousetrap of a manor in the last place? We wondered how its hyperventilations might make manifest within its walls.

Seem-so from such stumblage, even THE CLOCKMASTER naught foresaw their homestead's sudden inhalage… were they THE BALANCEMASTER would this be a non-issue.

Pon top the immeasurable staircase (plus dais), THE CLOCKMASTER flails. And trips.

And falls.

Finally! After a world of overcomplications, a notion with which we are all-too-familiar:

*FALLING*.

Here comes the [finale].

-An excerpt from the WIP Frogbo written by Jace—that's me :)- (word of the day "penalty" ----> "[sanction]". Thanks for sanctioning my buffoonery!)

Should Frogbo go on to survive their journey… for what? A place of perishment, long-beyond saving? Much like Frogbo and much as the World, once bread is toasted into toast is there no turning back to bread. You can't un-toast toast, and you can't toast toast neither—it's just toast, instead. That's how it is. All toast to fall tribute unto the ever-hungry cosmic gullet feeding from below 'til dinner's done. The thought made chills run down Bunibo's fuzz.

So Bunibo caught herself wavering, her mind spiralling in tandem with her most auspiciously proffered-pon boxen staircase. *No more*, snapped Bunibo to her inmost self, with a sweetly shake of her ears. She will not [sanction] sadness at this time. *Not now, not yet.* She smacked her paws against her cheeks to rouse hope in the plucky Frog. *Clap clap clapa!* Giving up wasn't in Bunibo's rulebook, after all. What's the point in an addendum now?

Bunibo hoped beyond all hope that hope would not prove hopeless.

-An excerpt from the WIP Frogbo written by Jace—that's me :)- (word of the day "draw"* ...ing)

Despite the everbearing emptiness of a world long since reaching its last stop, the neon chalken drawings'* togethertwained ordain an overwhelming sense of Having Lived: of being and breathing ponner time unknown. Frogbo interprets the etchings so; a castle overlooked by a silver, misshapen oval; an arrangement of boxes; a language of somesuch; a mountain with a face, surrounded by clouds, surrounded by cloud-winged insects; and indescribable heads. Animals? Bunnies? Canines? Dunno. Things. Thing-heads.

None of this makes any sense to Frogbo, bathing in a mere quadrant of the murals' full tapestry, but to this affect was there a comfort in the sheer incomprehensibility. This small fragment of its sweeping breadth entire was just enough to percolate an exhausted Frog's mind. To Frogbo felt it an almost familiar confusion—and a beautiful one, too. They wanted to try and understand it before dreams drew them deep, even just a bit.

If stars were real, this certainly is what they'd look like.

Promotional cover art of Final Fantasy X ft. Tidus.

A screenshot of Slicer P from the video game MOTORSLICE, prodding the camera, an in-game apparatus known as Orby. I took this screenshot :3

A screenshot from Portal 2 from the chapter "The Part Where He Kills You", where the chapter title card comes up as GLaDOS says "Well. This is the part where he kills us." as the player receives the Steam achievement "The Part Where He Kills You: This is that part".

-An excerpt from the WIP Frogbo written by Jace—that's me :)- (word of the day "platform" ——> "dais"*. Look ma, I did it—I used the word dais! I'm officially a writer now.)

Propped snugly pon an iron dais* on high, atop aflight afancy stairs set from floor to ceiling’s sky, sits our WATCH-FACED HOST amid dim, flickering lights. Watching us. Waiting. Hello there! Hi.

It is with this we wish to admit a great sadness.

We have no idea who this is. Or what is going on; or what they’re on about. Another strike against the ‘all’ in ‘all-knowing’, though our Hour of Sorrow can wait til late; nowponst strikes the Minute of Elucidation’s Make. Watch and learn, Frog, as we will with you.

Now—thing. Thing up there. Hark should you hear us, the Voice of Tobb: who is it are you? What is your want?

Surely a silly means to satiate usself; we did not expect them to respond.

It is therefore very surprising that they *do*.

"I AM THE CLOCKMASTER," says THE CLOCKMASTER.

Oh! That's THE CLOCKMASTER.

[ACT 2: THE CLOCKMASTER]

-An excerpt from the WIP Frogbo written by Jace—that's me :)- (word of the day "parade"*... FOUR OF 'EM)

"ONCE UPON A TIME THERE WAS A BIG FESTIVAL*. THIS WOULD COME TO BE KNOWN AS 'THE BIG FESTIVAL*', BUT AT THE TIME, IT WAS SIMPLY A BIG FESTIVAL*. THIS IS AN IMPORTANT DISTINCTION.

