The Luniferous Gazette #64: Dragon Crumbs* The Last Irefiend Pt. I

Part I 

I won?

I won the match! So why does my corefire twist like smoke without ember in my belly as Tally lies so very still and quiet on the stone slab? Death is too easy a game, just the snick of a talon— 

“Vanquish the pup,” Father insists, clacking his fangs impatiently. “Finish the rite! What are you waiting for? No other creature in the world will miss a human.”

But I’ll miss him . . . does that make ME a monster, too? 

Tally’s not gone. Not yet. But the tiny sliver softly glowing through his heart chamber will slowly, surely burn him alive if I do nothing, and Father—

Simply can’t WAIT for nature to take its course.

“If you don’t slaughter that hunter’s spawn before his blood turns to ash, you will lose the ancestral aura of the Irefiend, forever!” he growls. 

I cower out of instinct as his talons slice the air, but their violent slant is not for me this time. Keen claws rake the edge of the slab into a glittering cloud of quartz dust, severing a wisp of hair from Tally’s soft thatch of brown curls. Yet the cut feels deep, and somehow—mine. 

“Do you really want to revert to a crippled runtwing and spend the rest of your days groveling in the dirt, my son?” Father demands.   

Who’s son?

Razor scales ripple from horn to tail-tip with my sudden rush of fury. Father never counted me among his hatchlings before. But this mortal boy was my first friend! And I want Tally BACK—no matter the cost to make him whole. 

“No. There will never be another Irefiend, ever again!” I vow, stretching my wondrous new wings wide as sky will take me. 

Snaking my neck forward, I snatch Tally and cradle his stick-thing frame between my fangs. Furling wind underwing, I lunge after an impossible horizon. Somewhere beyond this arena of snow-white spires where dragons and humans have stained the stones with bright red and hot gold blood for half a millennium:

Ire sear bone pyre,
Wake blood fiend from fire,
Revenge tastes sweeter red
When every groundlings’ dead
When the last hunter dies
And dragons bless the skies!

I learned the lilt of that lullaby while still in the egg. Maybe this destiny was always mine, but I bound my friend to it with a lie! And if Tally survives my sly trick of fate, will he ever forgive me?

I wouldn’t. 

*

Never trust in sudden kindness from cruel quarters, Tally—

I should’ve known something was wrong when Father cornered me in the far reaches of the cavern for a casual conversation. 

As the only hatchling in my egg clutch born with a stunted body and shriveled wings, he’s already tried to kill me five times in one century whenever he randomly notices the disgrace of my existence. Oh, I almost forgot that time he threw me into a bubbling tar pit to test my scale durability. Make that six times. I can’t blame Father for wanting to erase my shame from our dragon clan, though—

I’ve only survived to 113 because I learned to scurry quickly behind stalactites and stalagmites and dive into escape holes I dug myself! I’m also really good at being useful to others . . . .

A proper den wyrm: the convenient class of small beast that can polish treasure hoards to a blinding shimmer, cultivate ponds of slimy moss balls to soften molting scales, and weave the most luxurious vine hammocks for hibernation cycles. But I doubt that Father wants to ask about a comfy hammock . . . will his seventh attempt at slaughter finally reap my life? 

“Astrosimus!” Father bellows into the larder cavern where I huddle behind a mountain of fresh trout. “That fish stink can’t hide the smell of my own kinfang. Come out! NOW.” 

Does he think that’s my name? I do have a grand draconic title, though mostly, I’m just called “Dennie”—Den Wyrm—dead meat whether I obey or not! I sidle out from the fish pile with my shriveled wings tucked low and tight against my back. 

“Atrocienne,” I correct him softly in a daring mumble. 

“Atro . . . Attaboy!” Father replies, making the dead fish jump as he thumps his tailspikes on the ground, drawing me closer. “I’ve been looking just for you!”

