They only last a few weeks at the early start of June. But in that brief burst of lofty floral towers, there is nothing more beautiful in the universe!

No petal that more perfectly commands my gaze—

And they grow stubbornly towards the sky despite any obstacles that would bar their beauty from florescence . . .

But the greatest lesson I take from them each summer is that they are a quiet plant for most of the seasonal cycle. Nothing flashy or special, just green blades swaying on the breeze, sometimes jewel-lit by a liquid spangle—

No one affords them much admiration when their blossoms are yet unspoken colors. And why would they?

Utterly Unremarkable

My favorite flower remains
utterly unremarkable
for more than
eleven-twelfths
of the year,
—invisible—
of the least traces of glory
except for a few stray
weeks in summer.

But oh, what showy diadems
the Iris bares beneath blue airs
in those fleeting June hours—
Each blossom a fragile fortress
that defies gravity with
sheer transient beauty.

I hope one day to bloom like so,
to race past my eleventh-twelfth
as my syllables and stories grow
straight and sleek as blades
cutting towards the sky!

Half a life ago, I wished all
my pages would burst into
unyielding incandescence.
But now, I bide my time
in the soft dark of
linear dreams,

—ever so slowly—

Inking a petal and paper tiara
so that one day, perhaps, I
shall have a coronet to
hold up to the sun and
share like a soul.

Living in the dazzle-me era of social media can make one feel like a failure when you’re not presenting yourself as a perennial show flower. One that never wilts, blesses a fallow spell, or bulbs in the deep loam of mediocrity before tracing the shape of a blossom!

The iris reminds us:

“Don’t look at me. Really, don’t bother—I’ll blossom when I’m good and ready, when I’ve supped on enough sky and filled my roots to the brim with delicious dirt and cool waters!

So let me LEAF.”

“I’ll crown the world with colors when it’s time. Maybe only for a moment . . . and maybe that ephemeral flash is all I ever needed.”

Here, then gone—but always wholly myself.

*If you wish to support my ink, peruse and perchance purchase a tale.

Slash your adverbs! And don’t be dear about it.

Often, I woefully surrender my adverbs to the chopping block before my precious adjectives. But sometimes, I can’t help wondering while still resentfully yielding my adverbial delights to such adversarial precision—

Where do all the -lys go when we viciously clip them free from our sentences? I imagine lone -ly syllables piled together in a sort of suffix limbo, softly sighing:

Let’s pretend that we never cruelly swished them away! That we deeply cherished each one. Now hold the -lys in your mouth. Carefully spell them out loud like you truly mean your word—

I’ll go first:

Exhibit A:

My mother wore a purple band
in her hair that glossi-ly winked
like an amethyst strand.

Exhibit B:

The willow bent beautiful-ly,
safe-ly tossing storm bells
back to the sky.

Or, let’s try tacking stray -lys onto other words like strange wings:

She wonderly wiled her days away.

They said goodbye, dewly gazing at one another across the starry void . . . .

I everly wish to forget you, but may neverly shatter that mirror—

I am acutely silly here, and not the least bit sorry for this ridiculous post, either! I only hope that the next time you are sorely tempted to clip an adverb from your magnus opus in pursuit of syllabic perfection, you pause—

Keenly wonder in your ink of hearts where all the lost -lys lie.

*If you wish to support my ink, peruse and perchance purchase a tale.

You are cordially invited to the Spring Faerie Gala. Please come in appropriate adornment.

Sidereally yours,

Queen Titania

Oh my sparklestars! Not sure what to wear? Do not fear, mortal kin, for I am well-versed in the gossamer games of the Faerie Vale—

Iris iolite silk is always an elegant choice.

And never dismiss the beauty of the iris blade. A green dewdrop choker is ever in style.

Just don’t forget your gloves—the midnight dances can turn chilly with the trill of a harp.

If you wish to be bold and perhaps catch the eye of the Fey that evening, don a columbine dragon mask.

Trust me, you’ll thank me later: carry a spare blossom bud in your satchel to balm and brighten your lips.

You didn’t hear it from me, but it’s rumored that Queen Titania is leaning towards a pink aurora as the season’s favored hue . . .

Of course, you can always don a cloudburst chiffon cluster to stand out at court.

If you don’t wish to be flashy, dress in demure foliations with a single liquid brooch as a focal gem.

A tint of sun-caught satin makes for a dashing kerchief.

And a delicate leaf fascinator adds a pop of glamour to any coiffure!

Personally, I will always favor amber sunrise silk for my signature ballgown.

Although there are those who prefer a more spare-petal silhouette for ease of flitting.

Lastly, carry a sprig of lilac in your pocket to perfume your meager stretch of years with perennial dreams of the gala . . . .

*If you wish to support my ink, peruse and perchance purchase a tale.

But then I wondered—what kind of post could I write to go along with such a creature? There was only one right answer . . . it’s finally time.

Time to rave about the wondrous adventure that is Searcher and Stallion! This science fiction audio drama series was broadcast in the 1990’s in Salt Lake City, on the non-profit community radio station KRCL 90.9 FM.

I believe I was about ten or eleven when I first stumbled across it one fateful Sunday evening. I was just sitting in the darkness of my bedroom listening to the radio on my little cassette player (no fancy phones back then to sap my brain space and give me tile face, so I had to find other ways to entertain myself). But nothing could’ve prepared me for the epic awesomeness of this chance encounter while tuning into random channels.

I mean, just listen to this introduction. Searcher and Stallion is a masterpiece of storytelling, narration, sound effects, and sweeping music all wrapped up in roughly half hour episodes.

I was instantly mesmerized by the story of an amnesiac man waking up in the 58th century, alone on a laboratory table. But not truly alone—for he’s never far from his robotic companion, Stallion, a technological marvel of a beast with an FTL (faster than light) drive that allows for space travel! Oh, and a mechanical heart fiercely loyal to his human friend.

I was already quite obsessed with horses as a child. But I must confess that the metallic silver gleam of this star-hopping horse filled me with awe and upstaged even the Black Stallion’s supreme majesty in my heart. Donning a powered suit of armor called an “exoskel,” Searcher embarks on a quest to discover the truth about his past, and why his human body never ages. Stallion is his only constant in this mystery that spans the Galactic Mega Empire.

The story concept was created in 1991 during a meeting between Wayne Tyler, Scott Howard, John Phillips, and Kendall Jackman. Fortunately for us, the vast majority of the series is available to listen to for free thanks to the Internet Archive.

I was instantly hooked on Searcher and Stallion’s adventures and eagerly awaited new episodes each Sunday evening. I think the series played around 10:30 PM? Rather late for a school night, but I didn’t care! Neither did my little sisters. Before long, my pesky, inquisitive siblings heard me listening to the strange space adventure and wanted in, too.

I asked my sister B what she loved best about Searcher and Stallion, and she remembered how each episode played perfectly like a movie in your head. I agree—plain darkness made an excellent theater for the mind as the audio drama was so well written and performed that really, all you needed to do was LISTEN while your rapt atoms shook under the vision.

I asked my sister M about a vivid memory of the series, and she replied without hesitation, Jessica Coramondi’s beautiful, long red hair. (*Apologies if I am misspelling her surname, I could not find a written example online). Oh, Jessica! In my opinion, her character is one of the most pivotal of the entire series, Searcher’s one and only true love—

Jessica is a central figure in my absolute favorite Searcher and Stallion story, the 12-part series “The Nemesis” by Brad Torgersen. At 35 years of age, she’s already a veteran commander with two decades of service under her belt. After pirates attacked her quiet home world of Farmington Fields and left her an orphan when she was just fifteen, Jessica joined the military to protect and serve others. Now stationed on the backwater planet of Beramis 3, she’s accidentally drawn into a cosmic web of intrigue meant to catch Searcher and Stallion—not her. And yet, she will never back down from a fight, not while she still has her trusty gap laser rifle!

I don’t want to give too much away, but I will say that the villains are expertly evil. Searcher’s arch enemy, Contiac (*unsure of spelling) has harried him across multiple stories and stars. Ancient and cunning in his schemes, Contiac draws Searcher to Beramis 3 to unlock the mysteries of an inscrutable cube that will respond only to his DNA. Contiac also reels in the brutish Arkron (*guessing again on spelling), another man with a missing past and a gigantic exoskel designed for ultimate dominance.

And then there is the vast and enigmatic figure that appears across the series—the Creature with the Mask of Stars, a being who watches Searcher and Stallion’s miniscule lives from light-years beyond the edge of the universe!

But it is the pure heart of the series that draws me deep into the audio drama.

*(MAJOR SPOILERS for “The Nemesis” episode 12 ahead . . . )

I almost cried at the end of “The Nemesis” when Searcher leans against Stallion’s neck, hugging his robotic companion. Each had presumed the other had died and left them truly alone, forever. A man embracing his beloved horse in any era of the cosmos will always tug at my heartstrings. My tears are also summoned with the rain when Jessica sacrifices herself to save Searcher, her body destined to be buried beside her parents’ graves on Farmington Fields. Yet I will never give up my sliver of hope that her tragic fate can somehow be changed by the cryptic blue sparkle of the cube!

I keenly remember how much Searcher and Stallion’s stories meant to me when my family moved from Utah to the East Coast. I think I was about 15 years old, and both excited and scared for this giant move that would uproot me from everything I held familiar in my life. As my father drove our trusty Toyota across multiple states for several days, I took Searcher and Stallion along with me for this new journey.

Luckily, I’d recorded some of my favorite episodes on my cassette player. I stuffed these cassette tapes inside a clear-faceted, acrylic tissue box holder along with my battery-operated cassette player with a headphone jack. That tissue box holder might as well have been made of cut crystal for the precious cargo it contained within it.

I listened to episodes of Searcher and Stallion the entire way, finding both comfort and assurance in them—I could be brave, too. I could . . . wander! Maybe not as far away as the Gossamer Nebula, but I could explore new places and try new things in my own small world.

And I can never overstate the importance of Searcher and Stallion in nurturing my adoration for speculative fiction. I cherish the space duo’s adventures just as dearly as Star Trek, Star Wars, and the works of sci-fi masters like Arthur C. Clarke, Anne McCaffrey, and Isaac Asimov.

So to everyone at KRCL Radio Station who threw all their passion into bringing this audio drama series to life in the 90’s, thank you for broadcasting the wild dreamscape of Searcher and Stallion over the airwaves. I know I’m far from the only one who stumbled across it in wonder, and imagined a brighter, more marvelous galaxy in their heart . . .

And secretly wished for a robotic friend named Stallion, too.