"THE FESTIVAL* WAS THE MACHINATIONS OF A TREMENDOUS MOUNTAIN. MOUNTAIN ANCHORED EARTH, AND EARTH ANCHORED LIFE, AND LIFE ANCHORED STRIFE. WHICH CAME FIRST? DO ANCHORS WORK IN REVERSE? WHO CARES, I'M BORED. NEXT SLIDE."

"THE MOUNTAIN BURDENED ITSELF WITH THE WORLD UNTIL THE WORLD TURNED A BURDEN TO THE MOUNTAIN. AND THEN EVERYTHING BECAME TOO MUCH. AND THEN EVERYTHING BECAME NOTHING AND THAT WAS ABOUT IT. BUT IT'S SAFE HERE. LOCKED TIGHT. NO BIG CRUSTY ROCK IS GONNA SQUEEZE ITSELF INTO *MY* HOMELY ABODE. BUT ANYWAYS WHERE WAS I OH YES THE MOUNTAIN. MMM.

"CONCERNING.

"JUST BETWEEN YOU ME, GREENIE: THIS MOUNTAIN… IT'S RESPONSIBLE FOR THE LOT; TO GET TO THE BOTTOM, YOU MUST CLIMB TO THE TOP.

"TO SUM THIS ALL UP…" Ooh. Dramatic pause. They're *good*.

"…TOBB'S GOT TO BE STOPPED.

"BUT, HEY—WHAT DO I KNOW? MY FACE IS A CLOCK!"

* * * * * * *

P.S. SORRY I CLONED YOU

BY JACE "PATIENCE" VAN KAATHOVEN

MADE WITH LOVE

13/03/2026

<3

-A snippet from my upcoming short horror story "Sorry I Cloned You <3"- (Daily word: 'blade' --> 'knife')

I don't want to think anymore. About choices or anything, ever again. I'm decent with facts, though. Here's one: it's easier to cut a head clean off with a kitchen knife than I thought it would be. Even if the head being carved out and lopped off looked exactly as mine.

Here's another fact–that made it way easier.

-An excerpt from the WIP Frogbo written by Jace—that's me :)- (word of the day "gripe"*)

Say—Frog. Have we a gripe* with you.

It seems you are loved. Yes? Small and frail and fairly blue, but a heart is a heart and that's what Bunibo bestowed you. A stroke of luck; a hug of love. How sweet. How quaint.

So. What have you done, Frogbo?

We'd love to know. Walk around a bit? Get bonked about? Fear mortality? All while you somehow manage, despite utmost efforts contrary, to be propelled forward? Only to fall asleep, more akin to Log than Frog?

It's like the world around you bends backward to accommodate the flippancy of your existence. Yet you just sit. And stare. And wait. And sleep. Nothing of note. And yet, you are loved. Why? Have you even done anything?

Tell we, or fall silent as-unto-ever. Yes? No?

….Silence so-ever then shall be. A mess of questions with no answers of right mind; utterly and thoroughly devoid of meaning's make. You—

You're nothing more than a mishap of happenstance.

Thus wake we: the chaperone to consequence.

-A snippet from my upcoming short horror story "Sorry I Cloned You <3"- (Daily word: 'steer' --> 'driving')

My viscera left spread across the kitchenette would have been a shame to leave behind. My mess— it's all just too pretty. Before I went, the least I could do is take your car and make it Mine instead. You took Me and used Me against Me: it's only fair I get to use Me against you, too. That's what I'm made for.

So, this is My ride: no trace of yellow left, just a deep crimson red coating every inch instead. This car is Mine; My car is covered in Me, and I am inside My car, driving Me around. Together, we're leaving town.

Whether or not this finds you in kind, fuck it. Have I a wells' worth more ink to spare but no will to spill more on you. Listen or don't:

I'm taking My car that's made of Me through to new places, sight-unseen; I'll meet new people who'll meet new Me, see My scars and bruises and bludgeonings; who wholly embrace Me for all of these, accepting Me, despite Me, unlike you—who never believed.

Sincerely,

Me

-A snippet from my upcming short horror story "Sorry I Cloned You <3"- (Daily word: 'elite' --> 'better')

It starts small. Pinches. Arm twists. Finger-nail digs. Though painful, it's of relative fun—to my clone, at least.