My worst fear, confirmed. “Please, don’t kill me!” I plead. “Scorchette still needs me to repair at least a half dozen antique brooches in her jewelry chest, and Reaver requested fresh algae flakes—”

Embers fly from Father’s nostrils as he gives a deep chuckle. “Oh son, there’s no need for any of that nonsense anymore. How would you like to be an Irefiend, just like your bold sire? Join all your brothers and sisters of the flame in righteous battle!”

“Me?” I sputter a single, wishful cinder. “But I thought that was impossible since the Great Hunters’ Cull!”

Fifteen years ago, my clan destroyed the last humans descended from the first human to kill a dragon. Irefiends can’t exist anymore. Only a mortal with that original sin still running warm in their blood can spark that exquisite rage in our kind. 

“I found one.” Father’s fangs gleam in a triumphant snarl. “No doubt a foundling spirited away from the hunters’ fort before the cull, but the boy’s grown to a strapping youth. Now, his stolen aura glows bright as a second sun. It won’t be long before his presence attracts others of our kind. Of course, I’ll kill the brat before I let a rival clan harvest his gift!”

I tremble as his tail coils around me in a vise-tight grip. 

“But why waste such a boon when I can bind it to my own bloodborn?” he muses. “For YOU, my dear Atrobius, are the only child among my clutch not yet marked by the wrath of the Irefiend. And do not all our legends decree that the last to claim that mantle shall be marked the strongest?” 

Me, the Strongest? How could I dare to claim such a coveted prize, a flightless runt who’s barely ventured beyond the cavern’s mouth in over one hundred years! Now, Father offers me the ultimate temptation: freedom and strength, and the chance to prove myself worthy, wingtip to talon with all those who’ve scorned every second of my cursed existence—

“Take me to him, Father, and I’ll make you proud,” I vow. “I’ll kill that sinner’s spawn and become the Last Irefiend.” 

*

Do you remember how we met, Tally?
I knew you were a monster, 
but I felt safe with you even though 
you were never once safe with me—

I don the form of a stick-thing before entering the humans’ hamlet. A disgusting necessity, but it’s the only way to hide my presence from other dragon clans and more easily gain the young hunter’s trust. A shapeshifter’s amulet presses against my skin under my tunic as I concentrate on planting two wobbly feet in front of each other without tripping myself. 

How do humans balance on such skinny pegs? Somehow, the dusty track I follow towards the village slows into a pilgrimage a thousand miles long! This soft-shelled mortal body is far too feeble—

“Hullo, Little Prince!”

Two burly men emerge from the shadows of the tree line and bar my path forward. No fair, those bodies look mildly durable. But I catch no draconic aura in their scent; these aren’t hunter spawn, but they know too much already—I should KILL them! My small fists clench tight as I dearly miss my talons.  “How’d you know I’m the youngest prince in my clan?” I demand.

The two men guffaw as they move closer, a bald brute and a hairy lout circling me like a prey animal. 

“With fine threads like such, it’s obvious, Yer Highness,” the bald man sneers. “Don’t you think, Squire Jimmy?”

I suppose my clothes are rather dazzling compared to their muddy rags, woven from shining silk pillaged from a mountain caravan, and set with mother of pearl buttons stripped from the corpse of a knight who died in the Arena of Spires—

“I daresay you’re right, Sir Tom-Lad,” the hairy squire replies. “Cough up your coin, if it pleases the Wee Baby Majesty,” he orders, poking me in the chest with one finger.

I stumble and fall on my backside. How mortifying! Both men’s squinty peepers light up as my amulet slips free of my tunic with a golden gleam. 

“And that pretty pendant, too!” Sir Tom-Lad adds.  

I dare not risk undoing my disguise so close to the village, so I’ll just have to fight like a dirty HUMAN. I bite the first hand that reaches for the amulet and am rewarded as the bald man screams like a proper little prey—ouch!  

