Rococo

I can see the threads of you resting their dismembered polymers on the raintrees outside this room; the remaining fibers being spun into these fairy lights that haven’t been lit up for Christmas yet. I came round last Friday and the week before, but you’re always absent.  Well, I can’t be wrong, can I? The schedule on the door states that your piano lessons are always marked Fridays, 4 to 5 pm for the intermediates. It’s more like your presence in my life has been defined much more suitably by your constant absence.

The sunsets are so pretty when the sunshine comes in. Do you see how the sunlight bends its lithe body and presses its fingers – curious little fingers they are – into the black, glossy surface, outlining that hard edge of gold? Don’t they look like a toddler’s snub fingers? I know decadent verses like this draw the most derisive snorts from you. But please allow me the indulgence today, for it recalls a memory, at once familiar and soothing.

I remember how the remaining unharvested strawberries used to rot in the golden fields outside your house and how your mum would swear at you for forgetting this simple task. She would stand on the porch, shaking her fist, her plump face flushed  in the sweltering heat. But  your face would split into this odd grin that reminded me of the consequences of the Cheshire cat put on a liquid diet. And I would have cycled by your house on one of these seemingly normal days, my hair doing a Superman in the breeze, hands gripped tightly round the rusty handlebars that left their auburn ashes on my palms. When I cycle past your house now, I keep checking my hands for gritty rust. It’s an awful habit of mine. But I always forget that I’ve been riding on the new Aleoca bike that replaced that old BMX you gave me for Christmas all these years ago. Paolo gave it to me. Do you know who Paolo is? They look the same and carry out the same function, but when I hop over the seat and clench my legs around the frame – now that’s where they’re different.

The solitary spotted dove sings its docile conclusion to the sunset before the soft patter of its feathers – first a silken rustle, then an incognizant echo – alerts me to its quiet exit. Yes. That was what you did. I unwrap my scarf and retie it, making sure not to snag the frail fabric. There’s a large gaping hole where it got caught on the bramble when you left that day. I was singing in the backyard with the strawberries. I don’t know if you remember giving me this scarf. I hope you do. Do you still remember your promise? Do you still remember me, clinging on to this worthless scarf that I should have thrown away, but somehow still find myself being unable to do so?

There’s hardly an inch of snow, but I see the trees waving their surrender to the winter’s night. My hand reaches forward to grab a branch that hovers within my reach, but it clenches at nothing but the inky sky. I can grasp at the ether, but I can’t hold it in my hands. All this air around me, enveloping me in its simultaneous embrace of intimacy and detachment. Why can’t I hold it, if I can grab it?  My breath makes its sprightly escape from between my lips, the condensation forced out like the steam absconding with its hard-won freedom from the spout of a boiling kettle. I inhale and exhale forcefully and my right hand tries to catch the gleeful escapee, but once again I clutch at nothing. My twin stares at me from beyond the fingerprint-smeared glass, unable to do anything, a pearl of a tear rolling down her cheek. That is all you’re allowed. The flow staunches itself. I walk over to the piano. That’s what I’m good at.

Then my scarf slips slightly, uncoiling itself, tired of holding on to a similarly wrinkled neck. The wreath of pungent burgundy starts to recall its age in a dip and the whoosh of old cloth – coffee stains five summers ago, a snag in the fabric during the peak hour rush. Its unraveling edges trail across the worn ivory. Stroked by pianists past their golden prime,  clumsily scratched by the fingernails of beginners yet to begin theirs.  A dirty shellac rag falls onto the floor, its graceful defeat by gravity a cruel confirmation of its lowly status. I can no longer go at it alone, anymore. I sink into the piano seat and close my eyes. The scent of strawberry shortcakes waft up from the bakery below.

I hear the door open, its sustained tone carefully shredding the tranquility into two, letting in a mere crack of light. The light slowly pools at my feet, man-made incandescence casting its spotlight as the door opens another crack.

