The Luniferous Gazette #72: Dragon Crumbs* One Ticket for the Time Fissure, Please!

Speculative Stories for Your Consternation and Delight

 Someworld Else  

I wasn’t supposed to go on that field trip, but 
Mom and Dad were in peak parenting mode!
As their only child, I never stood a chance 
against their well-meaning wishes for 
occasional social enrichment.

“But you love rocks, Chauncey!” Mother insists.
“Adrian’s Fissure is full of unique minerals . . . 
maybe you can add to your collection.”

Chronovariant crystals aren’t exactly ‘collectibles,’ Mom.
 
“You can’t just stay cooped up at the house 
every day after school,” Father chides. 
“Our move to Lerena 9 was six months ago— 
consider this field trip a great opportunity 
to make friends with your classmates 
before the semester ends.” 

Friends? Lerena Niners don’t “make friends”
with off-worlders so easily . . .

Children of a farming colony, they speak in 
antiquated tongues of solar winds impacting 
seed stock and harvest cycles, 
I’m just a passing gust of 
biomatter to them! 
Chaff. 

No one expects me to stay long. 
No one like me does—

Six months later, my parents will complete 
their geo-analysis of quantumigneous rock 
and temporal quartzite before 
the curious mineral strata of 
another planet lures them 
someworld else . . .  

I’m just along for the ride.

Maybe that’s why it’s simply easier 
to sigh in surrender and board 
the hover bus on the day
of appointed torture—

A compliant passenger in my own life. 

Adrian’s Fissure

The jostle and boisterous laughs 
of my ninth-year classmates reach
a crescendo as we putter into
the parking zone, a packed lot 
of ash-dry dirt. 

Promising enrichment already . . . .

A rusty bot minds the entrance gate,
digits rattling as it hands out 
real paper scraps—“tickets” 
to a ghost town!

Sure. What a tourist scam!

Long before I came here, I was already bored 
by the holo-adverts for a mining colony 
that triggered a temporal fissure, 
trapping the town out of phase 
with time a century ago. 

Yet as the gate bot ushers us down main street,
I can’t help shivering at the glowing silhouettes
of crude, pre-fabricated housing built 
from rocket ships that settled this 
planet a hundred years ago, 
still flickering with 
ancient shine,
yesterday’s 
new hope—

Oblivious to our presence, groups of miners
push carts of ore towards the processing mill 
while a child chases a ball across the street,
yet I feel nothing as the transparent 
red orb rolls through my feet. 
Okay, maybe a tingle.

Nice attention to detail!

I scan for holographic emitters, but find none. 
The tech’s just well-planted 
in the scenery, 
that’s all . . . 

So why does my neck prickle with 
electric warning as our teacher 
leads us into an arena of wooden
stadium seats surrounding 
the spectral mirage of a well,
stones half-crumbled?

A profusely sweating man wearing 
a bulky, vintage space suit clunks 
into the center of the arena 
to take his station beside 
the glimmer of this illusion, 
the dent beneath his feet 
well-worn from repetition. 
 
“Welcome!” he bellows. 
“As the last of the Adrians
who founded this town 
a hundred years ago,
it’s my grand duty and displeasure 
to introduce you to the doom 
of my ancestor, Clarity,
who cast her entire town 
into an eternal time trap! 

I hold my breath as the silver shade 
arrives—

Calamity Clarity 

Destruction is just a girl my own age?

Scarlet-braids bouncing against her neck,
Clarity bites her lower lip as she struggles 
to balance two buckets on her shoulder-yoke, 
each overflowing with the rainbow gleam 
of unprocessed ore nuggets.
But as she nears the well, 
she stumbles just 
the once—

but The Once ends 
everything.

I gasp as her shoulder yoke breaks and spills
her right bucket load straight into the well!
As the arena explodes with prism flecks,
my eyes meet Clarity’s for a nanosecond—
not holo gaze, nor ghost-hollow. 
She’s real?! And I swear—

She sees me. Or is it saw me?
Her lips part, as if to say . . .

All fades to afterwhite, and I blink 
as Mr. Adrian holds up a single 
splinter of rainbow crystal.

“Clumsy Clarity hit a hidden vein
of chronovariant crystal in the well,
sparking a time fissure that repeats
the same twenty-six hour cycle forever!”

