A child star, she’d been acting all her life. She’d played the beautiful princess, the glamorous wife, the sexy secretary.
At 35, roles disappeared.
She booked in quick: nipped, tucked, tightened.
Next audition they loved her: “Perfect cheekbones; sensual pout.” Booked her for a Hollywood blockbuster.
Playing George Clooney’s mother.
Jo Withers writes micros, shorts, and poetry from her home in South Australia. Recent work is featured or forthcoming in Ellipsis Zine, Molotov Cocktail, FlashBack Fiction, Milk Candy Review and Lunate. You can follow Jo on Twitter at @JoWithers2018.
“Flip you for it,” he challenged.
“You’re on,” she assented.
“Heads,” he said.
“I’ll go tails.”
He did a twisting somersault-and-a-half, landing on his head.
She scoffed and triple-flipped backwards, coming to rest on her strong, poofy tail.
“You win,” he said. “Nice tail! Grow it yourself?”
“Nope. Plastic surgery.”
“It’s barbaric!” she shrilled, her artificially smoothened, partially atrophied face stiff with a show of haughty dismay. “The thought of consuming such a creature!”
The manager watched the woman wobble out on four-inch heels.
“The octopus offended her,” he whispered to the chef. “With her looks, it must’ve seemed cannibalistic.”
This story was based on a request for prompts in the form of three adjectives beginning with the letters A, B, and C. The adjectives atrophied, barbaric, and cannibalistic, were provided by @keab42.