The Luniferous Gazette #33: My Dear Little Viand

Draconic Advice for Mortal Crumbs

*For reasons that shall remain unexplained until a later date, this issue is short and entirely fictional.

Viands: "Articles or dishes of food, now usually of a choice or delicate kind" (Dictionary.com). 

My Dear Little Viand,

I know you’re terribly afraid right now. You don’t feel like you are enough for this moment. And you aren’t, not really—not even a mealy mouthful worth crunching between my fangs. But what you lack in mortal substance, you make up for in scrumptious gumption.

You can’t measure that. You can’t squash it under claw. No matter how small you crush  a quantum of courage, a stubborn fleck always survives and flutters free. What a delicious intangibility! I think you call that iron flavor “free will”?

Please remember: I didn’t spare your life all those years ago just to watch you crumble now. You’re not a cookie. Trust me, I would’ve downed you in a gulp with a barrel of fresh cream if that were so.

You’re only human, and for such a brief snatch of seasons, too! But you’re also exactly the right amount of spice and spark breathed into being by the universe today. And I believe your heart will always be big enough to hold a million times more stars than seconds in this life. Gleam on in the gloaming tide, Little Grit. 

Yours in eternal ravening,

Antiquarius

Source:

"Viand.”

https://www.dictionary.com/browse/viand

Collins English Dictionary — Complete & Unabridged" 2012 Digital Edition © William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd. 1979, 1986 © HarperCollins Publishers 1998, 2000, 2003, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2009, 2012

The Luniferous Gazette #32: A Thousandth of a Gleam

Our Biophotonic Birthright

“No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.” 
-Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own. 

I love this short and simple triad of sentences penned by Virginia Woolf—especially in January, the start of a new year. Societal expectations often dictate the formation of grand, character-building resolutions now! Yet the rush to shine as fiercely and quickly as possible can be utterly exhausting and counterproductive. Sometimes, a deep winter hibernation is in order. Or perhaps just a quiet determination that need not be spoken aloud, just sheltered in the heart.

No need to hurry . . . 

Did you know that your body glows? The gleam is just 1000 times too dim for your eyes to perceive it. Metabolic reactions turn energy into bioluminescence. But this light is “ultraweak,” meaning that the human gaze will never be sensitive enough to see the biophotons that are our birthright. 

No need to sparkle . . . 

Whether our sheen is just a thousandth of a gleam or a solar flare of creativity, beauty and power that dazzles many, the tiny shimmer in our cells will last until our final breath on Earth. There is something comforting in knowing this constant flicker is always a part of me. 

No need to be anybody but oneself . . .   

Sometimes I feel that the older I get, the less sure I am of anything—especially myself. But I do know that I won’t be announcing inktacular writing goals anymore. I’ve heard that such splendiferous pronouncements can bypass the steady, boring growth of hard work and hit the brain’s reward center too early. Why disrupt my innate motivation by breaking out the celebratory pom-poms prematurely?

Instead, I shall scribble dark starlight quietly with my diamondiferous writing group for a solid chunk of months. Some sparkles, like the last shining grit of Fantasia, must be held closer than a whisper until it’s finally time to let them go. 

I do have one monthly Artweaver goal to share today, though. I’m getting back into drawing horses again! My mom adored those creatures above all other animals on Earth, raising her daughters on The Black Stallion, Black Beauty, Flicka, and all horse-related adventures. I suppose it was only natural that I would fall in love with them, too. After rummaging through my old art supplies, I even found my cherished horse sketch books:

While I’m quite rusty at equine art, I’m determined to pursue the noble form once more. I must admit that I chuckled when I ran across this quotation by Paul Brown in Drawing the Horse: “Lots of people, especially artists, say that the horse is one of the most beautiful things that God ever made but the d---dest thing to draw. Nonsense. He is beautiful all right, and there is no more pleasant thing to sketch.” 

I agree! Presenting January, the first of twelve dreams I dedicate to the Year of the Horse (*it begins on February 17th of 2026, so this horse is an early admission): 

Sources:

Brown, Paul. Drawing the Horse: Gaits, Points, and Confirmation. Van Nostrand Reinhold Company. 1981. 

