Pumpkin Princess Patience 🐸 🎃 🐰 🏳️⚧️
@jacepatience.bsky.social
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~Jace Patience van Kaathoven~ 🏳️⚧️🏳️🌈 31/transfem(she/her)/Sydney 🐸 Writing Frogbo 🎮 + games + stuff! 🧠 cPTSD survivor 🌧️ Loves rainy days & YOU 🔞 MINORS DNI 🚫 NO AI 🚫 used in making Me or the Cool Stuff I Do ~alt text 24/7~ jacevk.neocities.org
![~An excerpt from the WIP Frogbo (Act 1) written by Jace Patience van Kaathoven—that's me :) (word of the day "[suit/s]")~
Belly-flat gainst asphalt-matte, Bunibo slight-slides with reckful unabandon to the edge of debris at rest pon the Edge of Everything: the End All and Be All. Some say, were Some to look hardly nuff ubon it, Some could even glimpse the top from the very tob.
Bunibo doesn't truck with Some—nor the strange compatriots Some shares. Would she prefer to wonder pon whatsoever it be herself with her own Wide-Eyes of Intuity and Pink Ears of Irradiance, both onst whomst [suits] evernicely so.
*Some sure comes up with some of the funniest things, Bunibo,* Bunibo thinks to Bunibo, who is sweating a lot. *But what do YOU see? Down there?*
Problem! 'Til now her peepers've been squeezed shut tight as be. Thing is, Bunibo is very afraid. Actually, she’s never felt this sensation before. That weird one, right before something big happens. It's a buzz in her fuzz. It’s horrible. It’s scary. It’s unfair. *You have to see.* Breath, please, breath.
*Bunibo brave be.* Bunibo opens her eyes.
What does Bunibo see?](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:cghrjnl5oy2wo5hbqrtifq3w/bafkreigp4lhice6ktqcm7sazmxzp7y4ptpevzajhbqlzzs4hoalbi6pvge)
![~An excerpt from the WIP Frogbo written by Jace Patience van Kaathoven—that's me :) (word of the day ["pass”] -> ["GO"])~
Grab the green thing: the Last Thing, the Final Thing of Verse Unial Most. Ball the metaphysical fist (this is the easy part), squishly now. But a putty-mush plucked from the proverbial pumpkin patch-that-which-paves-creation’s make. You know the one. The same place you spring forthst—nothing. Anyway, ball the Metaphist.
Hold the future as if it makes to escape.
Then, like a pineal pin-prick piercing pon a layer of aether most known-un, take all Our strength, TOBB, and give Fate a Throw.
Though I have bad news, FROG. I thought you should know:
For all intents and portents thine defines a one-way yo-yo.
Now [GO]. FALLING. Once more.
For the road.](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:cghrjnl5oy2wo5hbqrtifq3w/bafkreiagcbfg3q6by6yblex7dyiipj6pm5hwtttfz62w5qupejo3zx5ks4)
![~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.](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:cghrjnl5oy2wo5hbqrtifq3w/bafkreibmlvfe5z3clovutsq6lz3iixn434kakhxrzwvd4j5imqyzibg6ji)
![~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.](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:cghrjnl5oy2wo5hbqrtifq3w/bafkreicfgp5ft5caheihcpc2rmhde2jtmeszcvuqgtj6hflvmcxf5o35ea)
![~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].](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:cghrjnl5oy2wo5hbqrtifq3w/bafkreif3znhck6au3o25jwzmgs35g4miixmhwhfbmdvuqzeknhxwa3nfdy)
![-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.](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:cghrjnl5oy2wo5hbqrtifq3w/bafkreihxdppj7min2iukq4igvfumfasmeqrmru4dnpdkustv4kcsukyvtu)
![-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]](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:cghrjnl5oy2wo5hbqrtifq3w/bafkreiecrrjdz6g6wmqstweticeghh23kkgzp72tzccb6cv42hlk4dzvga)
![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](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:cghrjnl5oy2wo5hbqrtifq3w/bafkreidxgimglioakiykrrfjunncnnsxot4bliusxyc2v2hpg73zekvneu)
![-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.](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:cghrjnl5oy2wo5hbqrtifq3w/bafkreibytlqwtxxcg3xu5whg4jgqwnowrsuedrnxedralmpxln5ima42ry)