A lump tightens my throat as I 
finally believe her terrible fate,
until Mr. Adrian grants me 
the barest sliver of hope—

“But some scientists believe that one day, 
the fissure will close, and the townsfolk 
may return to their own century!
Or maybe . . . enter our own?
Who’s to say!” the man cackles,
mopping his brow with a tired hand.
“Till then, they wander as ghosts—”

My spine stiffens as his voice lowers 
to an ominous note. 

“A warning to all those who tread
too carelessly on Serena Nine,
where time twists differently 
underfoot!” Mr. Adrian cries 
with a theatrical stamp 
of his heavy boot.

My heart thumps in my chest 
as the show ends and our class 
shuffles back to the hover bus.
I can’t help tugging on Ms. Kelsa’s 
sleeve as the question burns me 
to the quick of now:
 
“That ‘Clarity’ was never real. The girl we saw—
She’s just a hologram, right?”

Ms. Kelsa spits a shell of carmalized specklecorn 
between her teeth, clearly weary of carting 
students to the same show each semester.
“Oh, she was real enough. Who knows!
Maybe she will be again one day.”  

Best Friends *(Who Never Met) 

My parents are thrilled that I made a friend 
on the field trip! I just leave out the part 
where she’s a ghost from a century past. . . 
But my fib sticks, and every day after school, 
I take a public hover bus back 
to Adrian’s Fissure.

I don’t want to miss the meager slice of minutes
I can see Clarity in the arena and try to catch 
her eyes again. Hazel, or soft green? 
Hard to say from the stadium seats!
But now I can almost count her 
freckles like a faraway
constellation . . .

Clarity, am I just pretending you can see me?
I want to believe you can find your way out,
past the stumble and the spark.

I bristle when people laugh at her wavering silhouette,
the star feature in an invisible show 
she never signed up for—

“Clumsy-foot Clarity, crystal-cursed!”

I wish I could defend her 
from an audience she 
never asked for—

“Look out!” I whisper as her foot glides
inexorably to the gnarled tree root
that will twist her fate. But her ears 
are empty shells that catch 
no echo across time . . . . 

And then my pocket credits empty, too; 
I can’t keep coming here, or my parents 
might question my sudden dip in allowance
and strange obsession with this ghost town…
But Clarity’s last descendant saves me!

I nearly startle out of my skin when Mr. Adrian 
claps a heavy hand on my shoulder.
“I’ve been seein’ you around here a lot, boy. 
Lookin’ for temp work? I could use you
in the concession stand as my last server-bot 
has gone and broke again,” he grumbles. 

“Yes, Sir!” I reply before he can take back
this light-speed shift in my luck.  

Now, between buttery cups of specklecorn,
I can see Clarity forever, even if 
I can’t save her. 

Temporal Disruption

I’m so very careful to be a normative
and unbothersome child at home
for the next two months: 

I swap my clothes before dinner
so that my parents won’t catch 
the greasy reek of the concession 
stand on me, and pretend
I’m meeting my friend “Marcus”
for an after-school club 
on rocks and such!

I want them to believe 
I’m totally well-adjusted 
to Lerena 9—

“Great news, son,” Father announces over dessert.
“Your mother and I have turned in our official 
geo-analysis early, so we’ll be moving 
to a new site in about two weeks!”

He talks about skipping solar systems 
like it’s a stroll down the city.

My pudding cup splatters as I stand up abruptly.
“No!” I sputter. “I don’t want to move! 
I . . . like it here.”  

Mother squeezes my shoulder gently. 
“Chauncey, I know you’ll miss your friends,
but you’ll make new ones, I promise!”

Liar! My only true friend 
is Clarity, and I can’t ever 
meet her for real.

I storm outside, grabbing my hoverbike
and zooming to Adrian’s Fissure
at maximum allowable velocity.

Time Decay

The town should be dark,
thick with shadows and silence—
Adrian’s Fissure only activates 
its time distortion field every 
twenty-six hours,
after all . . . . 

So why does the silver ghost 
of the town drunk stumble 
around in the parking zone
under the lunar glow 
of the twin moons?

I tag myself through the front gate,
hurrying inside. If my timing is right,
Clarity will be nearing the well
for her fatal fall in just thirty seconds— 

I want to be there for her, even time-sundered,  
but she’s not alone—Mr. Adrian stands 
beside the wavering flicker of the well 
with a bucket of his own, spilling it 
in sync with Clarity’s disaster! 