Masaki Kobayashi, Daisuke Kikuchi, and Hitoshi Okamura. Edited by Joseph Najbauer. July 16, 2009. “Imaging of Ultraweak Spontaneous Photon Emission from Human Body Displaying Diurnal Rhythm.” <https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC2707605/>

~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #31: A Review of Not A Lot of Reasons to Sing, but Enough

 A Novel by Kyle Tran Myhre with Art by Casper Pham

* 

 “I will write. For the whisper of a possibility that it might matter. For the fun of it if it doesn’t.” 
—Kyle Tran Myhre 

I must confess that I was given this book by friends for my birthday last year, but only just finished it this January. I thought I would tear through it quickly, but after reading only a few pages, I quickly realized that this was no afternoon page skimmer. This was a story that would shatter my mind and make my heart ache as the ink pushed me to question what it means to be human . . . and a writer. 

Was I ready for it then? Nope. I set the whispering pages aside and forgot about the book until the start of this new year. I’m so glad I finally sat down with it and breathed in the soul-deep syllables. Now I’m ready to review Not a Lot of Reasons to Sing, But Enough by Kyle Tran Myhre, featuring art by Casper Pham. 

The tale is set in a dystopian future on the moon. The human populace—descended from exiled prisoners dumped on lunar soil with their prior memories of Earth stripped away—are now dying of a deadly plague even as their society fractures under tyrannical forces. The format is broken into a series of poems, conversations and correspondence between different characters, each record a prism that shines a different slant on a civilization on the verge of annihilation. Amid this clamor, the journey of two poets (the human Nary and the robot Gyre) spans the pages with both grief and hope.  

The poets contend that writing is not just an abstract hobby, but rather a vital way for people to connect on a historical and ancestral level of existence (Tran Myhre 25). As Nary notes of the act of writing poetry, “It’s about how we take all the random stuff swirling around inside of our bodies—the frustration, the fear, the courage, the darkness, the desire—and we translate it into images, into stories, into something we can hold in our hands and give to someone else” (24). 

(Spoiler ahead)

Yet despite Nary and Gyre’s best efforts to engage the minds of their lunar listeners, their final fates are left in question for the reader . . . . 

In some ways, this story reminds me of another one of my favorite sci-fi tales, the verse novel Aniara by Harry Martinson. The people stuck on the errant spaceship Aniara are doomed, too. It’s also a study of humanity as all options for salvation are winnowed away one by one and we must face ourselves completely alone, at the end.

Who are you then?

Who am I? 

When overwhelmed by what needs fixing, or worse, can’t be fixed, what’s the point of creating art in life? 

Art, anyway.  

Perhaps the point is to simply take another step. As the robot Gyre reminds us, “You do not have to have a map of the entire galaxy to know in which direction to start walking” (156). 

Ultimately, Tran Myhre contends, it is through our art that we can truly learn from one another. But we need to keep doing the hard work of showing up, revising, listening, sharing and growing together (157).   

At the start of the story, lunar school children are asked to write “I am from” poems. I was struck by the innocent mirror of a young mind reflecting on our planet, Earth:

“I am from a place I’ve never been, although I’d like to go there someday. A whole world floating above us. Maybe there is someone who looks like me looking down at this moon, wondering” (16).   

I give this book *ALL THE STARS.* I know I will be re-reading it again, for the rest of my life, as my wrinkles settle deeper and the frayed song of being human only grows keener. 

Work Cited:

Tran Myhre, Kyle. Art by Casper Pham. Not A Lot of Reasons to Sing, But Enough. Button Publishing Inc., Minneapolis. 2022.

 ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #30: What I Take from Niagara Falls . . .

And Leave in the Vortex.

~*~ 

“Everything flows, nothing stands still.” 
― Heraclitus  

When my family member M invited me on a road trip last fall, I was excited as I’m easily lost and would never venture on such a voyage alone. Thanks to her superior navigation skills, I found myself visiting Niagara Falls for the first time ever in my life. I was born on the East Coast and spent many years there, but sometimes it takes moving far away to realize what you missed. 

From afar, the falls are quite obviously magical, an indisputable grand marvel of nature…

 

 

So much so, at night, our species gather along the shores and throw gigantic, scheduled sparkle stars into the air . . .

