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.
I tell her amidst our constitutional in Plastic Garden.
She lowers herself onto the grass, studying its frozen, wind-blown artifice, then plants her hand into a spongy anthill.
As the mechanical carbuncles stream up her pale skin, bites evoking winces, she whispers to them, “Like me, like me, like me.”
Tim Boiteau lives and writes near Detroit with wife and son. Find him at @timboiteau.
“What are your plans for the future?” Grandma asked me during dinner one evening.
“Er,” I said. “Um. Uh. I guess…”
“You should become a lawyer,” she declared, “and find yourself a wife.”
So I went straight home, fired up PhotoShop, and started putting together some grad and wedding photos.
“This looks too easy,” he thought as he descended to the display on a rope.
It was easy. The glass lid had no trigger. There were no laser trip wires, not even a lock.
He snatched the gem, ascended to the window, and escaped.
Too bad it was a fake.
Sean Quigley also goes by “Posh Platypus.” Follow him on Twitter: @PoshPlatypus.