I couldn't sleep last night and this absurd idea just popped into my head for a story. I just had to write it. It's a bit odd, but tell me what you think all the same. Please check my grammer for me, becuase I only just whipped it up earlier. (I'm trying to channel a 40's 50's vibe. please tell me if i'm sucsessful)
Well here it is:
Deathly reflection
Esme perched the cigarette nimbly between her scarlet lips, inhaled deeply, and slowly, deliberately, she exhaled, a thin curl of smoke floating off into the air, vanishing.
She was sat, cross-legged, upon the pearl-encrusted, delicately crafted mahogany chair of her dressing room. Esme bend forward, stubbed her cigar, and let the crippled wrap of tobacco fall from her prettily manicured fingernails into a glass tray.
Dressed in a silken white gown, which clung perfectly to her hourglass figure, Esme plucked a thick brush from the bag containing her make-up, and swept bronzer across her elegant collarbones. Eventually satisfied with the tint of her complexion, Esme meticulously removed the rollers clenched into her light blonde hair, admiring the soft sausage curls as they fell to her shoulders.
Esme then slicked a second layer of deep, rich scarlet over her lips, and slipped a pair of dainty diamond earrings, gleaming, into her neat ears. With a ponderously steady hand, she slithered glossy black liner across both silky, porcelain eyelids.
With her polished, manicured thumb, she pumped a spray of sweet perfume onto her slim wrist. She then clasped around her neck a lovely pendant set with miniscule amethysts and emeralds, and gazed down at the delicate chain of poised stones, which were radiating magnificence.
Esme fixated her sharp, amber eyes intently upon her own exquisite reflection, meticulously searched the mirror for any minor flaw in her appearance, and then, relatively contented, she reached to the floor and grasped a thick wad of paper, bound only with a single, forlorn staple.
The Lines of the script were fluttering anxiously around her brain, their multitude and varied content perplexing even Esme, the luminous Hollywood starlet of the moment. This major new production had Esme play undoubtedly her most challenging role to date: the chic Italian beauty Francesca Christiana, the latest creation of director and genius extraordinaire Herman-Jonah Theodore.
Her head ached painfully. Esme discarded the script, to the floor with a flick of her wrist, and gently, soothingly, she massaged her temples, her fingers rotating constantly for a few, brief minutes. She closed her eyes, escaped into a trance-like state, and, mesmerised by the invisible beauty of meditation, Esme found her mind drifting from the world of consciousness, her body fluctuating into a light sleep. It was the sleep she desperately needed, the sleep she had been deprived off for the sake of rehearsal. She began to snore gently.
Esme did not hear the assistant director clap his hands rather quietly, unenthusiastically, call, ‘places, everyone; places!’
Esme did not hear the bustling of feet as the cast hurriedly dropped their finger sandwiches and custard creams and assumed their positions on set.
Esme did not hear the director, from his chair, register his cast to check that none were missing, then, a second later, ask, bemused, ‘where’s our lead girl: where’s Esme Fox?’
Esme did not hear the chilling snap of the Luger being prepared to fire, poised just above her hairline.
In the moment that followed, Esme woke innocently from her light slumber, apparently without the motivation of any disturbance. She blinked, opened her eyes, and expected everything to be normal; expected to flourish on set, to be the pride and joy of America. Sadly, it was far too late for Esme.
Bang.