What’s with these tiny teefs? Such bitty, blunt ivories are useless in battle! Tears prick my eyes as my arms are wrenched behind my back at an angle not meant for this frail frame. If the amulet’s cord snaps, I’ll turn back into a dragon runt right in the middle of this road. My stealth attack will be utterly ruined—

“All right, boys, that’s enough trouble out of you lot for today!” a cheery voice booms behind me. 

Two shadows fly across the sun as my tormentors are tossed thirty feet into the air. My jaw drops as the pair careen over the forest canopy, Squire Jimmy and Sir Tom-Lad’s shrieks of terror ending in a tremendous splash. 

Sitting up in the dirt, I turn just as my rescuer cups a hand to his mouth and yells, “Wash your filthy manners off before you DARE set one foot on shore again.” 

Sunlight slants over the broad-shouldered silhouette of a boy as he reaches a calloused hand down to me. 

"Sorry for the rude welcome to Melarka.” His blue eyes twinkle as merrily as noon sparkles on spring water. “I try to keep the local ruffians in line, but sometimes only a dunk in the lake does the trick.”

“Thank you—” My hand freezes inches from grasping his own as the nearness of his skin sparks a heinous aura that only my kinfang can sense. 

My pulse pounds against my temples as bile rises in my throat. This wretch reeks of ancient dragon blood! The same molten river that gushed from the fatal heart wound of the first dragon slain by a human, a treasury of liquid gold that bathed his own murderer in a powerful mantle of energy. The impossible strength that allowed this boy to toss his fellow mortals like puny pests makes perfect sense now—it’s STOLEN.

Cursed hunter’s spawn, I’ve found you! 

The boy gasps, and I freeze in primal terror as I wonder if he somehow senses my true dragon form even behind the amulet’s shield. With his brawn, in my current state he could rend me limb from limb like child’s play . . . . 

“Where’d you get those pearly buttons?” the boy demands, pulling a leather cord from under his collar and revealing a matching button to my own shiny row.

I gulp with the sudden realization that my father probably killed his fifteen years ago . . . but he must never know that. “Uh, I can’t really say. I inherited this tunic from a distant relative. Very distant.”  

“Oh, maybe we’re cousins, then!” he replies with a grin wide enough to split the sun. “This dandy button was found clenched in my hand when I was left in Melarka as a babe. I’m Taliesen, but you can just call me ‘Tally.’ Everyone calls me Tally.”

Sure, cousin. “And I’m—” 

“Just ‘Dennie’” curls on the tip of my tongue, the same den wyrm taunt that’s stuck to me for over a century. Not today. Never again! Yet “Atrocienne” is too much of a mouthful to share with lowly mortals, so I clip my true name short—

“Cien,” I reply. “I’m Cien,” I repeat more confidently.

My skin crawls with the sizzle of lightning as Tally pulls me to my feet with one swift tug that nearly wrenches the bones from my shoulder. For just a second, I feel a pure rush of rage! Is this the visceral power of the Irefiend rising inside me? NO! This is not the time or the place to shed my disguise and slaughter my ancestral foe . . . . 

“Glad to meet you, Cien! Are you hungry?” Tally asks, oblivious to my inner storm to quell the first savage prick of fury. “The chow bell will ring soon. Why don’t you join me and the other field hands for a fresh berry mash?” 

The young hunter confuses me with his easygoing attitude; he’s nothing like the ravening warrior I expected. My mouth waters. Berry mash does sound tempting, and besides, there’s time! Father’s given me one full moon to earn the boy’s trust and lure him to the Arena of Spires. One month to play human and learn all the cunning monster’s weaknesses—

“Berry mash sounds delicious,” I reply, smiling without the least hint of fangs. 

Stay tuned for the heart-stopping conclusion of The Last Irefiend next Wednesday!

 ~*~  

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The Luniferous Gazette #63: The Return of Rose Red

Beauty after Blight and Bane

 My red roses came back! 

