The Luniferous Gazette #5: Planning My Afterlife as an Ash Diamond

Welcome to my Prismatic Paradise 

From the day I was born, my destiny was already sorted like pearls knotted evenly on a string. My birth religion was the main branch of Mormonism, after all. “The Plan of Salvation” told me everything essential about the before time and afterglow of my existence. I truly cherished it and many of my ancestors died believing in the plan with “every fiber of their being,” as the old saying goes.

I broke out some fancy marbles from my sewing chest hoard to illustrate this schedule in simplified terms:  

I was taught that every person will earn entrance into one of these heavenly levels or three degrees of glory (*outer darkness is surprisingly hard to get into). However, when I left my birth religion at age 33, I abruptly traded my identity as a divine spirit child for the ignominy of mortal speckhood. Worse, I found myself grieving my late mother’s sudden passing as if she’d suffered a second, more violent death. But this time, her loss felt irreparable.

The luminous certainty drilled into my skull about heavenly tiers and paradisiacal futures had utterly evaporated from my faithless fibers. My mother used to joke about getting “twinkled” (a religious expression that refers to a mortal body changing into an immortal one in the “twinkling of an eye”). Yet I was no longer so sure whether she had a soul, or even a gossamer scrap of a ghost in this universe—any traces at all besides a container of leftover dust sitting on my desk!

I agonized over wondered whether my own brief corporealization mattered, or if my human existence was all just a dash of chance and a smidge of dead star DNA. Many of the poems in Tangible Creatures alternate between pleading with this question or stubbornly defying it. This is one of my favorites . . . 

Luster

Some say “soul” like one syllable

Can outlast eternity, or carve

A monument from meaning that

No wind could grind down to grit—

A single grit, perfect and worldly,

Entire as heart of priceless pearl.

There is none such pearl in me—

No hiding space for soul where organ,

Blood and breath beat a hot symphony

In the now. Even now ultimate cold inches

Deeper inside, my matter graying to dust

As sun cools and galaxies pull apart,

Dear universe winking out lights in spent dark.

Why fear the fate of all starlit creatures,

Imagine some endless on, some sky with different

Stars than those that forged me today?

Keep hollow soul stuff away from me—

I must glory in this day, treasure those I am

Always losing, grow my heavens here because

This meager luster of time . . . is only mine.

 *“Luster” (2019). Fresh Ink. 50, 40.

These days, I consider myself more of an optimistic nihilist. While I make no claim on the verity of heavens or hells, I get a peculiar satisfaction in outlining the details of my own afterlife. More specifically, in planning a scintillating afterdeath for my mortal husk. Both of my little sisters have informed me that they prefer green burials in a forest on the East Coast. Very admirable and eco-conscious, I applaud them. They’ll make some mushrooms very happy.

Me? Ash diamond. Take my carcass and carbonize it!

I’ve already picked out a promising company. Ever Dear offers a thrilling array of cremation diamonds, with faceted options ranging from a daring trillion or hexagon cut to classics like heart and brilliant. Oh, not to mention seven of the “most desirable diamond colors.” There was never any doubt as to my chosen color—PINK. Rosacea already tints my cheeks, and groves of cherry blossoms bloom in the happiest corners of my mind.

It only seems fitting that I achieve an alternate route to getting twinkled by ensuring my tiny shiny status as a pink diamond. It’s relatively affordable compared to a casket burial. The average direct cremation cost is $1000 to $1500 dollars, and turning a portion of my cremains into a modest .40 to .49 carat diamond would be a $2200 add-on. I’m not yet sure if I want to be immortalized in a pear cut like a frozen tear, or maybe a marquise like a precious seed from Eve’s apple, or perhaps a heart like a secret wish—

Whatever my final facet, I do hope I’m not stuffed in a posh velvet box. Set me on a windowsill to glitter fiercely in my eternal aura.

Perhaps these post-life contemplations seem ridiculous, but with every breath I take in our burning, drowning, grief-torn world, I can already taste the ash staining my soul. And even with my diamond plans in play, there’s no guarantee that some natural or manmade disaster won’t prevent me from achieving the pink clarity of perfection. Sometimes, tragedy strikes and wills and wishes are discarded and lost by cruel circumstances. But a girl can dream, right? Welcome to my prismatic paradise.

As I don’t have children, I like to imagine that one day my diamondiferous sliver might end up in an estate sale or a secondhand store, my human identity and name utterly forgotten by time. Perhaps I could become someone’s unexpected thrift score?

Now that would tickle me pink! 

*Rest in sparkle.