Punishment stays subdued until it suddenly isn't. Great pain never comes graceful. The shift, instant; a switch flips—right on the moment the back of her balled fist crashes into the back of my head, hard as never fathomed, right where the base of my skull meets my spine.

I forgot lots of things.

I won't forget this.

After that my clone realizes she doesn't have to restrain herself. Or myself.

Actually, my clone is capable of a lot more torment than I could ever dish out.

Actually, this "me" is simply more capable in general. Better, even.

It scares me.

-A snippet from my upcming short horror story "Sorry I Cloned You <3"- (Daily word: 'nectar' --> 'membranous emulsification of excretions'... sorry)

I keep crying, asking her to stop, please. I beg. I soil myself. The only reply comes from the linoleum squares growing before my eyes, so fast grow they, so bigly, right in front now fore bang cracks my face square against floor as my clone drives her knee into the back of my skull. It hurts. I must have done something bad. I apologize to her, screaming, I won't do it again, whatever it is, I swear I won't.

Knuckles wring my hair from atop and my neck snaps back. Squares shrink. Staring through stray hairs and teeth, darkening splotches along the linoleum floor make the tiling look mangled externally and bleeding internally. I vomit: I just made it worse. I feel so bad for those tiles. I apologize to the floor. The floor isn't broken. It's my mess to clean. I promise I'll do better.

Bang goes me against linoleum tiles again. My face newly reacquaints the pooling pile of blood and piss and bile. Shallow breaths blows bubbles into a membranous emulsification of excretions. My mess.

-An excerpt from the WIP Frogbo written by Jace—that's me :)-

Unknown to the Frog, stuck scoping the inside of a cannon's barrel for a switch that didn't exist, had another problem appeared on two little legs, waddling curiously up to the Frog-filled cannon. The oncoming creature, red, expressionless and cast-iron, took note of the fuse leading out of the back of the cannon: the very same fuse Frogbo was remiss not to notice.

The cap on the hydrant's face swung open and flames flicked from its outlet. With one fiery lick, the fuse is lit. Oopsy-doopsy-dip.

Was this what fire hydrants were meant to do? Nevermind: paradoxically had this little Red Problem had the gumption salve a solution. Lest we jinx, paradox so stays it.

The Not-Fire-Hydrant watched facelessly—yet another paradox—as the flame traced down the trailing coil of fuse… straight into the base of the cannon.

The cannon with Frogbo *in it*.

Whatever Frogbo was, it wasn't ready.

A copy of First Light Book 1: Event Horizon by Dan F. Bispo! With a little Jiji guarding it for safekeeping 🐈‍⬛

My cat Mimi, whose been with me since 2012! She's white with grey markings (or grey with white markings?) and a little grey mark on her nose :3 She is SPOILT

Cover art for the video game YU-NO: A Girl Who Chants Love At The Bound Of This World (この世の果てで恋を唄う少女YU-NO), depicting a mysterious naked blonde-haired woman with pointed ears, sleeping.

Official promotional artwork for the video game Eternal Sonata/Trusty Bell, standing in a curving, dreamlike grassy plain with various flowers, crystals and fang-like stalagmites arching like great claws out from the sides of the image. Characters pictured from left to right: Allegreto; Beat; Frederic Chopin; Polka.

Jace's pause screen showcasing her progress in Umineko When They Cry (Umineko no Naku Koro ni), with all spoilers redded out. Options on pause screen from top to bottom:
Load
Save
Characters
Tips
Config
Logs
Clear
Title

And her stats in particular:
(on right) Episode 3, Chapter [REDACTED]
Total clicks: 36752
Total playtime: 40hrs:45mins:44secs
Real-world time: 06/04/2026 9:39:16
Current (music) track: N/A

Oh also she drew Frogbo on it, sittin down with their legs flat against the episode title there all green and funny. There's Frogbo

A recreation of the PS2 system bootup screen as a wallpaper. An abstract, murky-black space with white textureless blocks rising like skyscrapers from the mist. Little shooting star-like figments coloured as the PlayStation face buttons (green triangle, red circle, purple square and blue cross) seen circling across.

A screenshot from MOTHER 3 of the player character talking with a Save Frog.

Frog: *If you don't take care to preserve your memories, you'll forget them.