“Ow!” I wince as a double-bright flash blinds me, 
banging my knee against the stadium seating. 
“What the—”

I blink the starry haze away only to stare
down the vintage barrel of a laser pistol.  
“S-sir?” I squeak.

Mr. Adrian lowers his weapon, his chest puffing
as he pants from having hot-footed it to my side.   
“Oh, it’s just you, Chaunce-my-boy. Sorry! 
Thought it was—bandits. Bot bandits 
after the stadium wiring again . . .” 

My hands won’t stop shaking, so I tuck
them in my pockets as I sit down 
and dare to ask my worst fear—
“What were you doing at the well, Sir?”  
 
Mr. Adrian gives a long-suffering sigh. 
“Guess my secret's out, isn’t it? 
Chronovariant crystal isn’t cheap, 
ain’t cheap at all! And the veins 
in that well are running dry, so 
I won’t be able to keep this park 
open much longer with the time decay 
of the crystals fraying the show . . . 
and the Show. Must. Go. On.” 
His laugh rings shrill in the night-cold.     
“Got to pay my creditors somehow!”

My hands ball into fists with my rising anger.
“But . . . you’re keeping Clar—I mean, 
all the settlers trapped outside 
of their own time,” I mumble.
I nearly fall from my seat 
as Mr. Adrian looms over me 
like a very present wraith. 

“Those specters?” He scoffs. 
“Nothing belongs to them anymore, 
those are just shadows whose luck 
ran dry a hundred years ago!”
His fingers tap the laser pistol at his belt.  
“But do we have a problem
in the here and now, boy?”

“No, Sir,” I lie. 

The Chauncey Continuum

Got to put that timenapper’s mind at ease . . . 

I show up to my work shifts 
pretending nothing’s changed. 
Can’t save Clarity if he suspects

I hate him. 

How dare Clarity’s own descendant 
trap her in the worst day of her life,
looping it without end!

I can wait, too . . . 

I pop a hundred greasy cups of specklecorn, 
I pack up my bedroom, I smile at dinner 
like a well-adjusted child all so I can 
pretend I’m throwing a goodbye 
party with my dear friend Marcus—

Such a useful, fellow, Marcus.
I’m glad I invented him 
so that it’s easier to sneak back 
to Adrian’s Fissure 
just one night before I’m 
supposed to leave 
Lerena 9.  
 
I crouch behind the arena seating as I wait 
for Mr. Adrian to saunter to the well with his 
bucket-load of greed and crystal treachery,
and then, I hit the button of 
destiny, undone—

“I fixed the server-bot, so I quit!” I yell,
rushing towards the well as the server bot
whizzes past me on freshly oiled wheels,
shoving the man away just seconds 
before Clarity nears her 
appointed doom—

“What’ve you done, stupid boy? 
You’ll ruin everything!” 
Mr. Adrian shrieks, furiously flinging 
his bucket towards the well as 
the server-bot carries him off. 

I race forward and slam the bucket aside, 
squinching my eyes shut as stray 
crystals pelt me with stinging 
sparks of light. 

Am I too late?

I open my eyes as the gentle pressure 
of the air tickles my skin, gasping
as the veil between Clarity and I
ripples, tears—

I catch the girl as she trips, steadying 
her shoulder yoke before 
the fated spill.

“Who are you?” she whispers softly, 
threading warm fingers 
through mine. 

“I’m . . .‘Chauncey,’” I reply,
an awkward heat flaming my face.
“Stay!” I plead, but I can already 
feel her fingers growing lighter 
than moonbeams 
in my hold. 

She’s snapping back to her own timeline. 
I have to break the loop, 
forever this time— 

“You’ve traveled a hundred years 
into my future,” I confess.  
“Please, when you return
to your time, remember 
that well is DANGER—”

Lightning flashes between our fingers as time 
rips Clarity back to her own century,
the searing split of atoms 
knocking me out.

Adriansville

I wake up to the bustling city of Adriansville,
and a capped well with a plaque dedicated
to Clarity for discovering the largest vein
of chronovariant crystals
on Lerena 9, 
saving her hometown 
from disaster!

I smile. 
She took my warning back with her . . . .

