flash fiction: forever fierce [nanoljers]
Written for the word of the week challenge @ nanoljers here.
This is a sort of sequel to another flash fic I wrote called 2 AM Silence found here, but you don't need to read that to get this...I hope ;)
And again, there is a warning for some language.
forever fierce
Glass is interesting when it shatters, especially when it's colored. I bought the vase in Milan a few months ago, but now it was just a pile of glittering rubble.
I turn to Harry, my agent, running my hands so roughly through my hair, there were a few white blond strands clinging to my fingertips when I was done.
Harry looks between the shattered vase and me. He doesn't smile, but it's in his voice. "I almost forgot you were a natural redhead."
"Stop fucking around," I tell him, rolling my eyes. I start to pace the length of my hotel suite, Harry's eyes following me back and forth as he lounges comfortably on one of the three gold satin couches in the living area.
"No one rejects me, Harry. When was the last time I had to walk to book a show?" I ask him, hands on my hips. I'm towering over him, but he doesn't seem fazed. He's never fazed, he can't be. I'm the one in this partnership that loses their head, not him. But right now, I swear to God if I had been there when the designer had told him no...
"Calm down, Kaye," Harry tells me. His cell phone goes off. He pulls it out of his inner jacket pocket (Armani, custom tailored), but silences it. It's the first time I've ever seen him ignore a call.
"Adele--" the designer who said no to me, "--didn't reject you because of your portfolio, or even because of your age." I'm nineteen, barely legal, or so Harry says. Designers like Adele Depaul prefer a resume over the latest publicity buzz, no matter how much I've risen to the top since I entered the industry a year ago. "It's not your fault."
"It's fashion week, Harry. I'm booked in three shows, Adele's was going to make four!" I huff, pulling out another ten strands of artificial blond hair. I look at the vase on the floor again; it cost 110 Euros. Nearly 200 American dollars. It was overpriced, but I bought it anyway.
"The press is going to spin it like the most renowned designer in the industry didn't want me on her runway. I'll be booking catalog shoots by next fall," I fume.
"You don't take rejection well, do you, Kaye?" Harry asks me, still in that deep, collected voice of his. Something about it takes some of the fight out of me. I stop pacing the room to give him a look that would melt most people's resolve. Fierce. That's the look the industry craves, that's the look I've perfected. But it doesn't frighten Harry; he's seen it too many times.
Finally Harry stands, walks the hand-carved, cherry wood desk where a copy of my portfolio sits. He hands it to me, and I obediently flip through it, indulging him. But when I open the soft, black leather cover, there's a picture of a girl I don't recognize. She's sitting on a wooden bench, wearing an ethereal pink dress, legs criss-crossed, shoulders hunched over.
Fierce.
"Adele celebrated her fifty-seventh birthday a few weeks ago," Harry tells me. I look up at him. "She's a classic designer, there's no doubt, and there are thousands in the industry who look up to her. That picture was taken forty years ago, when Adele was changing the fashion world, as well-known and admired as Twiggy."
"Where are you going with this?" I ask him. I'm not so angry as I was when I smashed the vase into the wall. Now, I'm simply curious.
"Everyone ages, Kaye," Harry says. He turns the picture over, flips forward through my portfolio while it's still in my hands, and stops at a picture I took a couple of months ago.
My eyes travel down to the photo: I'm sitting an industrial-style bench in a sheer green dress. My legs are criss-crossed, my calves draped over opposite knees. My shoulders aren't hunched, but the look on my face is fierce.
"Adele was ready to book you until she came to this picture," Harry continues. I look back up at him, my question almost answered. "She didn't reject you, specifically," Harry says. "She rejected your future, and in turn, her past."
Again, I blame watching re-runs of Top Model. I kind of wanted this to show how obsessed people are with youth, how vain they can be, no matter how much they are admired by the best in their profession.
I'd love any and all comments & criticism.
This is a sort of sequel to another flash fic I wrote called 2 AM Silence found here, but you don't need to read that to get this...I hope ;)
And again, there is a warning for some language.
forever fierce
Glass is interesting when it shatters, especially when it's colored. I bought the vase in Milan a few months ago, but now it was just a pile of glittering rubble.
I turn to Harry, my agent, running my hands so roughly through my hair, there were a few white blond strands clinging to my fingertips when I was done.
Harry looks between the shattered vase and me. He doesn't smile, but it's in his voice. "I almost forgot you were a natural redhead."
"Stop fucking around," I tell him, rolling my eyes. I start to pace the length of my hotel suite, Harry's eyes following me back and forth as he lounges comfortably on one of the three gold satin couches in the living area.
"No one rejects me, Harry. When was the last time I had to walk to book a show?" I ask him, hands on my hips. I'm towering over him, but he doesn't seem fazed. He's never fazed, he can't be. I'm the one in this partnership that loses their head, not him. But right now, I swear to God if I had been there when the designer had told him no...
"Calm down, Kaye," Harry tells me. His cell phone goes off. He pulls it out of his inner jacket pocket (Armani, custom tailored), but silences it. It's the first time I've ever seen him ignore a call.
"Adele--" the designer who said no to me, "--didn't reject you because of your portfolio, or even because of your age." I'm nineteen, barely legal, or so Harry says. Designers like Adele Depaul prefer a resume over the latest publicity buzz, no matter how much I've risen to the top since I entered the industry a year ago. "It's not your fault."
"It's fashion week, Harry. I'm booked in three shows, Adele's was going to make four!" I huff, pulling out another ten strands of artificial blond hair. I look at the vase on the floor again; it cost 110 Euros. Nearly 200 American dollars. It was overpriced, but I bought it anyway.
"The press is going to spin it like the most renowned designer in the industry didn't want me on her runway. I'll be booking catalog shoots by next fall," I fume.
"You don't take rejection well, do you, Kaye?" Harry asks me, still in that deep, collected voice of his. Something about it takes some of the fight out of me. I stop pacing the room to give him a look that would melt most people's resolve. Fierce. That's the look the industry craves, that's the look I've perfected. But it doesn't frighten Harry; he's seen it too many times.
Finally Harry stands, walks the hand-carved, cherry wood desk where a copy of my portfolio sits. He hands it to me, and I obediently flip through it, indulging him. But when I open the soft, black leather cover, there's a picture of a girl I don't recognize. She's sitting on a wooden bench, wearing an ethereal pink dress, legs criss-crossed, shoulders hunched over.
Fierce.
"Adele celebrated her fifty-seventh birthday a few weeks ago," Harry tells me. I look up at him. "She's a classic designer, there's no doubt, and there are thousands in the industry who look up to her. That picture was taken forty years ago, when Adele was changing the fashion world, as well-known and admired as Twiggy."
"Where are you going with this?" I ask him. I'm not so angry as I was when I smashed the vase into the wall. Now, I'm simply curious.
"Everyone ages, Kaye," Harry says. He turns the picture over, flips forward through my portfolio while it's still in my hands, and stops at a picture I took a couple of months ago.
My eyes travel down to the photo: I'm sitting an industrial-style bench in a sheer green dress. My legs are criss-crossed, my calves draped over opposite knees. My shoulders aren't hunched, but the look on my face is fierce.
"Adele was ready to book you until she came to this picture," Harry continues. I look back up at him, my question almost answered. "She didn't reject you, specifically," Harry says. "She rejected your future, and in turn, her past."
Again, I blame watching re-runs of Top Model. I kind of wanted this to show how obsessed people are with youth, how vain they can be, no matter how much they are admired by the best in their profession.
I'd love any and all comments & criticism.