*Want to support KRCL Radio Station? Donate here.

Source:

“Searcher and Stallion.” Internet Archive.

<https://archive.org/details/searcher-and-stallion>

*If you wish to support my ink, peruse and perchance purchase a tale.

Except it wasn’t “someone,” just a freaking android. A shiny silver robot with the basic silhouette of a human and a smooth chrome-dome face with no features—a budget bot? But wearing a pilot’s cap with an astral insignia. Weird.

“Did you forget to plug in and charge your brain bank, Cap?” she scoffed. The girl plopped onto a bench and sneered at the android sitting stiffly at the other end of the table. “’Cuz I think you docked in the wrong port—”

“Delinquent 306, congratulations!” the android said in a tinny voice, a neon blue speech bar lighting up in the crude approximation of a smile. “You’ve been selected for early release from juvenile detention into the custody of the Melarkin Cruise Corporation.”

The girl didn’t buy one ounce of that AI can of congrats. “Only poshborns from the fancy filtered side of the city ever ride those starships, not slummer kids like me. What’s the catch, botsby?” she demanded.

The android raised a hand in surrender. “No catch! Merely a business proposition. I am the tour leader of Flight 2220 to Astara Prime, and responsible for eight hundred passengers in suspended hibernation for the duration of a five-year voyage—”

The girl sucked in her breath. Astara Prime was a frontier world still rife with an unmucked paradise! At least, if the holo-ad vistas were to be believed . . . .

“We maintain a proprietary Sensory Enhancement program to elevate the neural experience of our customers,” the android prattled on in a smooth tone. “Exercise programs, meditative routines, and daily culinary specials—all while in a carefully-tailored dream-state. Unfortunately, the computer software for the culinary element has malfunctioned. Our cruise CANNOT deviate from the flight schedule for repairs without incurring significant expenses. That’s where you can assist the corporation.”

The girl choked on a laugh. “Me? You better beep your headquarters, because you got your wires crossed if you think I’m an engineer—”

“No, you’re a Super Taster,” the android interrupted.

“Hah! Never heard such a load of cyberyack-up,” the girl replied, unnerved by the strange label—but also, curious.

“Your biological intake profile indicates that you possess the TAS2R38 gene,” the robot explained with precision patience. “As such, you have a greater density of fungiform papillae than the average human. I believe the colloquial term is ‘taste buds.’ Have you ever noticed an intense flavor reaction when eating certain foods—bitter, savory, salty, sweet or sour?”

The girl bit the side of her lip as she considered the android’s bizarre question. “I mean, one-time I snatched a fresh purlim from a fruit stall, and I got skin bumps with the first bite—” Her mouth watered at the memory, worn thin by the past few years of scrounging the city streets for scraps. She folded her arms across her chest as her mouth set in a scowl. “So how do my fancy taste buds help you with your fried ship circuits?”

The android raised a single finger. “Simple! Once a day, you will don a neural headset and eat a meal prepared to the highest standards of human consumption. At the conclusion of the voyage, your record of petty thievery, loitering, and graffiti shall be expunged. You will then be free to start a new life on Astara Prime with an adequate compensation package from the Melarkin Cruise Corporation for your service.”

The girl blinked as he suddenly projected a holo-document from his palm onto the table.

“Should you find these terms acceptable, please review this non-disclosure agreement. This matter is entirely confidential, of course,” he added.

The girl snickered at the idea of a bunch of plush-pocket sleepers tasting the cake her gutter mouth was scarfing down. Even better, she’d get paid for their dine-in dream while they never even knew she existed? Thank Melarkin for their sneaky, cost-cutting practices!

“Where do I sign, Cap?” she asked, grinning with imaginary fangs as she anticipated countless deluxe feasts aboard the cruiser.

Five minutes and one legally binding contract later, the girl exited Natrine’s premier detention center in a comfy new blue and silver track suit of the Melarkin Cruise Corporation.

“Welcome to the program, Delinquent 306,” the android said as he ushered her into a hover taxi that would take them to the space port.

The girl cleared her throat as they sat side by side in the vehicle. “Since we’re going to be stuck in the stars together for the next five years, why don’t you call me by my human name—”

“That would be improper,” the android interrupted smoothly.

The girl felt a prick of annoyance at how often the bot cut her off, but maybe human brains were just too slow for its quantum-speed processors.

“Besides, until the completion of the voyage, your criminal record stands, Delinquent 306,” the android reminded her.

The girl rolled her eyes. “Okay, just call me ‘Del’ for short. What do I call you, Cap?”

Big mistake. The android threw itself into introduction mode with exacting gusto. “My complete designation is Non-Biologic Autonomous Tour Leader Alpha—”

“’Cap’ it is,” Del replied.

The first week aboard Cruiser Flight 2220 dazzled her senses with the surreal glow of cobalt blue sleeper pods. As the faux constellation of hibernating passengers gleamed like gigantic sconce gems set in the ship’s walls, sometimes the girl wondered if she was the one dreaming, not them. For how could the drab scrap of her life turn into such a stellar-grade drama after the simple swish of an NDA? Now she was a freaking space princess with a dozen servants, er, androids at her beck and call!

All of them shared the same cyberlink with Cap, but she named the mess hall bot “Kitch,” and the hulking engineer “Wrenchie,” and—she couldn’t keep back a smile as each one greeted her as “Miss Del” with the morning cycle. But the ship didn’t start to feel homey until the androids cleared a pantry closet just for her own private usage.

“Biological units require a peaceful nest for optimal digestion,” Cap noted.

Sage droid.

Every evening, Kitch prepared a fantastic “gastronomic experience” that Del scarfed down in carefully portioned bites. With practice, she managed to stretch the timing of each gulp to thirty seconds exactly!

The neural helmet hummed loudly against her skull during each meal session, but the girl slowly learned to block out the annoying whirr. Del was particularly proud when she finally mastered the art of savoring goblets of mist-frosted malingenberry while cleansing her palate with a petite dab of tiruloo mint butter. However, after a particularly succulent haunch of dolga lamb, one night she found her stomach rebelling . . . .

“No hitch in the system allowed.” Cap’s hydroponics bot promptly set up an infinity pool tank so that Del could pursue a physical exercise routine at her leisure.

“Thanks, Greenberg,” she said with hearty sincerity.

Yet as Del cavorted in her twelve-by-twelve tank with a wild splash that bathed the deck, she tried to ignore the nagging realization; this new toy was all just part of Cap’s efficiency protocol to maintain her wellbeing as an irregular but essential crew member. Still, even so—she didn’t mind the illusion of being looked after. Leastwise, not until it landed her homework with Kitch!

“You will need to find gainful employment on Astara Prime, but lack any notably useful skills,” the mess hall bot admonished her as it diced a small mountain of murgle tubers into cubes.

Ouch! Snob bot. Del brushed off the android’s astute observation as she twirled on a stool beside the kitchen counter. “I dunno, maybe another Melarkin cruiser will malfunction and I can be the neural poodle on a different voyage,” she retorted.

“Highly unlikely,” Kitch replied as he stopped her twirl just a nanosecond before dizziness knocked her off her perch. “Today, we shall begin your certification in level 1 cooking. As a super taster, you already have the nascent potential to become a highly proficient chef.”

Del stuck out her tongue. “Can’t certify natural talent!”

Kitch raised his spatula finger. “I beg to differ, biological unit. The genetic ability to differentiate between subtle flavor variations and the mental acuity to utilize ingredients in just the right quantity are entirely different skill sets. The latter is only learned through repetitive practice.”

Del steeled herself for culinary battle. “Okay—certify me.”

The process proved surprisingly dangerous as she very nearly lost a thumb to foundational knife skills on day one! Del discovered that she detested protein fabrication, but adored pastry basics, especially when it involved baking any format of fluffy cake. Yet her favorite homework was always sauce and flavor development—those assignments were the only ones where Kitch allowed her into the exotic herbarium at the back of the mess hall. All the galaxy’s rarest herbs flourished there in carefully labeled vertical planters.

“For tonight’s Firekrackn’ Super Novalicious Pasta© dish, which botanical element would you select to elevate the spicy heat humans term ‘zing’?” Kitch asked.

“Hmm, maybe—” Del paused to scan the scarlet, emerald and burgundy gems hanging from the pepper planters until her eyes fastened on a deep red specimen so dark that it practically glowed with an innate black light. “Oh, that one looks ultralicious!” She reached her fingers out to pluck it when Kitch enclosed her wrist in an iron tong hand.

“Never touch a Kessler pepper without protective gear,” Kitch warned. “Even a small drop of the chemical compound contained within it can cause severe nerve pain when improperly handled. Your sensitivity as a super taster could send you into shock with improper exposure, even—sudden death. Worse, if you ate something of that magnitude of Scoville Heat Unit while wearing the neural helmet, you could potentially disturb the passengers’ hibernation cycles or possibly induce a medical emergency.”

Wait, so endangering the passengers’ naptime session was a worse scenario than her own death? Eh, made perfect sense by bot-brain logic. Del couldn’t take it too personally.

The girl swallowed hard, staring at the glowing dark pepper with a newfound respect. “You know, I’m not really in the mood for anything spicy tonight. Can we swap with tomorrow’s dish, uh—’Cilantro Shrimptopia Luxuriana©’?” she asked.

A secret rush of relief filled her when Kitch agreed to her proposed switch up. However, as Del munched on her lovely mild pasta dish during the scheduled evening meal, the weight of the neural helmet suddenly felt a ton-load heavier.

“You should’ve warned me about the helmet’s danger, Kitch! I didn’t know I could hurt the passengers with what I ate. Now my stomach’s got the jitters,” she confessed.

“Why?” Kitch inquired with a curious curtness. “There is no need to concern yourself with such legal matters. The passengers all signed a health waiver—it’s in the fine print of every ticket. And the benefits are also clearly outlined: the neural dream-state also allows passengers to partake of flavor profiles that would otherwise be denied to them in their waking life.”

Del perked up at this new revelation. “Neat! But what sort of flavor can one only taste in a dream?” she asked.

“Simply put, the helmet’s neural link overrides natural flavor preferences,” Kitch replied. “But perhaps this is best explained with an object lesson.”

After dinner, the android took her on a tour of the main hibernation hall and stopped before a single glowing blue capsule set in the lower wall. A teenage boy about five years her senior slept peacefully in Pod #800. A messy thatch of dark hair covered half his face as if he’d been frozen in place in a hurry.

“Last human aboard, huh?” Del whispered. Well, besides herself.

“This juvenile male has the OR6A2 gene, which makes him highly sensitive to aldehydes,” Kitch said.

