Hello, my lovelies.
Isn’t this thrilling?! I’ve finished the tenth installment of The Constellations, which you can read here.
“Caelum” is in a genre very far afield, for me. I consider regurgitating my dinner when I read stories like this. However, it is the tenth story of eighty-eight- it won’t do to restrict myself to my comfort zone. We’d all get bored.
Well, while the story may be thrilling, the constellation itself is nothing but a big snooze, and it isn’t just me saying so.
Caelum is one of the smallest, dimmest, and least interesting constellations in the sky.
National Audubon Society’s Field Guide to the Night Sky
Ouch. Ridpath describes it as a “small and insignificant constellation in the southern hemisphere,” which sums it up nicely.
Caelum is the Chisel. Remember Nicolas Louis de Lacaille, who inflicted upon us Antlia, the Air Pump? Remember how much difficulty I had, fashioning a story with no other starting point than an air pump?
A chisel was even worse. It makes for an obvious murder weapon and not much else.
It’s such an obvious murder weapon, in fact, that it was a right struggle to incorporate a chisel into the story in any other capacity.
Introduced in 1756 with thirteen other boring-ass constellations, there’s no mythology associated with Caelum.
No help there.
I managed, nonetheless. Nobody died.
It felt weird.
I feel weird.
In other news, it’s spring, the green and flowers and beauty have completely turned my head, and not only am I writing stories like “Caelum,” but I’m also writing poetry.
In the immortal words of Fall Out Boy, are you ready for another bad poem?
I’ve got you covered, right here.