Oh God; it's Phanto from Super Mario Bros. 2. This thing is the WORST. It's like a... like a mask thing that chases you and somehow it still freaks me out. Let me take your keys in peace!

-An excerpt from the WIP Frogbo written by Jace—that's me :)-

On quaking knees stood Frogbo acrest cardboard box tower-top, the wavy upwind of road just one jump ahead. An empty space rest tweenst box and road. The gap was small, yes, but size meant no big thing when up so tall. Would even we feel strangely stood pon such dizzy heights. Frogbo was falling all this time, after all, and since then tailed tow with Bunibo sole. No longer, though: so go they alone Frog-forth into unknown—where the smallest trip meant the biggest fall… quite a frightening thing to accept.

Frogbo turned around one last time, peeking down pon Bunibo below: still kept she waving, her dress ever-windswept.

Frogbo waved back with their feets in hands' stead, before kipping both back up and over their head—forming a heart-shape for her with their legs.

Though small and far away could they see-so clear—Bunibo made a heart-sign back with her ears.

Be brave.

Turning forward, Frogbo took their very first step.

The mug Jace drinks coffee out of, featuring the Cheshire Cat as they appear in Disneys Alice in Wonderland feature film. The Cheshires tail makes up the handle of the mug and it’s CUTE.

-An excerpt from the WIP Frogbo written by Jace—that's me :)-

What was this?

A *taste*? Not just the taste of 'T', mind, though tasty was it indeed; it was as if a very essence of Calmness suffused itself amongst the slantily inclined living room's atmosphere entire; to the steam stemming from their mugs wafting up walls; to the squishability of the boxes pon they sat, to the lucky rabbit keeping Frog kept and cared-for kipping backmostly, close as can be. Even to the Frog themself, beaten and broken and barely of being had they never tasted anything, let alone such a sweetness bursting with love's making. It was less a taste and more a feeling of a thing. So *this* was 'T'. Sip sip.

The Frog came to regard this feeling as 'safety'.

The hare raised a satisfied smile as the Frog settled snug gainst her, nestled tween blouse and paws.

-An excerpt from the WIP Frogbo written by Jace—that's me :)-

Bunibo didn't know what to do, so she gave the Frog a hug.

"Poor Frog," cooed Bunibo.

The Frog shook a different shake while wrapped in Bunibo. Completely sheathed neath her enormous blouse, a gentle buzzing ran through the Frog's entire system. *Warm*. Without a word, without a sound, without a gesture but within an embrace; the Frog's vibrations seem-so affirmed that this was a hug, that they were being hugged by Bunibo, and that this was okay. To Bunibo it was a small thing, but to the Frog was it the only hug they'd ever felt. It was also the biggest; it was also the world.

As Bunibo pulled away to examine what in heck was happening to the Frog, something had happened: somehow had the heart-shaped print across her blouse transferred onto the Frog, marking their formerly-bare chest. It was smaller in size and discoloured to boot, but there was no denying that what once was a blank Frog's tummy now sported a heart marking, like a tattoo. It was subtle, but there it was—a black heart.

-An excerpt from the WIP Frogbo written by Jace—that's me :)-

WELCOME, ONE AND ALL, TO THE [SYMPOSIUM] OF KNOWLEDGE.

QUIET PON OUR CONFER. YOU and YOU and YOU of THREE—SILENCE THEE; ACKNOWLEDGE ME. Thankies.

Welcome. To. My FROG-SHAPED HOUSE.

Neat, right?

An interesting house, if you ask me: its very only occupancy. Population of one inside another one. A vacuous place. Quaint. Could use an adornment or two… or a little more space. Though picky can't we be; are we trapped in thee. Thus: *Frog-House*.

Nothing here, nor is anything 'sides we. Baffled befallment twixt darkness' weave.

…Speaking be*falling*: have we heard a thing or four about falling. Mayhaps a story or three can occupate us sufficiently from our sensorially suspensory existential revery.

Let's crack the tome again, then: a tale only we can speak with no one left to tell. A story for none; a morose "oh well".

Ahem. *HEM-HEM*. From the top, with feeling—

FALLING.

FALLING.

As long as the little Frog could remember, they were falling.

Official art of Jace's WIP, FROGBO! Rendered lovingly by @kevynstott.bsky.social!