A price that twists my own life, too—
both my parents took five-year contracts 
analyzing the chronovariant deposits.
Somehow, those five years feel like 
they’ll be my loneliest ever here. 

As for Mr. Adrian? I never meet 
the ungrateful descendant again!
Maybe he doesn’t exist 
in this timeline? 

I shiver at the price of doing and undoing . . . .

I try not to think about that other life
until a boy with Clarity’s eyes 
taps me on the shoulder before class.

“You’re ‘Chauncey,’ right?” he asks. 
He grins as I nod mutely. “Funnily enough, 
my triple-great gran wrote a note 
meant to be delivered to a boy
about your age and turn 
of the century named 
‘Chauncey.’” 

I take his curled parchment offering eagerly.
“Thanks, uh . . .?” My eyes widen 
with shock as he offers up 
two syllables:

“Marcus.”

Maybe, my imaginary friend has taken 
on a true life in this reality?
Only time will tell . . . .

I squint as Clarity’s faded scrawl
is near impossible to read:

Dear Chauncey,

I thought you were a spook! 
But the nice kind, always 
cheering me on from 
the corner of my mind. 
Still, the more I dreamt of you,
the surer I was going crazy— 
I’m so glad you were real
as my own shadow. 

Yours across the well stars, 
Clarity

Wait, so I was her phantom 
just as she was mine? 
I laugh. 

“What’s so hilarious?” Marcus asks with bated breath. 
“I’m dying here! No one in my family 
was allowed to read that note 
for a hundred years!”

I shrug as I offer him the note. 
“Just a private joke between ghosts.” 

 

 

Discover more Dragon Crumbs* Tales . . . 

 ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #71: A Haunting Review of The Witch's Shop by W.K. Jasner

A 1979 Twist on the Hansel and Gretel Tale

As I scoured my prized inheritance of dog-eared and crinkled children’s books in search of a spooky book to review this month, my gaze lighted upon The Witch’s Shop. Written by W.K. Jasner and illustrated by Marilyn Miller, it was published by Xerox Education Publications in Middletown, Connecticut in 1979. The story is a haunting twist on the tale of Hansel and Gretel.

I found it fascinating that every illustration is inked in only three colors—black, white, and cerulean blue. Even more curious, the scariest part of the book transitions entirely to blue pages, as if to suck the reader into the den of doom, too! The stark lines make every expression that much more more vivid as they convey the wild misadventures of our protagonist.

The tale begins with the sketch of a shopping plaza and an ornery young girl named “Nan” refusing her mother’s pleadings to come along. Yelling a triple “No!” Nan stamps her foot and scampers off into the street crowd. To avoid her pursuing parent, she steps into a random, shadowy shop . . . one that smells of “dust and rust and old feathers” (Jasner 7). We’ve entered blue page territory.

A woman dressed just like a witch welcomes Nan back with a crackly voice, but calls her “Gretel.” Strangely, the proprietress doesn’t seem bothered at all when Nan reveals she isn’t actually Gretel, beckoning her to a glass case filled with gingerbread boys and girls. When the glass top is lifted, Nan is suddenly pushed headfirst into the case, shrinking until she is no bigger than the other gingerbread cookies!

What I enjoyed most about this tale is that even after being tricked and captured by a witch intent on baking her in the oven for a scrumptious snack, Nan never surrenders her last crumb of courage. When a troll lifts the glass top to reach for her, she at first cowers in a corner. But peeking through her fingers at the towering beast she cannot escape, Nan takes a deep breath after realizing she must face this gigantic monster if she is ever to regain her freedom and keep her life.

This tiny, plucky heroine reminds us not to lose our nerve even in the face of overwhelmingly frightening circumstances! Nan races up the troll’s shaggy arm, regaining her proper human dimensions on the way out of the case. Then she dodges a dragon pup guarding the door only to hear the witch cry—

“After her, Dragon! After her, Troll! I must get back to my oven. The fire is blazing beautifully” (30).

Nan throws her scarf, tripping the dragon and troll up in a tangle to escape her fate as a gingerbread cookie. The blue gloom of the pages switches back to brightness as Nan rushes to her worried mother speaking to an officer about her runaway daughter. Oddly, when Nan tries to explain about the witch and the dragon and troll, all that is found is an empty shop that burned down, leaving only “a scarf with strange paw prints on it” (44).

