How George Blew His Top – Part 1

Once upon a time, there stood three, lofty mountains.

If mountains could be separated accordingly to their gender, there would be two male mountains and one female mountain –

Supposedly female, as judged by the two male mountains, who could barely make out two swollen peaks jutting out of the billowing tufts that obscured their vision (and ardent admiration) for her beauty. They finally knew one fine summer’s day, when a shrill voice screamed “Get away from me!” as a humble camel ascended her peaks.

Being mountains, they could not move from where Nature, that sly puppeteer, had condemned them to stay, so they passed their expansive, idle time by mostly sitting in silence. On occasion they would converse with each other, and find out what each other’s inhabitants had been up to.

These settlers had turned up unannounced one day, and proceeded to make each mountain their home without further delay.

A religious sect had set up shop on the first male mountain, a wandering philosopher had declared the second male mountain his perfect haven, and two magnificent eagles spied the female mountain as the perfect place to call their home. Both eagles had since spawned a healthy eagle population on the previously eagle-free area.

As it conspired, today was one of these days, and the second male mountain was bemoaning his unfortunate fate to them. He called himself George after he’d heard someone call the philosopher that. He knew not what a George was, but it sounded nice and good as a name; furthermore, he was tired of being called Blue Peak. First, he was not blue, and second, he felt that the name Blue Peak was lacking in character, somewhat – passe, bland, two common nouns hastily strung together for the sake of naming this mountain something.

He felt he had a shining destiny laid for him, in his path. He knew not what this was, but it winked at him periodically in his daydreams, like the stars in the sky. He sighed.

George was a very laid-back and patient mountain, but then again, all mountains are laid-back and patient to an extent. He had learned many philosophical theories over the years by listening to the philosopher’s lectures, and therefore made better use of his eternal life by musing over them.  But lately all that pondering only served to put George in a dreadful mood…which could only be described as something along the vague, scholarly lines of “existential despair”. George had first heard the term issued by a belligerent student. This melancholic, restless feeling, he assumed, was probably what this word meant.

“I wish he would stop bringing in more students, they’re ruining my forests with all that chopping for firewood. They’re turning me BALD.” George griped to the first male mountain, who called himself Chris for the same reasons as George. Chris, being much more reckless than George, became increasingly at odds with George as their inhabitants were constantly bickering with each other. Both secretly wished that they could get away from each other, but alas – they couldn’t move, and so they continued their luckless fate. They could only hope for the unreliable clouds to obscure each other from sight.

Chris was in a jubilant mood, having spoken to the female mountain earlier, while simultaneously ogling her glorious pinnacles.

“He is doing God’s work, only with philosophy,” Chris replied benignly. “George is doing a good job.

Religion and philosophy tentatively held hands for once, though peering at each other with suspicion.

“Did you mean me, or that fleabag philosopher?” George asked, morosely.

“Him, of course.”

Both of them soon lapsed into deep silence.

“Well, don’t you say!” exclaimed the female mountain suddenly.

“What, Bird?” Both Chris and George answered. They’d called her that after Chris had overheard an excited toddler exclaiming, “Bird, bird!” as he saw a circling eagle.

“It’s not much, really. I was just eavesdropping on the eagles. You’re going to have new people staying with you again, George!” Bird said.

“Perhaps you should be more careful, now that they know you’ve heard everything,” George replied cautiously.

“Aww don’t worry, they don’t speak mountain! They’ll think it’s one of those tremors again.” Bird replied brightly. George silently applauded and admired her unceasing optimism.

He wished he had half of her joyous personality – or at least her carefree approach to life. Damn it all – why had the philosopher chosen him, of all places, to stay on?

As he raged, the clouds; fluffy, majestic masterpieces of Nature’s doing, parted  like the velvet curtains of an opening theatre show, and he then witnessed Bird in her feminine glory. Her unconscious sensuality and naive seduction were displayed at their very best, with the addition of the late summer’s rays. She was clothed in a bejewelled emerald sheath of lush forest that clung to all the right places – Good god, those rising peaks! – and he continued to stare in undisguised awe. Somewhere in George, a tremor split the ground open. No one was harmed, though the philosopher balked at how his overweight pony had fallen to its premature death, into the newly-created crevasse.

Then, without warning, he felt the strangest sensation. A deep, dark, angry…something. This…something had inconspicuously attached itself to his volatile mire of existential despair. What was this?

He was very confused. It was the first time he’d ever encountered anything like it. No word from his limited vocabulary could describe this roaring Minotaur that was barely chained to the ground.

In his mind’s eye, this curious beast looked like a reddish black mob of angry ants. And then, through this tangled mess he discerned a faint thread of yearning – first spiraling out, gossamer-thin, then becoming a mass of tangled lines, red and purple and black, which lashed at him. George tried to shake this not altogether unpleasant feeling away, but the more he stared at Bird, the more intense this feeling grew.

A passing gale soon swept the clouds in Bird’s direction, obscuring her from his sight. The intensity of this feeling subsided with the elegiac movement of the clouds, although now it continued to lick at him like kindling embers gnawing away at firewood. George mulled over this sudden change in mood. He decided to seek counsel from the only friend he had, even though in all honesty, he would have given everything to get away from him on some days. But still, he was the only person he could count on, and he knew it was the same for that friend too.