The title is written "Frogbo" in a mix of green and blue on the bottom-right of the image. On a circular sphere of land, walking down a dirt path between plains of grass is Frogbo; an oval shaped head, two noodly legs, a round belly with a heart mark in the center. Frogbo is walking along, passing by a lit-up series of apartment complexes displayed in a gradient of purple, curving alongside Frogbo's path. Above, the sky is a pitch black, with what looks like... a volcano with a face, fuming far-off? What is that?? Oh well.

-An excerpt from Frogbo, written by me, Jace :)-

FALLING.

FALLING.

As long as the little Frog could remember, they were falling.

-An excerpt from the WIP Frogbo written by Jace—that's me :)-

On quaking knees stood Frogbo acrest cardboard box tower-top, the wavy upwind of road just one jump ahead. An empty space rest tweenst box and road. The gap was small, yes, but size meant no big thing when up so tall. Would even we feel strangely stood pon such dizzy heights. Frogbo was falling all this time, after all, and since then tailed tow with Bunibo sole. No longer, though: so go they alone Frog-forth into unknown—where the smallest trip meant the biggest fall… quite a frightening thing to accept.

Frogbo turned around one last time, peeking down pon Bunibo below: still kept she waving, her dress ever-windswept.

Frogbo waved back with their feets in hands' stead, before kipping both back up and over their head—forming a heart-shape for her with their legs.

Though small and far away could they see-so clear—Bunibo made a heart-sign back with her ears.

Be brave.

Turning forward, Frogbo took their very first step.

Screenshot from sitcom Everybody Loves Raymond of Raymond and Debra holding Nintendo 64 controllers like no human ever has or will since.

-A snippet from my upcming short horror story "Sorry I Cloned You <3"

I don't know which rang stranger: agreeance with my clone or when disagreement sparked. Both baffled—though my clone seemed upset when opposed. I don't want to upset them. I thought this would be a very bad thing to do. I think it's better to try and be nice; I don't know what the other me could be going through.

The tension never waned. Quietly it felt as if my clone thought a great deal less of me… even as she *was* me. The way she spoke as if from above and I beneath. The way she stared right in my eyes while I avert my gaze at every instance. Despite our sameness, it was like my clone was picking on me.

Noting my trepidation did she shake her head, assuring me this was all in jest. I was a playful person, after all. That's just how I am, told my clone to me.

I nodded along, trying to believe myself.

The theatrical poster for the 1993 Super Mario Bros movie. The tagline "This Ain't No Game" can be read above, with a list of credits at the bottom. Below the credits reads the showtime of the film "STARS FRIDAY, MAY 28th AT THEATRES EVERYWHERE" (which almost reads like a threat when in caps lock like that)

-An excerpt from the WIP Frogbo written by Jace—that's me :)-

Should Frogbo go on to survive their journey… for what? A place of perishment, long-beyond saving? Much like Frogbo and much as the World, once bread is toasted into toast is there no turning back to bread. You can't un-toast toast, and you can't toast toast neither—it's just toast, instead. That's how it is. All toast to fall tribute unto the ever-hungry cosmic gullet feeding from below 'til dinner's done. The thought made chills run down Bunibo's fuzz.

So had Bunibo caught herself wavering, her mind spiralling in tandem with her most auspiciously offered-pon boxen staircase. No more, snapped Bunibo to her inmost self. She will not sanction sadness at this time. Not now, not yet. She smacked her paws against her cheeks to rouse her hope in the plucky Frog. Clap clap clapa! Giving up wasn't in Bunibo's rulebook, after all. What's the point in an addendum now?

Bunibo hoped beyond all hope that hope would not prove hopeless.

-An excerpt from the WIP Frogbo written by Jace—that's me :)-

Would if we could dive back a-delve dreaming tween that place lily-white: least was it interesting, much unlike perceiving naught through Frogbo's lidded eyes. Are *you* listening, at least? If so, know this: are we not fond of stumbling so pon this foolish Frog-shaped situationship. Grow not fond we.

Wake up, Frog. Do your thing already. It's been too long since something foolish happened. Commence the buffoonery.

Do something.

Wake *up*, Frogbo. UP. I command it!

Tobb curse you. Curse this Frog, curse this place, wherever it is, because we don't know—Frogbo's eyes are *closed*. So sit we in blank repose. How fun. What a fun experience, this is, being so bored. Truly does my heart go out to anyone who can't take part in such a thrill of a thing. Wow.

