prompt_id,prompt,story_id,story_title,story_author,story_url,link,genre,is_sensitive,categories,likes,story_text,posted_date,comments
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",4vpw64,Red Rum,Oskar Reiss,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/4vpw64/,/short-story/4vpw64/,Dialogue,0,"['Crime', 'Mystery', 'Horror']",33 likes,"
‘Cut!’ Leonard shouted, snapping the movie slate shut, dizzy with the relief that comes after the end of a shoot. ‘Thanks so much, Francis, you’re good to go.’ ‘No, thank you, Lenny,’ Francis Keaton replied, shaking Leonard’s hand. ‘I hope we meet again.’ ‘Me too. Good luck with your Nespresso adverts. Where’s Liliana?’ Leonard called out to Travis, who shrugged his shoulders. ‘Travis, you reek of whiskey.’ ‘It’s called method acting. I had to do it all the time for Streetcar.’ ‘Ah! There you are!’ Liliana Hoyt, who seemed to be winning every acting award going, was grabbed by Leonard and manhandled by two of the producers onto the set. ‘Hey!’ she screamed. ‘Get off me!’ ‘You could have dressed up,’ Leonard said as Liliana got thrown onto the bed. ‘Actually it’s fine. Just pull the comforter over her.’ One of the producers threw some rope around her hands, before tying them to the headboard. ‘Leonard, what the fuck is going on? Where’s Margo?’ ‘What about her?’ The same producer silenced Liliana, her face blueing in mute appeal, with a strip of duct tape. Suddenly her legs were flailing, writhing, kicking; helpless in the face of the director’s conspiratorial will. ‘And... action!’ An unsteady Travis walked onto set, holding a chainsaw, its roar drowning out Liliana’s muffled howls. Where its teeth kissed her leg, blood, first a trickle, and then a surge, began to mist the whole set. ‘Travis, stop!’ Margo Devine, the actress who had claimed the starring role, walked in at that very moment. ‘Is everything okay? Liliana called me about an extra scene?’ She clapped her hands to her face in horror once she saw Liliana’s dismembered limbs. ‘Oh my God!’ ‘Please, Detective, I don’t want to watch it anymore,’ pleaded Leonard, turning his head away from the footage. Detective Montrose switched the computer off, before turning his attention back to Leonard, whose face was still blank with anxiety.‘You do know how this looks, don’t you, Mr. Leery?’ Montrose said. ‘Yes. Of course I do.’ ‘I mean, it’s there, on screen, for all to see. You directing Mr. Waterman to saw Ms. Hoyt in half.’ ‘It was a prop!’ ‘Okay.’ Montrose wrote this down. ‘And this was for your movie, was it?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘A Prison Without Walls?’ ‘Yes,’ Leonard replied begrudgingly. ‘You know, it took two weeks at a writing camp in Prague to come up with that.’ For a moment Leonard felt it was just him and the detective, at the centre of the universe, the tape recorder and folders props, and the light bulb, swinging pendulum-like above, illuminating the room with an unwelcome light, only there for an added theatrical frisson.‘Mr. Leery, I’m confused, to say the least,’ Montrose said. ‘Not one of you has a motive against Ms. Hoyt. Can we please just rewind? Going back from Ms. Hoyt’s death to the day you started.’ ‘What, again?’ ‘Please. If you wouldn’t mind...’ 24th OctoberThree weeks into filming After ten seconds of looking furiously for Travis, I found him perched on the banquet in the corner, his arms and legs splayed across the leather. It reminded of that scene in Pulp Fiction, when Pumpkin and Honey Bunny ransack the diner. Travis fit the aesthetic perfectly: even though he was a star of the stage, he could well have been a vagrant.   ‘Sorry, I was hungry,’ he said like a naughty kid, with a chocolate moustache and a half-eaten banana split in front of him. ‘Would you like anything?’ ‘No, I’m fine. I can’t stay long.’ Travis’ hair was incredibly greasy, striking that unfortunate balance between being neither curly nor straight. ‘Jesus, your breath reeks, Travis.’ The scent was a mix of red wine, cheroots and patchouli all rolled into one. ‘Anyway, I think you know why I’m here.’ ‘Do I?’ ‘Yes, Travis, you do. It’s about your wife, Margot.’ ‘I don’t have a wife.’ ‘Oh my God, in the movie, Travis.’ ‘Oh yeah. Sorry.’ Margot and James McClaine, played by Liliana and Travis, began life as a vision of cold, jodhpur-wearing elitism, but when they went bankrupt, were forced to downsize and move across from the Feldmans; whose marriage they ended up shattering. ‘Liliana dropped quite the bomb the other day,’ I continued.Travis furrowed his eyebrows. ‘Sorry, who?’ ‘Liliana. She plays your wife, Travis, Jesus Christ.’ ‘Oh okay. Sorry. I don’t get involved with the other actors.’ Holding my nose, so as not to inhale any more alcohol breath, I tried one more time to get through to him. ‘Liliana wondered if you, as her husband, would kill her in the script. You’re the cuckolded alcoholic in the marriage so it’s completely plausible.’ ‘Oh. That’s fine,’ Travis said, the red wine talking. ‘Really? It would require you to film some extra scenes. Are you available next week?’ ‘Yes.‘Great. Thanks.’ I gave him a slap on the shoulder. ‘She says it’s because she doesn’t want any trouble, but she wants to be a main character. Audiences love murder. I think that’s the problem with movies these days.’ ‘You don’t have to explain yourself,’ Travis reassured me. ‘Let’s kill this bitch.’ 22nd OctoberMy muscles coiled as soon as I caught sight of her. Liliana, who I am pretty sure was my least favourite (which was no mean feat), had called me unexpectedly to run through some things. And I got the feeling it wasn’t to discuss the movie; it never is.   The restaurant we had agreed to meet in was an upscale eatery on the fringes of the town centre; the sort of place reserved for illicit liaisons and big ultimatums. I knew Liliana spent all her time as an actress, if she wasn’t wielding an axe on the silver screen, in places like these, possessing the sought-after elixir that wangles fourteen-course taster meals and corners tuxedoes businessmen into the nooks of dingy bars.   ‘Thanks for agreeing to this, Leonard,’ she said in her native southern twang, her brazen authenticity chording a jarring note against the coy contentment of the restaurant. Liliana was rakish and spidery, her face so pale as though made of reconstituted porcelain, the cruel origami of her arms stretched to hug me. ‘No. Really. Thank you. Have you ordered?’ ‘I haven’t.’ ‘Great,’ she said, perusing the menu. ‘You know, I haven’t got long, Liliana, I have to dash—’‘It’s Lili. And what do you mean, you have to dash? You’re such a bad liar.’ ‘What?’ ‘Let’s see how convincingly you can lie about where you were last week. When you saw me and Margo having a go at each other.’ She picked up the knife, as though she was poised to dissect me. ‘Why are you looking so worried?’ The waiter arrived, absolving me of this question. He took our orders, looking askance at Liliana as he did so, probably surprised at how underdressed she was. He would be right: it was clear Liliana didn’t fit in here. It came to herald a changing of the guard. No longer were places like these populated by the jewel-draped dames, who held an ice-bedded coupe in one palm of their hand and the piqued interest of their stupid director in the other; but now overhauled by a new generation: one of them being Liliana, a raven-haired, new-age Janet Leigh. ‘I’ll try and be quick,’ she said, sipping her wine, ‘but Margo Devine, fucking Margo Devine, is not a subject I can discuss without completely going batshit crazy. I hope you understand.’ ‘I don’t know what you mean, Liliana.’ ‘Oh drop the act, Leonard, you know exactly what I mean.’ ‘What?’ ‘You saw us! I saw you saw us.’ ‘What?’ ‘Oh my God, don’t even try to— When we stopped filming, me and Margo went to... And you...’ ‘I don’t know what you’re—’‘Look, I don’t care, I know you’re lying. All I wanted to tell you is that I know you. I’ve met directors like you before. A zillion of them.’ This was a lie: Liliana’s showreel was suspiciously short. ‘And I know what gets people like you going,’ she continued. I stared at her with my eyes wide open, loudly glugging my wine so the silence she left was even more pronounced.‘Money,’ she explained, as though this wasn’t obvious. ‘Of course it’s money.’ ‘Right. And what’s that gotta do with Margo?’ ‘Haha. It has everything to do with Margo.’ Liliana leaned in, her breath hot on my cheek. ‘I didn’t wanna have to tell you this, obviously I didn’t, not even my mom knows. But Margo and I... We had a thing some years ago.’ Liliana bit her lip defiantly, numb with inexpressible loathing. ‘I don’t think you can call it a thing to be honest, but Twitter will have different ideas. It didn’t even last a year.’ ‘I have to say I’m surprised,’ I improvised, hiding my face with my glass. ‘Margo’s a big star.’ ‘Exactly! Margo Devine, darling of the acting world, splashed all over the front pages because she’s been having an affair with another woman. And not just any woman. The next Neve Campbell of course.’ ‘Liliana, I don’t—’‘You know who’ll come out of this the worst, Leonard. Not me, no. Not even Margo. But you. No-one will watch your movie, no-one will care. No-one will ever wanna hire you again.’ The prospect, although shocking, yet entirely plausible, was a terrifying one.‘What are you suggesting?’ I asked. ‘Look, I know this is gonna sound mad because I know we’re so late into the shoot and I know how hard you’ve worked on the script but... How about we kill Margo’s character off? I just think this is what the script needs.’ ‘So you want to kill Margot off?’ ‘Yes. You can give her a big send-off if you like, but I just don’t think Margo belongs in this movie.’ ‘Okay,’ I said, summoning the waiter for more wine. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ 14th October Two weeks into filming I had known these people for just over a month and I already knew that they were the worst people I had ever met. Margo was a man-hating sociopath, Liliana was a man-eating snake, Travis was a narcissistic man-child, and Francis was simply a very annoying man.   ‘Lenny, you with us?’ Francis called out. ‘I’ve gotta go in twenty minutes, can we wrap this up please?’ ‘Sure.’ I made my way back to the studio. The custom-made house for the movie, inhabited by Grace and Roger Feldman, played by Margo Devine and Francis Keaton respectively, was gorgeously uniform and pastel; something even Martha Stewart would be proud of. Their marriage was literally like something from a TV commercial; something rehearsed, shot and then left in a studio; something always destined for the snap of a director’s slate. It was so hollow, so unreal, that someone could scrawl over it with a black marker pen and no-one would notice. The Feldmans lived in a world full of Minnie and Roman Castevets; where everything was dystopian and rabid-bunny happy; where apples seemed to pick themselves, where lawnmowers began without prompt, and where babies slept without protest.   ‘And that’s a wrap!’ I announce, weak with relief. ‘I’ll see you guys tomorrow, okay?’   In what was my only break of the day, I go for a cigarette and watch the world go by. The town, a mass of either failing or fledgling shops, of laundromats and fried chicken, was a buckle in the belt of dusty, apple-knocking America: a montage of sandy browns and russet reds that quite happily elided into one long sepia smudge. And then a shout—a scream. Something that threatened to disrupt the even tenor of my walk. ‘Just leave - me - alone!’ they spat, the voice emanating from a woman’s head in the distance. ‘What do you expect me to do?’ the blonde girl replied. I inched forward, before doubling back when I realised who they were: Margo and Liliana. ‘Look, I know neither of us could have foreseen this,’ Liliana said, ‘but I don’t want you trying to talk to me in front of everyone, okay?’ ‘I think it’s fine, Lili.’ Getting the feeling this conversation wasn’t something I should be hearing, I backed up against the wall and bowed my head. Everything had seemed so civil on set up until now. Then again, it was to be expected. Actors could behave like little children. ‘No, it’s not fine, Margo,’ continued Liliana, spitting fury. ‘And to make matters worse they’ve given me the same fucking name as you. That’ll be all over TMZ when they find out about us.’ ‘Lili, please...’ ‘Do not touch me. Honestly, I swear to God... After we do this, if you come near me again, then I will call the police. Leave - me - alone!’ 