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I haven't posted a bit of flash for a while so I thought I'd share my story, Complicit, from last week's Microcosms contest where it was placed 2nd Runner Up. But the main reason I'm posting it is because I cannot stand hypocrisy and as I developed the story it somehow gravitated towards recent events involving Harvey Weinstein and the reaction of women in the movie industry, particularly those in high places whose silence has allowed men like Weinstein to operate in safety.
Keeping quiet about such behaviour is nothing short of collusion. Powerful women in show business have had a voice for years, why have they kept quiet until only recently and on what planet do they expect a protest involving, in a number of cases, dresses slashed and plunged, to be taken seriously? To me the recent protest at the Golden Globes was shallow and self-serving. It does women no favours, especially when you know there are those Hollywood who could have spoken out sooner but chose not to. Instead they wore a nice dress - so that's all right then. Rant over.
Story elements to be included: Hollywood Actress, Washington DC, horror
She chose the black dress she had worn to the previous night’s ball at the White House. It skimmed her figure, was slashed and plunged in all directions, exposed just the right amount of flesh. Ebony silk contrasted sharply with ivory skin, caused the group of devotees who had gathered to greet her to shiver involuntarily on her behalf. Lauren, however, was immune to such sensitivities; ice did not affect her but fire … oh, fire was such a different matter. She needed to burn. The script was in her purse and the director she had come to see was waiting.
“Lauren! Lauren!” Insistent calls demanded she detour from her task, sign the autographs, pose for selfies. Lauren flaunted her virtue, and they lapped it up.
Duty done, she headed indoors. The lift climbed slowly, red-lit numbers reflecting the colour of her eyes which sparked and crackled in her moving tomb. All was electricity. Eventually it stopped and she glided out.
She knew what to expect. Soft lighting, music. It wouldn’t be the first time. Lauren felt the hunger, the thirst, rise. She needed to feed, ran her tongue along bladed teeth, wondered what would be on the menu tonight.
The door was unlocked and she slipped inside as instructed. He was already there, waiting. A monster they called him … but they didn’t know the truth.
Frightened eyes, grateful eyes turned towards her as their owner wriggled into the corner of the couch, away from Matthew, the script forgotten on the floor. “I didn’t believe what people were saying,” she whispered, “but now …”
Lauren ignored her, looked at the director, waited.
“Action,” he said and she stepped forward.
Complicit, they fed on the girl and on camera wore black.
A writer - I think that says it all.