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 #5

Dear Voracia,

I am the eldest twin by a mere sixty seconds. My birth was supposed to fulfill a glorious prophecy heralding me as "the Chosen One." I was actually destined to be a supreme sorceress! But my fairy godmother Goldelia Nitwing got mixed up at the christening and blessed my younger twin sister instead of me with all the magical powers.

My parents tried to cover up the scandalous mishap by switching our names and making my younger sister the heiress to everything in the kingdom. Unfortunately, she's grown up to be a rather cruel and spoiled ruler with a whim for charmed destruction. No one can stop her with all those fey powers, least of all me.

But enchantress or not, I know that I am the true Crown Princess. What can I do to stop her rampage and reclaim the magic that was meant to be mine?

Sincerely,

De-Chosen One  

RE:

Dear De-Chosen One,

Alas, nothing but mayhem and mischief ever comes from anointing wee babes to a destiny they never had the chance to refuse!

However, in your case, might I suggest trying a Soul-Switch Spell to rectify the imbalance in fate? It wouldn't be difficult since you are already twins, and she has taken your true birth name.

But beware, should you trade bodies to reclaim your magical birthright, you could find yourself tempted by the very same wild passions that will lead to your own undoing.

Serendipitous wishes,

Voracia

 ~*~

Thanks for reading! If you'd like my free newsletter dropped into your inbox every Wednesday, subscribe to my Substack account here. 

 

The Luniferous Gazette #4: Sugar Water Worlds

Sugar Water Worlds

I k*lled you, and you bloomed for me—
The lines of a psycho k*ller,
or an accidental
gardener.

I didn’t mean to prune so harshly
and cut your briar before
bud and blossom
unfurled.

Frantically, I trimmed leaves away
from still bound petals, arranging
stems and your little dreaming
heads into sugar water
bowls and plastic
medicine cups—

Tiny worlds
where you would never root,
only wither.

I only hoped to catch a blush of what
you were meant to be, and yet
you steadily surprised me—
unfolding in a quiet riot
that denied your own
undoing. 

I don’t believe in God
or omnipotent reapers
anymore, but if I
could cosplay on
such a cosmic
scale,

I would surely gaze down
upon this sphere of salt
and sweet dreams
and weep for all
the bleeding
brightness.

Because you k*lled us,
Yet we bloomed.

 

The mortal world is at once fragile and terrifying, especially the human creatures who make their kingdom of it. Careless, callous, cruel . . . our species is all those things sometimes. But that isn’t the full end of our nature, and I don’t mean to give up my handful of petals to despair so easily.

I dare—no, don’t lie, little moth flutter in my chest—I wish to treasure my existence on this beautiful, blighted Earth to the last scrap of breath caught between my teeth. This ache to hang onto life’s loveliness threads all our hearts across the transience of time. Sometimes, that piercing bleeds into ink and art and leaves a soul behind to shimmer for a while.

The Japanese poet Kobayashi Issa (1763-1828) suffered great loss and sorrow during his own lifetime, but not even death could shatter the jewels of the mind he left behind in over 20,000 haiku poems. His delicate meditation on the ephemeral nature of life in “A World of Dew” haunts me still:

This world of dew

is a world of dew

And yet, and yet . . .

We dream of our little heavens like cut flowers in sugar water, doomed to wither despite the sweetness of all our hopes. Yet how many times have we denied the void and lived as if forever is our true home? Perhaps, this is humanity’s end fate, our irreparable tragedy and triumph—to draw deep from a universe that marks us here, then gone in a nanoblink of starlight.   

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 #4:

Dear Voracia,

I am the eldest twin by a mere sixty seconds. My birth was supposed to fulfill a glorious prophecy heralding me as "the Chosen One." I was actually destined to be a supreme sorceress! But my fairy godmother Goldelia Nitwing got mixed up at the christening and blessed my younger twin sister instead of me with all the magical powers.

My parents tried to cover up the scandalous mishap by switching our names and making my younger sister the heiress to everything in the kingdom. Unfortunately, she's grown up to be a rather cruel and spoiled ruler with a whim for charmed destruction. No one can stop her with all those fey powers, least of all me.

But enchantress or not, I know that I am the true Crown Princess. What can I do to stop her rampage and reclaim the magic that was meant to be mine?

Sincerely,

De-Chosen One

RE:

Dear De-Chosen One,

Alas, nothing but mayhem and mischief ever comes from anointing wee babes to a destiny they never had the chance to refuse!

However, in your case, might I suggest trying a Soul-Switch Spell to rectify the imbalance in fate? It wouldn't be difficult since you are already twins, and she has taken your true birth name.