Wake up.

As if anyone can hear us. Why speak when not listened to; so stop we altogether. Silence befalls: *nowstime*.

…

Nevermind—silence made it worse.

Wake up, Frogbo. Even though you know not of us… we need you to wake up.

Please.

-An excerpt from the WIP Frogbo written by Jace—that's me :)-

A Frog and a manor are trapped in a cage. Us, storysayer, are entrapped inside the Frog. No easy escape is plain to see, and no escape plan either, additionally. So-stain such hubris hold we inherently. Our bad completely; piper pay we dearly.

Our one recourse? The unthinkable—think only as Frogbo might.

Thus, ourselves relinquish:

I'm sleepy. Nighty-night.

ZZZZZzzzz

-An excerpt from the WIP Frogbo written by Jace—that's me :)-

We as Frogbo and Frogbo as We turned around, tethered togetherly. Behind us, behind Frog-barring bars, was little Not-Fire-Hydrant, playing air guitar—on the outside of the Great Cage, where Frogbo once stood pon. Now it is we the ones enlockened neath bars' restraint, the non-Hydrant's wails made for only a failed, falling Frog and an unnervingly expanding manor.

Summary: Fire Hydrant, Not; dire, mindless Frog. Beams between, now inside-out; places swapped.

What.

All is discombobulation. Safe to say it's made more rough when stuck betwixt the mind's eye of a semi-vacant Frog. Firmly 'twere prefer any other fate in the long-term or a shorter-sense. Never have been we Frogbound before; would never we seek such out ever-more. Which reminds: how to get back out? Would we be eager to divorce from the lacking interiors of this Frog's noggin. How found us passage to Frogbo's inmosts in the first place? Recalling… …rewondering… …let us see…

Nope! Can't think. Non-membrance; forget we.

Oh dear.

Apologies we. Understand this mansion has us in arrears; lost and listless like the green being currently inhabit we. Looking now, it's as if Frogbo's gaze phases through cage, its metallic trapment all fallen away save for a mangy manor shifting so: grandiose, then smallest-most; a hyperventilating house caught in cycle. Expand, retract, repeat. Frogbo and we too wrapt unto its loop. Expand, retract, repeat.

Quite like it weren't the mansion expanding, retracting, repeating… but we: reaching out, far as be, finally, reeling free; waves ripple in, spilling pon sand, drawn back to sea; retreat. Expand, retract and again, repeat. Was the mansion growing or had we drew closer? Or so both? Either way, neither sense made—thanks to the ever-prevalent and never-penetrable Great Cage putting passage at stake. Had we not considered its Frog-barring beams since some time, despite such affrontation… wait. See we abode only.

Where is the Great Cage?

How can a Cage so Great just go amiss?!

Bunibo poised over the precipice perpindicular to the window she'd pounced out to ponder pon the undulating knot of nothing close belowmost. Bunibo, careful on her footing so as to avoid plummeting in reckless pursuit of the boxes she flung unto its low-hanging aether, would prefer "not hurtling into a vortex" to "hurtling into a vortex" any nite of the week. Even a Moonnite, for as inconvenient as these nites were, were their inconveniences a most familiar thing indeed; Bunibo thought that even a Moonnite most dreary's still worth seeing through… and, if not, tomorrow comes, full stop.

But this thing? Question marks.

Bunibo's estimation went thusly: this vortex was a bad thing. Actually, it was super bad. Actually, it could wind up being a real disaster… or was it ongoing, a disaster-in-progress? Or was it too late and this whole disaster had long-since transpired?

Regardless: super, duper bad.

This sure was a lot of worrying for a something that won't matter in one second.

The blood of my clone and my self drooled through cracks between linoleum squares. It filled up all the little gaps with dribbly, chunky red smears. How beautiful.

There was me, and what looked like me, pouring all over the kitchen; brain matter, bones, genitals, excretions, secretions, spatters of matter and matted hair. Everywhere. Between Me and Me, we really made a mess of things. I couldn't tell what was which of who across the floor. A Mix. But I know who I am. I hope.

I think.

In the stead of riding a wave of useless thoughts, could occupate us Frogbo's occulars to see 'xactly for they've seen, felt through the wisdomatic thoughts of we? Well, try why not. Excuse intrusion, Frog, though thee non wiser… so shimmy we inwardly. And to you, dear reader: a moment, please.

...

