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Bones like antlers protrude from the back of her head. Face painted as if for war. The Impossible Girl steps from her impossibly long car and into the impossible space she has created for herself. A flash illuminates her. Stony faced and bare breasted with a split black skirt. Paparazzi heaven, they lap it up, their latest enigma knows how to grace the stage.
Still that is. When she moves it’s stilted, robotic, not quite real. The eyes betray her too. Conflicted.
Who are these creatures and what have I become?
A flicker of fear, conscience… which she quickly wipes away. Steels herself against it and moves forward. An odd slow shuffle. She stops to smile, closed mouth, lips purple and fleshy covering the secret make up can’t hide.
There are no questions for the Impossible Girl. The gossip feeders aren’t interested in cracking the veneer. It’s enough to observe and dissect her image, wait for the publicity machine to pump a story their way, and if it doesn’t arrive on time they can fabricate their own. It’s the charade that people want, the element of the unreal.
Her closed smile is captured, still lifed by another dozen or so flashes before she moves on. Pointy heels scrape the tired red carpet beneath her. She’s not the first momentary idol to have graced its surface.
The door looms nearer, act one in its closing stage, act two about to begin.
Still that is. When she moves it’s stilted, robotic, not quite real. The eyes betray her too. Conflicted.
Who are these creatures and what have I become?
A flicker of fear, conscience… which she quickly wipes away. Steels herself against it and moves forward. An odd slow shuffle. She stops to smile, closed mouth, lips purple and fleshy covering the secret make up can’t hide.
There are no questions for the Impossible Girl. The gossip feeders aren’t interested in cracking the veneer. It’s enough to observe and dissect her image, wait for the publicity machine to pump a story their way, and if it doesn’t arrive on time they can fabricate their own. It’s the charade that people want, the element of the unreal.
Her closed smile is captured, still lifed by another dozen or so flashes before she moves on. Pointy heels scrape the tired red carpet beneath her. She’s not the first momentary idol to have graced its surface.
The door looms nearer, act one in its closing stage, act two about to begin.
Writing by N K Curtis.
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