“Alda-what?” Del asked.

“A chemical compound used in soap that is also naturally found in herbs such as cilantro.” Kitch tapped the glass that separated the sleeping boy from the waking world. “Instead of a pleasant bright and citrusy flavor, there is a high probability that cilantro tastes like dirt or detergent to him.”

Del snickered. “Then I’ll just have to eat lots of cilantro so Passenger #800 has tasty dreams to last him for the rest of his life!”

But it was the rest of her own life that began to trouble her. Deep space muddled her brain, and before Del realized it, eight months had already whizzed by aboard the cruiser. A knot twisted in her middle whenever she accidentally clocked the time. Sometimes, she wished Flight 2220 would never end! Astara Prime was probably a bust, anyway . . . just another glossy human lie that was never near as nice as paradise—

As arguing about recipes with Kitch, or losing at carousel chess against Cap, or weaving a crown of cables for Wrenchie, or feeding the algae blobs with Greenberg, or sanitizing the deck plates with fizzing bubblers with Mops for the thousandth time—why couldn’t they all stay like this forever? Drifting across the star ways under the sapphire daze of dreamers she secretly wished would never wake up so that she could keep her own shiny dream on ever-play mode. . . .

Yet on the two hundred and forty-fourth night of the voyage, Del awoke from a dead sleep as a violent tremor rocked the cruiser. She sat bolt upright as her fingertips and toes tingled as if singed by fire!

“Hey Kitch, did a solar flare zap the hull?” Del asked after venturing out of her pantry closet warily. A gasp escaped her as she discovered the mess hall bot lying on the ground in a twitching pile, his spatula hand slapping the floor repeatedly.

The android was stuck in a flapjack flipping loop! But Kitch was just an extension of Cap’s cyberbrain, so if one bot was down . . . did that mean all his units were malfunctioning? A large pile of androids in the main hibernation vault confirmed her worst waking nightmare.

Del peered around a pillar at the horrid sight of nine Cap models thrown together in a heap of twitching limbs in the middle of the deck. Her knees melted to jelly sticks as a pair of humans dragged two more androids to the pile. Raiders! How’d these scummers breach the cruiser’s automatic defense system? The man and woman strode about with blasters and laser cutters like they already owned the ship.

Dirty mercs. It’d been so long since she’d seen another free-roving human that Del found herself recoiling—straight into her enemy’s grasp. The girl yelped as a massive hand collared her, lifting her into the air like a sack of spuddlers.

“Oy, Melize! I thought you said there’d only be dozers on this cruiser. You missed a little rat,” the third raider said with a deep-throated chuckle that was much closer to a growl.

The woman pursed her lips in a sour frown that reminded Del of a fermented prune. “Shuddup, Jay. She’s probably just a stowaway.”

“I’m not a rat or a stowaway, I’m a . . . a Super Taster!” Del protested as she glared at her captor, an over-muscled brute with a bald head as shiny as a peeled onion. The girl sputtered through a few well-buttered lies as she illuminated her extremely crucial role aboard the cruiser:

“And if I don’t keep a regular meal-time schedule to cover Melarkin’s top-secret culinary malfunction, you folks could end up in deep trouble. You don’t want 800 hangry passengers waking up, now do you? So you best let me live, er, EAT!” the girl finished with gritted teeth.

“Aww, she’s such a cute little liar.” Melize laughed, her shrill tone ending in a dead flat note. “Should we toss the squeaker out of an airlock, Jeriah?”

Del gulped as the man with double blaster holsters attached to his belt flicked his fingers across the main computer terminal, completely ignoring the ruckus.

“Nah, kid’s telling the truth,” Jeriah replied. “Logs show she was added as a temp worker to the kitchen crew after being transferred from a juvenile detention center on Natrine.”

“Poor thing!” Jay exclaimed, setting Del down gently and mussing her hair under a huge hand. “Those corporate slimeballs are forcing even young’un’s into labor contracts now. Don’t worry, you can join our crew—the Free Starwave Alliance pays LOADS better.”

Yup. Definitely mercenaries.

“Uh . . . thanks!” Del’s lower lip trembled most convincingly. She was infinitely grateful the raiders had skipped the airlock option—for now. But she desperately needed more intel to up her survival odds. “So what does Starfree, er, your alliance want with this ship?” she inquired.

“Unclaimed baggage,” Jeriah said brusquely. He jabbed his finger towards a very familiar pod. “The senator’s brat is registered as Passenger #800. Unhook his pod, Jay. Start the waking procedures at once.”

Del shivered as the burly man strode towards the sleeping boy. “You broke into a Melarkin Cruiser for a single person?” she asked, incredulous.

“Not a person! Collateral,” Melize replied with a breezy cruelty that Del had almost forgotten after holing up for eight months with androids. “His father owes our organization a fat heap of credits. So, we’ll hang onto his spawn until that poshborn senator repays his dues—with interest, of course.”

Poor Cilantro. Sometimes it was truly better to be born gutter trash than a politician’s son! Del just had to look out for her own now . . . .

“What about the crew?” she asked quietly, keeping her voice casual. “What’ll happen to them?”

“Who? Oh, you mean the mandroids.” Melize tittered.

“Don’t you worry none about those old boss bots,” Jay assured the girl as he set Cilantro’s pod down and sat on it like a bench. “The stunwave got’em offline for a few hours, but we’ll incinerate every last unit before we leave—no data trails left behind!”

“And no excessive property damage,” Jeriah admonished his crew members severely. “Don’t forget that the ship’s emergency beacon will automatically activate after the next status report to headquarters is missed. But Melarkin should keep our break-in under wraps to protect their profit margin just so long as we keep our destruction limited to AI personnel only.”

Del gulped as absolute, undiluted fear roiled in the pit of her stomach. She was going to lose her family all over again! First, it was Gramps on Natrine. And now Cap, Kitch—every version of the android who had cared for her these many months with a wonderfully measured precision no vague, insincere and emotion-riddled human could ever match.

Nope.

Del calibrated her lips in a smile that showed only the barest hint of teeth. “Okay, I’m in! Thanks for springing me from this dank blue rust bucket. But while we’re all waiting for the junior senator to defrost, want to try my cake?” She jerked her head towards the mess hall. “I’ve been perfecting my Laruvian Cream Puff Delight© for two weeks now. Think of it as . . . a welcome treat for letting me join your crew!”

Jay licked his lips. “I could do with some dessert after a job well-done. Whatcha say, Jeriah?”

The man with the double blasters finally shifted his gaze from the computer terminal to gaze at Del with ice-blue eyes that sent an electric tingle dancing up her spine. “Sure. I’ll try a slice.”

Melize tapped her laser cutter. “Better make mine a corner slice, and no skimping on the cream!”

Del cracked her knuckles one by one. “Oh, they’ll be plenty for everyone—I promise.”

The pod’s defrosting process required approximately two hours for completion. Whipping up the cake would take an hour and forty-five minutes if she rushed the cooling process before slathering on the cream coating. That left just a fifteen-minute window for Del to get the raiders to stuff their faces with her ultra special attack pastry before it was time to trash the androids and spirit her off with Cilantro into the starry deep of space—

She’d rather nosedive into a black hole! With a secret ingredient that just might get her through to the other side of the void. If it didn’t kill her first . . . .

Del seated her guests at three stools by the long metal counter in the mess hall, making a great show of adding each element: hand-harvested wheat from the Kolben crop rings, dark brown sugar from the lunar cane fields of Listra 9, a copious teaspoon of SuperNovaNilla, and—

“For the berry infusion, I’ll add ripe Melugas,” Del announced grandly. Her hands shook as she entered Kitch’s exotic herbarium with an empty bowl . . . and a flavor extractor tube tucked inside her pocket. When she returned to the counter, the sweat beading against her brow stung cold as snow.

Time to tempt fate on a plate! But a hitch in her plan arose right after she cut four fat slices of cake.

“Oh, wear this silly cap while you eat!” Melize ordered, shoving the helmet across the counter towards the girl. She sniggered. “I want to see this ridiculous contraption in action.”

“Yeah! Give the sleeping Melarkies one last taste of your masterpiece,” Jay said with a wink.

“Okay,” Del said, that single word crumbling like ash in her mouth.

It would be such an easy thing to slip on the helmet. She’d risk all eight hundred human lives if it meant she could save Cap! Wouldn’t even blink on it once. But Cap’s programming would never forgive her if she endangered the health of the other passengers. Del snapped a single wire and carefully hid the red thread behind her ear as she donned the helmet. Her finger twist should sever the neural link’s power—probably.

“Happy birthday or whatever!” Del said, taking a large bite of cake. She had to prove her pastry wasn’t poisoned, after all . . . .

Jay and Melize attacked their own slices after seeing her ravenous enthusiasm. Excellent! Gobble up, suckers. But why was Jeriah so stinking slow and stabby with his bites? Del’s panic built quietly as time was running out before—

“Got a loose wire there, kid,” Jeriah said as he set his fork down. “That thing even on?”

Del gulped as she realized the wire behind her ear had come untucked. “That happens sometimes,” she laughed nervously. “Finnicky thing—” Her heart skipped a beat as Jeriah’s fingers slid towards the blasters on his belt.

Bye, Cap! Del sighed.

A split second before the breath finished leaving her lips, timed flavor capsules burst in everyone’s stomachs and released a payload of premium Kessler pepper oil. Then a huge surge of capsaicin bound with the pain receptors in four human bodies at near light-speed. The raiders dropped from their seats in writhing paryoxysms of nausea as severe cramps wracked their digestive system.

Del knew what was coming. She was a super taster, after all—Kitch had warned her that a single dose of Keppler pepper could be fatal to her ultra-sensitive palate. So, she’d stretched her showy bites out to thirty seconds flat to consume fewer pepper oil capsules . . . yeah, she would’ve needed to stretch her chews by a millennium! The girl doubled over as the full heat of the spice hit her cells. Her scream strangled into coughs as tears streamed down her eyes, acid roared up her throat, and her sinuses flared under the lofty Scoville scale of the almighty Kessler.

But through this agonizing haze, Del watched with satisfaction as Jeriah fainted and flopped floor-side like a dish rag. Wimp. Melize stumbled to the fridge locker and grabbed a carton from the milk rack. Fool. The milk’s mild PH wouldn’t come close to neutralizing the pepper’s acid. The raider collapsed clutching an entire rack of cartons against her chest.

“Why’d you do it, k-kid?” Jay gasped, a deck plate cracking under his massive fist as he drooled over the floor like a rabid dog.