“Chris?”

“Yes, George?”

“Erm, have you ever felt…” George hesitated for a moment. He wasn’t sure how to best articulate this emotion to Chris. His dangling sentence abruptly terminated itself as his mind tried to package this vague feeling into appropriate language. He observed his inner monologue dully as it hurriedly pulled up words from messy book shelves, pored over them. Realization and rapture saw him ascend rapidly to the dizzy heights of ecstasy, his internal monologue praising itself on its fantastic rational, logical, genius mind. Unfortunately, this short reign was quickly replaced by a writhing despair, as self-doubt rose like the mightiest of waves, more frightening then what Noah saw as his ark sailed the treacherous sea. He soon sighed, yielding to a rather agreeable ennui as he watched his perfectly built train of thought topple to the ground in a detached manner, scattering the pieces of logic everywhere. Why did he even try sometimes? What even was the point?

Chris’s voice rudely jolted him from the grasp of his inner world.

“George? What were you saying?”

George sighed. “It’s nothing, Chris…”

© Zelda Reville


Do mountains dream of playboy bunnies and drunken philosophy? Who knows? I’m planning to put this out as a 3 part series to challenge my lazy ass to write something more than 3000 words. I don’t know if I’ll actually complete this, but I’ll try…

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A Resident Of Teeth Park Complains

“Chorus boy!
You peddle insinuating
off-key melodies;
stamp with spite on
enameled floorboards,
claim the Diamond Throne
as your own -“

Aye. You there. Come over here and I’ll tell you a story. You say you can’t sleep? Well, me too – or anyone else in this godforsaken area. There’s no damned sleep for anyone in this neighbourhood tonight, so you might as well give it up. Keep the windows shut, will you? Do you want some hot chocolate? Yes? Ok. There you go.

You know Toby? Good for you. He’s the mayor of this district. A real nice boy with the most adorable cheeks. Mum and Dad love him to bits. He always gets the good grades in school and says his prayers before going to bed. Oh yes. But he never brushes his teeth. What? You say that’s not a problem? Well, it’s not a problem for him, yes – how could a tiny, ineffectual motion cumbersome to sweet Sleep be a considerate problem, considering how inviting the bed can be? But on our terms, he’s ignoring the water pipes that burst and the overflowing garbage in the streets. And that’s a big problem cos he’s just invited some unsavoury people to our lovely neighbourhood. For convenience’s sake, we’ll call them Mr C. and G. Let’s start with Mr C first.

The whereabouts of Mr G have been lost to time, but I’ve gathered a morsel here and there. Mr G was an illegitimate child of unknown origin, who used to hide and shiver in the theater wings eking out a miserable existence as he avoided the Toothbrush Brigade and Toothpaste Legion. I’ve always wondered how this crafty specimen came to be, since he usually remains invisible from prying eyes for most of the time. He’s a bit like the Italian mafioso. Thin mustache, beady eyes, lips forever curled on the edges of a really bad joke that never leaves his mouth, preferring to keep the puns to himself.

But the arrival of another portly and petulant choir boy – blessed with the ignorable name of Messr. C  – saved Mr G’s arse one dark and stormy night. In doing so, he also sealed the fate of Teeth Park. Like any gangster worth his mettle, owning a well-stocked armoury to terrorize the Teeth residents is something they do very well. This terrible anthem is the tune to which they dance to, as they bring a rod swinging onto someone else’s head:

“Rusty saucepans,
holey drums,
the booming and
our favourite
of all time –
the pneumatic drill!”

By god, I hate that drill… It makes the whole neighbourhood vibrate on its rollies, shakes the dentures out of them old folkies and scares the noisy macaws out of the trees! I can’t sleep with them making all this racket at 3 in the morning! Argh! Well, you know…this reminds me of the good old days, flanked with  picture-ready sunsets and morals to match. The Toothbrush Legion and Toothpaste Brigade would make their daily patrols every night, watching out for these particular two troublemakers… but ever since Toby stopped brushing his teeth, they have no need to fear fluoride bullets, or the Mouthwash Of Peril. Why, you ask? Let me show you something, son. These cheeky rascals pinned this note to the board outside the police station last night. They are the end of us, I tell you. Not unless we do something.

“Who cares
for triclosan tear gas
or abrasives,
when you’ve got
pure sugary corruption?”

That’s not all. Have you seen Ms. H? She’s that odd lady with the sky-high bouffant, thinking that she’s still stuck in 1969. You’ve probably seen her dumpster diving in the late afternoons, or trying to woo terrified teenagers with her questionable amorousness. There’s no mistaking that horrid dress sewn with sequins of moss-green and spittle-flecked diamonds, sashaying down the red carpet like some phony Marilyn Monroe. She nearly set her pitbull on me once when I yelled at her to keep away from my trash bin. Good lord! I can’t remember when Toby sold his dear soul to the donut shop down his street.

I tell you, his mum’s obviously spoiled him with too much liquorice and gummy bears. You know, I have this suspicion that maybe his mum is Satan in disguise. If his mum is really Satan, then what on Earth is his Dad doing to him?!

© Zelda Reville


 

 

 

 

 

 

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