This may not seem like headline fodder except that I live in a far northern U.S. state and made the audacious mistake of planting seven rosebushes in my front yard. Even though they are technically zoned for my area, they struggle with the icy cold in winter and fungal blight and bugs in the summer. I’ve already had to replace one casualty of the clime!

I’m no master gardener, but I do my best to mulch, prune, water, and provide fresh garden soil and Miracle-Gro pellets. Oh, and wrap a six foot chicken wire fence around my roses every winter to protect them from ravenous bunny attacks. 

*Don’t trust the cute little fluffer! These beasties are merciless munchers . . . .

My husband resigns himself to helping me drive metal stakes into the ground each fall only to pull them out again in the spring. Neither of us knew how hard it would be to keep seven prickmedainty rosebushes alive. I should’ve gone for something low-maintenance like a rock garden, or extra hardy like an evergreen bush. Alas, hindsight is only useful for time travelers.

But my roses bloom for me, they always blossom in unkempt loveliness . . . until last summer, when my red rosebush refused to bud even once. I was mystified as this had never happened to me before. The bush’s leaves all seemed glossy and healthy, so what on earth should I have done differently?

Life keeps the answers pocketed ever so deep sometimes. This year, June rolled around and the usual profusion of pink, yellow, amber and cream roses greeted me with their live bouquets. Again, my red rose declined to bud—

But I didn’t give up! I watered, pruned, and provided fresh soil and Miracle-Gro pellets, just as in years before. And in August, at last, my Rose Red darling returned . . . .

She’s not what she once was—the winter was harsh, and I had to prune a large section back that withered and splintered over the cold months. 

But now my Rose Red once again offers her beauty to the sky in a scarlet swirl of petals, and I am grateful for her bold crimson.

I did do one thing differently this year . . . I learned the power of preventative action! I doused my seven roses in a fungal spray early in May before the first spot of blight had a chance to root in the green. I repeat the spray every few weeks. And whenever I find a few sneaky specks among my roses, I pick the diseased leaves relentlessly and rake the spoiled detritus out.

For just one speck of rot can run rampant and blight everything, and a tiny spore become a grand bane as it spreads unchecked among your garden, leaving you feeling cursed by the surety of doom because you missed the early warning signs—

Behold the sorry state of most of my rose garden by September 2025! 

Though my faults as a gardener are many, I will never let my roses suffer again because I did not guard their spring. 

Since we are on the subject of roses, I thought I’d share a poem— 

 Sub Rosa: Tokens of Secrecy

Do you know the secret
of five leaves?

I’ll share it with you free
as sun’s slant—

How to coax new rose
from a stem

Whose gaudy crown has already
bloomed and withered.

Let your scissors slide
over thorn

To the first petiole bearing
five leaflets

Gently shear just above it.

None of these coronets will
ever be yours

Bribes for the Grecian God
of Silence,

But not even Harpocrates can
claim confidences that lie

Under the rose—

Deepest mysteries seethe at the root
of every quick and end thing,

Yet too often our pupils seek only
easy blaze of flagrant whorls,

Forgetting humble germination.

Sometimes I count the fine
serration of rose leaves,

Each the shadow of an eye
against my palm,

Wondering if they can tell me
if my efflorescing ink

Will ever petal a single page,
seed bud linear diadem—

But some secrets will
never unfurl

Unless I dare to spell them out
from cane to corolla.

*As the last Wednesday in August, it’s time to add to my monthly Artweaver herd. Behold my wee Dandystallion, cousin to the dandelion: 

Source:

“Sub Rosa: Tokens of Secrecy.” (April 2014). Fresh Ink, 45, 28.

 ~*~  

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The Luniferous Gazette #62: Essential Cutlery of My Life

These Are a Few of My Favorite Spoons

I waxed poetic about the impact of a single blue glass plate on my life a few issues back, so I thought I would continue with the tableware theme and talk about the essential cutlery of my life. Specifically, spoons.

If you have better things to do with your time than waste precious Earth seconds on my core flatware memories, that’s fair.