Click. Thump. Click, thump, click, thump.

That’s it. That’s you.

I remember the footsteps of people very well. Here’s my dream catologue. Mum’s footsteps: the absent-minded scuffle of a patient housewife. Dad’s foosteps: slow, lumbering giant in Timberland boots. And you. Leather-suited heel down, first. That’s where the click comes from. Then the muffled thump as your shuffled step resonates. My eyelids flutter against their own will, battling 10 years of despair and hope. No, don’t open them – it’s not him! Yes! You’d recognize those footsteps anywhere!

I allow myself a little slit of thinly-lit vision. Mmmm. The vivid tones brim at the edges, quickly separating into dots of black, orange, white – all accomplished by the quiver of muscles that stitch such gratuitous immediacy to the seductive power of wilful ignorance. The sharp intake of my own breath that follows is a betrayal to the accumulated bile that has simmered underneath.

Your soft footsteps start coagulating into a reality that starts building its own momentum, rolling down a valley – right smack into  a torrent of unpleasant memories and the terror of the present solidifying with each step that tears itself away from the shadows.  The scream of tyres. Burning rubber. Upturned car. An  explosion. The raven that grasps my shoulders with its griffin’s claws melts away with your impending arrival. Why are you still here, right before me? The draughts blow in, and I shiver, but the goosebumps don’t come. He’s still alive.

The footsteps stop.

Oh my god.

It’s him. It’s really him.

Where have you been all these years?!

Then the seat beneath me inflates and deflates just as quickly. He has seated himself on the same chair that I’m on, occupying the empty space beside me. Filling it in with pitch-black gooey Plaster-Of-Paris – the words come quickly, in a torrent, reading from a hastily scrawled note – the form of a  5′ 10″ human shaped figure of 36 years, who liked beat-up cars and penny books –

Something brushes against my bare skin, the faintest of impressions. The small piano seat is too small for two. His elbow nudges my arm. The expeditious invasion is now complete. My shaky breathing starts to quicken, collecting any breathable scrap of him into my lungs. Hungry for more, binging on the present. Strawberry. Cologne. The one that I gave him for his birthday! My heartbeat jars. More, more, more –

I wait for him to speak, to break these foreboding fences down. Anything to convince me that we could start afresh; to put away these 10 long years into a crate, nail it shut, shove it into a drawer and carry on as if nothing ever happened. As if that never happened.

He clears his throat. I bite my lips. Then silence perforates the barriers.

Unable to contain myself anymore, my eyes burst open and the room swims before them, orange, black and green dots morphing into the bitter mixture of dismay and anger obscuring my vision, burning my throat. I stand up, all ready to shout obscenities at him, to rail against him for our baby girl now clasped in eternal slumber underneath an inconsequential tablet. Then I take in his whole bulk, and gasp as my eyes flicker upon his face. The scarf now unwinds itself, fluttering to the floor, its invoking ability now powerless against the crushing truth that stands before me.  A hand flies to cover my own mouth in defense against my shock; to stop myself from screaming, but the sobs come hard and fast, venomous in their strength. My legs finally crumple underneath me, all sense of ostentatious fortitude gone.

He turns his milky white eyes onto me, and pauses, before saying the exact phrase I don’t want to hear.

“I’m sorry.”

© Zelda Reville


Michiru Aoyama‘s music is manna for inspiration.

Anonymity

“Do you know why he committed suicide?” He asked, chewing on gum like any bored young man would do.

I thought for a moment, and frowned. “Wasn’t it because of his depression?”

He remained silent for a few minutes, and then shook his head.

“Why then?” I heard myself asking, my curiosity piqued by his delayed response. “Isn’t that what some people do; when they sink too deep into the depths, and everything hems in from all sides until they have nowhere to walk on but the roads of Death?”

Tom spat his gum out onto the sidewalk. “He killed himself, that poor bastard, because he couldn’t bear to live day after day, drowning in the dregs of his colourless life.”