9th SeptemberThe Table ReadI hated an ensemble cast. This time, luckily, I only had to contend with four different personalities, but it was the personalities that was the difficult bit. The four elected professionals - the starlet, the treader of boards, the scream queen and the smarmy one you see on Nespresso adverts - were due at lunchtime: a pretext to pick at finger food and bitch about the agent they all once had in common.  It was when I finished putting the food and drinks together that Margo Devine, the first to try my smorgasbord of bread rolls and oil dips, decided to arrive. With her eyes in some sort of half-squint, forever suspicious of any gathering of men, or any errant camera, Margo had her hair scraped back into a lick of blonde and was wearing an outsize puffer jacket. I pictured her getting bundled into a Land Rover by her press agent, the jacket pulled over her shoulder blades with perma-pincered fingers, moving as fast as her praying mantis legs would permit; like a Weinstein protégée, whose daily intake amounted to nothing more than an iceberg lettuce leaf and a cube of blue cheese.‘Margo! Hi!’ I greeted her awkwardly, kissing her on both cheeks, feeling the shocking realness of her bones. ‘There’s someone in the elevator coming up,’ she said, upturning her nose. ‘I’m not sure he’s a part of this. I think he’s the one who does the Nespresso adverts.’ ‘Francis Keaton?’ ‘Oh yes. That’s the one.’ ‘Ah,’ I said, spying Francis at the door. ‘Speak of the devil.’ First shooting to international fame in his early twenties, much in the same mould as Leonardo DiCaprio, Francis Keaton was the nation’s sweetheart. With orange skin and one remaining tuft of hair, he was clearly still clinging onto the vestiges of youth, but as he was Francis Delano Keaton, the perfect riposte to any insult, he was most definitely forgiven; one dimply smile from his much-pinched cheek and you would just swoon. ‘So, who else we waiting for then?’ he asked, in his frothy drawl. ‘Just two more.’ ‘Who are they? It’s not Meryl Streep, is it?’‘No no, not Meryl unfortunately. It’s Travis Waterman and Liliana Hoyt.’ ‘Ah. Liliana. The woman of the moment.’ ‘Liliana’s coming?’ Margo asked, tweaking her sleeve. ‘Yes.’ ‘Oh.’ ‘Is there a problem?’ ‘Oh no. We just haven’t seen each other since the whole Cabin in the Woods debacle.’ ‘Oh yes,’ Francis laughed. ‘Right bloodbath, wasn’t it?’ ‘Ah!’ I beamed, breaking the awkward silence that came thereafter. ‘I think that’s them now.’ With an A-list swagger she could only mimic, Liliana Hoyt entered at that exact moment beside Travis Waterman. Liliana, making her name through low-budget arthouse movies, could not be more different from Travis, who was securely established as the doyen of theatre, earning his first Tony nomination for his performance in Othello. I wondered how they would react when they would learn that they were going to be playing a married couple.   Which reminded me: The script I would have them read, written by myself of course, was tentatively titled A Prison Without Walls. It was about a married couple in the 1950s, the sort to hold Tupperware parties and send their children to elocution lessons, who find themselves re-evaluating their priorities when a new couple moves in across the road.   ‘Hello, Leonard. Good to see you again.’ (We had never met before.) ‘Good evening, Travis,’ I said, showing them to their seats. The five of us arranged ourselves in the most curious of configurations, with Margo and Travis at one end, and Francis and Liliana at the other. ‘So, I hope everyone’s got the right script,’ I said, taking charge.‘Yes,’ Travis responded, remarkably quick for someone who had all the zeal of a narcoleptic. ‘But it says here my character’s an alcoholic, is that—?’ ‘No no, James falls off a wagon when he learns his wife, played by Liliana, is cheating on him. Is that...?’ ‘Yep.’ It was an awkward subject; everyone knew Travis was an alcoholic ever since his stint in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. ‘At least it’s not me doing the cheating!’ Francis quipped. ‘Actually you are,’ I corrected. ‘Roger cheats on his wife with Liliana’s character.’ No-one thought it appropriate to respond: TMZ had a helicopter above Keaton’s mansion for months after he ordered a prostitute to his home while his wife was on vacation. Liliana craned forward, opening her mouth to speak. ‘Leonard, it says here my character’s called Margot. I—’‘Margot. Yes. It’s spelled differently.’ ‘Well, I hope you don’t confuse us,’ Margo interjected. Everyone shot a sideways glance at Margo sulking in the corner. ‘So,’ I said, slapping my knees. ‘Shall we begin?’ It was finally time. We all took a sharp intake of breath, before turning the first page. Francis was still smiling, Liliana was still staring at me, Travis was still dwelling on his character arc, and Margo was left to quietly fume about the fact that her namesake was played by her archenemy. Police interview with Leonard Leery terminated at 16:04 
","July 20, 2023 17:58","[[{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Your writing is delightful—it’s got this old-time detective jauntiness to it. The reverse order plays like a film.', 'time': '18:16 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Oskar Reiss': 'thank you very much anne, it really means a lot 😊', 'time': '18:38 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Oskar Reiss': 'thank you very much anne, it really means a lot 😊', 'time': '18:38 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Stopped in to thank you for liking my mayhem piece. First time looking at your work. Whereas this was clever and interesting I would have to read it in reverse to fully comprehend and I just don't have the time."", 'time': '16:10 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Oskar Reiss': 'that’s a shame you didn’t understand it :(', 'time': '16:11 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Oskar Reiss': 'that’s a shame you didn’t understand it :(', 'time': '16:11 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'3i Writer': ""I like the brutality in all your stories but the characters' motivations here aren't convincing for me to murder an actor with a real chainsaw for a movie."", 'time': '02:02 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Oskar Reiss': 'there are no motivations - it was a case of mistaken identity and was an accident. i’m disappointed with myself that this didn’t cut through', 'time': '06:24 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Oskar Reiss': 'there are no motivations - it was a case of mistaken identity and was an accident. i’m disappointed with myself that this didn’t cut through', 'time': '06:24 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Harry Thredson': 'So was Leonard guilty? So good!', 'time': '16:55 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Oskar Reiss': 'Thanks Harry!', 'time': '16:57 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Oskar Reiss': 'Thanks Harry!', 'time': '16:57 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Ann Ford': ""Oh, Oskar, you have some amazing writing abilities! \nPerhaps in your next story you could do without the swearing though. Especially the taking of the Lord's name in vain had me on edge.\n\nP.S. I just wanted to mention that I really loved your Author's bio. So much expression!!!"", 'time': '18:41 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Oskar Reiss': 'thank you so much mary ann, you are too kind, i trust you understood what happened; i was worried. hopefully it gets approved 🤞🏻', 'time': '20:07 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Mary Ann Ford': 'It should. :)', 'time': '20:42 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Oskar Reiss': 'thank you so much mary ann, you are too kind, i trust you understood what happened; i was worried. hopefully it gets approved 🤞🏻', 'time': '20:07 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Mary Ann Ford': 'It should. :)', 'time': '20:42 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Ann Ford': 'It should. :)', 'time': '20:42 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Walt Thredson': 'Very funny, like the running joke about Nespresso adverts - feels very real, but also satirical', 'time': '22:03 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Oskar Reiss': 'yes, these characters are MADE to be laughed at haha', 'time': '22:04 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Oskar Reiss': 'yes, these characters are MADE to be laughed at haha', 'time': '22:04 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Oskar Reiss': 'Mirroring one of my favourite films, Memento, this tale, set within the ruthless world of film and TV, is told in reverse. Hopefully the narrative falls into place when you finish it. Enjoy!', 'time': '18:11 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",tkqsc4,The Bottom Line,Sue Hunter,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/tkqsc4/,/short-story/tkqsc4/,Dialogue,0,"['Sad', 'American', 'Fiction']",24 likes,"
CW: The story includes elements of child harm and child death. A brief sentence alludes to predatory acts on a child but was kept as brief as possible.            The first word that came out of your one-year-old mouth was ‘cut’, though it probably sounded more like ‘cuh’ to the production staff around you. Daddy liked to yell it to his small studio, and you echoed him as a black and white board was slammed together in front of a camera. Your daddy leaped from his chair when he noticed you parroting him, darting over to where you sat next to an array of soap bottles. You weren’t old enough to know where you were. You only knew that when you giggled at Daddy, he gave you a piece of chocolate. He raised you on his shoulders and barked orders to the other grownups. Your pudgy hands tugged at his long hair, demanding a reward. He offered up three pieces of the sweet treasure, and you were quick to shove them between your lips, babbling your daddy’s favorite word: cut, cut, cut.           It wasn’t until you were three that you began to see your daddy cry. You played with Lincoln logs whenever you noticed tears slipping down his cheeks, hoping that by building a mansion of wood, he would play with you. Stacking the indented wood blocks always made you laugh. You thought that your screams of cheer when you finished your build would force a smile onto his bearded face. It didn’t. He spent his free time arguing with someone on the phone, someone you didn’t know. When he slumped onto the couch with a cold drink in his hand, you stumbled over to his leg and hugged it, hoping he would see your creation and praise you for the replica living room you created. He simply patted your head, said ‘Daddy’s tired’, and passed out before you could put your logs away.           When you were five, you got your first taste of fame. Daddy was shooting another soap commercial when a big man in a bright green suit walked onto the set, demanding your father to leave. Daddy argued, but the green man’s crew had already bustled in and taken over the cameras. It had been a long day. You had repeated your lines a dozen times, none of the takes seeming to meet your daddy’s standards. You were tired, cold, and covered with soap suds. So, you screamed a slew of words your father had said to the person on the other end of the phone, words a five-year-old should have no knowledge of, words that were so loud they echoed through the warehouse. Both men’s crews went deadly quiet. Your daddy was pale as the foam on your hands, but before he could get out an apology, the man in green clapped his hands and pointed at you, a giant smile plastered on his greasy face.           “That voice is exactly what my show needs. You’re hired, kid.”           At age six, the man in green scheduled you for an interview. You were used to stages by then: the bright lights, the constant chatter, the people demanding either a pretty smile or a perfect tantrum. Instead of screaming and crying (acting, Daddy called it) on the set of a family sitcom, today you sat on a bright red couch. There were people in the audience who cooed and laughed when you said something only a child could get away with. The man in green sat next to you, putting an arm over your shoulder and praising your wit. You could see your Daddy smiling backstage, putting his thumbs up in a rare show of encouragement. He always would get happy when you got attention like this. Your fridge was covered with newspaper clippings starring your pouting photo and famous journalists’ quotes praising your skills as a child actor. Somedays a letter with your name on it would come in the mail. Whatever was inside made Daddy happy, because he’d run to the store and grab plenty of his cool drinks. At the end of this interview, he bought you a Lego set. He even built a house with you, complete with a model living room.           