“Never threaten my crew,” Del spat between burning teeth. “Never—”

Had the recycling bin always been a thousand light years away, she wondered? Somehow, she had to crawl there before—

Kessler fire ate her alive from the inside out. Del passed out in the cinders of her own torment. Ages and embers of pure pain later, she awoke as two hands shook her shoulders roughly.

“Hey, girl! You alive?” a nervous voice she’d never heard before inquired softly.

Del cracked her gummy eyes open to find a teenage boy shivering above her, his curly hair still damp from the defrosting process. Cilantro was awake!

“Gimme the mustard bottle in the recycling bin, kwick—” she croaked through her sore throat. She’d hidden the proprietary Melarkin antacid dose inside it that Kitch kept on hand for biological unit emergencies. Hopefully that included unauthorized Kessler pepper consumption . . . .

The boy darted towards the recycling bin and rushed back with the grimy treasure in hand. “Got it!” he exclaimed.

Del swigged the entire bottle dry down to the last drop. Ah, nothing in her life would ever taste this delicious. Ever. Again! She cast the hollow bottle aside and scowled at the fallen raiders littering the deck plates. Time to get Flight 2220 back in order. Del and her new human companion quickly bound the unconscious mercenaries, dragging the trio into a locked storage closet until Cap’s androids came back online—

One by one, her family returned.

“Your rescue operation was extremely risky and ill-advised, Miss Del,” Cap chastised her gently as he surveyed the droopy, fizzling remnants of the cake on the counter. “Nevertheless—”

“Nevertheless, I rock, right?” Del shot back with a smirk.

“Indeed,” Cap replied. “You possess a stellar-grade matrix.”

Del was pretty sure that was the android’s first try at a pun. She appreciated the attempted humor greatly.

Three days passed before Melarkin Private Security finally cleared the raiders off the cruiser, and a full week before it was time to tuck Cilantro back into his hibernation pod for the rest of the voyage.

“Thanks for saving me, kid,” the boy said humbly before stepping into the empty chamber.

Just a lucky side effect of her stratagem to save the androids, but he didn’t need to know that. “Don’t mention it,” she said, bristling a little at the casual way he called her “kid.” “And don’t forget that we’ll be the same age when you defrost on Astara Prime.”

The boy laughed as he strapped himself in place. “True! See you on the other side of the stars.”

“Don’t worry. I promise to eat lots of cilantro for you while you’re dreaming,” Del added.

“Huh?” The pod doors snicked shut over the boy’s very confused face.

Del waited beside his pod until Passenger #800 was safely in hibernation again. “Sleep tight, Maximilian McMartin,” she whispered.

Now that was a proper mouthful of syllables. The girl wandered back to the mess hall with the odd realization that she wouldn’t talk to another human again for another four years and four months. Weird. But, also—

Nice to see her whole family unit functioning at peak efficiency again! A lump formed in her throat as all twelve units of Cap clapped as she entered the mess hall. Kitch slid a Kessler-lite recreation of her infamous cake down the counter as Mops ushered her onto a stool.

Cap set a pristine plate and shining cutlery in front of the girl. “The Melarkin Cruise Corporation would like to congratulate you for preserving the safety of Flight 2220, Miss Del!” The android projected a holo-contract from his palm onto the plate’s surface with glowing neon red ink. “Please accept this NDA and complimentary compensation package.”

“Hmm . . . will it be enough credits for me to open my own restaurant on Astara Prime?” Del asked.

“Of course. I recommended the highest compensation and bribery package available,” Cap replied. “Will you sign?”

Del grinned so widely that the universe split a little at the corners with her happiness. “Sure thing, Cap. Right after you cut me a slice of cake!”

*If you wish to support my ink, peruse and perchance purchase a tale.

Cinderella Blue

You startled me, Mom—
that day you splurged
and bought yourself
a brand-new dress!

(I’d never seen you buy
anything just for you,
and you alone.)

Every last bit of sequin shine
was always spent on us—
three daughters
you set aside all your
dreams and fairy tales for
to raise wonderstruck
in the wealth of love unlimited.

The dress you chose shone
blue as a Cinderella gown,
but cut from practical denim
instead of fashionable gossamer,
with little seashells hanging
from belt ties, just a hint
of glamour and gleam.

Maybe I was used to
seeing you only one way—
all your magic faded
scrubbed down
at the edges by time,
but not in that hour. . .

Arrayed
in the raw power of beauty,
I glimpsed your true glow,
a spark undeniably
clear as glass:

Oh midnight may
shatter you, Mama,
shard you to pieces—

But in my eyes that day
(and forever after)
no preening princess
could ever out-lovely
or out-wild you!

I wish when she was alive, I had cherished her more. Spoiled her properly! My mom deserved a thousand closets bursting with fancy dresses (not that she would’ve wanted that). And I will try to cherish those who remain in my life with a heart even just half as kind and generous as hers.

All I have left of that denim dress my mother once loved is this one single seashell salvaged from a frayed belt tie. I found it in her jewelry box after she passed away. Maybe it reminded her of that moment of glamour, too.

I’ll cherish it more dearly than a mermaid’s immortal, priceless tear.

*If you wish to support my ink, peruse and perchance purchase a tale.

Source:

“Cinderella Blue.” (2022). Fresh Ink, 53, 110-111.

The eerie aptness of Emily Dickinson’s poem to modern times is rather startling, isn’t it? For when we wander into carefully curated virtual realities and breathe in the shiny aether of social media, we risk becoming an altogether different creature—

Really, anybody but ourselves. Banished from our own brains by addictive algorithms that completely sussed us out in the end . . .

In this sense, to be “nobody” is rather nice. Your narrative is yet your own. The arc of your life still rests firmly in your own hands!

Many have noted how this playful poem is searingly pertinent today. There are even lesson plans to discuss the topic with students, like Laura Randazzo’s “Would Emily Dickinson want to be TikTok famous?” For a more in-depth examination of the private joys of Nobodyhood, I recommend Arup K. Chatterjee’s excellent analysis of the poem.)

In my comic, I thought I’d have a bit of fun and spangle Dickinson’s syllables over a wild futurescape filled with question mark fronds.

Oh, and a pretty bog festering with unflinching gazers—admiring, calculating, or ambivalent? Your guess is as good as mine.

Nothing is ever as simple as it seems, least of all the whimsical words of a long-gone poetess who lived and died in the 19th century.

I wrote a poem about the personal wrestle with identity many years ago, and I think its message still holds true the older I get.

Origami Girl

How many ways
Can I know change?
Folded, twisted, pinched
And pulled—
These changeling
Transformations
Over-shape me.
Lotus and frog,
Gem in the wad,
Paper possibilities
Flexible as fate
I am undone, reborn.
Am again
Myself.

*If you wish to support my ink, peruse and perchance purchase a tale.

Over a decade ago, I had the chance to live in Japan for about a year and a half. Before then, I’d never experienced anything remotely like the beauty of “hanami,” which is “flower-viewing” season.

In the far southern island of Kyushu I marveled at the cycles of plum, peach, and finally, sakura blossoms.

And I wrote a poem about the mysterious way that falling cherry blossoms seared even the most mundane details of the world around them with a fragile, pristine aura—

Sakura Fall

The inherent simplicity
Of sakura beauty lies not in
The form of the cherry tree,
But in how each branch
Loses its petals—

Pervasions of blushing wings
Floating miles down river canals,
Banking mud in pink jade,
Or choking gullies with
Shining star heaps.

Flurries of snow white
Without cold lending asphalt
The softness of spring,
The illusion of a clean
New thing.

When the sakura groves bloom,
It’s as if all the world is crying
April tears without water.
As the wind undoes their
Scented crowns, I wish

I could learn to let
So easily go—
Cast away shade
With the grace
Of sakura.

The city of Fukuoka was truly splendiferous to behold during cherry blossom season! I’ll always be grateful that I got to wander among these ephemeral glades for a brief span of my lifetime.

Twilight in Japan

Pink silk stars by night

Cluster in bright tears to trees

Sakura falling.

Where I live now, April is not a month for soft pink delights. If I want cherry blossoms, I must create them myself! With a little help from marbles and thrifted glass petals, of course . . .

Sakura Wish

April laughed in snow.

I dropped a sakura wish,

Dreaming of pink gems. 

P.S. Special thanks to Sadie for sending me these lovely cherry blossom stickers all the way from Japan this spring! I adore them.

*If you wish to support my ink, peruse and perchance purchase a tale.

Source:

“Sakura Fall.” (May 2016). Fresh Ink, 47, 23.

Quillien: “Did you hear? We’ve got just twenty words left before our ink runs dry forever. Cut another with each scrawl.”

Penina: “Wait, so I start with nineteen? No fair! I always meant to write an epic novella or scintillating memoir.”

Quillien: “Economize, quickly, dear Pen. We should choose only the most searingly important sentences to preserve in amber script.”

Penina: “Maybe trim your adverbs and adjectives, Quilly. Let’s share our favorite facts before silence gums the page.”

Quillien: “I know! There’s a dust cloud at the Milky Way’s heart that tastes just like raspberries.”

Penina: “Yummy! Er, scrumptious. Human touch can’t fully register the microscopically dense softness of otter fur.”

Quillien: “Neat. Who are these scribbles for when we can’t see past the paper’s curl?”

Penina: “Don’t know. Perhaps we’re leaving behind a cairn of lost and found delights.”

Quillien: “Confession: I wanted to be a glitter gel pen in another life.”

Penina: “Counter confession: I wrote in cursive once and I liked it!”

Quillien: “I’ll miss misspelling unusual words like ‘tintinnabulary.’ It’s the n’s.”

Penina: “And I’ll miss comfy clichés worn thin as ‘gossamer.’”

Quillien: “FOCUS! Ask me only the hardest questions now.”

Penina: “What utterance binds the cruelest syllabic sting?”

Quillien: “Your atoms are anathema to mine.”

Penina: “Which words bleed ink tears?”

Quillien: “Asterisk* ad infinitum(∞) interrobang‽”

Penina: “And the kindest?”

Quillien: “Love anyways.”

Penina: “Okay.

Okay?

OK!

Okay . . .

'kay.”

*(∞)‽

If you wish to support my ink, peruse and perchance purchase a tale.

No space for tears in her bounded sea. Yet the softscale quivered within her golden shell. Cold. So Cold! Blood thickened close to a fatal chill point.

I—

“I,” she thought again with uttermost clarity. I am alone? Panic shot through frail-forged claw and limb for the first time.

THRASH, and crack! Reach for sun on scale, before—

A band of warmth encircled this mythic microcosm, quelling the unhatched creature’s coil. Shadow ends splayed ten slants of comforting darkness across the egg’s surface.