“He despised – no, he was terrified of – the thought; of living past his youth, into the curse of old age, and degenerating slowly – crumbling and folding into frailty and sickness, till he passed on.”

He lit a cigarette which I hadn’t noticed before, and continued. “He figured that if he took his life when he was still able and young, he wouldn’t have that happening to him. Did you know how much he hated that? He kept telling me: Tom , help me, I can’t take this shit life anymore. I tried to shake him out, I really did. But that fucking idiot was completely out of his mind – he just sat there day by day mumbling to himself, and then he took his own life yesterday. Hanged himself by the oak tree, just near the dorm. Fucking hell, he could have chosen a better place.”

He took a long drag on his cigarette, breathing out sickly nicotine fumes, and shrugged helplessly, looking forlorn. “He was going into his engineering undergraduate studies too! Top of the class, he was. Well, not anymore – he’s in the ground now, not knowing we’re having this conversation, and not knowing that he’s become a fucking prick.” Tom laughed, its hollowness ringing in my ears. “His life wasn’t colourless. His family’s rich. Nice bird hangin’ on his arm too. Sky high grades. Great life waiting for him after university. I don’t get it. Why do all these silly, philosphical fuckwits kill themselves, and why do the girls throw themselves onto them idiots?”

Tom stubbed out the cigarette, and the ashes flew onto his bare, heavily- veined arm. “Even the cig’s trying to piss me off today! Damn it, the whole lot of you are trying to drive me insane!” He swore, flinging the burnt cigarette onto the grass. I watched him walk off, and sighed.

Tom needed time alone, and now was not the time.

(I found this while clearing out my inbox…totally forgot this was still lying around! I was supposed to flesh this out but I wasn’t able to. Oh well.)

© Zelda Reville

Scarlet

Her face scrunched into bewilderment, but loosened itself, and a easy laug escaped from her throat – a tinkling sort of giggle, like when you accidentally hit chipped glasses against one another. She blew smoke into my spluttering face. My question must seem ludicrous to her, I thought; and my palms started to sweat in response.

Her hair, a crisp, strawberry blonde, seemed to be glued to her scalp, the strands barely moving in the slight breeze. She was dressed very simply, with stretches of pure flesh on show. The straps of her red camisole dipped their crimson vines into slightly burned skin, brushing against it with the sort of practiced demureness that often threatens to make naivety extinct. I shuddered.  Her arms moved as she drew the cigarette away from her equally tacky lips, inducing a sea of goose pimples that broke onto the marble of the badly peeling bark. I winced.

From where I was standing, I could see the flecks of dead skin emerge from her bad suntan. Like the shells of albino mealworm pupae, I thought. They come out from their chrysalis,
all bottle-black and ready to rumble.

Then my mind flashed back to the latest movie; to one of the more memorable female characters. Like Harley Quinn, but actually only a quarter badass.

Then she spoke.

“Remember – the more vivid the tattoos, the more promises these people have broken.”

“Huh?”

Her eyes started to roll, but she shifted her gaze towards the dying potted plants. “It’s alright, sonny. You don’t have to crack your head over what I said.”

Then a brazen thought quivered in its skin; and floated, a disembodied shroud of green, to my brain, distinct and fully-formed from the remains of the broken porcelain that lay crushed under the boot of Harley Quinn’s patent leather boots. A wide, scarlet grin displayed itself on her heart-shaped face, proud and unyielding, to any man or creature whatsoever. Then, jumping from the cerebral lily pads of grey, she landed on my tongue nimbly – all ready to be asked; to be spat forward in response, where she would take her wooden bat and crush someone’s brain into a mushy pulp.

“What if I got tattooed in place of somebody else?”

She froze, her head resembling a wind vane, scarlet tipped with a proud cockerel crowning the apex, slowly tilting to the south. I bit my lip, looking down at my scuffed shoes. One of them had a big splotch of mud on the heel of the shoe,  a grubby result from yesterday’s hectic schedule.