Everyone else? I utilized my free will to take a fancy photo op of said spoons. Behold the Princess Spoon!

From my earliest childhood memory, I always reserved one favorite teaspoon just for my breakfast Cheerios. It was curiously light, more the silver suggestion of a spoon than the actual thing. The nearly paper-thin metal was emblazoned with delicate floral vines and a single cursive “P,” probably for our family’s last name. (*Or "Princess," obviously!)

All the other spoons in the drawer were boring in comparison to this fairy flatware! I’m pretty certain that my parents received the spoon as part of an advertisement for a silverware set in the 80’s or 90’s. The back is stamped “Stainless Steel Japan SAMPLE.”

When I went to college, of course I packed my favorite spoon. Dorm Cheerios are so much more scrumptious with a Princess Spoon, after all. Maybe it wasn’t a fairy wand that could grant me wishes or straight A grades, but each crunch somehow tasted more glamorous with my petite fancy “P” spoon!

I must make a dark confession, though. My Princess Spoon was part of a pair—

But one day, I accidentally dropped the ill-fated twin down the disposal and nicked the slender metal in multiple places!

 

I could never bring myself to get rid of the Marred Princess Spoon as it was still perfectly functional, but I still feel a smidge of guilt for my errant toss every time I pull it out of the silverware drawer.

Curiously, the twin spoons are stamped from different countries of origin, with the Marred Princess labeled “SAMPLE” and “Customcraft® Stainless Steel Korea.”

When I was thirty-three, I left my American birth religion (the one with the Golden Plates) and became enamored by the temptations of French press coffee. My Princess Spoon was suddenly elevated from cereal scooping to prime stirrer of my morning coffee. Oh, what a scandalous shift to caffeinated cutlery duties!

A fresh dawn broke over my breakfast scene as a new favorite spoon was elevated from my Costco Waterford wedding silverware set. Behold the perfect heft and artful scalloped ridges of the Mermaid Spoon— 

There’s only one spoon of its kind in my collection, so I dare not make any clumsy mistakes with the greedy grinder maw in the sink! I reserve the Mermaid Spoon for my oatmeal as I swear it tastes less bland because of the scalloped edges. Somehow, these ridges enhance the flavor (*just like the snap of a Ruffles potato chip is ever so much more satisfying between the teeth than a flat chip!).

Now, let’s move on to the Pretty Useless Spoons category:

 

The Garden Spoon serves as the center piece of a random alcove in my kitchen. A tiny nail was already embedded in the wall when we moved in, but it took me several years to figure out what truly belonged there. 

And is this spoon not a floral masterpiece worthy of such placement? I ask nothing of it but to gleam in its appointed corner. I smile at its silver shine frequently and dust it (um, occasionally). 

I thrifted this Bookish Angels Spoon in honor of my grammie Nancy Anne, an original Tag Sale Queen and lover of all things angel. The back is stamped “Reutter Porzellan Germany.” There’s just something fun about finding tiny winged porzellan persons flitting on your spoon!

 

I plucked this Dainty Daffydowndilly Spoon from a cup of tacky tourist spoons for under two bucks. 

Adorned with a single stately daffodil bloom, I believe it is a sterling silver Holland Souvenir Spoon. Maybe someday I’ll thrift an entire bouquet! For now, I am quite content with this solitaire blossom.

For the penultimate spotlight, may I present the Posh Sirens Pair—

These mother of pearl utensils are extra special to me because my sister B bought fine caviar sets from Whole Foods in honor of my visit one year. I’d never tried such a delicacy before and was enthralled that each set came with an individual fancy spoon for serving out the caviar will all due pomp.

B spoiled me with a home-cooked steak dinner with fresh black garlic from the local garlic festival, and garnished it with sauteed parsnips and fresh caviar. Then she gifted me these lustrous spoons as souvenirs of the poshest feast of my life!

