Flash Fiction Challenge – Week Seven Submissions

The #FFC52 week seven submissions are in! Seven weeks in and still going strong! This challenge is a lot fun and there is talk about publishing a flash fiction book (bathroom or otherwise) at the end! It’s not too late to join!

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Week Seven
Prompt: He makes movies. I didn’t ask what kind.

Thanks for the great submissions everyone!

“Reality Bites”
Chris Musgrave – Writing in Training

“The Close-up”
The Excessive Gardener

“The Mystery of Love”
Trifectumblog

“The Party”
Thain in Vain

A strange man handed me a flute of champagne. I hated the fizzy crap, but took it to appear sophisticated. I fidgeted in my dress. I had stuffed myself into shaping underwear and now there was a tag rubbing on my back. Reaching it will have the same difficultly factor as climbing Mt Everest. The women next to me flung her hand in some self-important gesture, knocking the glass out of my hand. She barely looked at me, like she might turn to fat if she looked to long. She rolled her eyes at the people gawking at the scene. I knew then I was to blame. I was an easy target. I always have been. She walked off shaking her head and muttering, “Apparently, they’ll let anyone in,” followed by knowing cackles. I know what I looked like compared to these stick insect women—a mountain of cascading, pale flesh in a knock-off dress.

My dress was soaked with champagne. Whatever. It blends nicely with the river of crotch sweat flowing down my legs. Crotchpagne, I thought and chuckled out loud. My hoarse laugh drew looks from women in lavish dresses that cost more than I made in a year. I looked around for some appetizers. I was starving. Don’t these pretentious things usually have waiters wandering around with trays of food? At this point, I would eat anything, even something gross like fish eggs. What were they called. Fish eggs. Fish eggs. ca-va-lar. Something like that. But whatever, it was still fish eggs at the end of the day. No matter what these snobby assholes called it.

I caught a glimpse of myself in one of several full-length mirrors around the room. Monstrous. Huge. Massive. I snapped my head away from the mirror. It was too late. The horrible image was there like an eye floater. Teasing me with cheeky glimpses before it dashed out of view. I shifted my thoughts back to food, craning my neck around the crowd to catch a waiter’s eye.

“You’re very beautiful.” I turned toward to voice. It was the man from earlier. He had an oval face, tan and lined. Dark grey eyes peered at me from under thick eyebrows. His short dark hair glistened under the lights. It wasn’t a classically handsome face, but it was attractive. His tuxedo looked expensive. Rented or owned, I wondered.

“Sure,” I said, clocking a waiter with a tray worming his way through the crowd. I raised my hand to get his attention.

“No, really. You are very special,” he said. His hand slid down my arm and squeezed my hand. It was clammy. He didn’t seem to notice.

“I’m hungry,” I bleated and glanced sideways at him. He was smiling at me. It was a crooked smile, with fancy Hollywood teeth. It was a safe smile. He waved the waiter over. “We wouldn’t want you to starve.”

The waiter appeared and held out a tray of bite-sized food. I took several and balanced them on my hand and stuffed several more into my mouth. I chewed with exaggerated movements, trying to swallow the large mound.

“I want to see more of you. I want the world to see more of you. You see, I make movies, ” he whispered.

I didn’t ask what kind. I just nodded in agreement.