Then she sighed.

“Trust me – you don’t want to do that.”

© Zelda Reville

 

Engentado Chapter 3 – Jordan

He continues to smoke, a slender hand deftly equipped with a cigarette that glows in the dim light, a beacon that refuses to be extinguished in the dusk. Dirty lilac duvets hastily pushed to a corner of the creaky bed. A crooked overhead lamp protests feebly against the dark, which swallows the both of us in an unprecedented silence. I sit on his lap, picking at a stubborn hangnail that refuses to peel off.

My bare skin prickles under the frigid current of the beastly air-conditioner, which rattles like an old-age pensioner on his last legs.

“Jordan?”

“Yeah?”

“I was just walking through the market today.”

He brought the cigarette to his lips.

“So what’d you get, Laura?”

I held up a Polaroid photo. “This.”

“What’s that, Laura?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “It’s nothing, really. Could you turn up the air-conditioner? And get my bra for me, at the very least?”

His lips pursed on a smoky drag, he glances at me. Then a car door slams, shattering the stillness, and the tell-tale rumbling chug of an ancient car echoes down the street. His face becomes nothing more than a canvas for the faintest gleam of light that first sneaks up over the drawn blinds, slowly growing brighter as it hovers over the dingy walls like a stray spotlight, finally making its triumphant ascent to the ceiling. A stray fleck of light flickers in the sticky malevolence of his eyes, where it struggles, a careless firefly drowning in a mud bog and then dies, its curious body subsumed by the inkiness. Then his gaze swiftly bonds with the childlike luminescence, still shrouded and I feel his gaze climbing over my skin, sliding off my shoulders, caressing my arms and tickling the dark mire of confusion nestling carefully between my thighs, where the light pools for a split moment, before reaching out with its spidery fingers for his face. My skin tingles, but he’s barely touched me.

Then he blinks and I watch the dark lashes part and lower in that flicker, his eyes now looking past me, staring intently at his bellybutton. His hair, slicked back, with a stray curl of ebony that now caresses his wide forehead, cradling the entire angularity of his jaw line and head. The light now slows to a creeping saunter along his face, carving in sloping cheekbones with the dexterity of a master woodcutter. And yet, still – he continues to smoke, the stream of white hanging in the air, oblivious to everything – my double-blinded love, my insatiable lust, my explosive anger.

I now watch the lithe body unfold itself, ancient veins now surging against the crashing tide of his skin that stretches waxen over his entire frame. Lines of blue and green interweave over his skin. I always complain that he’s barely skin and bone; he’s always consuming strange pills, drinking one too many shots – but there is something in the way he walks that makes me involuntarily shiver. I observe his arm that slowly extends, like the latticed boom of a crane, to pick the moth-eaten garment from the far side of the bed. But his fingers freeze in mid-air, and a grin stretches itself, Cheshire Cat-like, on his face.

 “No can do, Laura, I wanna see you hanging out like that.” The other hand reaches out towards me, cupping my right breast, teasing the already puckering nipple. I wrest away from his meddlesome fingers. Then, out of nowhere, another finger miraculously finds itself between my legs, sliding itself neatly into a well of pooling moisture that I apparently fail to notice. And I feel it going higher, and higher, and –

Click, click, click.

It lands on something cold and metallic, and then, as if unsure of the reality of the object in question, taps on it. Then I see his expression change – his head involuntarily tilting in confusion, quickly sliding into an expression of bewilderment at something that has deftly glided past his all-knowing comprehension. The ground is sliding at his feet. I try my best not to smile at this tiny victory afforded to me.

But his puzzlement gives way to a boyish smile that lights up his entire face, the sparks in the bonfire blazing brightly in the gloom. I clench my teeth, not wanting to give myself away. He whistles under a breath that has grown strangely ragged and savage. I can feel his quivering member under my thigh, ready to pounce like some caged animal that has had its freedom restored.