You stopped eating when you turned seven. It was the man in green who sat you down and told you that his star couldn’t be heavier than 30 pounds. You had to be eternally young, eternally small, eternally adorable, and since your character had turned not seven but five this season, you had to look five. Daddy was in the room with you. He promised to keep you tiny for the season finale. You started to eat two meals a day, which quickly turned into one when you realized that eating too much made Daddy drink more. The man in green gave you small, white candies, but they tasted awful when you tried to chew them. They went down much easier when you took them with water.           The man in green decided to sell you the following year. The show was done, the money counted, and you would not be joining him on his new projects. It was hard to say goodbye to the lady who played your mommy, but at least Daddy came with you. He took you to a new warehouse in a new town, and you met your new director, an old man who wore a button-down Hawaiian shirt and jean shorts. He wanted to make you the star of his show. Said that he would personally coach you himself. You don’t like the change, but your Daddy was practically bursting with happiness. You clung to his leg as the director talked to him about your private singing lessons.           You were nine when you wanted out. The man in the button-down wouldn’t let you see your Daddy very often. He kept you in his trailer and taught you to sing, though you weren’t sure how hugging was related to ‘expanding your diaphragm’. You told your Daddy you didn’t like the man in the button-down. Told him that you wanted to act in something else. He got down on one knee and held you tight, promising to leave the next day. But then the mail with your name came in, and your Daddy told you that if you could make it through a few more episodes, he would be able to afford the mansion you used to make out of Lincoln logs.           He earns a new title when you are ten: Dad. You do not talk to him much, as you spent more and more time with the man in the button-down. The new house made Dad happy, so you used your skills as an actor and put on a smile for him. People with cameras followed you everywhere. You wanted to go to a pizza parlor for your birthday, but Dad took you to a photo shoot with Mr. Button-down. You practiced your lines every night in your bedroom, saving your tears for bath time, when you could cover the noise with the sound of rushing water. You weren’t sure why you are crying. All you knew is that you didn’t want Dad to see.           Your crying began to bleed into practice, and no matter how beautiful you sang, the director made your private lessons longer. Remembering that Dad always fixed things with a cold drink, you decided to try his beverage of choice when you turn eleven. It wasn’t for kids, and you didn’t care. The taste took some getting used to, but after you finished one can, it made you feel good. Good enough to stop crying. Dad kept so many stocked in the fridge that he didn’t notice when one or two went missing. You drank three before meeting the man in the button-down and two before you went to sleep at night. When you found the magic white pills in the orange bottles on Dad’s nightstand, you stole a few of those, too. It made you feel floaty and happy. You kept taking them until the orange bottle was empty.           You weren’t quite twelve when you died. The obituary said you died in your sleep after accidentally taking your father's medication. Your death became a PSA for all parents to make sure their drugs were kept out of reach of curious children. The man in the button-down spoke at your funeral. He had tears in his eyes, recounting how innocent and pure you were. Your father held on to a single Lincoln log as your casket is lowered into the ground. He stayed by your side for a long time, even after the rest of the attendees wandered back to their cars. He managed to stumble back to his shiny new Honda, opening the trunk and pulling out a box before coming back to your plot. Slowly, he opened the lid and began to pull out one Lincoln log after another, placing them next to your headstone, only retreating to the car when the moon was high in the sky. He left behind the box, still half-full of logs, and the finished model of a living room.       
","July 19, 2023 23:24","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Sue,\nOh what an incredible story. You did a great job of addressing a serious, modern issue which is now becoming center stage. I loved the PIV you chose since it instantly forced us to connect to the character while keeping them vague enough for us to hold onto them and personify them as us. I loved all the little details you added to make each moment more horrendous than the last. Nice work and congrats on the short list!!', 'time': '04:36 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Sue Hunter': 'Thank you for your incredibly kind words! :)', 'time': '17:12 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sue Hunter': 'Thank you for your incredibly kind words! :)', 'time': '17:12 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin B': ""This is handled so deftly. I started it with caution, but you let the reader know fairly early on that they're in good hands. Well done."", 'time': '17:32 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Sue Hunter': 'Thank you, Kevin!', 'time': '15:39 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sue Hunter': 'Thank you, Kevin!', 'time': '15:39 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ansley Stone': ""a wonderfully crafted arrow of sorrow right through my heart :'o"", 'time': '20:20 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Sue Hunter': 'Aw, thank you so much. (^///^)', 'time': '23:22 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sue Hunter': 'Aw, thank you so much. (^///^)', 'time': '23:22 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'A sad week with different prompts. Congrats. Fine work here.', 'time': '14:24 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Sue Hunter': 'I really appreciate it, thank you!', 'time': '23:23 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Welcome.', 'time': '10:34 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sue Hunter': 'I really appreciate it, thank you!', 'time': '23:23 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Welcome.', 'time': '10:34 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Welcome.', 'time': '10:34 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Congratulations on a well deserved shortlist. It is such a sad story. You handled it with finesse.', 'time': '16:22 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Sue Hunter': 'Thank you very much!', 'time': '16:42 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sue Hunter': 'Thank you very much!', 'time': '16:42 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': ""That indeed is very sad! The twist with the OD was unexpected, and it adds a lot of heaviness. Having the button-down man eulogizing about innocence and purity then seemed particularly cruel - though believable. \n\nWhat made the twist particularly unexpected for me was the second-person voice. I do wonder who the narrator here is, as we witness events both during life and after death. A mother occurred to me, but there's no mention of a mother outside the actress. The father himself, distancing himself from his own life perhaps. Or maybe, it'..."", 'time': '20:51 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Sue Hunter': 'Thanks for the feedback. At first, when I wrote this story, the entire thing was in the present tense, but I decided to change it to the past tense after rereading it. I tried to go back and fix all of the tenses, but I knew I was bound to miss at least a couple.\n\nI was unsure about writing this, as I am usually uncomfortable with writing about death or assault, especially when children are involved. As I did research on child actors (especially the ones I grew up watching), I found out that a lot of them were manipulated in more ways than o...', 'time': '22:58 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Michał Przywara': 'Congrats on the shortlist :)', 'time': '21:33 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Sue Hunter': 'Thanks for the feedback. At first, when I wrote this story, the entire thing was in the present tense, but I decided to change it to the past tense after rereading it. I tried to go back and fix all of the tenses, but I knew I was bound to miss at least a couple.\n\nI was unsure about writing this, as I am usually uncomfortable with writing about death or assault, especially when children are involved. As I did research on child actors (especially the ones I grew up watching), I found out that a lot of them were manipulated in more ways than o...', 'time': '22:58 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michał Przywara': 'Congrats on the shortlist :)', 'time': '21:33 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': 'Congrats on the shortlist :)', 'time': '21:33 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",xw5ajx,A Little Side Action,Chris Campbell,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/xw5ajx/,/short-story/xw5ajx/,Dialogue,0,"['Funny', 'Contemporary', 'Drama']",23 likes,"
	“CUT!”	“Who said that? Who yelled cut? I’m the director on this set and I am the only one who gets to shout, CUT!”	“Boss, that would be the Intimacy Coordinator.”	“Where is she? Where is this Intimacy Coordinator? Show yourself, you scene invader! Someone bring this person to me, that thinks they can direct my movie.”	“She’s not here, boss.”	“What do you mean, she’s not here? How can she not be here? How did she call, CUT!”	“She’s working from home.”	“Working from home? Why isn’t she on the set?”	“It’s a closed set, only essential personnel are allowed to be here for this scene.”	“Isn’t she listed as essential personnel?”	“I don’t have the list.”	“It’s your job to have the list, Amy!” 	“It’s Amai, sir.”	“But your name tag spells it with the letters A.M.Y.”	“That’s how it’s spelled in my country.”	“Where’s that, Louisiana?”	“Liberia...”	“What part of the states is that? Never mind. I’ll look it up, later. When was the closed set regulation put into effect?”	“During the induction clarifying existing production policies to the actors.”	“I’m the goddam director. It was me that led the actor’s induction. I don’t remember that.”	“It was during the producer’s actor induction, sir.”	“There was a producer’s induction?”	“I believe it was conducted before the director’s actor induction.”	“Why wasn’t I told?”	“I don’t know. Perhaps you should ask the producers.”	“I don’t ask producers anything. They ask me. I tell them what I need, and I tell them when I need it, and they… well, they just do whatever.”	“But didn’t they raise the funds for this movie? I’d say that they’re a bit higher on the organisation chart than you are, to be dictated to.”	“Remind me of your job title again, Amy?”	“Script supervisor, personal assistant, clapper loader, assistant camera person, and gopher. Oh, and one of the producers said that I could get associate producer credit as well.”	“Well, all-around dogsbody at the bottom of your fictitious organisation chart. I’m the director of this low-budget movie on this underlit, underheated, and underfunded movie set, so I do not need to be told what level goddam useless producers sit at, when I know that all they’re good for is sitting around doing nothing and setting up timewasting meetings that I can’t be bothered to attend.”	“Like producer’s actor inductions?”	“You know, if it weren’t for your much needed multi-skillset on this also understaffed movie set, I would fire you for your facetiousness.”	“Yes, sir... Sorry, sir.” 	“…Apology accepted. Now, back to work everybody! Let’s try the scene again… QUIET ON THE SET..! SOUND?”	“Sound, Set, sir.”	“Camera!”	“Camera, Set.”	“HEY! WHERE THE HELL ARE MY ACTORS?”	“They’re meeting with the Intimacy Coordinator, sir.”	“What the hell for? This is my set and this is my movie - is it not?”	“She saw that the actors had been without appropriate modesty covers between takes, so she called them into a consultation to see if they feel safe enough to continue.”	“How is she seeing what we’re doing?”	“She’s watching by secure feed on her laptop.”	“What’s not to feel safe about? The actors are fine. They’ve been fine all along. I even gave them a lengthy coffee break. What could possibly make them feel unsafe?”	