The ghastly trio are never seen again. And yet, in an ending that might feel a bit heavy-handed with its moral, but ominous with warning, Nan stands pensively at a window while the witch, troll and dragon watch and wait in the darkness . . . they wait for her to stamp her foot and throw a tantrum and fall into their shadowed path once more!

I found it intriguing that beyond the blue spread of pages in the witch’s shop, and the blue wilderness and framed window where supernatural monsters lurk on the last two pages, the only other blue constant is Nan in her blue coat and striped scarf (although the cover depicts her coat without any color).

For me, this imagery served as a subtle reminder that while we may carry our shadows with us through life, they don’t get to claim our lives and swallow us whole. Be like Nan, and charge the ravenous creatures that would you gobble you up!

Author’s Note:

It’s time to add a new equine to my Artweaver herd. For October, I decided to challenge myself to draw a different kind of horse pose than I’ve done so far. Thanks to Draw 50 Horses by Lee J. Ames, here is my attempt at the spectral sidereality of “Rearing, Front View” horse—

Stay tuned for the conclusion of our spooky festivities next Wednesday . . . it’s time for the first Dragon Crumbs* ghost story!

Source:

Jasner, W.K. Illustrated by Marilyn Miller. The Witch’s Shop. Xerox Education Publications, Middletown, CT. 1979. 

 ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #70: The Spooktacular Ink of Walter de la Mare

 A Most Mysterious Knock at the Door . . . 

Whilst scouring a selection of suitably spooky poetry, I encountered these eerie verses by Walter de la Mare echoing all the way from 1913.

They transported my imagination to a secluded mouse house, perhaps cozy and cute in the daylight hours . . . but far more mysterious in the dark!

Enjoy the haunting suspense of—

“Some One.” 

I’d like to give special thanks to Focal Pencil for their excellent tutorial on how to draw . . . a cricket. I’d never pondered on the insect’s anatomy before Walter de la Mare’s poem. Attempting to sketch out a vision with clumsy, untrained hands can feel like a daunting task, which is why I really appreciate all the “how to” art videos online that offer simple instructions to someone with such rudimentary skills as myself.

So never let your untidy inexperience stop you from the joy of scribbling—or any other thing you wish to start but wonder if you can’t. 

I believe "Turn up messy" from Of Half Imagined Things is the most eloquent mantra. 

Because that lofty vision taunting your confidence? It’s nothing without a heaping helping of verve! Chaos is the first course. 

Stay tuned next week for a nostalgic review of a spine-chilling Hansel and Gretel tale . . . . 

YouTube Poem Read Aloud

 

Instagram Instrumental Comic Reel

~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #69: The Magic Words of October

Time to Dust Off and Don Your Dreams . . .

While I’m usually more drawn to the tinsel glitter of the winter holidays, my younger sisters have always adored the haunting autumnal glory of October and the celebration of Halloween. So in honor of their verve for this season, I’m dedicating this month’s issues of The Luniferous Gazette to exploring the spooktacular! 

Let’s start with a nostalgic trip down memory lane to the late 80’s and 90’s when my father would take my sisters and I trick-or-treating for hours on end—

The Golden Spoon

I remember when

the most important matter

in the universe

came in two flavors.

chocolate or rainbow?

The choice of sprinkles presented

an endless conundrum

to my childish intellect

even though they always

tasted the same in the end.

My memories of that moment

are all sweetly sugared, too,

Dad—

I wonder what the other students

on UCI campus thought of you,

the young father, an intrepid

adventurer with three little

daughters trailing behind him

like confident ducklings on

the quest for frozen yogurt

at the Golden Spoon!

But the very best times

that my sisters and I

share of you are all

at Halloween—

*(B realized the truth first)

You were always happy then,

throwing your fearsome creativity

and energy into whipping up

the coolest costumes, from

A dainty-lace Little Miss Muffet to

a wild and warty green monster girl,

spinning scary stories by the flicker

of jack o’ lanterns, and captaining

our candy-hunting until way

past our usual bedtime

of eight o’clock . . .

Those starry nights passed faster

than sprinkle-laden,

sparkled-over

dreams,

But I swear I remember that when

you took us to the Golden Spoon

on Halloween, they gave out

tiny cups of gummy bears

bright as gem-bites

to any child who

dared to ask

the magic

words:

Trick or Treat?

