The Girl With The Silver Hair

This was a short story I wrote when I was around 11 or 12, I think…LOL I had to post this here to see how far I’ve come 😂

Lira sighed heavily as she dragged her stubborn dog Mario into the house. She swept her silver-tinted hair back and gave a final tug on the leash, and Mario finally relented, slumping on the ground, panting heavily.

She leaped into the kitchen, her deep blue eyes twinkling with amusement at her twin brother, Lionel, who was trying in vain to piece a difficult jigsaw puzzle. Lira grinned.

Lira was an ordinary 15 year old girl who exceled at sports. She possessed a super agility. Her mother sometimes joked that she must have been a cheetah in her previous life. She had unusual silver hair, which was long and silky. When she first went to elementary school, her mother had to convince the principal that it was a natural hair colour and not dye. She turned heads with her soulful, deep blue eyes, swept-back cheekbones and aquiline nose. Her brother, Lionel, was the same. He had instead rugged features, with deep green eyes to match. Many girls had fallen for his looks.

Lira then headed upstairs to her room, pausing briefly to pop a CD into her CD player, and then flopped down onto her bed.

She felt restless. She knew that she had a great life, a great family and an amazing bunch of friends, but somehow, she felt that she did not belong.

She looked at her nails. They were growing too fast for her liking.  This was pretty weird.

She shook her head.

Suddenly, something exploded in her mind.

© Zelda Reville

Engentado Chapter 2: Laura’s Dream

A silent struggle
obscures borders
of comprehension

as I glimpse into
the inundation

of a ceaseless,
dreadful wonder

pregnant with
some vague,
gloppy desire –

always clinging,
never letting go;

even when
the bloodied entrails
have long dried out

and nothing remains
of the physical.

As I watch your body
snatching greedily

at the belated happiness
in my exhaled fascination –

No – my exaltedness
that glimmers,

untold secrets in this
thin stream of air;

a precipitous favour
that only I grant

to the most worthy
of my chosen ones.

Remember, child –
this does not
belong to you.

A molten core,
from which
softly spun threads

of a puppet’s strings
slowly unravel
from my warm breath –

I command you to rise –

as the wings
soon vibrate
with the
tiniest motion…

And the sun,
revealing itself,
scorching glory

and evermore,

puts the
sacred flame
to the silent torches
of its compounded eyes –

purple, obsidian, emerald

soon leap from
the bowels of blackest

Now, seek worth in my favour!

A leg twitches,
the flute-like body

My hands tremble,
my heartbeat kicks up
a gallop.

A corpulent
bead of sweat,

in which
is distilled
a sweet, fervent

slowly leaves
a salty trail
down my face.

But my emptying lungs
can go no further

and soon
the passionate vibrato
of its wings

slow down
to the gentle burr
of a wintry river,

the weak,
uninspired flutter
in the last few seconds
of mechanized life

as my lungs
finally deflate

and the clouds
choose to cruelly

the sun’s favour
at this exact moment.

The flames
in its eyes
die down to a
perfunctory shimmer,

the livid gaze
of a dead fish’s eyes.

I repeat
this feat again
but its eyes
serve to mock

and fling me
onto the rocks,
watching my silly antics
with a brutish glee

as I shatter into
a thousand pieces,

to be swept away
by that pale little,
wintry stream.

This slight girl that
deigns to scatter
parts of me

to the crows, the volcanoes,
a poor graveyard,
a laughing audience…

But before the waters
can carry
my femur bones
to a rubbish dump –

I’m not that cowardly!

My numb legs
spring to life,
and bring
my bruised body

to its feet

as I brush my hands off,
stuffing my anger
in a glare

at the empty dragonfly husk –

Well, of course!

Tell me –

of what use is an animal,

without the blatant
greed of its own
inherent will –

(Part 1’s over here.)

© Zelda Reville

#EA3C53 — WovenEclipse

I hereby acknowledge the information packrat in me, with this original poem from Woven Eclipse.

#FFFFFF cannot compare to the sensation of being #000000 Those men look at you, with those #FF0000 eyes. #FFFAFA is not good enough. Nor is #FFFFF0. They want more. Your skin tinted #555D50. Now you have their attention. Your legs spread open, #F88379, #FFC0CB, #CD5C5C That’s my 100th blog post complete! 🙂 Hmm, so […]

via #EA3C53 — WovenEclipse

Letter to R

Rain, why do you

such wide-eyed gashes
on the pristine windows,

streaks of the flesh
that spill from
Dante’s whip?