“I think their prolonged state of undress is making your lead actress blush.”	“Blush? I can assure you that my star actress is not the shy type, and I casually mentioned that in my actor’s induction.”	“That may be, but last night, she had a rude awakening at her hotel. One of the producers acted inappropriately, so she now needs personal counselling before a nude scene is shot.”	“She’s been starkers all morning! What’s changed?”	“Maybe, she needs counselling because of all the shouting.”	“By video link?”	“We live in a modern world, boss. Zoom meetings are popular.”	“So, what did this producer guy do?”	“He sang to her through her locked door.”	“How is that a rude awakening?”	“She was asleep.”	“Where did you get all this information?”	“From the intimacy coordinator’s sensitivity induction.”	“I wasn’t invited. Don’t gloat.”	“Apologies, sir.”	“But why counsel by video? What’s preventing the intimacy coordinator from doing it in person?”	“Maybe it’s cheaper – insurance-wise.”	“Goddammit! Get my actors back on this set, now!”	“Yes, sir. CALL FOR ACTORS ON THE SET!”	“Amy, what do you know about this intimacy coordinator?”	“The call sheet here says her name is Geraldine.”	“Geraldine? How old is this person?”	“She looks like she’s in her fifties.”	“What does fifties look like? I’m in my fifties. Do I look like I’m in my fifties?”	“Then, I’d say she was younger.”	“I can’t quite tell if that’s a compliment or not.”	“I’m leaning towards Not.”	“Careful with that facetious tongue, or I’ll promote the janitor to replace you.”	“I’m doing the job of six people and paid for the role of one. Do you honestly think he’ll be interested?	“This is Hollywood, baby. Everyone wants to be in show business.”	“…The actors are returning, sir.”	“Great, I’ll need to give them notes.”	“But we’ve haven’t even completed a take, yet.”	“Because we got interrupted by your Zoom buddy.”	“She’s not my… Oh, whatever.”	“Darlings! Welcome back. Just need to chat about this scene. Erica, we’re going to need a bit more passion from you. It’s obvious that you’re feeling cold in here and a little too exposed to the elements, but you’re an actress, darling. Put it to the back of your mind, feel the upcoming surge of blood, and let your chest burst forward in an act of anticipation.”	“CUT!”	“What now?”	“I’m just reading what she typed, boss. She wrote CUT, so I read it aloud.”	“What’s wrong with her voice? Why is she reliant on messaging?”	“She says here, that her microphone is not picking up any signal and that your comment to Erica was contentious, bordering on MeToo.”	“What!? I’m just trying to do my goddam job. Now I have the Woke inquisition hanging on my every word? I was giving Erica some notes, but little Miss Intimacy blocker has killed the moment.”	“She says that she’s not a Miss. She’s a Mrs.”	“Who gave her the authority?”	“Hang on, she’s typing the answer. She says… a judge when she got married.”	“That was sarcasm, but I’ll let it slip this time. I’m not responding to her any longer until this passion killer is standing on my set. Get her in here.”	“She’s working from home.”	“I don’t give a damn in goddam hell where she is. I want her here yesterday!”	“Right away, boss. Transport has been informed.”	“Wait, we have a transport company on set?”	“The janitor is moonlighting with his van.”	“…Goddam low budget productions… Can we please try to get through this scene without interruption? Thank you. QUIET ON THE SET..! SOUND?”	“Sound, Set, boss.”	“Camera?”	“Set.”	“Roll sound.”	“Sound rolling.”	“Roll camera…! Camera speed.”	“Speed.”	“Last looks!”	“Makeup says all good.”	“First positions… Marker… Marker! That’s you sweet cheeks.”	“…CUT!”	“Amy, why are you yelling, cut?”	“Boss, I know you are in your fifties, but we live in the 2020s. Sweet cheeks is a derogatory term.”	“Lighten up. I meant nothing insulting.”	“But it is.”	“Okay, okay. I’m a modern-thinking man, who can adapt to society’s changing sensitivity landscape. So, let’s start again, Amy.”	“It’s Amai!”	“Amai… I’d like to get through this scene in the fewest of takes before the day is done. Do you think that you can forgive my ancient descriptive caveman pronunciations enough to assist me in getting us all home at a decent time?”	“Apologies will be accepted.”	“I apologise, okay? Now, let’s get back to work.”	“Boss, Comms has just informed me that the Intimacy Coordinator has arrived.”	“That was quick.”	“The janitor said that he picked her up across the road from the studio’s main gate – where she lives at… Palm Court Apartments.”	“Palm Court? That’s where my soon-to-be ex-wife lives.”	“What a coincidence. Wouldn’t it be funny if they knew each other.”	“No, it wouldn’t, Amy.”	“I’ve just been told that Geraldine is about to walk onto the set. There! Over by the drinks table… Boss?”	“Goddam… I should have guessed.”	“Sir?”	“The Intimacy Coordinator is my soon-to-be ex-wife. AND HER NAME IS NOT GERALDINE!”	“Shall I call Lunch?”	“No, I’m shooting this scene, if it kills me. PLACES EVERYONE! FIRST POSITIONS!”	“Boss, Geraldine has messaged me that she needs to give the actors some notes.”	“What do you mean? I’m the only one that can give my actors notes. Goddam it, Ruth! What the hell are you doing here?”	“She’s typing… and she says… you summoned her, like a high court judge.”	“Still maintaining the silent treatment, are you? After three months apart, you still can’t utter one single word to me.”	“She’s typing…”	“…And?”	“She says, Asshole!”	“Goddam it, Ruth. Don’t you think it ironic that you’re an Intimacy Coordinator? I mean, the most intimate you ever got in our marriage was staring up at the ceiling wondering what shade of beige to paint it.”	“She’s typing.”	“I can see that. She’s standing right there in front of me. Why can’t she just talk to me.”	“She says that she would have shown more intimacy, if you hadn’t shouted Action every time you got into bed.”	“Oh, we’re going to play this game, are we? Air our private lives to everyone here. Okay, okay, well, let me tell everyone about…”	“She’s typing…”	“Yes, yes. I can see her fingers scurrying across her keypad, like ten fat little poisoned pens. Each one, another thudded jab to my forehead and a sharp stab to my back… What did she write?”	“When did you start to care about privacy? The whole industry knew about you and your indiscretions. Even Variety ran an article on the casting couch problem in Hollywood and quoted you several times.”	“I was misquoted on my comments about new actresses. They twisted my words.”	“She’s added, it’s hard to twist stupidity into lucidness. Put out or get out is what you highlighted regarding career advancement.”	“It was spoken in jest.”	“There’s more. She said that she learned more about you in one article than in five tumultuous years of marriage issues.”	“You never wanted to talk our problems out in private, did you, Ruth. Chose to clam up and drive me out of the house, before telling all our neighbours about our problems. What now? Expanding your poisonous ooze onto my set? You know, in the last year of our relationship, you were as cold as ice to me. So cold, every time I opened the fridge door, I got an erection.”	“She’s typing, sir… Oh, no…”	“What is it?”	“Look, Boss. I feel like I’ve been suddenly caught like a rabbit in the headlights of two old, rekindled feuding ex’s bent on arguing just for the sake of conflict.”	“What did she write?”	“She said, speaking of ice boxes, you were like Ice Cream. Starts off hard but quickly softens whenever things get hot.”	“Perhaps, if she had made any effort to be attractive in our marriage, my manhood would have responded appropriately.”	“She’s typing… Do I really have to read this, boss?”	“Go on, go on. You might as well involve the whole room in this.”	“She says… that your manhood was like an accordion not knowing which way the bellows stretched and it was always guaranteed to play a short loud song before ending quickly and falling asleep.”	“Oh yeah? Well… well, at least the bellows moved back and forth and didn’t lay there like a hard plastic mannequin… Hey, she started writing before I ended that sentence. What did she say?” “…Compared to those blow-up versions hidden in your closet, at least I was breathing.”	“Barely! There were times when I had to check your pulse just to see if you were still alive!”	“Oh dear, do I have to, Boss?”	“What… did… she… say?”	“She said… Playing dead distracted me from your eyes rolling to the back of your head, while you grunted and drooled all over me... Boss, please. None of this is productive. I suggest you concentrate on work right now and leave me out of this, okay?”	“You’re right, Amy. She’s out of my personal life. I’m free of her clutches, now. I’ve moved on and so should we… Okay, First positions, camera, sound, speed, rolling, and…”	“CUT!”	“Goddam it, Amy! What now?”	“The actors, boss.”	“What about them?”	“They’re erm, doing it.”	“Yes, I know. This is the adult entertainment industry. We’re shooting a porn film and they obviously needed to warm up during the continuing interruptions and get into character. Keep rolling, that’s it, Tom. Let her get your full attention.”	“Sir, I wasn’t aware that this was an x-rated production.”	“What, they didn’t cover that in your new employee induction?”	“I didn’t get a new employee induction.”	“And I didn’t get a make sure you tell the dogsbody it’s a porn film induction. Someone must have mentioned it in all those pointless meetings you were invited to?”	“The word Adult, was thrown around, but I thought it meant we just needed to act adult on set.”	“Welcome to show Business, Amy! Now, Tom. Turn her around gently. That’s it. Let’s get that money shot.”	“I’m sorry, sir. This is making me very uncomfortable.”	“Amy, where did you see the ad for this job?”	“It was posted on the wall of my local laundromat.”	“And you didn’t think, Gee! That’s odd. I thought it would be harder to break into the movie industry.”	“I’ve only recently moved to L.A. I thought that’s how it’s done here, and I didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth.”	“You mean, like what Erica is doing right now?”	“Oh God! I feel ill.”	“Hey, it’s just occurred to me. Why does an adult movie need an intimacy coordinator, anyway?”	“My question sir, is why does a movie that bares all to millions of viewers, need a closed set? My understanding is that intimacy coordinators help choreograph and coordinate scenes of simulated sex and nudity in a movie and they also establish boundaries for actors.”	“Good point, Amy. Not much simulated sex going on here, is there?”	“No, sir.”	“There’s only one reason she is here, and I’d say it has something to do with a certain singing producer – the husband of our leading actress. I slipped up just ONE TIME, RUTH! Okay, more than one time. That doesn’t make me a bad person. For what it’s worth, I was a devoted husband – most of the time.”	“…She’s typing… That must have been a different wife in a different life – she says. Because during most of your relationship with her, you were devoted to the bathroom mirror more than your love-starved wife, and your extra-marital antics could have been forgiven – given the industry you work in. But you insisted on doing this movie with the temporary mistress that replaced your permanent wife… Who does she mean, sir?” 	“The contortionist on the bed over there - trying to get Tom to…”	“…Come on, you! No! You didn’t! What a dick!”	“Amy?”	“I’ve just read what your ex has written about you and you’re a dick!”	“What did my supportive ex-to-be say?”	“She’s written that You have a history of sleeping with every leading actress and assistant you work with… and that she’s lost count of the times she found an earring, underwear, or set of fluffy handcuffs and mouth gags carelessly left under her bed. She also adds that the real irony is that the closest you two ever came to a bondage lifestyle, was at the registry office when she said, I do.”	“I think you mean, Bonded.”	“I read it correctly.”	“Let me get this straight. If you knew about all the others, Ruth. How could you let it go on for so long? Amy, what’s she writing?”	“…Oh no. No no no, Boss. I don’t want to be in the middle of this any longer. I’m taking a mental health break.”	“Hey, come back. What did she write? AMY?”	“…She wrote that for every cheap actress or starstruck assistant you brought home, she booked a hotel room with a certain singing producer for a bit of her own action on the side - several times a week… and for the last time, my name is Amai!”	“Amy, come back! You’ve got the clapper board! Where are you going?”	“Back to Louisiana! You movie people are a bunch of self-centred, egotistical, shallow, and outright hypocrites!”	“Amy! I thought you were from Liberia… Come back! GODDAMIT! Cut! Cut! CUT!” 