Here we are. Inside Frog. Two eyes: good good. We are looking passed the cage, passed our red observer, locked pon the house within. To even us was such a sight estranging.

Frogbo marked this much; was the house big. Also, somehow, was it small. Or, rather, was it small on first blush, microscopically so, but… it also wasn't. It's like the house warps as eyes-in-eyes cast pon thy. It grows. Big and bigger and more and much until the cage befronting fell from focus we, the dwelling caught in its true scope unseen on first passing, for this was no house, it was much more than a house, actually, it wasn't anything like a house at all, Frogbo's Wrong wRong again wrOng as always wroNg wronG wrong—

Frogbo saw something between the bars, deep within the Great Cage's entrap. No, not the Not-Fire-Hydrant, so gloatingly dancing though they be in confines of caging seen. Frogbo leaned gainst steel, staring beyond.

Should you question—which you couldn't—would you bequest Frogbo's non-verbose inmost thoughts on what they think they thought they saw, rested tight in cage's core? If this so, humble hosts we. As eyes lose focusment pon Cage; as twining links blur the chain tween spaces and the space tween chains; Frogbo's inmost thoughts so-say:

"It is small. It is big. It is both. It is everything. It is nothing. It is something. It is me. It is you. Is it who? Little-big place. Big-little place. An embrace. Somewhere nice. Somewhere kind. Somewhere safe. Retreat. Abode. Stow. Residence. Space. Stead.

…Home—"

In short: inside the cage was a house-like place. There. How hard was that? Could we have told you had you asked of us. Instead asked you a Frog. That's on you.

A still from the opening title card of Meme, directed by Sean Mannion. A blank VHS tape is labeled on the top and side with "MEME", surrounded in a sea of discarded VHS film.

Still fuzzy-felt and of dimly disposition, Frogbo reckoned to trip a trek cross the circularly circumfurential patchen path of dirt in seek of passage through cage's embrace. They pushed a heart-marked belly hard as be gainst its grating. Nope. Despite their ever-lubbery rubberness was the Frog's form of much too rotundicity to squeeze tween the crosshatching of cage. New plan, then. Frogbo curled their limp, flippy legs around a bar of lowest rung and attempted to unplant the Great Cage with all their might—not half-bad a concept had Frogbo ever lifted more than their quite-light form. Even had Frogbo displayed a great deal of strength (they did not) would the barring budge under none-any circumstance; so firmly fastened was its grip into ground, the tether 'tween the two inherent; metal cage pon earthen plain, forever together embedded.

Frogbo was out of ideas.

Frogbo slovenly stomped clockwisely ponwards the earthen patch of path. Stomp stomp stomp. Looking to the right saw they close the Great Cage; to the left, cliff-face. Leftlowmost, presumably, was the Bone Gate, then lower the winding roadway, then lower Bunibo's homestay and finally, that big scary thing at the lowest lows' low place. Frogbo wondered on Bunibo. They wanted where she were to be indeed a happy place. Frogbo hoped so this. Stomp stomp st- Frogbo lost their footing, ever-almost sent stumbling right off the cliff. More falling: would that have been a grievous error! Stomp stomp stomp.

As dizzying heights did naught to ease their ails, Frogbo decided it was about time to turn to the right once more. Stomp stomp—stop. There lay the Great Cage again… but had Frogbo been looking only at the cage and not in it. Pon a closer peek between caging's beams seem stood small an apparition redly. Hello there.

The Not-Fire-Hydrant waved at Frogbo from inside the Great Cage.

Before Frogbo was a big cage: tube-like round the sides, cylindrically-so rides the roof on-high. Very, very large, to give three words to the size. If Frogbo had a single stray thought bouncing 'bout their brain (asides their usual flabbergastmost woaaaaa's) would it be that, in compare to this massive cage was that whole Bone Gate thing from earlier, quite summarily, not a big deal. Not so this barrier. In a contrast surreal did the cage seamed with steel 'xist with such great a range it had long breached unreal.

Why does each new problem need be so much larger than the last? That wasn't Frogbo perceiving the perceding thought; that was we.

Frogbo wasn't thinking anything—they were just feeling a bit sick.