 

 

But do you dare to move your feet a little closer into the zone of relentless back spray from Niagara Falls, puny human? You will shiver against glistening-wet iron railings just to catch a wider glimpse of its veiled beauty lit up against evening skies . . .

 

 

You’ll battle chattering teeth because you don’t want to miss the evening parade of gem box colors—from pearly white to ruby red, shimmering gold, sapphire blue, aquamarine and alluring auras of emerald green . . .

 

 

Follow me for a stroll inside the tunnels under Niagara Falls where wishes are tossed freely into the waters, nameless and bright as full moons and spilled suns. Go on and make a wish, but I’ll never tell you mine—some secrets are meant only for the clarity of crystal-clear currents. 

 

Emerge from the tunnels only to blink in startled awe as the roar of the falls suddenly kisses your skin— 

 

Or, for a different panorama, ascend the Skylon Tower and peer down at the ferries bobbing like tiny toy ships in the fierce currents of the falls . . .   

 

 

Now, do you dare to take a ferry yourself? Feel your own smallness down to the deepest cell in your bones? For up close, the falls are utterly ferocious and will swallow all your senses whole!

 

 

I must confess that the silver thunder of the falls mesmerized me, drowning out my noisy consciousness. And I was grateful for that. The wind coming off the falls blew sideways and pummeled my ears, almost driving through my skull like an invisible spear. Still, I pressed eagerly against the ferry’s railing—

 

 

*Photo by M. Special thanks for letting me borrow your RainSisters jacket, which held up admirably against the falls and was far more fashionable than my flimsy plastic poncho. 

 

I wanted all of it, the sheer humbling and raw wonder shaking my skeleton and nerve bundles to the last quark. I didn’t feel real, more like a flickering dream wavering in and out of existence in a liquid holodeck. The sound and the spray soaked into my dehydrated decades and imprinted me with nature’s sternest reminder—

Nothing stays still. Everything flows through, then away . . .  

Sometimes, though, it doesn’t feel that way. There are days, months, years even, when our life tangles up into impossible knots. Or maybe vortexes. 

Until last year, I didn’t know that just a few miles from the legendary falls, the Niagara Whirlpool swirls with deadly counterclockwise lethality. Gazing down upon the vicious white currents from the high safety of a viewing platform, I could feel the bone-deep shiver traveling through my DNA:

Not safe. 

Yet curious thrill-seekers can ride an antique cable car over the whirlpool, and stare straight down into its voracious maw . . . 

Some have even tried to traverse the whirlpool as far back as the ill-fated swim of the intrepid Captain Matthew Webb in 1883. The whirlpool is currently off-limits to people because of the extreme danger posed by its snarling currents, although that hasn’t always stopped foolhardy attempts. 

The crushing power of both the falls and the whirlpool remind me that sometimes, you will never be as strong as what breaks you in life. No human is immune to heartbreak, health problems, or catastrophe. You are changed, and maybe, you won’t even mend the same way again. But you will survive. And there is still beauty beyond the vortex, and wide blue skies, and those who will pull you up on your feet when you slip and fall. So when the vortex calls your name, don’t linger and listen too long. 

Nothing stays still. Everything flows through, then away . . .  

Sources:

Hudson, Jack (20 August 2025). “‘Nothing Great is Easy’: The Story of Captain Matthew Webb.” Swimtrek.com. 
<https://www.swimtrek.com/blog/nothing-great-is-easy-the-story-of-captain-matthew-webb>

“Whirlpool Aero Car.” Niagara Parks.com. 

<https://www.niagaraparks.com/visit/attractions/whirlpool-aero-car>

 

  ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #29: My Last Thrift Find of 2025 and My First Wish for 2026

 For the Age of Dreamers

* 

So I meant to ink something about waterfalls and vortexes for my final post of 2025, but a sudden bout of severe indigestion and insomnia has reminded me yet again of the firm boundaries of my mortal intelligence.  

Instead, I want to share my last thrift score of 2025! The gleam of this 12-karat gold-filled vintage Anson pen was the first thing that caught my eye when I entered my favorite thrift store four days after Christmas. 