Hands?

HIS. A familiar voice hummed through the thin, hard layer of domed sky between them.

“Hush now, Auriette! Be still. It ain’t time to trash your cradle just yet. Let’s go home . . . .”

*

Did he miss something?

Nay, not a whit! The antique map Bildergast had nicked from a drunk wizard clearly marked all the buried warding stones. No curse left to chance.

He didn’t bother with the winking rubies, nor the strands of snow-white pearls. Not even the blaze of coins scattered across the cave. He’d only taken one small thing—

And unleashed a ghastly shade!

His breath escaped in ragged barks as Bildergast fled the glittering wraith across the foothills. Flashes of lightning lit up flakes of gold streaking the child’s skin, and an unflinching blue glint in his eyes that never wavered from its target.

“Begone, ghost!” the man cried over the snarl of thunder. He drew a dagger from his belt as he shouldered the heavy knapsack on his shoulder. “I’ve no quarrel with you this night.”

But this strange apparition darted forward as nimbly as a mountain goat, wily and sure with each step that narrowed the gap between them.

“Give back what you stole.”

The rain fell heavier with each word, and Bildergast shivered as an unnatural calmness stabbed his bones, marrow-deep . . . .

“Else the wrath of dragons shall scorch you to cinders,” the small fiend warned. “Robber’s dust!”

“Liar—” Greed steeled Bildergast’s resolve as he brandished his weapon more tightly in his fist, unwilling to surrender a prize worth a full kingdom at royal market. “All the old monsters have gone away from these parts. It’s just you and me now. BOO!” He lunged at the boy, reaping a thin red slash across his arm before he could dodge the reach of his blade.

Bildergast guffawed as bright blood dripped freely in the night. “You’re no specter, just a wee slip of a thing!”

“I’m Sidekittle,” the boy said curtly.

“Hogwash! That’s not a proper name,” the man jeered, letting the dagger dance between his hands in a frenzy of sharpness.

“For a human, perhaps,” the boy replied. “But a dragon gave it to me, so it’s far better than whatever thing your mother called you—”

Bildergast blinked one second too late as Sidekittle dove at his ankles. A streak of lightning illuminated the downward slash of a gauntlet rimmed in razor dragon scales.

*

“I won’t be gone long,” Sidekittle promised the golden egg floating in the cave’s hot spring. “But the creekberries are ripe, and I—”

So hungry. The boy licked his lips. The larder cavern was almost bare now. Never meant to last this long. How many summers had flown by since Auriette’s parents had promised to return? Six, seven . . . sure seemed a century. No matter.

He’d sworn to stay with their unhatched daughter until the shadow of their wings fell over the mountain again! NOT starving to death was an important side quest. But the egg’s shimmer dimmed to a cloudy orange as the boy dared to reach for his foraging basket.

“Ah, don’t be all broody, Miss Auriette, or you’ll hatch a hen instead of a regal dragon!” Sidekittle teased.

He slipped on a gauntlet he’d woven from reeds and shed teal and scarlet scales gleaned from the matted floor treasure. Tapping his makeshift dragon paw against the egg’s surface, he was rewarded by a soothing storm of embers that tempered her mood to a fierce glow.

“When I come back, I’ll tell you all about blue sky again,” he whispered, “and how it’s SO big, your wings won’t ever reach the end even if you stretch them to the widest corners.”

The egg chimed like a silk-smothered bell as Auriette flipped inside her ovaline confines, dreaming. Her tender chime followed him outside to the creek, always curling in the back of Sidekittle’s mind like a wordless song—

Until a louder, base roar drowned out her gilded melody.

Sidekittle flinched as the mountain exploded into wild rumbles! Falling boulders clattered into the creek and shot geysers of water into the air. The hair on the nape of his neck sprang stiff as knives as the boy dropped his basket, sprinting for the cave.

Quarry dusters? Yes, fire sticks for mining! A very human sound.

*

The boy’s whimper echoed off the cave’s wall. “You gonna eat me?” he asked. “I ain’t had much but bugs and berries in days, so I probably taste like duck water—”

“Ew. No, nothing like that,” the teal-scaled dragon interrupted with a smoky shudder. “I never devour something I tell my name. Mine is ‘Korumber.’ There now, you’re perfectly safe!”

The human kit seemed reasonably comforted by this assurance, plopping cross-legged amid a tinkling pile of gold and gems. “Nice name,” he said with a sniffle, wiping his nose on a threadbare sleeve.

“Thank you, it’s suited me adequately these past thousand years—” Korumber paused. Time to get down to business! “Returning to the subjects of birds, have you ever seen an owl?” the dragon asked gently.

The human kit nodded mutely. Good.

“Well, sometimes owls like to drop a little garden snake into their nest to protect their young while the parents are gone away. My wife and I shall be off on a vital venture for two, maybe three summers. But we must leave our daughter in that hot spring to continue her maturation cycle.” Korumber jabbed a talon at the large egg gleaming in a bubbling pool of water in the cave’s heart—

Ah, most precious, golden sun!

“So . . . you askin’ me to be a guardian snake?” the child asked curiously.

“Not exactly,” Korumber replied, clacking his fangs with a chuckle. “The protective spells I’ve set around the mountain should keep my daughter amply safe from outside harm. But Auriette might get lonely all by herself. So be her ‘side kittle,’ if you will, aloof but present . . . a friend to keep her company!” he implored. “There’s plenty of food in the larder cavern, and plainly no lack of treasure. Of course, you’ll be copiously rewarded with a dozen coin chests upon our return—”

“Sidekittle,” the boy interrupted. “I like it! I’ll do it—stay here with her. But keep your coin, Sir Monster.”

The dragon froze as tiny pinpricks of twin sapphire met his own ancient gaze with equal fire.

“Just let me stay forever, please,” the urchin asked. “That’s enough.”

*

“I think this is a truly terrible idea, Korumber,” his wife warned, tapping a scarlet talon on a boulder until it cracked. “Your most blunt-claw yet!”

The pair of dragons watched from a high peak as a shivering human kit tried to light a fire with two sticks for hours. And failed miserably.

“But look at it, Seladora! Such a poor, flameless thing . . . can’t even burp a single spark to survive,” Korumber said, his tail lashing with consternation.

He’d spied the boy fleeing a caravan of his own kind seven days ago, dark bruises peeking through his ragged tunic. Korumber never understood why humans hurt the weakest among them with such a free hand. Normally, he’d just let nature take its course and ignore the common, pitiable end of a mortal. But when the boy stumbled across a hunter’s snare and freed a mewling rabbit rather than kill the trembling beastie to save his own life, the dragon sensed it—

Ah, a fatal, tender streak that must be guarded at all costs. Rarest of heart songs!

“Will you trust my instincts, dear?” Korumber pleaded. “I was right about that scurvy unicorn three centuries ago, and the friendly bog troll—”

“Do as you will, darling,” Seladora said, relenting with the same bright amber eye roll he’d adored for a millennium.

“Thank you. I have a good feeling about this kit.” The dragon smiled with fangs as wide as a silver crescent before diving down and scooping up the squeaking critter in the firm embrace of talons.

*Note:

I’ve always struggled with the short story format. It’s my goal to make Dragon Crumbs* a monthly feature in the gazette to polish my ink gem-tactics! I wanted to play with a backwards story this time. I’ve also always been fascinated that sometimes owls drop snakes into their nests.

Bonus story lore: “Side Kittle” is the nickname for our cat Princess, who disdains cuddles, but hovers happily near her humans.

*If you wish to support my ink, peruse and perchance purchase a tale.

The story begins with the birth of a baby unicorn without a horn, just a star-shaped spot on her forehead. Star lives in a secluded forest with only her parents for company. The fiery, red-maned filly longs for her own spire to develop and hates being “a baby,” but her mother patiently explains that she is still “too young for magic” and must wait to grow up before she can claim her place alongside the last seven unicorns in the world.

For danger haunts her kind in the form of marauding dragons. Star discovers that the fate of her species was twisted by a greedy dragon who so coveted their magic that they killed a unicorn. But this act tainted the stolen spire with evil and turned all dragons hateful against their former friends forever. This is why Star’s birth is so very important to the survival of her species, because her father uncovers an “Eight-Horn Friendship Spell for Changing Enemies into Friends” in a unicorn book. Powerful, lofty stakes for a children’s story that take it beyond just a quaint bedtime fairy tale!

Blake’s gorgeous illustrations do not mask the darkness, either. As a child, I was struck with horror by one page where multiple dragons are depicted coiling through a forest and dueling other unicorns. One slain unicorn even lies under a reptile’s grasping talons, eyes closed, its fierce horn shattered in battle. This legendary war between mystical beasts becomes all too real for the young reader.

Yet there is a wild loveliness woven throughout the imagery, too. The woodland is dappled with both shadows and warm shafts of light, and sunshine casts a glow over the golden, flower-threaded mane of the mother unicorn. When Father must depart to protect the other unicorns, Mother casts a “House Spell” to keep their precious child safe, transforming into a comforting, golden-thatched cottage with charming flowers still woven into the straw.

Star feels stifled in the confines of the house, which Mother gives no door and only small windows to ensconce her daughter from outside harm. Yet when a dragon reaches its scaly claws through a window to hunt for her, Star is forced to act. She doesn’t squeal in fright or bolt in panic. Instead, she gathers her courage and stealthily hides underneath a table until the dragon gives up its search and leaves. This tiny act of bravery sparks her first hint of a spire, but it’s only one inch long and still useless for the Eight-Horn Friendship spell.

When Star learns that her father and the rest of the unicorns are trapped in a cave by dragons, she refuses to wait any longer even though her mother isn’t ready to release her from the safety of the House Spell. The vivid violence of Star’s break-out scene fills two pages as she pushes her way through one of the narrow windows, splintering wooden beams, and scattering thatching and window box flowers in an explosion of energy. The enchanted house cries out, the mother straining to keep her child safe within her sphere of protection, but Star won’t be stopped by the fear of external perils. Her brave determination earns her several more inches of spire height.

What I love about the next part of the journey is that Star doesn’t just set off on her own. Mother changes back into her horse form and joins her daughter in battle, with Star apologizing for running away, and charging alongside her on a rescue mission. Together, they slash and kick their way through trees infected by evil magic meant to trap and prevent them from aiding the other unicorns. Star’s horn grows with every stubborn step forward until Mother tells her that just “one more brave act” should give her a full-grown spire.