Growing up, I reveled in the pageantry of Halloween. Here is a snazzy Princess Leia costume my parents threw together for me, complete with my prized if lopsided double buns, off-brand lightsaber, and a fake laser pistol that I think was actually some sort of bug blaster. I felt quite the royal rebel! 

Do you remember what age you were when you stopped dressing up and trick-or-treating on Halloween? I do, and vividly— 

I was twelve and dressing as a Calamity Jane cowgirl. When my sisterly trio knocked on a neighborhood door, an elderly woman opened it and offered hard red candies to my younger sisters. When it was my turn, she announced, “You’re too old to be trick-or-treating” and promptly shut the door. 

Blech, I didn’t really want that sad scarlet candy anyway! Yet I felt rather mortified the rest of the evening and decided I was done with this childhood chapter of my life. However, now on Halloween I make a point of wearing some sort of costume while doing mundane tasks around town. 

I was ever so pleased when I was pushing my cart through a grocery aisle in a princess gown, and a little girl (maybe around 5?) exclaimed to her father, “SEE! She’s wearing her costume,” as if to imply that she should get to wear her fantastic outfit all day that day, too. And she’s absolutely right! 

Yet my favorite memory occurred when I was wearing a Star Trek uniform. I answered the door for a group of Trick-or-Treaters, and a young girl gasped with genuine excitement upon seeing my shiny badge and the plastic pips on my collar. Perhaps, for just a moment, I reminded her of the dauntless Captain Janeway . . . .

Nowadays, I don’t get many Trick-or-Treaters in my area anymore. I also feel like alternate activities like Trunk-or-Treat are rising in popularity over scouring the entire neighborhood for the rare king-sized candy bar. Still, I guess what I love best about Halloween is that no matter the age, it encourages us to dust off our inner adventurer and don our dearest dream.

This year, I’m probably going to gold and gem up this Svaha dragon gown with awesome accessories and dress like a sentient treasure hoard.

What will you be? 

  ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #68: Wishward Spent

Sun Slant or September Haiku

I’ve captured some of my favorite September images this month, and bound them with early autumn haiku— 

 

Berry lush with glow,

Autumn unboxing her gems,

Blushing unabashed.

 Green bouquet wrapper,

Silver seed puffs wishward spent,

Earth star casting rays.

 

Frail wings cling to pink,

Rose shaking in fang-filled breeze,

Petals resolute. 

Plait my bark with gold,

Braid ripe sunlight in my sap,

I will amber yet.  

 

 Even sharpest thorn

May tenderly dream of touch

In soft princess puff.

 

 Rose leaves platter up

Rain gems like tomorrow’s tears,

Cabochon secrets.

 

 The book of green things

Breathes in September’s fine print,

Weathering the ink. 

 

What a perfect mess!

Glorious as meant to be,

Free as first sky thoughts. 

*It’s time, once again, to add to my Artweaver herd. Meet September, Carolina the Carousel Horse! A bit messy, but a lot of fun to draw.  

  ~*~  

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The Luniferous Gazette #67: The Secret Crystals of Maria

The Power of Hidden Fashion

in the Little White Horse by Elizabeth Goudge

Sometimes, I want to be like Cinderella with her dazzling glass slippers, and flaunt a trail of fairy dust in my wake, but not always . . . at other odd hours? I wish to keep my wonder close to my heart and marvel at sparkle still hidden in the dark!

This desire is further sharpened by a passage from a children’s book I read long ago—so long ago, I must confess I forgot the title. So I sent out this question on various social media channels, not sure if anyone could help me with my vague memory. To my happy surprise, tmargo73 on Threads replied quickly on the same day:

Request:

“Can anyone remember a book where a girl is riding in a carriage, feeling very pleased that her boots are hemmed in crystals even though no one else can see them? I thought it was Emily of New Moon, but I couldn't find the passage, so maybe it is a different book.”

Reply:

“The Little White Horse, by Elizabeth Goudge? Maria and her governess are in a carriage near the start of the book. ‘The crystal beads, as it happened, could not be seen, because Maria's grey silk dress and warm grey wool pelisse, also trimmed with white lamb's-wool, reached to her ankles, but she herself knew they were there’”

Ah, this was indeed the lost literary fragment I was looking for. Thank you, Thriend!