","July 21, 2023 04:48","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Chris,\nAs always, your dialogue heavy pieces are some of my favorite. I loved the way this story was funny and honest. It made plenty of observations about the world-Hollywood, our evolving culture, and marriage. This story also managed to create some incredible characters without ever describing their appearances in any way. This was a great way to answer the prompt. Nice work!!', 'time': '14:53 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': ""Thanks, Amanda.\nI enjoy the dialogue-only pieces. It's a challenge to set the scene and introduce each character without describing them, so thank you for pointing that out,"", 'time': '03:19 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': ""Thanks, Amanda.\nI enjoy the dialogue-only pieces. It's a challenge to set the scene and introduce each character without describing them, so thank you for pointing that out,"", 'time': '03:19 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Asa P': ""That's show biz for ya lol!"", 'time': '15:07 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Too true, Asa. Too true.\nThanks for reading my story.', 'time': '15:38 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Too true, Asa. Too true.\nThanks for reading my story.', 'time': '15:38 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'David Sanchez': 'Great use of dialogue to propel the story and how that reveals each character. A fun read!', 'time': '02:07 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'David,\nThanks for your great feedback. This was truly a practice on how to keep dirt clean. 🤣', 'time': '02:16 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'David,\nThanks for your great feedback. This was truly a practice on how to keep dirt clean. 🤣', 'time': '02:16 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': 'Heh, of course an adult film would require an intimacy coordinator :) And what better place to air your dirty marital laundry, if not on a set where everything is bared?\n\n""How is that a rude awakening?” / “She was asleep"" :) \n\nInitially this seems like the story of a put-upon director, who is hampered not just by those around him, but also by his outdated attitudes. The disrespect runs both ways, and he doubles down. \n\nBut as it progresses, I think we realize it\'s actually Amy/Amai\'s story. First, the eager worker, perhaps enjoying ribbing t...', 'time': '20:44 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Nicely summed up, Michal.\n\nIt covers a gamut of issues. Mostly, the grey areas between privacy and public view.\n\nAmy was indeed the main character. Naive, desperate to break into a tough industry, and unprepared for what life throws at you.\n\nNever answer an ad in a laundromat.', 'time': '00:10 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '4'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Nicely summed up, Michal.\n\nIt covers a gamut of issues. Mostly, the grey areas between privacy and public view.\n\nAmy was indeed the main character. Naive, desperate to break into a tough industry, and unprepared for what life throws at you.\n\nNever answer an ad in a laundromat.', 'time': '00:10 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '4'}, []], [{'Kevin Marlow': 'Funny stuff! ""Yes, yes. I can see her fingers scurrying across her keypad, like ten fat little poisoned pens. Each one, another thudded jab to my forehead and a sharp stab to my back…"" My fave line...', 'time': '03:08 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks for the great feedback, Kevin.\nHappy to have tickled your funny bone.', 'time': '03:28 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks for the great feedback, Kevin.\nHappy to have tickled your funny bone.', 'time': '03:28 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""A crazy scene, funny with great ideas, the camera's rolling, very original and unique. Nice one, Chris."", 'time': '00:43 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Joe, thanks for the great feedback.\nI hope I managed to keep it clean enough for most readers.\nCheers.', 'time': '00:52 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Joe, thanks for the great feedback.\nI hope I managed to keep it clean enough for most readers.\nCheers.', 'time': '00:52 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Just like, The Devil you Know, you amaze me with your ability to build fully fleshed out scenes through dialogue alone. I was smiling from the get go, then a little cringe - in the best possible way. The director was so ""directory"". That poor assistant though ha.\n\nGreat work Chris!', 'time': '07:31 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': ""Kevin,\nThanks for the great feedback.\nI like writing the dialogue driven stories, so I'm glad that they work as a literary piece.\nPoor Amai. Hopefully, her mental health break helped her escape back to the real world."", 'time': '14:43 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': ""Kevin,\nThanks for the great feedback.\nI like writing the dialogue driven stories, so I'm glad that they work as a literary piece.\nPoor Amai. Hopefully, her mental health break helped her escape back to the real world."", 'time': '14:43 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Michael Martin': 'Thanks for liking my story, Petrichor.', 'time': '04:28 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'And the cameras roll on. Good take.\n\nThanks for liking my mayhem.', 'time': '19:12 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Mary.\nIt was a practice on how to keep dirty, clean. 🧐', 'time': '03:38 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Mary.\nIt was a practice on how to keep dirty, clean. 🧐', 'time': '03:38 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Well, this was a fun-filled romp through a movie set! The introduction of the ex-wife as an intimacy coordinator on a porn set was going from sublimity to sublimity. The various meetings attended - and not attended - really added to the farcical nature of the tale. This, my friend, was as funny a tale as I've read this week, on this particular prompt. You have a real talent for humor, my friend. Nicely done!\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '14:33 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Delbert.\nI was channeling The Producers with an adult theme but trying to keep it clean. So glad the humour shone through.\nThanks for the great feedback.', 'time': '03:42 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '4'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Delbert.\nI was channeling The Producers with an adult theme but trying to keep it clean. So glad the humour shone through.\nThanks for the great feedback.', 'time': '03:42 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '4'}, []], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Oh this has to take the cake for an absurd situation, haha! I feel for the poor assistant, it’s too much to bear. Being caught up in a marital feud, witnessing unexpected x-rated adult content, and being overworked and under appreciated.\nI had to laugh at the intimacy coordinator coordinating her job remotely. Quite an oxymoron really.\nYour back and forth banter is delightful with a good pace.\n\n“What does fifties look like? I’m in my fifties. Do I look like I’m in my fifties?”\n“Then, I’d say she was younger.”\n“I can’t quite tell if that’s a ...', 'time': '14:25 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': ""Thanks, Michelle.\nYes, poor Amai became the projection conduit for both of the estranged couple. I'm all for working from home, but that would be difficult proposition for anyone working on a movie production. Oxymoron, yes. Excellent!\nThanks for the great feedback."", 'time': '03:45 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '4'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': ""Thanks, Michelle.\nYes, poor Amai became the projection conduit for both of the estranged couple. I'm all for working from home, but that would be difficult proposition for anyone working on a movie production. Oxymoron, yes. Excellent!\nThanks for the great feedback."", 'time': '03:45 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '4'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",uk095m,The Unseen Hand,Kevin Logue,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/uk095m/,/short-story/uk095m/,Dialogue,0,"['Fiction', 'Science Fiction', 'Suspense']",21 likes,"
“Cut!” The lights above the entrances stay lit, bleeding their artificial red warning into the synthetic gloom beyond the stage. Still live, just as planned. Looking up from the presenter's desk, I shuffle papers filled with our masters' practiced lies into a neat pile, just as I have done for thirty two years. Tonight will be my last. My trembling hands drift over the laminated circular tabletop as I gather my nerves. So much of my life spent here reading the nightly “news”, so many ""truths"" told, so many lives ruined.“I said cut!” roars the director, Mitch Holloway. Storming from the sound stage's recesses to stand between the rolling cameras, tonight's script scrunched into a baton in his shaking fist, he roars again. No one even flinches. We all know what has to be done. Enough is enough. The time is now.I swallow the lump in my throat and quiet the words of doubt screaming behind my eyes. The clock is already ticking, I am merely a cog.“Ladies and Gentlemen of the United Allied Continents, you may be wondering why I am still on your screen, this is not a mistake and there is no point changing the channel, we have taken control of central broadcasting….”“Someone get him off the air now!” Mitch screeched, brandishing his papery weapon as if charging into battle, but his rage blinds him and my PA/Bodyguard is as quick as a snake. With a wheezing crunch Mitch is flattened to the ground, a meaty hand clamping his muffled outrage as he is dragged back into the auditorium. We knew years ago there was no point trying to sway him to our side, he was the very definition of a company man.“Throughout the last four decades I have broadcast the evening news to homes across the allied nations, delivering some of the most devastating and impactful stories directly to you. From the horrific collapse of moon base six and the hundreds of lives lost that day, to the ascension of the child emperor Mandias, I have been here...""A racket of jostling heavy equipment erupts, causing me to pause. I evaluate my surroundings under the guise of clearing my throat, tool chests squeak, spools of cabling rattle, and ordered shouts resound in the background as everything is piled against the doors. For all the good it will do.""I have looked on as greed trampled goodwill, as freedom became a cheap brand filled with political caveats, us versus them, and as identity once praised as unique has been used to fuel hate. I…we cannot continue in this folly. So tonight, I bring the most unimaginable news to you live. Take a moment to hug your loved ones as we only have mere minutes.""The huge scrolling screen behind me flickers from an idyllic overview of the central dome, to a black and red countdown. It begins - 2:32""I, along with every other staff member in this room will most likely be dead when this countdown ends…as will most of you. Please, try not to panic.""""No doubt Centrus are deploying Justices as we speak. The sky will fill with Watchers, but they will not succeed. We can not be stopped. Let there be no question as to our meaning, this is not a rebellion, coup, or revolt. We have no desire to place another dictator into power, nor do we want reform. You cannot reform what is absolutely corrupted. This is the end… and I am its herald.""There is movement, frantic and jarring in the control booth at the back, floating above all like a great eye. I squint, but it is of no use.  “Citizens, investigative journalism is a figment of a bygone era, extinct in everything but name. The so-called news brought to you by the powers that be is no more than a fanciful script delivered by the Hierarchy, complete with required inflections. The truth has become subjective, and in a world where two truths can exist at once, there can be no reality.”1:32“When our world began to turn against us, when the temperatures fluctuated wildly and sea levels rose, the Hierarchy moved inland and built the sprawling domes we now call home. They were touted as marvels of engineering, but in truth, mankind was running scared. When animals, birds, and fish started dying out, developments by the Hierarchy’s scientists brought them back. We continuously turned our backs on both our problems and what made us great, empathy, compassion, love, ever increasing our reliance on our tyrannical betters. We pretend everything is as it should be as we savor the melody of digital bird song and revel in the caress of the turbine driven breeze. The truth is the world outside is already dead, and we are rotting away in cities made of glass, feasting on a banquet of lies, pretending, hoping the problem will fix itself.”1:00“We, The Unseen Hand, have been working behind the scenes. For many years now, in every aspect of life...” My voice quavers and cracks, “hoping beyond hope that it would not come to this…”The crew begin gathering, hugging, sobbing, kissing, one last touch of humanity before it is gone.“...but as of 11.56 central time control has been established over seven ballistic missile submarines and eleven microwave satellites. When this countdown ends, all stockpiles will impact. All Domelands are targeted, all communication hubs, all military installations….”The unmistakable thud of armored boots echoing outside stops me mid speech. Our barricade judders precariously as a battering ram collides with steel.“My dear viewers, welcome to the end. Our actions today will cut out the cancer eating this planet, excise the corruption at civilisations heart. Should any survive, they will inherit what remains, irradiated and broken. But free of us, of blight. Ready for rebirth.”0.10A shot shatters glass in the control room, something falls from a broken window, crunches sickeningly wet below. A spool crashes and rolls across the floor, a tool chest careens out of the way. Militant call signs trickle through as gas canisters burst both left and right. I must finish.“We hope that any who do make it realise we did this for love, not hate.”0.05Shots boom and crackle. Camera men spin shaking to the floor, sound engineers smash to the ground, their limbs jerk and tremor as lightning arcs across their bodies. Stun shots, they want us alive. Fools0.03The stage lights halo multiple soldiers and their rifles, but I know they are pointed at my chest. 0.02“...Goodnight humanity. Forgive us.”0.01