“I don’t believe it, Laura. You really got yourself pierced down there? Fucking hell, Laura! I dared you for the hell for it and you actually did it. Fucking hell!” He starts to laugh, a deep belly laugh that scrabbles from the bowels of his stomach, made worse by a sudden hacking cough that leaves a tiny spot of spittle on my cheek. I glare at him, but he takes no notice.

Outside the windows, the sky emits an ominous rumble as he grunts, roughly pushing me back onto the bed, and I fall back into the pungent embrace of unwashed bedsheets. A sudden fear seizes me as my back seems to plummet towards some yawning hole, but my scabby elbows kiss the soft covers of the duvet and I wince as the pain detonates, jolting towards my hands and fingers. Then the room lights up,  a beautiful, terrible cacophony of beating rain, sheet lightning and thunder, and I catch a glimpse of the dilated points of desire that mark the unsheathed cobalt surface of his beautifully lashed eyes. He sits up once more, his greedy hands smoothing out my skin, kneading it accordingly to his whims, making their way towards familiar territory. My back arches, a delicious ecstacy that maddens and tears me, as I catch a glimpse of his raven head bobbing between my thighs.

“Jordan…”

“Be quiet, Laura…” The faintly mocking illogicality echoes in my ears; running down dark tunnels strewn with half-worn shoes, urine-soaked alleys illuminated by moonlight, filthy staircases…and I am reminded of the dead dragonfly from last Wednesday. In a flash, I recall the dream from last night, but it is far too late. The polaroid flutters to the floor.

The hinges always seem to come off at some point, no matter how hard I try to fix that gate.

(Psst…read Part 2 over here!)

© Zelda Reville

 

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

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

A Conversation Between Beatrice and Mummy

“Mummy, I don’t want to go to school.”

The rickety chair scrapes the floor unwillingly. A little breadcrumb falls, and lands on the floor.

She wipes her mouth with her tiny, spidery hands, full of eggs and ham, and everything nice. A half-empty mug filled with hot Milo sits on the table, regrettably forlorn, on a sea of red-and-white checkered cloth. The smell of fermented shrimp paste lingers in the air.

The white uniform, with its pleated blue skirt, stands out proudly. A name tag with the name “Beatrice” winks at her mum, as if asking her half in spite and half in glee, “Do you regret giving birth to this little imp already?” But her mum shakes her head, as if to laugh along with the absurd notion. Her smile beams back in reply. “How could I ever regret having my little girl?”

But the answer from the little girl hangs limply, like a wet sock, in the air. The girl repeats her sentence again. Her eyes inadvertently start crinkling down at the corners, a sob trembling her little angel chin.

“Mummy, I don’t want to go to school.”

Her mum sighs, the answer forming lines on her elegant forehead. A few strands of grey hair slide from her windswept bun.”But you must, Beatrice!”

Her answer is met by a downturned mouth, and dangerously watery eyes.

Mummy prepares herself for the inevitable rant.

“But I hate school, Mummy! If I could stop school now, I would be so happy! Studying is so boring! Why can’t I play with my friends instead?”

Mummy kneels down to Beatrice’s level, and smiles once more at her.

“Beatrice, do you know something?” She strokes her daughter’s hair. “You will leave school one day. But not now. School is good for you. It makes you see things in different ways. You can also gain valuable knowledge.”

Beatrice’s eyes widened at the new word. Her curious brain grappled with the unfamiliarity of this new unknown in her mind.”Mummy, what does ‘knowledge’ mean?”

Her mum laughed. “It means you will know much more than Mummy! And with all that good stuff stored away in your brain, you can help me too!”

Beatrice’s formerly glum expression slowly uprights itself into a resplendent smile.

“I will do my best, Mummy!”

(I’ve had this lying in my drafts for god knows how long, lol…)

© Zelda Reville