I won’t grant you a glimpse of the elegant antique filigree of the last spoon I treasure most dearly, but I will leave you with a poem about the Heirloom Spoon (N.F. Silver Co 1877)—

 Tsp! A Spoonful
of Ash with Star

After Mama died suddenly,
my father placed her ashes
in a red plastic pot
from Marshall’s.

Scandalized, my sisters and I
painted three clay pots so
we could divide her
cherished dust
among us.

But when it came time
to divvy up her cinders,
we couldn’t just use an
ordinary measuring cup!

My youngest sister chose an 
1877 silver spoon, heritage
from the matrilineal side of
our family, and carefully
bestowed our mother’s
remains in thirds.

My portion sits on my desk
even now, dust upon dust,
sad leftovers of a life unraveled
by too much pain distilled
with beauty, cut short
without a goodbye.

I inherited the regal spoon that
split her embers into thirds, but
there will be no daughter from
my womb on which I may
bequeath this scratched
floral scepter that has
nourished life and
divided death over
the centuries.

I used to drop tears
like ancient silver
that my genetics,
and the woven
history of

So many women before me,
will come undone with
the oblivion of
my own
death.

Yet, I suppose it’s a monumental
waste of pride to lament a lack
of progeny when the mass
oceanic demise of
phytoplankton

Will probably extinguish
humanity and most
breath on Earth in
a few hundred
years anyway—

They say

Most humans are forgotten after
only three generations,
so does it really
matter

if

I am utterly erased from
memory a century
sooner than later?
Nope, I guess
not . . .

I shall spend my last days
elusive as Enya!
Let me vanish
like a slow echo,
or a long chime—

I will dance in gossamer voids
and perish in jewel tones
as all my ink fades from
the pages of time

glittering

like a comet tail of light,
here then gone on
the wings of
a wish

and ethereal annihilation.

Ash with star, star made ash—tsp!
Our genes are all the same
in the end:

None of us ever anything more
extravagant than a borrowed
teaspoon of stardust.

<>*<> 

Is there any favorite culinary item in your own daily life? Perhaps a dented water bottle or chipped mug that’s been through many years of adventures with you? I’d love to hear your own stories in the comments! 

 ~*~  

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The Luniferous Gazette #61: Night Roses are Better than Day Blossoms

 Shape in the Dark

 

Once upon a summer evening, I wandered into my rose garden and discovered that each blossom bore a different kind of sensory beauty in the dark—

Night Roses

Night roses are better

than day blossoms—

unable to dazzle with

petal frill and flush,

sunlit senses must trade

eye light for the silk-soft

brush of shape in the dark,

perfume stirred sweet

by evening shadows,

and the quiet flutter

of flower bodies in time

with the twinkle

of starlight. 

 A snatch of pink shade and moonless clouds . . . 

 Source:

“Night Roses.” (October 2024). Northern Narratives. 58.

 ~*~  

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The Luniferous Gazette #60: A Fond Review of The Talking Eggs by Robert D. San Souci

 True worth is never just shell-deep

The Talking Eggs by Robert D. San Souci with pictures by Jerry Pinkney is a childhood favorite that my sisters and I all adore. If you can’t tell by the shockingly creased state of the cover, it was a story read on repeat! My mother often brought home books that came with the Caldecott medal affixed on the front, and this book surely earned that honor with its vividly imagined and illustrated adaption of a Creole Folktale from the American South. 

The story is set on a destitute farm that is described as “the tail end of bad luck,” with the youngest daughter Blanche forced to do all the housework and chores for her cruel mother and selfish older sister, Rose. The idle pair whittle away their days sitting on the porch fanning themselves and envisioning a luxurious future where they move to the city and attend balls as wealthy ladies. Meanwhile, a picture of Blanche sorting a basket of string beans on the porch stairs poignantly illustrates how she is considered just a peripheral, menial member of the family who may only exist on the outskirts. 

One miserably hot day, Blanche is ordered to fetch cool water for Rose from a well and meets a raggedy, elderly lady who begs for just a sip from her bucket to slake her thirst. 