Why has this particular passage lodged in my mind for so many years? Maybe it’s because there’s something so luxurious in the idea of Maria reveling in the concealed glitter of her shoe embellishments. I especially adore the line, “but she herself knew they were there” (Goudge 8). For these boots were “calculated to raise the lowest spirits,” and simply the secret knowledge of her covert crystals gave her “strength that can scarcely be estimated” (8).

Maria didn’t need to make her crystal-beaded boots tangible to an external audience to enjoy the full bounty of the beauty they brought her own existence. Such concepts of quiet pleasure and inherent worth can feel hollowed out when we are constantly mirrored by a digital era designed to showcase all we are, just so.

Yet Maria’s private meditation on her shiny boots is threaded with a delicious vim, for “the perfection of the hidden things was even more important to her than the outward show. Not that she did not like the outward show”(8). Her keen bliss reminds me that a hidden sparkle is not always merely sequestered or buried. Sometimes, it’s our secret strength—latent and mysterious as a midnight star behind a passing veil of clouds.

So may we all find our own heart-cloaked crystals! Whatever sliver of scintillation gives power to your personal expression and makes you smile even when sometimes, only the shadows share your joy.

*For a further exploration of the joys of coming into your own sense (and strength) of style, might I recommend the delightfully zany comedian and fashion personality Jessie Jolles. She casts aside outside notions of looking “cool” for just having fun, and advocates taking your favorite outfit for coffee!

Source:

Goudge, Elizabeth. The Little White Horse. Penguin Books, 1946.

   ~*~  

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The Luniferous Gazette #66: A Stroll with Grandfather Twilight

A Fond Review of Barbara Berger's Grandfather Twilight 

From first page to last, the ink and illustrations of Barbara Berger gleam with a subtle yet constant luminescence in Grandfather Twilight. If a children’s story could be described as a necklace, with each sparely-worded line woven to perfectly pair with artwork, this book beads together just such a sparkling strand of syllables and brush strokes. 

Berger’s pearlescent work was published in 1984 by Scholastic and the quiet bedtime tale has always been a treasured part of my earliest childhood memories! In essence, Grandfather Twilight is the coming of night personified in a mythic, but mellow old man who lives in a forest. 

And by forest dweller, I mean that the emerald foliage of the trees form his only walls. Perhaps his own existence is inseparably interlaced in their living presence, too? Nature is his beloved companion, with an inquisitive bird, fluffy cat, and friendly dog accompanying him at various stages of the tale. 

For every evening, he completes the same routine—sets down his reading, combs his misty beard, and rises from his armchair to begin a singular task. My favorite part comes next . . . imagine the curious wonder of turning the page, and encountering a huge wooden chest with a lock opened by an antique golden key!

From this mysterious chest, Grandfather Twilight reveals an “endless strand of pearls,” all heaped together in one glorious, glowing tangle. Oh, I could bask in the loveliness of this single page for ages. But we, dear readers, have a pilgrimage to complete with our calm and patient guide—

Berger pens, “He lifts the strand, takes one pearl from it, and closes the chest again.”

Now we know we are about to embark on a fantastical journey, too! For with this lone pearl in hand, Grandfather Twilight takes a stroll through the sanctum of the forest. With each step, the tiny gem in his hand grows just a bit bigger. As this nacreous orb increases in size, “Leaves begin to whisper. Little birds hush” (Berger). 

Human tongues hush, too, our gaze soaking in unutterable beauty as words vanish entirely for three consecutive panels as the art seeps over every inch of paper. 

As the pearl’s hue and height grows in the majesty of moonlight, the old man’s misty hair trails behind him in a canvas of gloaming sky and cloud. We follow Grandfather Twilight all the way through the forest, past a stream, to the edge of the ocean where heaven and sea mingle into one shimmering horizon. Here, at last, he uplifts the precious lunar jewel to its rightful setting—

“Gently, he gives the pearl to the silence above the sea” (Berger). 

There is such a deep relief inked into that keen line! For how many times in our own life have we wished to give away the day’s pain and toil to such a glimmering silence, and just . . . rest?

His task done, Grandfather Twilight takes his peace. In the ease of evening, he returns home and sleeps in a comfy bed with his furry animal friends close by. The covers reflect a serene blue sky with puffy clouds and a hint of pink at the hem—perhaps the nascent dream of sunrise?

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