But when they finally make it into the cave, Star must face the terrible truth that her horn still isn’t ready. The dragons mock them as they surround the last herd of unicorns, but instead of giving into despair, the brave baby unicorn charges forward and defiantly jumps at her tormentors, halting their advance. This daring act grants Star’s horn the last bit of necessary glint to complete the Eight-Horn Friendship Spell and return all dragons to sanity.

I particularly adore one of the last lines: “The dragons never grew jealous of the unicorns because they knew that having a unicorn for a friend was like having your own personal magician.” Star even becomes friends with a baby dragon named “Moon,” which you can read all about in the sequel tale, Baby Unicorn and Baby Dragon.

As you can see, this book was well-loved for many years. And Star’s story is well worth a read almost four decades later!

Source:

Marzollo, Jean and Claudio. Illustrated by R.J. Blake. The Baby Unicorn. Scholastic Inc. 1987.

*If you wish to support my ink, peruse and perchance purchase a tale.

Recently, I realized that I don’t chase after wishes in the same way anymore. My coveting has grown rather dull and routine in practice! If there is something I desire, I simply bookmark the object on my phone, adding yet another tab in the bloated halls of my invisible data shrine.

Maybe I peruse the reviews of others to see if they agree with the polished advertisement’s promises, and scan review photos for a discovery of flaws that might dissuade me from purchasing the item in question. And after much digital dithering around and price checking, perhaps I finally purchase said item.

That cyber bookmark is promptly deleted as if it never existed beyond a passing breeze in my mind . . . .

But when I was growing up, I didn’t have a fancy techno-tile in my pocket that could feed me endless images finetuned to my algorithm profile. I had a wooden magazine rack in the living room that was overflowing with catalogs! I don’t remember all their names anymore, but one stands out for its wonderful whimsy—dear Hearthsong. I eagerly looked forward to each issue as a child, for its pages were always bursting with creative toys, arts and crafts.

I remember saving up my allowance to buy semi-precious stone marbles, and feeling absolutely thrilled when they arrived in a plastic vial lined up like a perfect row of jewels.

I didn’t have access to online reviews back then. So I simply hoped, I dared to believe without doubt that every object in a catalog was as truly fabulous as showcased in those glossy pages! My mother would crease page corners to tab items of interest, and mark x’s next to her very favorites. So would I, but after too many crinkles from my grubby kid fingers, the pages would eventually become crumpled after a while. For unlike the pristine nothingness of a digital bookmark, these pages betrayed the physical mark of my wishful anticipation.

The vast majority of these x’s remained unfulfilled wishes, but oh, I enjoyed the sparklestars out of all those catalogs! I’d cut them up and save my favorite items in journals. Sometimes, I’d make my little sisters flimsy “surprise” purses with construction paper, staples, and glue, and stuff them with two-dimensional riches ripped straight from the pages of our most treasured catalogs, like princess tiaras from The Oriental Trading Company. As I got older, I’d save velvet cloak cutouts from catalogs like The Pyramid Collection and tape them into my fantasy notebooks under character wardrobe notes.

There was still so much tangible fun to be harvested from those pages, even without purchasing one single thing! I don’t get many physical catalogs anymore, but I’ll never forget the powerful glow they cast over my imagination as a child.

Do you have a paper wish that lingers in your memory, too?

*If you wish to support my ink, peruse and perchance purchase a tale.

“Wherever you go,

The rigid lie low

While the weightless in the sky,

And all that is gentle

Fly boundlessly high.”

—Tao Te Ching

(A New Translation and Commentary

by Ralph Alan Dale)

I shan’t preen like a feral mermaid over her shiny shipwreck hoard, but I will confess that I’ve amassed an excessive impressive assortment of stuff over the course of many years. Secondhand knicknackeries, dust bunny trinkets, crates of Christmas ornaments my father gathered for decades, and three prized bookshelves, two of which are filled mostly with my mother’s carefully curated collection.

I was in my early twenties when she passed away suddenly, and my later thirties when my already ailing father died a month after catching COVID-19. It’s a privilege to be able to pass on anything to others, but at the time, I didn’t know how to handle sorting out my parents’ entire lives into neat little boxes. My younger sisters and I found ourselves drowning in way too many belongings for us to possibly keep them all.

I won’t pretend that I haven’t come to deeply regret some of the things I gave away, and I don’t think my little sister M will ever forgive me for accidentally donating my mother’s entire Dick Francis (mostly hardback) collection of horse mysteries! But the older I get, the more I am wearied by carrying so much with me through life, and I feel the urge to sort through everything I kept in my haste to lose nothing—

And let go of what I no longer wish to carry with me for the rest of my days.

So, I’ve decided to go through all my books to rediscover old favorites and make room for new! That’s how I stumbled upon this splendiferous translation of the Tao Te Ching by Ralph Alan Dale.

Last week, I was randomly flipping through it when I came across the final lines of Verse 76, and I couldn’t stop returning to them again and again as I rolled the words over in my mind:

“Wherever you go,

The rigid lie low

While the weightless in the sky

And all that is gentle

Fly boundlessly high.”

Not all the baggage we carry in life is visible to others, but it weighs us down, nonetheless—crushing us from the inside out. Sometimes, we fill it ourselves and drag it behind us. Other times, it’s handed to us whether we wanted it or not. Life parcels out both pleasure and pain in unequal bursts.

Yet I still want to believe that even our heart’s most heavy wishing tears may eventually evaporate, finding their way to such a boundless and gentle sky as painted by the Tao Te Ching.

Archilochus colubris

The Ruby Hummingbird
has less than
a thousand feathers,
and a heart full of sky.
The secret is,
She knows it.
All her thoughts
are air-bent,
a bliss of wings
and wandering—
I would learn
her iridescence.

~S.E. Page

*Feather dreams of sky. Herkimer, NY. September 2025.

P.S. Wait! You didn’t think I forgot my March Artweaver Practice Pony, did you? Okay, I almost did. I whipped this mossy beauty up while stuck at the car dealership today. I shall call her Esmerelda.

*If you wish to support my ink, peruse and perchance purchase a tale.

Source:

Dale, Ralph Alan, Translator. Photographs by John Cleare. Tao Te Ching: A New Translation and Commentary by Ralph Alan Dale. Barnes and Noble Books, New York. Arranged by Watkins Publishing. 2002. P. 153.

*An overly dramatic depiction of the only way to survive a Dark Water attack . . . keep a lost Treasure of Rule in hand. One brave mermaid doll volunteered for this mission.

Growing up, was there one fantastical, fictional world that spilled over into your own?

For me, that world was the alien planet of Mer! When my sisters and I were little, we were enthralled by The Pirates of Dark Water. This 1991 animated series by Hanna-Barbera followed the adventures of Prince Ren and his crew of marvelous misfits to save his oceanic home world from Dark Water (malevolent tar-like goop with a penchant for consuming, well, everything!).

Tragically, it only lasted for two seasons, but the boldness of the main characters stayed with me all through my childhood: the stalwart lighthouse keeper Ren, who had only his father’s broken sword to remind him of his royal heritage; Tula, the feisty barmaid turned stowaway turned ecomancer voiced by none other than Jodi Benson; Ioz, an avaricious mercenary pirate who oh-so-reluctantly learns the worth of friendship; and Niddler, a ravenous monkey bird who learns to balance his cowardice with courage in between scarfing down minga melons.

A magic compass throws them all together on a quest to find the lost “Thirteen Treasures of Rule,” because only by uniting the pieces can they save Mer from the Dark Water. But they are constantly on the run from the gargantuan Bloth, a heinous pirate sea lord that makes Captain Barbosa look like a tame wee thing. For Bloth doesn’t just want to banish the Dark Water, he wants to use the Thirteen Treasures of Rule to master it and control the world! It also doesn’t help that Bloth has a fanatical desire to wipe out Ren as the last descendant of King Primus of the ruined kingdom, Octopon.

On Monday, I interviewed my two younger sisters about their favorite memories of this short-lived series:

M said one of her favorite elements of The Pirates of Dark Water was how the world was vividly colored, like a Lisa Frank folder, but instead of cute sea turtles, it was filled with amazingly fierce and monstrous creatures. However, she made sure to remind me that her favorite episode was in fact “The Little Leviathan,” which featured an adorable baby sea monster that became separated from its mother and needed a little help from Ren and friends.

She also loved the dynamics of the crew, because while they all had drastically different personalities and backgrounds, they still worked well together.

B stated that she was entranced by how incredibly complex the worldbuilding was in a cartoon format (*This 18-minute review of the worldbuilding is particularly fascinating). Her favorite character was Tula, because she wasn’t portrayed as merely a token female crew member. Tula was an essential, respected part of the crew with her own skills and talents that she worked hard to sharpen.

B also loved the eldritch horror of Dark Water as an unknowable, destructive force, reminding me of the haunting episode, “A Drop of Darkness.” When an aging alchemist ingests a tiny drop of Dark Water in pursuit of lost youth and beauty, at first Cray seems to get her coveted wish . . . until she becomes grotesquely transmogrified. My skin still prickles at the lethal scene!

My sisters and I all agree that our favorite memory of The Pirates of Dark Water was introducing the cartoon series to visiting relatives from Utah. They came to Connecticut during a very hot summer month, and unused to the humidity, practically perished each time they went outside. Air conditioning was their only method of survival.

So we binge-watched the entire series together while eating a large red velvet cake. By the end, my young cousins also loved the series, and I never wanted to see another slice of red velvet cake again!

Unfortunately, the story cuts off just after our adventurers learn that while the first seven recovered Treasures of Rule were all sparkly objects, the last six are living beings. I can only imagine how awesome that journey would’ve been to follow all the way to the full end of the tale . . . .

Yet long after the abrupt conclusion of the series, my sisters and I would pretend that asphalt roads and parking lots were rivers and oceans of Dark Water, and that cracks in the sidewalk were traps that would suck us in if we accidentally stepped on them. After all, lava was baby stuff next to the voracious mystery ooze that could be manipulated by that most evil of entities, The Dark Dweller!

Sometimes, I would pretend to be Tula, fearless and powerful. Sometimes I still call myself a “Jitatin fool!” I am grateful my imagination grew up somewhere between Earth and Mer . . . where did yours grow up?

*If you wish to support my ink, peruse and perchance purchase a tale.

Recently, I was perusing my very first writing blog, three blogspots back, that I had started in my twenties. I was so hopeful, and happy, not yet whittled to syllabic smithereens by all the pains time would teach me—ah. I feel rather silly waxing nostalgic! Especially when there are those who never ever get that chance in life. I found a post there that I wrote about the poet John Keats that I still really love. Even more so, now.