Kind-hearted Blanche immediately obliges, leading the old woman to thank her and announce, “You got a spirit of do-right in your soul” before returning to the deep woods.

But sometimes kindness has its penalties, too, doesn’t it? Late with her sister’s refreshment, Blanche is physically punished by her family and flees into the forest. Too scared to return to a home that was never a safe haven for her, Blanche weeps, utterly alone. But not for long—the mysterious old woman approaches the child and welcomes her into her tumbledown shack for the night.

Her only admonition is that Blanche promise not to laugh at anything she may see . . . and oh, what fabulous sights await both Blanche and the reader! Chickens that whistle like mockingbirds, two-headed cows with corkscrew horns, and rabbits in fancy frocks that dance and play the banjo under a “fine, moonshiny night.” 

However, Blanche is taken aback when the old woman temporarily removes her own head to plait her hair. Yet the little girl does not give into fear at her bizarre appearance as she reasons that the old woman has only ever been kind to her. When the old woman asks her to do seemingly lunatic tasks like grinding a single grain of rice on a mortar for their supper, Blanche obeys her order even though she feels foolish. Her trust in the process is miraculously rewarded with a magically multiplying bounty. 

These fantastical moments in the story remind us that outward appearance, whether seemingly meager or strange, is not always the surest or truest measure of worth in this world. And that even something as small and insignificant as a grain of rice can hold a surprising degree of wonder . . . .

In the morning, Blanche is sent home with a reward from the old woman’s chicken coop. She is strictly instructed to scoop up any eggs that say “Take me,” but not touch those that warn her, “Don’t take me.” 

Alas, only the plain eggs ask Blanche to take them while the gorgeous jeweled, silver and gold eggs all warn her to leave them behind. A sparkle hoarder myself, I am not sure I could have passed this glimmering test! But Blanche remains stalwart despite their allure and obeys the old woman’s admonition, taking only the plain eggs and throwing them over her left shoulder on the way back. 

Each time an egg cracks, a treasure pops out from the shattered shell: precious gems, silk finery, satin shoes, and my very favorite description: “There was even a handsome carriage that grew in a wink from the size of a matchbox—and a fine brown-and-white pony that sprouted from the size of a cricket to draw it.” 

A horse lover myself, I would linger on this illustration and the gold-tasseled beauty prancing across the page as if it were newly sprung alive and would come to collect me, too! 

In her innocent, trusting nature, Blanche brings all these riches back to the farm and presents them to her family. Here lies the tale’s most bitter betrayal of all—her mother showers her in kind words and cooks her dinner “for the first time since Blanche was old enough to hold a skillet” not because she truly loves her, but because she desires to ferret out crucial secrets about how to obtain more treasure.

The mother then orders her older daughter Rose out into the woods to find and curry favor with the mysterious old woman, too. She promises that after Rose acquires enough wealth, they can drive Blanche off and steal her portion, finally moving to the city to live as the rich ladies they were always “meant to be.”  

While the first part of their scheme works and Rose does end up at the old woman’s shack, her own spiteful nature proves her undoing as she laughs at every outlandish sight and refuses to help prepare food. She even grabs the old woman’s head and holds it hostage until she is promised presents from the chicken coop just like her younger sister. 

Cunning Rose will not be tricked into taking the plain eggs, declaring, “You think I’m fool enough to listen to you and pass up the prettiest ones? Not on your life!” 

Rose soon realizes her monstrous error when the shiny, jeweled eggs she throws over her shoulder hatch into swarms of whip snakes, yellow jackets, and a gray wolf that harries her heels all the way back to the farm. The conniving mother tries to defend her eldest daughter, but they are both chased away by these angry creatures. When they finally return, filthy and furious—Blanche is no longer on the farm. 

She’s gone off with her bounty to live in the city as the grandest of ladies! Yet the tale notes that “she remained kind and generous as always,” while her mother and sister searched for the old woman and her talking eggs for the rest of their days, never finding them.