Capturing shards
of vignettes
so prettily
in dissonance,

the riots,
once stolen
or twice entombed

in globular visages
of convex dewdrops –

You see, Rain –

I can almost count
these crimes
with my fingers,

like how your
watery kiss lingers;

over this mirror –

Ariadne and
a stigmata of
shining martyrs,

Thalia, of the sea,
that draws
her lute forth,
like the Reaper

and little Proserpina…
oh – poor Proserpina!

Rain, was it thus done

to magnify
some detail
of neglect

in crude glory,

or to accomplish
the pettiness
of pig-eyed

nihilistic generals?

How unfortunate then,
that one never
knows exactly –

because careless wipers,

shameless procurers
of spring’s naivete

scrub these
short-lived affairs
away, erasing

the aftereffects of
silver-stained rapes

as soon
as the mirror
turns its shame

into the rosiest
blush of grey

© Zelda Reville


I squat down at my newest find.

A pair of hooded eyes observes my casual saunter towards its burden.

I light a cigarette, and a perfumed stream of nicotine escapes through my pursed lips. My hand phone rings, and I struggle to retrieve it from a bag that seems highly offensive to people for some reason.  I wrestle with several dog-eared books, a half-empty bag of chips and my tangled headphones. After some minutes it stops ringing and lies dormant in my hand.  I look at my phone, wondering who on earth it is. Nobody ever deigns to call me, so this disruption comes as a rather pleasant surprise. And then I catch sight of my own reflection – a face; grim and armed, with a convenient, laconic smirk stares back from the greasy screen.

Well, hello there, I rasp drily to my own reflection.

I unlock my phone, and as my eyes dart across the illuminated screen my eyes involuntarily roll towards the dingy ceiling of the smoke stop staircase.

The boss needs me back in ten minutes.

My unwashed hair is starting to itch.  I’ve always disliked the attention it gets from strangers and familiars alike. It is always waging an endless war against the efforts of every hairdresser that has been compelled by this strange bush –  cuts, blowdries, straightening, fringes – nothing seems to tame this hideous wilderness of nature, a tangle of bristly hair the colour of brassy, bright-eyed chestnuts. Or the ambiguous hue of flowing ditchwater, glassy-jawed and open-mouthed, in the mossy canals during the September monsoons.

I’ve given up trying to explain myself too. Like how you adjust yourselves to an uncomfortable chair after some time, my awkwardness doesn’t seem to bother people anymore. Or my own perception of myself, at least. Who the fuck cares? Just simply being becomes so baffling after a while. One of my friends used to say, “Stop thinking so much, Laura, you know you’re good enough, just do it.” I think she’s got a point or two there. Well, actually, I’m not very sure whether I’m good enough. All I know is that I grit my teeth and get down to the dirty job. If it works, that’s great. The only problem is when nothing works, and you can’t do anything to correct it, and then you get sucked into the crevasse of in-betweens.  I strongly dislike in-betweens. How does one deal with greys and lavenders, azure blues and sapphires? I’d very much like to handle blacks and whites, red and blues, good and bad. This is why I dislike rainbows as well. What does one exactly do with a multi-coloured loom handle? A myriad of options and a variety of disappointments. Where do I start to choose? Hope and despair are but one and the same, albeit on different sides of the coin.

I crouch down to take a closer look, well-worn jeans scrunching at my knees, wrinkling the tough, indigo fabric; my curiosity has been ignited by this insect that refuses to take flight.  Such bravery, for a little midget that flits among the flowers trying to catch their attention, but forgetting that flowers cast their heads down, and only wink at the butterflies and bees. I laugh and an uneasy, artificial hollowness radiates throughout my body that gathers at my fingertips, emptying me of the alienating brevity that sobers my mind.

Such impudence, indeed.

Nevertheless, I am still intrigued.  My hand involuntarily reaches out, sparked by a wonder that hums and unfolds, letting go of the doubt that curdles my limbs – wanting to touch, explore, feel. Then, as suddenly as it happens, a disturbing thought blazes in my mind, and it shrinks back again, as if it had been slapped away by an invisible hand.