But beware, should you trade bodies to reclaim your magical birthright, you could find yourself tempted by the very same wild passions that will lead to your own undoing.

Serendipitous wishes,

Voracia

 INK of others

Treasure at the Heart of the Tanglewood by Meredith Ann Pierce

I love to be astounded by a sentence. A word. A name. Meredith Ann Pierce's novel Treasure at the Heart of the Tanglewood astonishes me on each page. The story's ink is vivid with magic and pulls the reader into the soul of Brown Hannah, a girl whose sprig-filled hair holds more living secrets than she herself knows. 

"The fair-haired girl peered sidelong at her locks then, uneasily. Sheaths and panicles, tiny shoots and sprays of fragrant buds were beginning to peep through her tresses. A delicious vigor beat in her veins, making her bold" (p.30).  

After rebelling against the magician who has held her captive since her first memory, Hannah sets out to uncover her hidden past. Her only companions are a cranky magpie, three foxlets, and a black fox that is truly a knight—or perhaps a knight that is truly a fox? 

Read the story and find out! You know you want to now . . .

My INK

 Faerie Era Exclusive!

A Character Interview of Iffy Magic’s very own Zenaides by Sadie St. Elle-Maid of the Faerie Era, the premier news folio in the Faerie Vale.

St. Elle-Maid: It’s not often that I have the distinct dishonor of interviewing a pernicious pixie. How do you take your tea, one lump or two?

Zenaides: No sugar, thank you. A pinch of dried hemlock will do nicely. And 'pernicious pixie’ is a rather droll term, don’t you think? “Wicked fairy” suits me just fine. 

St. Elle-Maid: As a thoroughly vile wicked fairy, how many mortals have you hexed? And what is your favorite method of hexing; toad, frog or newt?

Zenaides: Not to brag—that’s a hexable vice, after all—but I must admit that I lost count after the first hundred or so. Over the centuries, I’ve found myself growing weary of the common amphibious spell. I’ve recently started experimenting with fowl play in a group hexing; “duck, duck goose” is my current favorite.

St. Elle-Maid: Fascinating. And when did you first realize your destiny as a nefarious foe of good fairy godmothers everywhere?

Zenaides: Oh, some ages ago . . . I think there was a princess. Mine, actually! But she had the heart of a viper and I had the temper of a dragon, and, well—enough about dull little old me. I only agreed to this interview because I wished to meet the foolish nitwing who cast slanderous aspersions on Primrose Goodwing.

St. Elle-Maid: Aspersions? I never—

Zenaides: I believe you accused "Little Miss Pixie Perfect" of employing forbidden dark magic to create the notorious glass slippers.

St. Elle-Maid: I was only repeating my sources. My readership deserve the absolute, unvarnished truth—

Zenaides: Malicious gossip you fanned to a bonfire! You should be ashamed of your shoddy exposé. I count Miss Goodwing as my particular acquaintance and can state with unequivocal candor that she is an upstanding pixie who could go far as a wicked fairy. Very far.

St. Elle-Maid: Oh really? Do tell us her wretched secret!

Zenaides: There’s nothing secret about it. I knew from the moment that we crossed wands that Primrose has a rebel spark in her. She won’t let nonsensical notions of the proper way to be a fairy godmother get in the way of—

St. Elle-Maid: Wait, you two dueled? Who won?

Zenaides: I know I said that I rarely indulge in the classical hexes anymore, but I do believe a toad hex will suit you well. The warts do wonders. 

St. Elle-Maid: Don’t be coy now. You’re clearly avoiding my question.

Zenaides: Am I, poppet? Why not try out my hex for a day and then guess who won.

St. Elle-Maid: I’ve been a toad twice this month already; a unique hazard of my profession, I’m afraid. Might I try something a little more exotic this time, perhaps an “aardvark”?

Zenaides: Intriguing! As you wish.

After a brief stint flirting with dark magic as a ghost mime, Sadie St. Elle-Maid earned her Silver Quill chronicling the mysterious mass evaporation of cloud ponies over Mirage Desert. She has headed the Character Interview section of the Faerie Era for two centuries now and is widely regarded as the supreme expert of hexological pathologies.

 ~*~

Thanks for reading! If you'd like my free newsletter dropped into your inbox every Wednesday, you can subscribe to my Substack account here. 

The Luniferous Gazette #3: Almost Late For My Own Synestia

 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.

  

 

*The notorious tree, named “Maglor” (after Tolkien’s elvish bard) for its leaf songs.

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.

 *Thanks for reading! If you'd like my free newsletter dropped into your inbox every Wednesday, you can subscribe to my Substack account here.