He’d insisted on arriving by helicopter. Helicopter! She stood on the roof dutifully, at a safe distance from the helipad, her honey-blond locks whipping around her face. Her boss, Ed, the station manager, sighed deeply. He was as annoyed as she.
Finally, the helicopter touched down and Ron emerged, wearing a flashy suit in a color that could only be described as neon tangerine. His hair, held in place by layers of hairspray, didn’t move as he walked toward them with a swagger.
He greeted Ed first, ignoring Veronica’s extended hand.
“Can you get me a coffee, honey?” Ron asked, not bothering to look at her.
Her eyes narrowed. She ignored his request and decided to head inside. “I’ll see you at six.”
“Wait, what?!” Ron yelled after her. “YOU’RE my co-anchor? YOU’RE going to read MY news??? But you’re a…a…”
She smiled tightly. “Let’s stay classy, Ron.” She disappeared inside the building as Ron stared after her, dumbfounded.
“I’m going to marry that woman,” he said, to no one in particular.
For Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. The picture prompt this week reminded me of the opening scene of one of my all-time favorite movies, Anchorman.
She was tired of being Ms. Monroe. The cameras always flashing. The mob of fans everywhere she went. The constant tabloid articles. The men who always broke her heart.
She tucked her trademark blond curls under a colorful scarf, slipped on a pair of dark sunglasses and walked to the beach, enjoying the feel of the blistering hot sun against her bare legs. There was a woman sitting nearby, completely oblivious to her presence, engrossed in a tattered magazine that had Marilyn on its cover. Marilyn Monroe’s Secret Tragedy, the headline screamed.
Marilyn spread out a blanket and relaxed for a bit, enjoying the silence. Until it was too quiet. The emptiness at her core threatened to swallow her whole.
She sat up and pulled off the scarf, shaking out her golden locks.
“Ms. Monroe! Oh my goodness!” The woman rushed over, spraying sand in her wake. “Will you sign this for me?”
“Of course I will, doll,” Marilyn responded in her affected breathy tone. “I always have time for a fan!”
For Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers
A scene featuring Marilyn from the film Some Like It Hot. If you haven’t seen it I highly recommend it!
“Hey! Jenn!” The sofa I’m dozing where I’m dozing with my dog, Quinn, is rocked violently. “Time to get up!”
I wipe my eyes and look up to see a stunning woman wearing a glorious white coat leaning over me. Her penny-brown skin is makeup free, her jet black hair swept back in a bun. Clearly she’s come here in a rush. Quinn cocks her head and observes the woman with curiosity before laying her head back on the couch and returning to sleep.
“Get up, why?”
“Why?” She looks at me incredulously. “Jenn, you called me.”
“Yes, and I came here. At 2 am. Because that’s what I do. I fix things. So what about you needs fixing?”
She frowns and brushes a few strands of Quinn’s white hair from the couch before sitting.
“Ummm…” I try and remember why I called. I must have done it in my sleep. What had I been dreaming about? Then it comes back. The nightmare. The flashbacks. The recurring one I’ve had every night for the past 20 years. The face I could never forget. I retell the story. “You can’t do anything about him…can you?”
“Watch me.” She stands, taking out her phone and stepping out onto the balcony. She makes a whispered phone call, then strides confidently back into my living room. “Get some sleep. I’ll let myself out.”
“But…” The door shuts, and she’s gone.
In the morning, the leading story on all the news channels is his arrest. I watch as two officers escort him to a waiting police car, his head bowed in shame as reporters scream questions he can’t ignore any longer. I smile to myself, call in sick to work, lay back down and fall into a peaceful sleep. Quinn nuzzles into my neck.