by J. Bradley
The last of your tenuous septum dissolves when you press the nozzle of the neti pot against it. Your cocaine diet gave your waist and hips enough space to wear the latest trends like new skin. You are thankful you are shirtless this time, that only your upper chest is soaking in your own blood.
“Let's go, let's go, let's go,” the producer says.
You feel two hands on your shoulder blades shoving you onto the catwalk. You tilt your head back to slow the blood. You keep your arms to your side. You strut down the catwalk, each step in time with whatever beat the DJ chose to go with your ensemble. You keep walking, turn at the edge, walk back to where you came. You ignore the cameras just enough.
“What happened to the shirt you were supposed to wear,” the producer says.
4
favs |
1291 views
4 comments |
164 words
All rights reserved. |
This was the second story I wrote for the NYC Midnight 2015 Flash Fiction Challenge. My prompts for this round were
Genre: Drama
Location: A fashion show
Object: A neti pot
"*"
*Cool and grisly—great combination.
Fashion. It isn't just for dinner anymore.
***
Cringe-worthy and creative. You did a great job with the prompt *