","July 21, 2023 16:22","[[{'Michał Przywara': 'I wasn\'t expecting a sci-fi take on this prompt, so that\'s a nice surprise! It\'s the moment before the apocalypse - the pre-post-apocalypse.\n\nHorror all around here. What happened with the planet, the dystopian hell theyive in, and the fanatics planning to murder it all. There\'s some lovely irony that in a world engineered to be us-vs-them, and indeed via a media that the narrator is part of, a group of uncompromising idealists rise up to ""save"" the day. And how? Well, mass murder of course :)\n\nYes, terrifying all around. We don\'t know if th...', 'time': '22:09 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kevin Logue': ""Cheers for reading and commenting Michal. \n\nI actually had a second part of this were the presenter wakes up in a lab and looks across and see himself floating in a tank, then realises he can't move or speak as an engineer starts rewiring his brain and laughing that they actually thought they were live. Whilst another scientist says giving the droids real personalities from actual humans brain waves was always going to bring up the same issues as this wasn't the first time it happened. But as it progressed and I meet the minimum word count I..."", 'time': '06:13 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Michał Przywara': 'That\'s a cool idea too! Though a very different story. What does it say, if every time we create something like a human, it ends up trying to destroy itself out of a mania of ""we are too evil to live""? \n\nYou\'re probably right, it would have been too much for this piece with the word limit, but it\'s an idea worth keeping and developing elsewhere.', 'time': '20:53 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Cheers for reading and commenting Michal. \n\nI actually had a second part of this were the presenter wakes up in a lab and looks across and see himself floating in a tank, then realises he can't move or speak as an engineer starts rewiring his brain and laughing that they actually thought they were live. Whilst another scientist says giving the droids real personalities from actual humans brain waves was always going to bring up the same issues as this wasn't the first time it happened. But as it progressed and I meet the minimum word count I..."", 'time': '06:13 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michał Przywara': 'That\'s a cool idea too! Though a very different story. What does it say, if every time we create something like a human, it ends up trying to destroy itself out of a mania of ""we are too evil to live""? \n\nYou\'re probably right, it would have been too much for this piece with the word limit, but it\'s an idea worth keeping and developing elsewhere.', 'time': '20:53 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': 'That\'s a cool idea too! Though a very different story. What does it say, if every time we create something like a human, it ends up trying to destroy itself out of a mania of ""we are too evil to live""? \n\nYou\'re probably right, it would have been too much for this piece with the word limit, but it\'s an idea worth keeping and developing elsewhere.', 'time': '20:53 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Suspense and tension cranked up to the max. Love a good dystopian future story . Enjoyed this immensely.\nSome commentary here too on how news is controlled and presented to the world. Not a completely unbelievable scenario.\n\nPs I had a load of stories started beginning with the word Cut too but I wasn't feeling any of them!"", 'time': '15:48 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Thanks for the feedback Derrick. Glad you enjoyed, yeah definitely some sociopolitical themes seeping in.', 'time': '17:40 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Thanks for the feedback Derrick. Glad you enjoyed, yeah definitely some sociopolitical themes seeping in.', 'time': '17:40 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ken Cartisano': ""Kevin,\n\nThank God I'm too simple-minded to develop an inferiority complex.\n\nAnother great story here. You have made the apocalypse planned, violent, and positive(?) An amazingly entertaining read, for such a dire plot line. It appears the 'Volatile Critiquer' has been silenced for the time being.  \n\nI didn't even know there was such a thing as a 'limited third person POV.' I'll have to look into that. I suppose there is, if you limit it. I think I get it. I think I already do it, just didn't know what to call it.\n\nI wondered how the narrator..."", 'time': '18:53 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': ""That limb jerking line hasn't sat well with me since the story was approved. It's like a scab that wants to be picked, but you've cut your nails so you can't get purchase for satisfactory removal, ha.\n\nSneaky English language! \n\nThird person limited it when you write as he/she and only have internal thought and feelings from thay POV character.\n\nYou do yourself an injustice good sir, I don't think anyone could call you simple minded! \n\nI shall be working through your back catalogue over the weekend."", 'time': '19:05 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': ""That limb jerking line hasn't sat well with me since the story was approved. It's like a scab that wants to be picked, but you've cut your nails so you can't get purchase for satisfactory removal, ha.\n\nSneaky English language! \n\nThird person limited it when you write as he/she and only have internal thought and feelings from thay POV character.\n\nYou do yourself an injustice good sir, I don't think anyone could call you simple minded! \n\nI shall be working through your back catalogue over the weekend."", 'time': '19:05 Aug 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ben LeBlanc': 'Wow, great little sci-fi vignette. Very nice world-building. I like how you start with a stick figure plot and slowly color in the details, really makes you want to read more. The pacing, especially during the countdown, was great. \n\nFor some reason, interspersing the broadcast with descriptive paragraphs made me think that the broadcaster and the one noticing the details were different people. Maybe you could\'ve transitioned between the two with lines like ""But I forced myself to look steady into the camera..."" or something like that. Overa...', 'time': '02:15 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': ""Thanks for reading and commenting Ben, it is much appreciated. Was experimenting with the countdown suspense so I am very pleased it came through as I wanted.\n\nAgree with the derivative nature of the content, I really wasn't expecting such a good response to this story as I thought myself it had be done so many times it was rudimentary but wanted to post something. But that's the benefit of fresh eyes, too close to the forest and all that.\n\nGood shout on the extra line too, I probably could have reinforced who was speaking further into the p..."", 'time': '11:30 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Thanks for reading and commenting Ben, it is much appreciated. Was experimenting with the countdown suspense so I am very pleased it came through as I wanted.\n\nAgree with the derivative nature of the content, I really wasn't expecting such a good response to this story as I thought myself it had be done so many times it was rudimentary but wanted to post something. But that's the benefit of fresh eyes, too close to the forest and all that.\n\nGood shout on the extra line too, I probably could have reinforced who was speaking further into the p..."", 'time': '11:30 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michael Martin': ""Really love your take on the prompt here.  The slow reveal was incredibly well done, something I appreciate and try to emulate (to varying degrees of effectiveness).  I also really appreciate the content of the message (if not the method of delivering said message, I'd prefer to avoid that), definitely a valid message in today's day and age!\n\nOne thing I'd consider in this is possibly switching to third person limited perspective instead of first person; I only say that because there were times when the narrator was, well, narrating things a..."", 'time': '20:30 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': ""Hi Martin thanks for reading and leaving feedback. Glad you enjoyed it.\n\nThe books I read are nearly always third person limited and being new to short stories I've been both trying new narrative types and learning from others. Shorts definitely seem to tend towards the first, I believe for closer emotional response. But you make valid points. I'd say first to third is a preference as all that really changes is the pronouns.\n\nGood luck with whatever projects you are working on. Cheers 👍"", 'time': '21:38 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Hi Martin thanks for reading and leaving feedback. Glad you enjoyed it.\n\nThe books I read are nearly always third person limited and being new to short stories I've been both trying new narrative types and learning from others. Shorts definitely seem to tend towards the first, I believe for closer emotional response. But you make valid points. I'd say first to third is a preference as all that really changes is the pronouns.\n\nGood luck with whatever projects you are working on. Cheers 👍"", 'time': '21:38 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': 'Great dystopian thrill ride!', 'time': '10:59 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Cheers Ty. Glad you enjoyed it!', 'time': '10:59 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Cheers Ty. Glad you enjoyed it!', 'time': '10:59 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'This pre-apocalyptic take was awesome. I like the social commentary on the media and it’s influence, the concept of human nature and it’s self destruction. Interesting that the solution to the problem is extinction of the whole human race.\nA great story with quick pacing and heightening tension with the count down.', 'time': '10:09 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': ""Thanks very much Michelle, appreciate the positive feedback. Here I was worried it was two dimensional and done to death, but hey that's the benefits of getting others to read it 😁\n\nNow back to self aware characters lol..."", 'time': '10:42 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Thanks very much Michelle, appreciate the positive feedback. Here I was worried it was two dimensional and done to death, but hey that's the benefits of getting others to read it 😁\n\nNow back to self aware characters lol..."", 'time': '10:42 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Chris Miller': 'Nicely executed bit of dystopian sci-fi. Great work, Kevin. Quick and punchy. A very enjoyable read.', 'time': '09:29 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""You came up with stupendous end of the world scenario after claiming difficulty with prompt. That's the kind of creativity needed to write a great short story. Well done."", 'time': '02:35 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Thanks Mary, if you seen the shear amount of half stories I have that starts ""cut"" you would probably laugh. Glad you enjoyed, I though when finished it was kind of rudimentary but posted anyways. Always best to get fresh eyes. Cheers again.', 'time': '06:39 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Thanks Mary, if you seen the shear amount of half stories I have that starts ""cut"" you would probably laugh. Glad you enjoyed, I though when finished it was kind of rudimentary but posted anyways. Always best to get fresh eyes. Cheers again.', 'time': '06:39 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Unknown user': '<removed by user>', 'time': '03:54 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '0'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Thanks very much for the great feedback A.G, I had real doubts about this one being flat or two dimensional.  And cheers for the bodies catch, how did I not see that! Ha.', 'time': '06:18 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Thanks very much for the great feedback A.G, I had real doubts about this one being flat or two dimensional.  And cheers for the bodies catch, how did I not see that! Ha.', 'time': '06:18 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",hj38jw,Hollywood Hack,Murray Burns,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/hj38jw/,/short-story/hj38jw/,Dialogue,0,['Funny'],21 likes,"