The pen came with an ink cartridge, but unfortunately, it seems to have dried up (or maybe it was used up by its previous owner?). Worse, the Anson company apparently went bankrupt in 1983, and many of these exquisite writer’s implements were discontinued by the company that bought them. My $12.99 score might prove more expensive to restore to working order, assuming I can even find the right type of ink cartridge. 

The box is a bit stained and beat up, and I can’t help wondering who owned the little golden treasure inside it before me. Did they ever use the pen, or was it merely a gilded desk ornament? Were they overjoyed when they first received it in all its shiny newness and potential to ink their dreams into paper-thin reality? I have so many unanswerable questions . . . .

I’ll end with a poem I wrote in 2024 that reminds me of this golden pen, which might as well be a glorified wand for wishes now. As humans, we keep tracing new dreams in our heart even when the old ones evaporate. And if that is all we can accomplish sometimes, that’s okay. And while I keep my tears and most of my cat pictures to myself these days, I will confess that I’d be lying if I claimed that 2025 was a magically profound journey to healing and inner happiness. 2025 has been a tough year for many humans across our micro-plasticized planet. But if I can light a single wish for 2026, it’s that we aren’t afraid to keep tracing dreams in the dust, anyway—for the age of dreamers is immortal. 

And if I can’t fix this nifty golden pen for its original intended use, I do believe it will make quite a splendiferous hair stick! 

A poem—pain—pang

I feel a poem,
I feel a pain
echoing inside me
like a fable only
the shadows share
when they’re bored
of human tears.
Over the years,
I’ve grown old
in these bones and
I never wrote most
of the lovely stories
under my skin
I meant to tell,
and now
I’m not even sure
there’s any ink left
to wet the words
pooling like ancient
blood and dreams
in my heart.
But as long as I can
still trace my name
in the dust, I know
I’ll try to cast yet
another spell.

*For the Age of Dreamers

 ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #28: How do you love something that is no longer yours?

Gently as Snowfall

*

 *Salt Lake salt crystal ornament from Antelope Island

I’m listening to some of my mother’s cherished Christmas tracks while writing this post; a particular favorite was “Breath of Heaven (Mary’s Song)” by Amy Grant in the CD, Mother & Child. Christmas has always been my favorite holiday season. Growing up, it was often a hectic rush of decorating the house, family get-togethers, eating oven-baked trays of trail mix (*Chex, Cheerios, peanuts and never enough chocolate chips) under a tree decked out to the sparkle-max, caroling, and the story of the Christ Child. Now, my Christmas Day tends to be quieter. 

I was born in the same birth religion as my mother and many of her ancestors before her, but I currently have no certain belief in any particular faith. However, I still hold a fond measure of love for what my mother once held dear—she adored Nativity sets, perhaps because of the hope and tender bond represented by them? She carried a lot of pain and sadness in her life, and I think Nativity sets were like a little sanctuary for her heart’s most gentle wishes. Now when I gaze upon the mother and child figures in the Nativity scene, I am reminded of her kindness, and the love she gave me for the short period she was a part of my life. 

I got to be her daughter, and I will always cherish that connection. Collecting Nativity sets is like drawing a scrap of her warm happiness over me, almost like a cozy blanket in wintertime. I’ve thrifted a few that I know she would’ve loved over the years: 

1. This tiny, beautiful ceramic set made in Guatemala is my newest addition. 

2. I love the simple familial silhouettes and the wooden star in this one.  

3. I never thought I’d be a plate person as I got older, but I couldn’t pass up the comforting embrace of mother and child in “Navajo Madonna” by artist Ted De Grazia.  

The older I get, the more I am shedding things I inherited. Physical and mental belongings that don’t fit me anymore. But sometimes, I pick up something that was once cherished dearly by another now gone from my life. I honor this fragment that they held close to their heart with a soft moment in mine before loving it, and letting it go—

I still hope in you,
In the astral dust
That is mine, too,

That lone sparks may spangle
Existence with keen light.
Even after the death of the last
Star in the sky, when only
Phantom beams grace the dark
Expanse in one final burst of
Photonic radiance, and all
Our heavens and hells fade,

The cosmos will bear
Echo of my heart—

And you in it.

 

*An excerpt from my poem “Wondering Airs,” from Tangible Creatures. Originally published in 2021 in Exponent II, 41(2), 37. 

 ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #27: Hidden Roses

 When once upon a time is a choice, not your fate . . .

