Flame, Glass and Ink are Poems, essays, and reading notes by Stefania Joori Suh

Tag: stories

  • Prompt 72

    What are your thoughts on the concept of living a very long life?

    I heard that Cher has publicly defied growing old. Sometimes, youth comes with beauty, which is what Cher has achieved under the spell of medical magic. Has she made deals with spirits or consulted Dr. Faust?

    The Greek gods knew too well that aging is a mortal’s Achilles Gun. So when the immortals favored selected mortals, they deigned to bestow eternal youth on them either by giving them ambrosia or throwing them in the amber of a fire. But then you have to make deals with whoever promises you with the gift of youth.

    Cicero said nature has its things in place, and each age of human life has its place in nature. So, not acknowledging it is asking for trouble, such as Vampires. There are also Madonna and Cher, who may be vampires in the beautiful woman’s hiding. They are strong-willed, successful women with money to purchase their tickets for youth. Besides, they never reveal their actual ages in public. Are they ashamed of being considered as women of their ages? Don’t they also advocate women’s rights? Isn’t agism another tacitly recognized form of discrimination in our society?

    Regarding aging, I also think about the movie Logan’s Run, where people aged 30 and over become executed under the pretext of being rejuvenated. It’s a society of youth and a cult of beauty. If you are not young, you are not beautiful anymore. That is a formula in our world today.

    I am growing old, and to be perfectly honest, I am also scared of it because I can see the streaks of my hair being shades lighter. As a working woman, looking young is essential to survive in the workplace, whether you agree or disagree. But I don’t want to become a Vampire by making a Mepistolean pact. I want to be like Cleopatra, whose age can not wither, nor custom can stale her infinite varieties. Mind you, Plutarch, in his Heroes, commented on Cleopatra that her intelligence and manner of speaking were the jewels of her beauty. Or like Sophia Lauren, who still looks divinely beautiful without looking like a Vampire because it matters how your inner self looks.

  • Prompt 71

    What could you do differently?

    Plane Dreaming is now planespotting. Image Credit by Me🤓

    “If” is such a big word with such a short syllable. There’s even a book titled What If, packed with hypothetical answers to scientific questions. In my Book of Life, these are my what-ifs.

    I could have continued to pursue a flight attendant career shortly after graduating from college. I once applied for a position with United Airlines in college. I made it to the open interview, where only two people were selected. I took it as a sign of not calling it a vocation, so I decided not to pursue my childhood dream. But my inborn wanderlust calls me to the vision of being a flight attendant working skybound, traveling, and meeting people worldwide.

    I could have acted differently when my team manager told me last Thursday that she would soon leave the firm this month. She was one of a few commendable supervisors/managers I have worked with. She asked me if I could work with her at her new firm. Ecstatically, I said “Yes!” because I felt insecure about my future after her departure. Being a neurodivergent, I can thrive under a patient and understanding person. My current team manager is a neurotypical supervisor who lets me work independently and contribute to the best of my abilities. While I was grateful for her kind gesture of inviting me to join her at her new firm, I should not have expressed my acceptance forthwith lest I should burden her with the weight of responsibility carried to her new place. I could have acted professionally courteously and instead congratulated her on her new future, not giving her the impression of latching on to her.

    There’s no use cryng over spilled milk, and I feel like the sorry milkmaid. Foolhardy maybe, foolish not. I could become more mature, now that I have reached the second stage of my life. But I don’t want to be harsh on myself for not being what my parents and brother and some people think I should be. Earth moves around Sun, and the Sun comes up from the east and goes down in the west. Not to acknowledge the nature of things is to ask for trouble. Likewise, I don’t want to pine for things I regret not having done or being the way I want, for life is too short to hold my what-ifs in the chapters of my life.

  • ‘The Complete Book of Cat Names’ by Bob Eckstein

    My rating: is 4 out of 5 stars.

    T.S. Eliot, an admirer of the cat, advocates the importance of naming them in his Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats because cats are so individual that they defy asinine nominative determinism inadvertently assigned by humans. Suppose cats like the names they are called. In that case, they will turn their heads toward the resonance of the calls with inquisitive eyes full of curiosity that often turns into alacrity of adventure. In this witty and illustrious book, Eckstein agrees with Eliot and gives practical advice on naming cats ranging from ancient legacies to modern celebrities.

    Toro, the Tiger

    Eckstein provides a variety of ideas about cat names according to the guardians’ cultural inclinations, such as history, fine arts, and entertainment. For example, if you are keen on ancient history, consider the names like Cleopatra or Caesar. Picasso or Figaro if you love their paintings. How about Bono of U2? Whatever it may be, one thing is sure your cat loves it by responding to the name. According to a book I read about dogs written by a monk who specialized in dog training, it is advisable to give a gender-specific name to a dog. For example, if it is a female dog, the name should end with the -na suffix. Conversely, if it is a male dog, it should end with -no. Although the canine and the feline are different species, I always think it is convincingly good advice. Hence, I named my tabby cat Toro, derived from Tora, meaning a tigress in Japanese. Incidentally, my zodiac animal is Tiger, so I thought it would be apropos of him. Does Toro like his name? You bet.

