What will you do after the glass slipper shatters?
*
After Midnight
“In the deepest hour of the night”
I bury a once starlit thing—
What dreams may teach me:
Glass slippers break easily
Leaving only shards.
And yet . . .
Cinderella's next step
After midnight
When the ball and all
Her gossamer glories
Were completely undone,
That step was
The most important.
Barefoot in the dark,
She made her choice
To go on.
“Must I write?”
I must.
*Quotations by Rainer Maria Rilke in Letters to a Young Poet.
INK of the Moment
I wrote this poem after the first novel that got me an agent floundered on the sea of submissions. I was in my twenties and still very naïve about my lofty publishing dreams. I remember when I finally accepted that Iffy Magic had failed, I gave my characters a ceremonial ink burial by writing their names on strips of paper, slipping them into a tiny glass bottle, and burying it between the roots of the giant tree in my backyard. Sweet sparklestars, what melodrama! That house was sold to another family many years later, and sometimes I wonder if the glass bottle still sleeps in the dirt with my wish dust.
I’d go on to self-publish Iffy Magic and four more works, earning a small number of treasured readers and reviews—and little fanfare or financial success. I’m in my early forties now and from a monetary standpoint, I must confess that I’ve nearly always operated at a loss with my ink endeavors. Perhaps none more so than with Young Ravens Literary Review, the biannual online journal I co-edited with the fabulous poet and writer, Elizabeth Pinborough.
For a decade, we covered the costs of Weebly hosting and the website name so we could explore the sprawling, sidereal dreams of our contributors across 21 issues. If ink success is only measured in pennies, then my pockets are void. But I can’t deny the rich happiness I felt when a longtime contributor recently gifted me a lovely copy of their published poetry manuscript with our little journal included in the front acknowledgements *(review forthcoming in a future newsletter).
Now that Young Ravens’ run has ended and I’m tangled up in different writing projects, I’m trying to figure out my identity in both ink and flesh. That young girl in her twenties had no idea how many more dreams would be laid to rest to become me now. And by that, I mean painstakingly frayed and sometimes violently torn away by the twists of time. I’d eventually lose my agent, belief in my birth religion, beloved family members, careless trust and deepest confidence, and face unexpected health challenges that transformed my existence. My story is no more special or important than any other human’s on this Earth, but it’s mine, for exactly what it’s worth to me. Life happens until it doesn’t—so what do I want from whatever time I have left?
Let’s go to Chicago. During a brief vacation there several years ago, my husband took me to the Adler Planetarium which is where I first learned about the synestia theory of moon formation. Basically, when Earth was a baby proto-planet, a smaller planet crashed into it and vaporized it into a hot spinning “donut” of molten rock—a synestia. Eventually, the Earth we know today cooled and hardened at the center while matter at the edge of the synestia escaped and coalesced into our moon. I was so mesmerized by this concept that I wrote a poem about it that I later turned into a video clip for the 2021 Freshwater Literary Festival (*minute 15:50):
Synestia Moon
Once upon a synestia,
Two planets collided in
the young dark bright
of space and vaporized
each other.
The wild ruins of Earth
and Theia whirled anew
into a spinning ring rich
with molten matter.
Droplets tamed by gravity
rained inwards, condensing
the hot new heart of
the world.
But a globe escaped the sear
of this birthing storm, cooling
into an orb with a face not
far from pearl.
For the briefest snatch of time,
the moon’s surface gleamed
smooth and unbroken,
suspended like a dream
No human eyes would ever see
before meteor scarred, pocked,
and cratered lunar symmetry
out of perfection.
But true form and flaw are never
beyond imagining—what
the universe forgets, minds
may set aglow again.
*Please enjoy my snazzy Artweaver attempt at a model synestia
I’ve always adored this quote by Anaïs Nin: “And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” Yet my own life experience has taught me that sometimes, opening that flower leads to absolute annihilation. Whatever your wish, there are a million variables that may trample such airy, vulnerable petals into oblivion—
It’s the human condition. Yet as the
synestia moon theory demonstrates, sometimes destruction is not the end.
Rather, it’s a deconstruction that allows reformation into something entirely
new. This is why Cynestia Moon is my chosen name here; it’s an amalgamation of
Cynthia, the personified goddess of the moon, and the wild donut dream, Synestia.
That lovely, violent lunar birth story encourages me to let go of the gravity
of my fears and keep reaching for the molten heart in my ink.
Faerie INK
"Dear Voracia" is a magical phenomenon! The mysterious dragon columnist has been dispensing her wise admonitions and lethal stratagems for over a millennium now. Not sure if you should buy a cursed needle or a poison apple to hex your enemies? Arguing with your significant other over whether to add armored newts or battle guppies to your castle moat? Wondering if a pair of glass slippers is a fair trade for your soul? Ask Madame V.
Correspondence 3: Love Not Height
Dear Voracia,
I've met the man of my dreams! Well, we haven't met in person yet, we've only connected over silver basin by moonlight. We both tried a lunar love spell to find our soulmate, and it actually worked. He's kind, funny, and exactly six inches tall. I have nothing against short people, but I'm sixty feet tall. Hence my dilemma. Can a giantess and a pixie prince who accidentally matched over moonbeams truly achieve a happily ever after?