So I’ve updated my homage to that vivid Romantic so I can reshare it today . . .

John Keats is one of my favorite poets, in part because I know the supernal ache in his poetry is tied to the brief urgency of his life. His father died in a horse-riding accident when he was only eight, and later his mother and younger brother died of tuberculosis. He also caught the disease and died at the young age of twenty-five in 1821. Yet what Keats accomplished still dazzles the minds of starry-eyed writers everywhere.

But beyond the lust for life, there is also a very familiar fear threading some of his lines; the fear of failure, of never finishing, of a blank emptiness haunting Keats as his time on Earth dwindles and draws to a swift close:

When I have fears that I may cease to be

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

I would daresay that every writer—every human—has known this same, kindred fear at some point. Somehow, knowing that Keats felt that yawning pit of despair, but still inked his heart out to the last stroke of the quill gives me courage to keep on inking on. I’ve lived almost nine seventeen years longer than Keats so far, and I want to make each precious additional year on this spinning marble count for something shiny.

But whether I catch the “magic hand of chance” or not, I will sink into oblivion one day, too. For in the end, aren’t we all just fair creatures of an hour? Time doesn’t let us keep anything.

Yet we still reach for each other, sharing tales, passing hearts and tracing ink symbols like sparks against so very much “nothingness.”

Quasiflora

I strip the stalk bare
Every chance like a petal
Takes to the breeze

Whatever wishes are
What dreams might be
Open air accepts them all

Mindless of regret, these quasi
Flora float light as seed
Filaments on page of wind.

Alate ink spells out bluest
Sky even while rooted
Deep in dead stars’ dirt.

Sources:

Keats, John. “When I have fears that I may cease to be.” Poetry Foundation.org.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44488/when-i-have-fears-that-i-may-cease-to-be

Page, S.E. “Quasiflora” (2019). Isacoustic. https://isacoustic.wordpress.com/tag/s-e-page/

*If you wish to support my ink, peruse and perchance purchase a tale.

I hope you enjoy my retelling of Hans Christian Andersen’s beloved 1835 story, “Tommelise” in Danish, or as I grew up hearing it told—Thumbelina.

I. 

Thumbelina’s Circumambiency

Whiter than snowfall,
The lake’s bone china face
Glitters through a thin sheen
Of water, depths smoother
Than a porcelain moon.

Blue flowers rimming
The bank never fade,
Bouquets of cornflowers
And sprays of alyssum
Blooming evenly always
Two inches apart.

My lake fills just
A plate, after all—
Not the world.
My shoulder blades are
Too bare for flight,
Yet my courage could
Overflow a thimble!

There are strands of seconds
When I dream of steering
My tulip petal prow across
Real lakes lapping the stars at night,
Through iris ferns shaking
Sword leaves in the breeze,
The world in all its live
Sapphire wideness—

Of wings for skying.

II.

Thumbelina in Winter Blue

Winter-struck,
The bird is mostly dead,
But so am I—

Buried under earth with
My frostbitten dreams
Of free blue airs 

Shriveled

Deep inside me like
So many withered
Summer clovers.

A mole’s hole fits
My little tiny hopes
Perfectly.

(No breath of sun shall
Ever reach me here).

But if I can
Spark the swallow’s
Meager warmth,

Perhaps my shade-bound
Heart can share
Something of its wings

When I set its
Feathered fleetness
Wild come

Spring.

III. 

Maia’s Alation, or—
Thumbelina Gains Her Wings

No “Little Tiny” tremulous, 
never “thumbling” 
again—

Ever after “Maia,” 
he names me, 
lady vernal.

For my prince, with his 
shrewd crystalline gaze
can plainly scry 

My flowerborn soul is every 
inch as sun-spun as 
his own frame.

(Only I 
forgot my 
innate iridescence . . .)

Fit for flight with the wings 
of a silver fly, I shiver 
at the raw 

Flutter and new strength of 
gossamer panes against
my back, wondering

How many morning stars 
and refractions 
of twilight 

Might I stellify 
in a second’s 
swoop?

Only sky may tell!

*The word "alation" refers to the state of having wings. 

While I doubt that there are many who peruse YouTube for the express purpose of listening to random poems, if a few wander into my online corner now and then and enjoy my dropped ink bouquets, I shall be glad. I’m still trying to balance that tricky creation v. consumption cycle—you know, figure out how to use social media responsibly without being devoured by it!

After venturing back into Instagram last week, I decided to keep my cynestiamoon account so that I can share lunar photography there sometimes. But it wasn’t long before I found myself mindlessly scrolling and wasting unaccountable seconds again, my fingertip flicking past posts and reels at a speed to rival a hummingbird’s flicker.

Thumbelina spent so much of her life cooped up in walled, enclosed spaces, I can’t imagine her wasting another moment of her precious existence under the artificial spell of a screen’s reflection. Her wings give flight to her will.

So . . .

Maybe this is a reach, but bear with me now—

May our fingers be our better fairies!

Sources:

Hersholt, Jean. (Translator). “Thumbelina.” SDU HC Andersen Centret.

https://andersen.sdu.dk/vaerk/hersholt/Thumbelina_e.html

“Little Tiny’s Swallow.” (March 2015). Through the Gate, 6.

<http://throughthegate.net/issue6-mar2015/page-swallow.html>.

“Thumbelina’s Circumambiency.” (Summer 2015). Star*Line, 38(3),

17. Science Fiction Poetry Association.

“Thumbelina History.” Surlalunefairytales.com.

<https://surlalunefairytales.com/s-z/thumbelina/thumbelina-history.html>.

*If you wish to support my ink, peruse and perchance purchase a tale.

Did you know that no human has traveled more than 1.3 light-seconds away from our world? This is the distance that it takes for light to voyage between our planet and the moon, or 240,000 miles.

That means that no human outside of an astronaut on the moon has ever made a wish farther from Earth. Perhaps someday there will be humans making Martian and Europan lunar wishes under sealed biodomes and far rays of sunlight! But as for now, the record stands.

And as for me, I know that I will never be able to make a wish in this life that darts beyond 1.3 light-seconds from Earth. However, I do believe that there is a power in the brain that defies the bonds of gravity and velocity.

Oddly, this ability is often only fully sharpened after defeat—resignation—the blunt acknowledgement that the world is sometimes too wearisome and painful to bear even one split-second longer.

In her poem, “There’s a certain Slant of Light (320),” Emily Dickinson speaks of the heavy oppressive light of winter afternoons, declaring, “’Tis the seal Despair – / An imperial affliction / Sent us of the Air –”

I live in the northern United States, so I deeply feel what the poetess names that “Heavenly Hurt” during this ice-gripped time of year. Currents of fierce energy frost in the veins, and a chill claw shadows every waking thought. This is not a world for living things.

One must cast their imagination wide to find them flourishing, like strange flowers between melting ice slabs . . .

And search for pockets of paradise when the world gives only cold puddles and snow dams.

Charge! Past shores of salt crystal tears to oceans of wishes in the heart that still flicker and burn—

For no frozen darkness or cruel season in life will ever be stronger than our own seed-bound scintilla. At least, this is the tale that we tell ourselves, because that is how we outlast our fate for even a few seconds longer—

“Had I not created my whole world, I would certainly have died in other people’s. ”

~ Anaïs Nin

But how do we fly inward, faster and farther than 1.3 light-seconds, and reclaim the lost anatomy of our dreamscapes? I struggle with that question quite frequently, as anyone who grows old with their bones will keenly understand. Here are two “gem-tactics” that I roll around in my mind now and again:

Gem-tactic 1: Do the weird thing just because you love it! Gain +1 joyous slant of light.

*I’m currently sketching one random horse per month because I used to love drawing as a child, and I want to cultivate that happiness again. Here’s my Artweaver practice sketch for February: a pink-dappled beauty that pays homage to this whimsically elegant and luxuriantly priced (also sadly out of stock) unicorn brooch. I added an amethystine heart twist as a tiny nod to Valentine’s.

Gem-tactic 2: Carry an invisible talisman that reminds you who you are beyond ash or ember. Reboot 97% stardust (*the amount of atoms we share with the stars).

*This talisman doesn’t have to be fancy or erudite in complexity. For me, I thread the jaded cracks in my heart with a simple ribbon of ink. This poem was written by my late mother a very long time ago. I realized I could sing her kind message to the traditional tune of “Rose Red,” so I swapped my name with the word “child” to make it a lullaby for others, too.

Bonnie’s Song

Child happy, wild, and free, running 
Towards all that she can be 
Child, lovely, kind and strong, never stopping 
Till day is gone. 
Child, dancer, artist, sprite don’t ever hide 
That radiant light 
Hold it high, that all might see the fire that 
Brings such joy to me. 

~Bonnie Page

I wavered over whether to include her poem as I sometimes worry about oversharing my most precious memories of my mom. But as I have no children, the shining remnants of her words will one day vanish with me like a forgotten bookmark. I hope that by sharing them here, I may leave a bright mote of warmth for someone else, too.

I want to end this issue with a certain slant of silliness, for I believe that is the strongest power the brain possesses—to revel in ridiculosity!

The Swallowtail

Undaunted by the scorner’s scoffs, 
The nosy earwig, or the multi-pedian 
Myriapods of discontent—
She
Believed in flying. 
Her essence distilled in threads,
Tender-binding, silken strands
That wrapped her plump, ember-body 
Round and true (As a seed). 
Moon and sun orbited her cocoon, 
Stars trailed by in a milky gauze; 
A new world evolved within a Word. 
At last, 
Lucency called her out. 
So, leaving the ground behind
For the bliss of air-spent ways—
She gave her grace to wings. 

*If you enjoyed this poem, you may find more such inktacular musings in Tangible Creatures.

Sources:

Dickinson, Emily. “There’s a certain Slant of Light (320).” The Poetry Foundation.org.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45723/theres-a-certain-slant-of-light-320

Nin, Anaïs. Goodreads.com.

https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/156703-had-i-not-created-my-whole-world-i-would-certainly

“‘Seeing’ the Earth, Moon, and Sun to Scale.” Nasa.gov.

https://www.grc.nasa.gov/www/k-12/Numbers/Math/Mathematical_Thinking/seeing_the_earth_moon.htm

Howell, Elizabeth. (1/10/2017). “Humans Really are Made of Stardust, and a New Study Proves It.” Space.com.

https://www.space.com/35276-humans-made-of-stardust-galaxy-life-elements.html

*If you wish to support my ink, peruse and perchance purchase a tale.