Jace's list of his 25 favourite video games, in descending order from earliest release date to soonest. Listed in order as follows:
-Super Mario All-Stars
-YU-NO: A Girl Who Chants Love at the Bound of This World
-Super Mario 64
-Mystical Ninja Starring Goemon
-Moonlight Syndrome
-Super Smash Bros.
-The Silver Case
-The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask
-Flower, Sun and Rain
-Final Fantasy X
-Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney - Trials and Tribulations
-Killer7
-We Love Katamari
-Raw Danger!
-Mother 3
-Fragile Dreams: Farewell Ruins of the Moon
-NieR
-Asura's Wrath
-Final Fantasy XV
-Gravity Rush 2
-Hellblade: Senua's Sacrifice
-Kind Words
-Emio: The Smiling Man - Famicom Detective Club
-Mario & Luigi: Brothership
-Romeo is a Dead Man

A snapshot of Jace's pre-order of First Light: Event Horizon by Dan F. Bispo. Ordered from booktopia.com.au!

Bunibo stood poised over the precipice perpindicular to the window she'd pounced out of to ponder pon the undulating knot of nothing close belowmost. Bunibo was careful not to lose her footing so as to avoid plummeting in reckless pursuit of the boxes she deposited into its low-hanging aether. Would Bunibo prefer "not hurtling into a vortex" to "hurtling into a vortex" any nite of the week. Even a Moonnite, for as inconvenient as these nites were, were their inconveniences a most familiar thing indeed; Bunibo thought that even a Moonnite most dreary might be worth seeing through… and, if not, tomorrow comes, full stop.

But this thing? Question marks.

Compared to the mild annoyance of yet another Moonnite had this whorling vortex brought naught all-any familiarity; in fact-of-matter did it seem to pull up, out and away all she once held close and true. If you ask Bunibo, whatever lay on this vortex's flipside was definitely not worth a closer look. She did not know this as certainty—she just knew it's what she felt, deepmost-dwelling but outmost-effused through twee, trembling paws.

Bunibo's estimation went thusly: this vortex was a bad thing. Actually, it was super bad. Actually, it could wind up being a real disaster… or was it ongoing, a disaster-in-progress? Or was it too late and this whole disaster had long-since transpired?

Regardless of which: this was super, duper bad.

Boxart of Jace's 9 favourite video games, made with my9games.com. Listed top-down from left-to-right: Super Mario 64 (N64), The Silver Case (multiplatform), Zettai Zetsumei Toshi 2: Itetsuita Kiokutachi AKA Raw Danger (PS2), Gravity Rush 2 (PS4), MOTHER 3 (GBA), Super Mario All-Stars (SNES), Fragile Dreams: Farewell Ruins of the Moon (Wii), Mystical Ninja Starring Goemon (N64) and Final Fantasy X (PS2)

A picture of Jace's wall, displaying (from left to right) the official Australian poster for the 1993 Super Mario Bros. movie, as well as the official Japanese poster for the 1993 Super Mario Bros. movie.

A photo of Jace’s left arm, displaying a tattoo of Kiki the witch from the Studio Ghibli film Kiki’s Delivery Service, riding her broomstick and holding a Jack O Lantern, surrounded by Autumn leaves. Tattoo based on illustration by popman3580

We woke witless within white. Why? Wholly white. Was this not the usual eclipsed expanse which well we recall. Know not this. Where's Frogbo? Where—

"—you lost, LITTLE ONE?"

…Speak someone? White's light cannot we seek, yet within inverse-shadow… walk twin pair of feet? Privy—

"—do you talk like that?"

Feets gave way to knees gave way to waist gave way to face.

The face is looking at us.

"Why do you talk like that?"

…Have we not been spoken to in quite a time. Pray pardon plenty. So forth, uh, forward… speak us plain.

I—we're sorry. We're a bit lost.

"It must have been lonely."

It was.

IT KEPT GOING ON LIKE THIS FOR QUITE SOME TIME. The falling, we mean. It's no exaggeration to say that what you read now is a much-truncated retelling of exactly how long this little green thing fell; it really did go on like this for quite a while.

As a practical example: we urge you to put this book down. With a kindness do so we. Close the book, then sit or stand or be in any way where you are and do absolutely nothing, for as long as musterable. Nothing at all. You can close off your senses or open them, care not we—whatever is more boring. We'll even put a line break in to help you out. Go on. Do it now.

Hello. Welcome back. Or did you never leave? Either way and at the least and by the way, we've wasted your time, thereby affording a faint glimpse into the very colossal period that this especially insignificant Frog continued falling through an abyss of absolute nothingness.