Hollywood HackThe cameras were rolling, the actors were ready, the director was sweating, and the producer was a nervous wreck. The studio’s planned summer blockbuster, “Brash Bags the Bad Boys…Again”, was behind schedule, over budget, and the company was fending off a looming writers’ strike.EXT. L.A. CITY STREET - NIGHTEmergency vehicle lights are flashing. The beautiful Honey Muffin, in full police garb, leans over a man lying on the sidewalk. Brash Bradford approaches.HONEY MUFFINBrash! I’m sorry. He’s gone. The drug dealers killed him.BRASH BRADFORDThey may take our lives, but they’ll never take our freedom!“Cut!!”The director, Quentin T. Ford, leaped out of his chair.“Rocky! What the hell was that ‘They’ll never take our freedom’ bullshit?!”Director Ford was used to fumbled lines by his movie stars, cast more for their good looks than their mental prowess, or in the case of the women, with other “talents” also being considered. Rocky Stoner was added to the studio’s stable of box office wonders because of his 6’2’’ muscular frame and stunning good looks. Ford settled on Bunny “Bosoms” Hopper, the woman who was so top-heavy that even loose-fitting blouses looked tight on her, for the role of Honey Muffin after he wore out three sets of cushions on his casting couch during the interview process. But the line just uttered by Rocky wasn’t even close to anything in the script…or so he thought.“What do you mean, Quentin? That’s my line right after she tells me my partner has bit the big one.”Standing off to the side of the set, Patrick Penner could hardly contain his glee. Patrick was not only the head writer for “Brash Bags the Bad Boys…Again”, he was also the President of the Writers Guild. Patrick had been locked in frustrating negotiations with the studio talking heads for months without a hint of progress. Other Union leaders had suggested a “work slow down” or rampant cases of the “Blue Flu” to get the attention of the big studio bosses, but Patrick came up with the winner- a bit of mischief in their script writing. He figured messing with the film’s production in its final stages would have the greatest impact, and depending on the degree of creativity involved in their chicanery, it could provide a few laughs. Competing versions of the script infiltrated the production and infuriated poor Quentin and the movie’s producer.“Let’s run it again, but with the right lines. Patrick, you got this squared away?”“Yes, sir.”HONEY MUFFINBrash! I’m sorry. He’s gone. The drug dealers killed him.BRASH BRADFORD Mercutio slain!“Cut! God dammit! Cut! Cut! Cut!”----------Patrick was meeting one-on-one with Farnsworth Fark, the balding, pudgy producer who, despite his diminutive stature had a knack for looking down on everyone he met. Fark, sole heir to the Fark Funerals franchise fortune, sat behind the biggest desk in the history of desks, puffing smoke from his cigar like an old steam engine. The guy was so obnoxious that even his friends didn’t like him.“Sorry, Patrick, that’s the best we can do. All our costs are up. The offer is fair. You’re lucky to have a job. Writers are a dime a dozen.”“You’ve got to be freaking kidding me. You’re paying Pretty Boy Rocky and ditzy Miss Boobies millions. Just give us some of the crumbs.”Patrick trod carefully when he approached the problems they’d been having on the set. “You know, we’ve had some miscues with the dialogue in some of the scenes. A little more money coming our way might improve quality control.”“That has to be our final offer. You guys aren’t going on strike are you?”“Wouldn’t think of it.”----------“Ok, Bosoms, now remember to look frightened, very frightened. The scene starts with you tied to the post in the abandoned warehouse and the drug dealers threatening to kill you.”“Warehouse? I thought it was a whorehouse.”“Bosoms! It’s a warehouse! Why would the drug dealers take you to a whorehouse?!”“You don’t have to yell, Quent.”“I wasn’t yelling. Ok, boys, tie her up.”A couple of the stagehands begin to tie Bosoms to the post.“Uh, Mr. Ford, we have a little problem.”“What now?”“I don’t think we have enough rope to wrap it all the way around… Bosoms’ bosoms.”“Jesus Christ! Then wrap it under… Bosoms’ bosoms.”INT. CARGO SHIP HOLD - NIGHTHoney Muffin is tied to a support beam. Three men are around her. One man has a gun in one hand and a cell phone in the other.BAD BOY #1 Alright, sister, we’re going to let you talk to that nosey partner of yours. If he doesn’t back off,  it’s curtains for you. And any funny business, I’ll let you have it.HONEY MUFFIN Brash will come for me, and then you’ll be sorry.BAD BOY #2 Yeah, right, there’s no way he’d ever find this place.A loud crash is heard, the door flies open, and Brash Bradford charges into the room.BRASH BRADFORDHoney!HONEY MUFFIN Brash! Are you happy to see me or is that a pencil in your pocket?“Cut! What the hell was that, Bosoms?! A pencil in his pocket? Could you just once get your freaking lines right?”Bosoms starts to cry.“You’re yelling at me again!”More crying.“I’m sorry sweet…I mean Bosoms. I don’t mean to yell. It’s just that these scenes keep getting screwed up, and we’re on the clock!”Patrick could hardly keep from laughing. Aside from any consideration of contract negotiations, he was having such a good time inserting famous movie lines into the script and then hearing the words come out during filming. For a moment, he thought he might change gears and do a little comedy writing.----------Patrick and his cohorts continued to surreptitiously slip fake pages into the copies of the script used by Rocky and Bosoms, and owing in large measure to their limited ability to understand the logical flow of the scenes, chaos continued to rain down on Quentin’s film. The director was growing suspicious.“Patrick, I know Rocky and Bosoms aren’t the sharpest tools in the shed, but their screwups are reaching epic proportions. Do you have any ideas about what’s going on?”“No.”“And then after the ruined scenes, their copies of the script mysteriously disappear.”“That’s odd.”----------“When I give you the signal, Bosoms, you get out of the shipping container on the ship’s deck, go below, and signal Brash with your flashlight. Brash, then you give the order to your men to board the ship to start the raid.”“Should I wait until I’m ready to give Rocky the signal before I turn my flashlight on?”“Yes, Bosoms, you wait.”EXT. BOAT LOADING DOCK - NIGHTBrash and a number of police officers stand on the pier near the gangplank. A light shines out of a porthole.BRASH BRADFORDBut soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.Quentin dropped his head, and spoke quietly, almost in defeat.“Cut.”-----------“Patrick, I’m beginning to think someone is out to sabotage our production.”“Who would do such a thing, Quentin?”“Do you trust all the writers on your staff?”“With my life, sir. I just think it’s human error. I mean, look who we’re dealing with…Rocky and Bosoms. If you combined their IQ’s, they’d still be a few cows short of a herd.”“You might have a point there.”---------Without a settlement on contract negotiations, production stumbled along, and Quentin’s patience continued to wear thin. Patrick watched old movies in search of memorable lines that would be funny to him but irritating to the director when slipped into the script at just the right moment.INT. CARGO HOLD OF SHIP - NIGHTHONEY MUFFINBrash! They’re in the back room. There are five of them, but we’ll have the element of surprise.   BRASH BRADFORD So, you’re telling me there’s a chance.Quentin raised his hand to his forehead.“Cut…cut…cut.”----------“That’s what I’m hearing, Patrick. That jackass Fark might buy the entire studio.”“Oh, my God, Quentin, that would be a disaster. The guy is an arrogant goof.”“Tell me about it. And the word is he’d do everything on the cheap. We may both be looking for jobs.”----------Patrick continued his mischief by night, and the filming struggled by day. He was getting a greater sense of satisfaction from his editing pranks than from his original work.INT. CARGO HOLD OF SHIP - NIGHTSporadic gunfire. Brash and Honey are crouched behind shipping crates.BAD BOY #1 Give it up, Brash. You and the dame don’t have a chance.BRASH BRADFORDYou and your boys are gonna’ be pushin’ up daisies when this is over.BAD BOY #2Let ‘em have it boys!Barage of gunfire.HONEY MUFFINBrash! I’m hit!BRASH BRADFORD Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.“Cut! Jesus Christ, Rocky, she’s been your partner for five freaking movies. How could you possibly think you wouldn’t give a damn if she got shot?!”“I say ‘em the way I reads em’, Quentin.”“Oh, my God.”Quentin’s suspicions grew. He glanced to the side of the set and saw Patrick quickly turn his head away.---------“Your directing sucks. I knew I should have gone with my instincts and fired you the first day of filming. If it weren’t for my ideas, this movie would bomb.”“Mr. Fark, sir, I think it’s going pretty well. I…”“I don’t want to hear it, Ford. Here’s a list of my latest changes to save this thing. Put them in right away.”“Uh, yes sir.”“And I don’t want any more screwups on the lines. One more time, and I will fire you.”---------Patrick knew trouble was headed his way when Quentin joined him at his table in the studio cafeteria.“Look, Patrick, if you are monkeying around with the scripts, you are going to be in some deep doo-doo. Fark is about to go through the roof. He says he’ll lose millions if this thing isn’t wrapped up on time.”“Sounds like we could be out of jobs anyway.”“Maybe, maybe not. But if the shit hits the fan, I’m not taking the fall. I’ll have to throw you under the bus. If it is you, and I’m beginning to think it is, you’ve got to knock it off. Is that clear?”“Very clear.”----------“Bosoms, how about dinner at Maxie’s tonight?”“Oh, I’m sorry, Quent, Mr. Fark wants to meet with me tonight to talk about a couple of new parts he might have for me.”“What?! Fark?!”“Yes, he’s a very nice man. He says he can really help my career.”“Uh, are you two going out to dinner?”“No, he says it would be better if we got together at his place. It’s on the ocean, you know.”Quentin dropped his head, harboring even greater hostility for Fark than he had just moments ago.---------The crew was preparing for the shot when the angry-looking director arrived on set. His expression turned even darker when Bosoms walked by without making eye contact.“God dammit, Patrick, that son-of-a-bitch Fark is banging Bosoms!”“Really?”“Yeah, and there’s an unwritten code that says a guy isn’t supposed to be hittin’ someone else’s stuff!”Patrick had a mom, two sisters, and a fiancée, so he wasn’t comfortable with the terminology, but he figured Quentin was too old for a cultural readjustment.“That’s terrible, Quentin. I always thought it was a rule. Yeah, for sure, no guy should ever be hittin’ another guy’s stuff. Poor form.”“That’s for sure. Ok, let’s get rolling.”EXT. BOAT LOADING DOCK - NIGHTBrash and Honey stand in front of five men in handcuffs. Several police cars with flashing lights.BAD BOY #1 I suppose you think you’re some kind of big hero now, Brash.BAD BOY #2You got us, but Mr. Big got away. What do have to say about that, flatfoot?BRASH BRADFORD I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.“Cut!”Quentin immediately flashed an angry look at Patrick. This time Patrick didn’t look away; he stared at Quentin with a wry smile. To his surprise, the hint of a smile slowly appeared on Quentin’s face.The beleaguered director turned and studied the scene before him. His eyes settled on Bosoms, but his mind was focused on the image of Fark sitting behind his big desk, that disgusting cigar hanging out of his mouth, demeaning his work and issuing mindless edicts for changes to his movie. Quentin leaped to his feet and shouted in a voice louder than any command he had ever given from his director’s chair.“Uncut!”The entire cast and crew stood in shock. Patrick’s smile went from wry to Cheshire Cat.“Uh, I don’t think you can do that, Quentin. You can’t uncut a cut.”“I sure as hell can, Rocky. I’m the director. I can do whatever I want. Uncut it. Put it back in. I want it in the final cut. ”---------To commemorate the last moments of their careers in the film industry, Patrick and Quentin slowly walked down the sidewalk in search of an establishment serving adult beverages. Patrick put his hand on Quentin’s shoulder.“Quentin, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”And they disappeared into the cold night air.