I peer at its large saucer eyes, lit with some compelling mystery that I can’t quite pin down, by a solitary fluorescent light that flickers with fatigue. Its eyes glow with the temptation of promises. I am led to a thousand mirrors, in which I can see myself slowly traversing a spinning atlas globe with luggage bags in hand, which soon picks up speed. A papyrus boat drifting down the river Nile. Reading a copy of Baudelaire’s The Flowers Of Evil in an empty street, the grounds full with plush, faded blossom. Mum stirring a pot of curry at the stove, as the wan light filters in through the plastic curtains, staining her skin a frangipani pink.

The simpering odour of washing powder, fried chicken and the smell of motor exhaust permeates my nostrils even as the rubbish cascades out of the litter bin, a glorious tide of spent human excesses, an ironic ode to the perverse joys of consumerist greed. A stray can rolls out of nowhere, teasing my foot with the guilelessness of a frolicking Persian cat. I give the can a stunningly vicious kick that dents its aluminium body with no effort, and a strange feeling wells inside me. 

The smoke issues from my half-burnt fag, its insouciance revealed by the manner in which it drifted. Jagged precipices of wispy smoke reached out to caress and stroke the dusty parapet, weaving itself artfully amongst the muted leaves of the overarching rain tree, never quite grasping anything in its charming, slippery hold. Almost as if it were bored with the blatant normalcy of the neatly lined cars beyond the filthy, half-chipped door –

I look to the door and through the square panel of glass that offers me a view of the grotesque.

Primary blocks of black, red and white on wheels; as compliant and frustratingly ordered as settled life; yawning and stretching its long, pale legs cocooned in sheer black stockings, winking at me as it beckons.

To what, exactly? I do not know. Would I ever want to know?

I could try, I guess.

But I’m so tired. I look at my watch again, my hunches aching in the awkward position that I am cocooned in. I crush the cigarette with my scuffed sneaker shoes. It burns the dragonfly’s left wing, a silver coin of hope that crinkles into a charred burnish.

Time to go, Laura. Work beckons.

(This was originally part of a poem, but some little bird told me that I could take this a step further and I did.)

© Zelda Reville

Moodboard – A Rainy Moon

“Children, and people who retain some ingenuous trait of childhood, are almost indecipherable, I realize that. Nevertheless, in a child’s face, there is just one revealing, one unstable area, a space comprised between the nostril, the eye and the upper lip, where the waves of secret delinquency break on the surface. It is as swift and devastating as lightning. Whatever the child’s age, that little flash of guilt turns the child into a ravaged adult. I have seen a serious lie distort a little girl’s nostril and upper lip like a hare-lip…”

– Colette, The Rainy Moon

Another fantastic writer that I recently unearthed through the Wayward Girls And Wicked Women anthology by Angela Carter.

 Her writing evokes violently, flows like a serene river between the worlds of reality and imagination and sighs, turning up at streams to pluck a thread of blonde hair with quivering fingers. I think of her as a wonderfully female libertine, sensual intellectual and a 20-century version of Sappho (but somewhat luckier) – she was the first French female novelist to be granted a state funeral after she was refused a religious funeral by the Catholic church. If that’s not badass (with a bit of good old Irish luck), I don’t know what is.

Blog post – So here we are…

Hi folks, if you’ve been seeing lesser posts from me – well, this is why…

The more I write, the more I’ve realized that I don’t want to post shoddy writing work, or a piece of which the meaning may resonate with me at the moment of writing, but fades to nothing with the passage of time. So I’ve slowed down my pace; to take the time to smell the flowers along the pebble-strewn path, as they say. I’ll also be doing the odd submission when the opportunity arises.

I apologize for not being more social these past few weeks – part of my brain seems to turn to mush now when I chance upon a good piece, and I simply just hit the ‘like’ button and say nothing else. Perhaps when the mental fog clears up, I might be chattier…

Moodboard: Kate Bush – Aerial An Endless Sky Of Honey

I’ve been sinking into the second part of Kate Bush’s Aerial record, a musical document of the sticky skies of late afternoon, the watercolour sunset, through the star-filled clouds of the night and back to the brimming sunrise of the new morning, complete with blackbirds chirruping. Fantastic for inspiration, or simply allowing her music to transport you to another different place.  I’ve always loved how she weaves poetry into her music, and how effortlessly seamless it all is – plus the music sounds exactly like what it’s supposed to sound like!