    Nero, being Nero

    My black cat now has a new name, Nero, changed from Camille, the name he didn’t respond to. Initially, I thought about naming him Bono as suggested by Eckstein, not because I like U2 but because I suspected my newly adopted cat being a Bombay cat with his beautifully shiny and sleek ebony fur coat. So I tried it, but there was no response. Then I remembered the song “A Black Cat Named Nero,” I liked when I was a little child. The result was Nero materialized. What can I say? Cats are individuals.


    I want to say this book is not only for readers with cats, but practically speaking, it isn’t. Any would-be cat owner or one who has just adopted a cat will find this book delightfully helpful in naming the cat. I have to say it reinforces me to change my second cat’s name from Camille to Nero. So when you call your cat, it should be the one only your cat has and likes it. You will know because your cat will meow. All cats are personal with stories to tell.

  • ‘I’m Glad My Mom Died’ by Jennette McCurdy


    My rating: 5 of 5 stars

    When I first learned of this sensationally titled book with the pinky perky cover photo of the author from the New York Times Book Review, I knew I had to read it because of its boldness and frankness that I believe would strike the chords of many who must have felt or wished it (let’s be honest). However, it was more like seeking a kindred spirit in such a titled book because I felt exhilarated with camaraderie and, once exonerated from such membership, a desire to revolt against mothers.


    But the book isn’t an angst-ridden, hate-filled, violence-saturated memoir nowadays in-vogue among celebrities who live to tell their dark life histories. Although it isn’t precisely wholesomely hall-mark like loving family history, it is worth pointing out the moments of love and warmth that childhood memories sometimes invoke because we thrive as human beings on those memories. McCurdy’s mother may not have been perfect, but who is an ideal mother anyway? The Bard once said that look not with the eye but with the mind. She was the one who saw talents in her daughter, encouraged them, and made them blossom into a pink dandelion when many parents either ignore or overlook the bests of their children for their future. Although I can understand McCurdy’s disaffection with her passionate mother controlling her life, I am envious of having such a mother who was willing to sacrifice her hard labor for her daughter’s success.


    The cover photo is puzzling. The author has a smile but not smiling, or instead trying to smile but is subdued as if her emotions are changing instantly or frozen in the moments between joy and sadness, independence and confusion in the transition of belonging to freedom. I can’t honestly fathom what the author thinks inside, but one thing is certain she loves her mother, who is now unburdened with the cares and pain of the world. Perhaps, that is why she is glad her mother died.



    View all my reviews

  • On Reading ‘Listen, World!: How the Intrepid Elsie Robinson Became America’s Most-Read Woman’ by Allison Gilbert and Julia Scheeres

    Elsie Robinson (1883-1956) was an unforgettable writer whose nationally syndicated column “Listen, World!” spanned over 30 years and garnered more than 20 million readers. Yet, her legacy has not met with the justice of recognition, forgotten in the careless oblivion under the shadows of her contemporary starry women writers. Nelie Bly was sensational as an undercover in a mental asylum and an ambitious challenger to Phileas Fogg of Around the World in 80 days. But Elsie Robinson was a champion of writers whose heartfelt writings touched the finer tissues of the millions of hearts who found solace and support in her words. She was honest, and her words were real, alive, and alike, and there was none other like her.


    Robinson was my kind of model writer who wrote from her experience and heart. Edgar Allan Poe would praise a type of writer with a passion for intoxicating the heart and the truth to satisfy reason. The fates had let her go through trials of life, but her mind exceeded the compass of her wheels. She didn’t mind working as a miner as a single mother before a tide of fortune finally took her to her literary career in the Oakland Tribune. While her peers and contemporary writers took the naval-gazing, angst-ridden narratives a la mode, Robinson used her writing to communicate with readers seeking elbow room in her column. They recognized themselves in the plight of a stranger and found commonalities in it, making them feel that they were not uniquely flawed. I guess that’s why Robinson didn’t get recognition as much as her contemporary peers, who enjoyed the stardom of literary legacy. She wanted to tell her woebegone readers their problems were not theirs but yours, mine, and ours.


    Like Kurt Vonnegut, Robinson wanted to let readers know that to express ourselves in the form of art is to allow our souls to grow, however poor or good, by encouraging us to write our own columns. In that regard, blogging is a great platform to express one’s artistic self without fear of rejection or ridicule, freed from the devil’s advocates of literary purists intent upon finding grammar faults in anyone’s writings. To that end, Robinson is a scintillating writer with an eye for truth and a heart for passion – like the sun in the twilight, remitting the splendor while retaining magnitude, dazzling the eyes of the beholders with the hearts’ contents. As a result, Robinson has become one of my darling writers.

  • The Girl Without Hands

    The devil came upon a poor miller
    In exchange for wealth with luster
    And wanted his daughter’s hands
    Though it pained her in blood and tears.

    Now the girl without hands wandered off
    Day and night with her tears washing off
    The pain she suffered from the promise
    Her father made with the devil for riches.

    The girl without hands came upon a garden
    Where Tree of Fruits of Grace seemed to beckon
    with the susurrus of leaves coaxing her
    And she saw a besotted king approaching her.

    The girl without hands became a queen
    But the devil returned with a scheme
    To kill her and her son for their pure souls
    As bounty for his region against angels.

    The girl without hands fled with her son
    Deep into a forest where seven years began
    Until the king found them in Angel’s Hut
    And the girl with no hands was no more.