*  

“What does the rose during wintertime? She dreams a bright-red dream.” 
-Mascha Kaléko

The strangest thing happened in my garden this year. I have seven rose bushes planted in the front, and for some reason, two of them refused to bloom this summer. My yellow and red rose disdained the premier enticements of fresh garden soil and Miracle-Gro pellets. Eventually toward the fall, the yellow rose grudgingly yielded a few blossoms. But the scarlet petal beauty? Not a ruby singleton. My red rosebush had glossy, healthy leaves and appeared to be pest-free, so I don’t understand why it wouldn’t offer a crimson bud even once.

Sometimes, once upon a time won’t ever happen unless you make the choice first. 

And sometimes, one simply must create their own blossoms in life. I’m excited to share an Artweaver project I’ve been working on since early November (*special thanks to my friend Anna for giving me the perfect name for it). Presenting the “Hidden Roses” cover edition of my fairy tale retelling, A Fair Account of the Traitors Snow White and Rose Red.

How many roses can you count in the picture? It kind of depends on what you count as a rose. 

In this cover edition, I purposefully chose not to show Snow White’s face, because this isn’t truly her story, it belongs to Rose Red. The oft-overlooked sister gazes over her shoulder at readers, inviting them to come along for her misadventures!

I am keenly aware that I still have so much to improve upon with my skills, but considering where I started in June, I’m happy with the progress I have made in learning how to use Artweaver. Also, I’m truly grateful to my family, friends, and writing group for letting me bombard them with various drafts and giving me splendiferous feedback on how to improve my work. (Otherwise, I wouldn’t have recognized that Snow White’s original skirt design did in fact look like a pile of marshmallows . . .)  

2025 has been a year full of unexpected surprises, some good, some bad, and all leading me to a fork in the road with my creative ink. At the start of the year, my co-editor Elizabeth and I decided it was time to end the run of Young Ravens Literary Review after a decade. All 21 issues are now available to read in the Young Ravens Archive. It was important to us to find a way to preserve all the fabulous work of our contributors rather than let it wink out with the website. 

In the summer, I started my adventures with Artweaver and The Luniferous Gazette. Both endeavors scare me as I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m blazing forward with exploring digital artscapes and the peculiar vulnerability of creative nonfiction, and troubleshooting as I go. This was also a year of realizing what I didn’t want anymore. I’ve quit Twitter and put Instagram and Threads on (maybe permanent) hiatus. I felt worn out trying to stay up to speed on every social media platform and risking a severe case of “tileface,” aka scrolling like a mindless zombie. Also, after reading this wonderful post “The Artist’s Rebellion: Breaking Up with the Content Machine” by Ekaterina Popova, I’m truly done trying to please the Almighty Algorithm, too. 

Being more protective of my time has allowed me to focus on creative projects that are closer to my heart, like a Fairy Tale Poetry playlist on YouTube that will feature around ten of my favorite fantasy poems that I’ve inked over the years. In celebration of the Hidden Roses cover, I’m resharing a poem that pairs perfectly with the novel: 

Reddest
—Inspired by Snow White

Sweet incarnadine
Like a deer’s heart
Freshly cut.

I gaze away, blood blind,
Every hue draining into
The pit of my stomach.

All the world hollows coreless
Next to the apple’s
Ruby-given flesh.

I close my eyes against the after
Image of nectarous star, cursing
Those weaker orbs—

No summer-warm sun
Will ever satisfy
Me again,

No moon can appease
My luminous
Ravening.

My lips burn to taste this bright,
Unnamed succulence and
Make it my own.

I’m just a brittle, snow
White shadow
Without it.

*“Reddest.” (July 2014). Star*Line, 37(3), 45. Science Fiction Poetry Association.

In summary, this year has pushed me toward breaking out of a creative rut and exploring new ways to enjoy engaging with the world. This little jeweled apple featured in the YouTube video is one such delight. 

I bought this humble wooden fruit for just 99 cents at the thrift store because I could taste the possibilities sparkling in its bare core. I just needed a lot of glue and rhinestones to reveal its full potential! 

May you all find the hidden gems glistening within your own core. They’re there, even if you can only dream of their glint at first. 

 ~*~ 

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