The Price of Fame

An editor of See You There magazine held two stories in his hand.  One was about an actress named Shelton Wade and the other was about a TV star, Krystal Adams.  The editor called in a columnist passing by.

“Hey, Jane – help me with this.  I need a filler piece to follow the Espinoza’s divorce drama article.  Here I have that Shelton chick’s new house.  I think it was once Orlando Bloom’s bachelor pad or something, okay?”  He put one set of sheets down and picked up the other.  “Over here I have Krystal Adams doing a vodka launch.  It’s not her line, she’s just there.  What’s His Name isn’t there but she is falling out of her dress and I have some shots of her dancing provocatively with another guest – which should I go with?”

“Shelton,”  Jane said.

“Okay, but the other guest Krystal is grinding against is a porn star,” the editor added.

Jane took the photos and pursed her lips as she looked at them.

“Yeah, I’m still going with Shelton.  She just got a part in the new Malick film – doesn’t deserve it, but got it.  Krystal can’t even get arrested,” she said, handing the photos back to him.

The editor put the Krystal piece in the drawer.  “Okay, Shelton it is.”

In Krystal Adams’ bathroom, Krystal herself let out a deafening scream as a deep line etched itself to the left of her mouth.

Perfect (series)

Three days ago, Christopher had pointed his truck towards the inside of the United States and driven it until it stopped, which was here. He had no idea how far he had gotten nor had he noted the state markers as he passed them. His location didn’t matter; his would be an unmarked grave wherever his body fell. He left the keys in the ignition and removed the shotgun from the back rack.

His ambling route had taken him through many of the towns that had been abandoned over the last few decades. Every year cities were being reclassified by the census bureau to “Uninhabited.” Living cities were being stretched to capacity with hoards of people fleeing their homes without giving much in the way of explanation.

Strangely, Christopher’s hometown was still a living city in which he could no longer live.

He refueled enough times to be truly lost – only purchasing gas if there was a working station nearby when the truck ran out. Coughing its last gasp of fuel here, the truck came to a standstill. There was no working anything, only carapaces of beautiful homes, some with their front doors standing wide open. In the middle of the eerily quiet residential street, Christopher reviewed the neighborhood and selected a house that vaguely resembled the county library from his hometown. He went in, leaving the doors open in the hope that his blood would attract a few of the animals.

The Queen Bed

Many years ago, during high school, I helped my girlfriend Samantha and her mother Barbara with their garage sale.  Barbara, an admirer of antiques, had carefully scoured sales such as hers to decorate her house.   Her prized possession was a marvelous oak queen-sized bed, lavish in its intricately carved design.  Alas, having recently remarried a man who stood 6’5”, with a son on the way and a newly purchased home, a queen bed would no longer suffice and all was to be sold.

In great condition, the bed was priced accordingly.

Barbara would not budge on the price, not for anyone. Soon after the garage sale got into full swing, a lovely lady perusing the wares stopped short upon seeing the bed.  Barbara and the lovely lady spoke animatedly about its beauty and Barbara desperately wanted her to have it; but the price was prohibitive.

So What Happened Last Night

A heavy tavern door opened letting in the stifling heat.  “Shut that door, James!  It’s roasting outside,”  Saul called out.

“Hey Saul, how come you aren’t open?” James asked coming to the table where three men sit.

“I dunno.  I woke up feeling like maybe I wouldn’t open today. Let people spend time with family.”

“Whew – what a summer, huh?  With the census takers, too many people milling around in this heat,”  James said reaching for a glass of the honeyed wine in the center of the table.

“Joel was telling us about the commotion last night,”  David said.  “OK, so Hiram is sold out.  And?”

“Right, Hiram is sold out – as is everyone – and then, real late, a couple shows up at the door.”

Mistress

A relationship with a mistress is a labyrinth of emotional pitfalls.  Your heart can surge in a moment, only to be mutilated in the next.

She can vex you again, and again, until there is little heart left.

In the wake of her loss, you selfishly lean on your spouse;  who can do no more than shake his head.  You beg him to pick up the pieces your mistress left strewn about.  But of course your spouse  won’t help; he has no compassion for you.  You asked for this.  You returned to her. This is your choice.

But it is not a choice.  It is a bond forged before even your first breath.  You stood before God and vowed to stay with your spouse until death.  But the vow you made to your mistress was made in silence – carved, not signed.

Her grip on you can be as icy as it is intoxicating.