I could only begin with my favorite passage on pearls ever found in Earth Prayers from around the World: 365 Prayers, Poems, and Invocations Honoring the Earth. Editors Elizabeth Roberts and Elias Amidon explore the nature of reality through a Buddhist Sutra, revealing that “the heaven of Indra is said to be a network of pearls so arranged that if you look at one you see all the others reflected in it. In the same way some scientists now recognize that each object in the world is not merely itself but involves every other object” (p. 170).

When I first read this description, my mind was instantly awestruck by the imagery of this web of inseparably interlaced gems. Even though I can’t fully comprehend this concept from my outsider’s perspective, I appreciate its beauty and how it reminds me of the mysterious process of quantum entanglement across our universe. For in my mind, there is no orb more wholly mysterious than a pearl.

Perhaps that is why pearls have utterly entranced humanity throughout history. Last year I thrifted a book exclusively on these oyster gems, Tears of Mermaids: The Secret Story of Pearls by Stephen G. Bloom. The second my eyes spotted the coiled necklace shimmering on the cover, I snatched that book off the shelf display faster than a finger snap! Best two dollars ever spent.

Before I read this exhaustively fascinating book, I had no idea of the sheer global appetite for these orbs, especially during the Pearl Era from 1524-1658. These nacreous spheres were such important markers of prestige that there was even pushback against gaudy pearl displays by Venetian officials, who imposed a fine on husbands whose wives indulged in this shameful “pearl obsession” (Bloom 21).

In fact, in 1627 a German bishop even went so far as to excommunicate women who would not relinquish wearing their pearls (Bloom 21). Oh, what scandal! I definitely would’ve been excommunicated for my rebellious persistence in pearl adornment.

Levity aside, there is also a much darker history to pearls I didn’t know about until I read Bloom’s work. Entire indigenous tribes were enslaved and decimated after being forced into dangerous pearl diving to feed the insatiable market demand for these gems (Bloom 13). While the ugliness of such human behavior never shatters the outer purity of the pearl, it does remind me that these spheres mask their full origin story in a glow.

For in its essence, isn’t a pearl a kind of wound? It was never meant to exist within the natural life cycle of an organism. It only exists because an irritant like a shard or a parasite became trapped inside an oyster which then layered it in calcium carbonate to protect itself. The pearl is both a marker of past pain and the patient process of creating armor.

Perhaps that is why those who cry pearls in fairy tales are often met by greed and danger. In the Danish fairy tale Princess Rosamund, the princess spills pearls instead of tears whenever she weeps, a gift that results in a conniving lady of honor plucking her eyes out to steal her place in marriage. (Don’t worry, Rosamund gets them back, along with her prince at the end).

I don’t think humanity will ever escape our allurement with pearls. Even faux pearls contain a sufficient aura of glamor to mimic the wonder of the real thing. I will never forget spilling my stocking upside down as a teenager and watching a delicate pearl and crystal bead necklace fall out like a mermaid’s lost treasure—

My sister B had noticed me admiring it at the thrift store and secretly bought it for me as a stocking stuffer. Arrayed in my teardrop pearl pendant, I felt as beautiful as Elizabeth Bennet! And I daresay the kindness of my sister’s gift made the pearl’s shine that much brighter.

In my own thrifting adventures, I’ve found several faux pearl beauties. After rummaging through a questionably grody glass bowl of pins that I feared might give me tetanus, I discovered this vintage Joan Rivers heart in the mix. Though slightly scuffed on one side, I could not leave this incredible one dollar beauty behind.

Or this outrageously impractical pearl purse I thrifted for a mere six bucks. Don’t ask me when or where I’ll use it, right now it makes fabulous wall décor!

Of course, my most triumphant acquisition is the lost Pearl of Welthian, discovered in a secret pocket of a vintage corduroy jacket—

*Just kidding, it’s only a splendid marble. But did its pearlescence make you believe for even a second? For one may find dropped pearls and sky pearls everywhere you look!

Just glance with open mind, and you might catch a luminous slant—

Sources:

Bloom, Stephen G. Tears of Mermaids: The Secret Story of Pearls. St. Martin’s Press, New York. 2009.

Roberts, Elizabeth and Elias Amidon, Editors. Earth Prayers from Around the World: 365 Prayers, Poems, and Invocations Honoring the Earth. HarperSanFransisco. 1991.

*If you wish to support my ink, peruse and perchance purchase a tale.

I thrifted her from my local Savers for about thirteen dollars. She’s such a large pendant that she easily over-spans the palm of my hand. She’s not one to be stuffed in a jewelry drawer. No, this signature piece deserves to be displayed to study the fascinating combination of all her bold and subtle details.

Designed by Karla Jordan, my Google lens investigations reveal that she is a vintage abalone construct most likely from the 1980’s. In some lights, her hat gleams deep pink, in other slants, an almost blazing red hue. I adore her.

However, I must admit that my other family members’ reactions have been rather mixed: “hideous, tacky—absolutely fabulous!—definitely ‘a look’ that must be planned carefully.” I suppose I can agree with all three assessments of my newfound fashionista.

What is a “fashionista,” precisely? The Oxford Dictionary gives us two possibilities, a “fashion designer,” or “someone who is always dressed in a fashionable way.” And she amply deserves that title in my opinion. She pairs so well with polka dots, after all . . .

And transitions easily from such ladylike elegance to the fierce, feline charisma of leopard spots.

I wouldn’t go so far as to declare her a “neutral,” perhaps more the surprise chameleon of fashion accessories!

But what of a name? At first glance, she bears a striking resemblance to a certain cinematic “Amélie,” but her faraway eye never meets another human’s gaze, lending her an untouchable air of dreamy composure.

Upon deeper reflection, I believe she appears to be a lady who enjoys reading mystery novels by the poolside while sipping from ice-chilled goblets, so perhaps I shall call her “Agatha!” Yes, that’ll do nicely.

Dear Agatha, I’m glad I discovered you on the middle shelf of the thrift store’s jewelry counter. I could hardly miss you and your gaudy aura of self-possession.

Her confidence and soft-curled bob remind me of a well-loved 1951 book that belonged to my mother, The Seagulls Woke Me by Mary Stolz. Unfortunately, I seem to have misplaced my copy, so I am relying on vivid fragments of memory from my own reading.

The protagonist, Jean, is a young teenager whose entire identity has been controlled by her mother down to the last detail. She is not allowed to cut her burdensome long hair, a “mane of glory” that is always bound tightly to her head. She is also forced to wear frumpy clothing at social functions that embarrasses her around her peers—including a particularly sad “taupe” dress, if I recall correctly.

Yet Jean gains the courage to discover her own style when she decides to go to St. Kethley that summer, an island off Maine where her uncle runs a hotel. Cutting her heavy locks off to free her trapped curls, sixteen-year-old Jean embarks on a personal journey to become her true self (*and incidentally, also gains a handsome summer crush).

I think every human goes through such phases of change, sometimes multiple times in our life, where we tear free from old selves and experiment with a new way of being.

I wonder if the person who owned this pendant before me felt free and gorgeous when she donned the hatted lady. Did her necklace also inspire a sassy sense of aplomb and grace as she stepped out to face a new day?

This Valentine’s, may we all wear whatever makes us feel bold, or comfy, or quietly beautiful. You don’t have to dress for anyone but yourself.

You don’t need to be iconic, or take pictures, or share them, unless you want to—but I hope you feel worthy of existing in your own skin as you are now.

I have almost no photos of my mother in the last decade of her life because she had low self-esteem due to chronic health problems that affected her body image. I wish I could tell her that I loved her exactly as she was, fiercely, in every moment that I had the privilege to know her.

And I want to embrace my own brief moment on Earth with all the fearless poise of abalone Agatha!

She is the moment:
Vintage fashionista queen—
Ever in style.

Source:

“Fashionista.” Oxford Learner’s Dicitonaries.com.

https://www.oxfordlearnersdictionaries.com/us/definition/english/fashionista

*If you wish to support my ink, peruse and perchance purchase a tale.

I was born with a brain that rarely shuts up, and this mental susurrus cuts deeply sometimes. Yet I can always find respite in the unruly rhythm of the ocean. It’s too loud to ignore or overcome. Its vast wildness must be heeded. Duly humbled, I readily surrender my tangled thoughts to the wholeness of the sea.

Perhaps this heron senses the immense totality, too? The complete creature breathing over Earth in soft curls of foam and salty spray . . .

The sea breezes soothe my internal head gale with a relentless lullaby of waves, reminding me:

I’m just another sand speck on the shoreline of time, a brief bonding of matter and thought that will be pounded into oblivion in a temporal gust one day.

Wandering beside the waves allows me to feel the edges of my own insignificant parameters. How could I not next to a fiercely fluid body that envelops 71 percent of our planet? Sometimes, with continents and capitols stuck in the craw of my consciousness, I forget the blue side of Earth where there’s barely any dry dirt visible from space. Yet the Ocean rolls in sapphire solitude while we stick things clamor over landmasses.

Know your smallness. I think it’s the only way for us to reconnect with everything else. Yet sometimes, we get so bogged down in our own unique desires and dreams, desperate to leave some kind of mark that time won’t take away . . .

Our fate was always set for ultimate erasure. Still, I naively wish it was possible for humanity to understand itself better first. Terribly trite, but I make no apologies for that starry-eyed girl who grew up on Star Trek, and once believed.

Did you know that if the space between the atoms in every human body was erased, you could shrink our entire species down to the volume of a sugar cube? All our genetic data, tragedies, and triumphs compressed into a tiny object that rests easily in the palm of a hand.

Would that inescapable closeness link all our minds in some grand heaven or hell? I wonder. Some shimmering horizons seem almost impossible to imagine anymore . . .

What if to be human, a conscious being, is to become in some ways unshareable? Set apart, each thought a million light years from every truly fathoming the deepest core of another’s heart? Maybe so. But I reject those bonds and bounds! And I will leave this last golden sun song from my time in Okaloosa with you, a small offering from my own shattered wishes.

Sources:

“Just how Big is the Ocean?” Smithsonian Natural History Museum. ocean.si.edu.

https://ocean.si.edu/planet-ocean/seafloor/just-how-big-ocean

“A Different View of Earth.” Smithsonian Natural History Museum. ocean.si.edu.

https://ocean.si.edu/planet-ocean/different-view-earth

Sundermier, Ali. (30 August 2016) “You Could Fit The Entire Human Race Into A Sugar Cube — And 13 Other Facts To Put The Universe Into Perspective.” iflscience.com

https://www.iflscience.com/you-could-fit-the-entire-human-race-into-a-sugar-cube-and-13-other-facts-to-put-the-universe-into-perspective-37650

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