Maybe because you can’t find what you can’t see, and if you don’t recognize something’s core value, one day, it will wholly slip away from you. True worth is never just shell-deep! For even in her most humble state, invisible to her own family, Blanche’s heart was always the real gem of the story. 

Source:

Robert D. San Souci. Jerry Pinkney, Illustrator. The Talking Eggs: A Folktale from the American South. Scholastic, 1990. 

~*~  

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The Luniferous Gazette #59: Empty the Sky

 Under the Brazen Hours

Ever since she released her hit single in June 2012, I’ve listened to Lana Del Rey sing “I got that summertime, summertime sadness / Su-su-summertime, summertime sadness” over and over again. 

I’m not even sure why her melody haunts me so deeply. Maybe it’s because there are seasons of life that brim with light, but also hidden sorrows? And there are luminous smiles that mask wounds wider than a crescent moon. No human is immune even under the most brazen hours. 

So if the rippling heat of July and the blaze of existence sometimes carry an oppressive melancholy or heavy memory, it’s okay—just stop pretending a storm isn’t raging within. Stand wild in the aching heart of it! 

There is no escape from yourself. Let the weight shed from your soul like the frozen scales of a melody.

EMPTY THE SKY 

These are not my tears. 
They won't melt, 
just fall in a flurry 
at my feet. 

Cut ice, bitter cold. 
They won't melt. 

I've tried to empty the sky, 
but these gems curate 
my pain in crystal 
that won't melt. 

I wish to wash 
the shatter 
and shards 
away—

Cry just one 
unserrated 
sliver of 
sun.

On a slightly warmer note, here is the newest addition to my Artweaver herd! An incandescent horse to match July's simmering summer.  

~*~  

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The Luniferous Gazette #58: Joanne and the Blue Plate

Learning to Love Blue Again 

My relationship with the color blue is complicated. Cobalt blue, in particular, I sometimes find smothering because I grew up tangled in that tone, and carry many heavy memories rolled inside its luxurious hue.

As my father loved the darker shades of blue, our household naturally became ever more saturated in those colors over the course of my childhood. Blue couch, rugs, navy blue sheets, glass vases, candlestick holders, Saratoga Springs sparkling water bottles, blue glass plates and even cobalt-blue handled silverware! If it could be found in cobalt blue, it was . . . .

Blue, thick and clinging as evening shadows—I simply could not appreciate it anymore! I was over the dazzle and dimmed out of my mind. I wanted to banish that dark gleaming tint from every corner of my life.

Until one day, a good family friend came over and made a scrumptious dinner, and then helped me to wash the dishes afterwards. Joanne was first friends with my mother, and even after her passing still came over at times to cook our family her signature feast of steak with Adobo spice, refried beans, and fresh avocado slices with lemon juice and salt.

And she forever changed my eyes with her wonderstruck admission:

Out of Azure

Relinquish the sponge, 
I urge her.

No need to imperil fingers 
to pruning, not since 
Josephine Cochran 
showcased her 
mechanical dishwasher 
at the 1893 
Columbian Exposition.

But Joanne beams shyly, 
whispering,
"I've never washed 
a blue plate before."

Something inside me startles 
and cracks at her admission,
eyes filtering sudden cerulean
inexplicable cobalt glories

As the scratched disc of glass
cradled in her worn palms shifts 
into a jeweled shard of midnight—
a showcase of sapphirine skies.

Joanne freed the caged blue spectrum in my heart with her wondering eyes, and I will forever be grateful for that!

I don’t own a cobalt blue plate today, but I scoured my home for a blue bounty for this picture: a giant gem paperweight and stone apple from my father, a delicate flower pin that belonged to my grandmother Nancy Anne, and a gleaming fiber optic marble and shining stones that make me smile. 

Is there a color closely entwined with your own life? 

 ~*~  

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