My beloved wants to meet at the next Maypole dance, but a single sneeze from me could send him flying leagues away. He'd scarcely be a shimmering speck in my eyes while I must appear a lofty mountain in his view. But my tiny darling swears our size difference is insignificant and that he will be my twinkling star, and I, his treasured horizon. Yet without the filter on our silver basin, his voice will come out in adorable squeaks while mine would echo in a grumbling roar.
I'm not even sure how to properly tell my prince I love him face-to-face. Is our romance doomed to fail because of our colossal mismatch in height?
Sincerely,
Love Not Height
RE:
Dear Love Not Height,
I've watched a thousand delightfully strange love stories bloom and wither over the millennia. Yet I still hesitate to hazard a guess at how such an unconventional pairing as yours may end. For the heart is not merely an organ of flesh; it is a power that cannot be tamed by physical bonds, or even fate itself.
However, if the size difference proves an insurmountable obstacle to your bliss, consider trading your faerie bones for mortal bodies (I recommend a visit to the Glass Dryad in Carolai; she's a shady lady who will twist your destinies for the right price). Both become human in height, and live and cherish each other and die as those creatures do. It's a far less glamorous tale, I suppose, but it may satisfy the parameters of passion. . .
Or, dare to defy the usual definitions of romantic devotion! Create your own uncommon happily ever after with a unique language for love that this world has never known.
I send my serendipitous wishes with either choice, my young, lovestruck things.
-Madame V.
My INK
Please enjoy a Character Interview of Iffy Magic’s very own Primrose Goodwing by Sadie St. Elle-Maid of the Faerie Era, the premier news folio in the Faerie Vale.
Prim: Salutations! I’m—
St. Elle-Maid: Four-leaf clover tart?
Prim: No thank you, I’m allergic to four-leaf clovers. What was I saying? Oh yes. Salutations! I’m Primrose Goodwing and I have a message from the Sponsor a Mortal Foundation—
St. Elle-Maid: A lovely hobby, to be sure—but Titania’s Toes! I just adore your shoes. The tiny gold bells on the curled tips are such a daring touch. Did you glamour up those little wonder soles yourself?
Prim: I’ve been conjuring shoes ever since I was little. My iffy magic often got me into trouble with my teachers, so I stared down at my feet quite a lot, but that gets rather boring, doesn’t it? Embellishing my slippers with a bit of sparkle became sort of a habit—ahem. But I’m actually here today to talk about how citizens of the Faerie Vale can help poor and afflicted mortals in desperate need of—”
St. Elle-Maid: That’s nice. Would you ever consider replicating the famed glass slippers that you made for your first mortal venture?
Prim: It’s impossible to reflect magic the same way twice, especially since each human soul is unique—
St. Elle-Maid: But would you consider trying?
Prim: Well, I . . .
St. Elle-Maid: Excellent, how exciting! You could name your shoe line after the first girl you made them for, what was it? Dear little Cinderbell.
Prim: “Cinderella”—
St. Elle-Maid: Yes, that’s what I said. So how early before you can start taking orders? Faux glass slippers are all the rage at Faerie Court these days.
Prim: Never. And that’s not what I’m here to talk about. Right now, legions of mortals are suffering because they lack fairy godmothers—
St Elle-Maid: Your “Little Miss Pixie Perfect” act is charming, really. But rumor has it that your zeal for delivering happily-ever-afters is masking a dark and terrible secret.
Prim: It is?
St. Elle-Maid: Aha! You said it, not me. But even without your confession we have the testimonial of one Calla Lily, your former classmate at Meadowlark. She says and I quote, “Of course Primrose is all about keeping her pet humans happy. That way the dumb mortals don’t notice that she’s bleeding crystallized bliss from their hearts. It’s how she makes her precious glass slippers.”
Prim: Why that slimy, cross-eyed newt! She’s a liar—
St. Elle-Maid: Tender ears, darling. Queen Calypso herself reads this publication, you know.
Prim: You listen here, I only agreed to this interview because I thought I could share an important message. Once humans and Faerie Folk lived and worked side by side, but now contact between Vales is strictly regulated. And why? Because most humans are viewed as dangerous, dirty creatures unworthy of magic. We have forgotten the many times a single human has saved the Faerie Vale. Excalibur could never have existed without the heart of the mortal child Arthur. When we stop believing in humanity, we stop believing in ourselves. We squander our potential to do good in both worlds.
St. Elle-Maid: Bluebonnets! Your sweet little speech almost convinces me. I’m tearing in my left eye, truly I am. So how do I adopt one of these human creatures? And can you throw in a pair of glass slippers if I adopt two of them?
Prim: No!
After a brief stint studying fashion at the Emperor’s Nouveau Clothing Academy, Sadie St. Elle-Maid earned her Silver Quill chronicling the Cobbler’s Strike of the Leprechaun Colonies. She has headed the Character Interview section of the Faerie Era for two centuries now and is widely regarded as the supreme icon of Faerie Court style.
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