","July 18, 2023 03:14","[[{'Ty Warmbrodt': 'Fabulous job, Mr. Burns. You kept me smiling the whole way through. The names of your characters were genius in their simplicity and added to the humor. An enjoyable, relevant read.', 'time': '14:33 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Rachel Lione': 'I disagreewith Delbert Griffith! I feel the relevancy with the given situation with the studios at present made your piece lack creativity and the use of your imagination.\n\nI\'m posting this on everyone that didn\'t start with ""Cut!"" not to be mean...I almost didn\'t see it either...', 'time': '04:50 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ben LeBlanc': ""This was pretty funny, I must say. You have a knack for dialogue, but I think the wording and plot development was a bit muddy at times. It took me a couple rereads to realize why the writer wanted to slip in fake scripts. Also, if you were going for superficial, stereotypical characters, I guess you did a good job, but I think the story could've benefited from more grounded, fleshed-out characters. The same goes for the writing overall: just enough to get the point, but not enough to make it really stick in the mind or paint a picture. Over..."", 'time': '23:36 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'This was a terrific tale, Murray. Full of laughs and also quite relevant, given the situation in the studios at present. \n\nYou did a fine job with teasing out the resolution, provided by the director finally getting on board.\n\nThe classic movie lines were a hoot! Dude, those were stellar! Thematically, the tale holds together admirably, and the continuity is superb. Nicely done, my friend. Nicely done indeed.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '13:43 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Bruce Friedman': ""Clever idea of embedding your story into a movie script format. Also so relevant in the light of the screenwriter's current strike. Write on!"", 'time': '15:01 Jul 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Serious hanky-panky afoot.\n\nThanks for liking my mayhem.', 'time': '12:21 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",hpl3vl,"""Why won't you listen to me""",Muthukumarasamy Vinodh,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/hpl3vl/,/short-story/hpl3vl/,Dialogue,0,"['Fiction', 'Drama']",18 likes,"
""Cut"", the director bellowed, yanking off his cap and swiping a hand over his sweat-drenched hair. He gently rubbed his eyes to numb the effects of insomnia and stress he had faced for the past few years. The director had devotedly spent his time crafting each scene with passion and love. But all his efforts had been compromised due to the movie's protagonist, Wilson.Wilson was incredibly difficult to work with. His poor acting and decision-making skills had reduced the director's long movie to a mere short film. Furious beyond measure, the director spotted Wilson in the corner of the room, cluelessly wondering why the shooting had been halted.""Wilson, get over here!"" barked the director. ""Take a look at your masterpiece, and tell me if it's worthy enough to be a film."" With a puzzled look, Wilson approached and sat beside the director. A monitor screen was set up, displaying scenes from the movie.The director took a deep breath, “The film is supposed to be about a boy who made all the wrong decisions in life, and made his family suffer through his consequences but he slowly matures and corrects his wrongs, finds love, and lived happily ever after. YOUR stupid acting skills have caused me to use up all the budgets we had WILSON!”The director looked Wilson dead in the eye. ""All you had to do was listen to me, Wilson!”, The director took a glass of water beside him and started drinking it, he finished it in one gulp to calm himself down, “Look in the hero’s teenage years, due to his curious nature, the hero tries out some bad habits like smoking and drinking.And the scene where the father confronts the hero about his activities, the hero doesn’t heed the father’s advice and talks back rudely, and to be honest you did that part really well, your words and emotions did work out, any father would be disheartened by that, but again it is the hero’s teenage years, so its fine, young and all you know, however, you had that same emotion when you were doing the adult version of the hero, you maintained that same emotion, which doesn’t suit the age, Wilson. How can a mature man be rude to his father because the father cared for him! How?”Wilson was a bit annoyed, as in the story the father does nag the protagonist a lot for drinking, so he thought he did a good job by being a jerk and hurting the father.The director was not happy with the looks on Wilson's face, ""Think I am overreacting Wilson? Let’s look at romance elements then,"" the director began. ""Ms. Sophia, your high school crush, has finally landed the same job as you. Look at how much you stuttered just to say 'Hi' to her. All you needed was a bit more confidence in your lines, and the romantic scenes would have been much easier for me to shoot. Instead, your lack of backbone cost me scenes that can barely be categorized as romance.""""For instance, during the lunch scene, the hero was supposed to try his luck and invite Ms. Sophia out. Wilson you almost pulled it off, you strode towards her confidently, stood over her cubicle, and all you had to say was,'Hi Sophia, did you see the email from the manager? Can you believe this guy, cutting our bonus again? Anyway, want to grab lunch together?'It's a bloody simple dialogue, but the moment Ms. Sophia looked up and met your eyes, you crumbled like thin ice. How many times did I yell at you to continue! And yet, you just stood there like a bloody chimpanzee. Regardless, Ms. Sophia made the effort to continue the conversation, she kept giving you chances to say your lines properly, and you kept botching it,"" the director hurled his cap onto the floor in anger.Wilson gulped down his shame as he watched his romance scenes, finally coming to terms with his horrible romance skills. He had indeed behaved awkwardly whenever he looked at Ms. Sophia. Perhaps it was her blue eyes, her rosy cheeks, or the small strands of hair playfully framing her beautiful face that kept distracting him.The director then grabbed Wilson’s shoulder. ""Look at the extra scenes, see how much budget I had to put into the film because you couldn't deliver your lines properly. I had to add more believable complex scenes that would actually allow the hero to fall in love with Ms. Sophia because I cannot rely on your confidence. For instance, with Ms. Sophia, I scripted a scene where you save a child about to be hit by a truck, right in front of her. I had to risk a child's life just to provide you with a heroic moment, a scene that would make Ms. Sophia fall for you.""I even inserted a scene where your manager finally appreciates your work and grants you a performance bonus. I arranged everything to craft the perfect heroic narrative, and all you had to do was listen to me and act accordingly!"" The director finally lost his cool. He stood up from the chair and paced from left to right, trying to regain his composure.It took a few minutes for the director to regain his composure.""All you had to do in the next scene was drive to your fifth date with Ms. Sophia, propose to her, and get married. I wanted to continue the story by showing you having a son with her and learning to navigate your rebellious child's behaviors,"" said the director, his voice choked with emotion. ""Ms. Sophia was anticipating your proposal; she had practiced how she wanted to act surprised and how she would react to the ring you bought for her. The entire restaurant would have erupted in applause and cheers for you two as you kissed her. It would have been the most beautiful scene in the whole movie, followed by the birth of your son,"" the director halted his words, pausing for a moment.He suddenly let out a final scream, ""And you ruined it all by downing that bottle of scotch! Scene by scene, I built up your confidence, and helped you mature! All you had to do was listen to me and trust in your inner confidence, but you chose to place your trust in that 350ml bottle. Did you actually think that drinking alcohol would boost your confidence, that it would bestow you with a charming attitude?! NO! All it gave you was impaired judgment and blurred vision,"" the director firmly grasped Wilson's head and forced it against the screen, ""Look! Look, Wilson! Look what you've done to my perfect story!"" He pressed Wilson's face hard against the screen.Wilson sobbed uncontrollably. He had missed all the good scenes in his movie due to his addiction. With tears streaming down his face, he watched the screen displaying a smashed and burning car. He watched as paramedics covered his bloodied face, pronouncing him dead at the scene. He watched the ring he had intended to give to Ms. Sophia disintegrating in the fire.Wilson sank to his knees. ""Please give me one more chance, I swear I'll do it right."" The Director stared at him. ""Wilson, I told you, we are out of budget! We already spent all the luck on the truck almost hitting the child scene and the promotion scene. Now you crashing the car and ruining your entire story of yours, I don’t have the budget to save you, Wilson, there is no more luck in our bank. Getting addicted to alcohol was your decision, Wilson. Choosing to drink before a date was your decision! And worst of all, deciding to get behind the wheel while drunk was your most terrible decision.""""I directed every scene of your life as your soul guardian. The angels assigned me to ensure that you would lead a happy life in the end, and you blew it! Wasn't I loud enough? Didn't you hear me yelling instructions in the back of your mind? I'm the reason your hair stands on end at the back of your neck when you're afraid. I am your conscience, Wilson! All you had to do was listen to me! Now go, head towards the light, and repent for your sin!""The screen slowly started to glow, growing brighter until it emitted an intense light. Wilson sobbed as he saw the light drawing closer. A 350ml bottle of scotch had turned his potentially long and happy life into a short tragic film. The director walked away from the light, cursing under his breath at Wilson.
","July 19, 2023 11:26","[[{'Autumn Brock': 'Excellent twist & enjoyable read. I went back and read it again just to feel more of that poor Directors stress.', 'time': '00:55 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Muthukumarasamy Vinodh': 'Glad you enjoyed it!', 'time': '15:14 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Muthukumarasamy Vinodh': 'Glad you enjoyed it!', 'time': '15:14 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Tati Ana': 'Oh my, haha. From the starters I had such a weird taste in the back of my mouth about this story, I knew it was going to end some way like that, but I thought Wilson was the younger and more reckless version of the director and that he was talking to himself the whole time…haha. \n\nSoul guardians are an interesting concept and the way you thought the character threw me out at first, because they are often conceived and written about, in a completely different way. The director was right all along and it’s really cool that he got to lash out a...', 'time': '08:22 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Muthukumarasamy Vinodh': ""Haha thank you, hope you enjoyed it, I mean Imagine if soul guardians were true and they were our consciousness all along, pretty mine will be raging as Wilson's one too🤣"", 'time': '13:12 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Muthukumarasamy Vinodh': ""Haha thank you, hope you enjoyed it, I mean Imagine if soul guardians were true and they were our consciousness all along, pretty mine will be raging as Wilson's one too🤣"", 'time': '13:12 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': 'That\'s a neat take on the prompt - and a cool twist! I didn\'t initially see it coming, and I was wondering just what kind of director this was. Why did he keep allowing his actor to get away with things? Why didn\'t he fire him? Why did he have to actually risk a child\'s life with the truck? \n\nAnd then it clicked. It\'s a different kind of ""movie"", and we understand just how tragic ""short film"" is. \n\nCritique-wise, the ""addiction"" kind of came out of nowhere. We understand he started drinking as a teen, but I didn\'t realize it was problem drin...', 'time': '20:43 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Muthukumarasamy Vinodh': 'Thanks alot for the feedback, you are right, maybe I should have described more about the drinking problem', 'time': '07:24 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Muthukumarasamy Vinodh': 'Thanks alot for the feedback, you are right, maybe I should have described more about the drinking problem', 'time': '07:24 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Haresh K': ""Mannn. That's a nice twist. Had me going for a minute"", 'time': '02:26 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",dd2zs8,The Champion:  Season Five. The First Elimination. ,Alex Solomon,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/dd2zs8/,/short-story/dd2zs8/,Dialogue,0,"['Fiction', 'Contemporary']",13 likes,"
The Champion: 
Season Five. The First Elimination. 
""Cut!"" 
	We have just finished filming our four contestants arriving at the beach, for The Champion: Season Five. It's a picturesque day in the Marshall Islands. The sky is baby-blue, and the Pacific Ocean is so clear that we can film fish that are 100 feet deep. The camera crew has already snagged some amazing B-roll footage, including, a family of hammer-head sharks, a school of cotton candy colored fish, and an emerald sea snake.
 
	As one of the four writers, I'm not permitted to interact with the players. The writers are sequestered under a cabana, about 100 feet away from the set.
 
	Our legal eagles insisted that this season, with returning players, it was paramount that we are separated from the players. Of course, I understand. With all money that's wagered on the show, we need to appear as non-bias as possible. But, these players are the winners of our first four seasons, so we all have our biases coming in. 
 
	The excitement on the beach is electric. I can't help but be jealous of the camera crew, who typically become pals with the players. 
 
	Right now, Fisk is holding court. 
 
	Ronald Fisk, or Fireman Fisk, was our show's first winner. Fisk is a massive black man, standing 6'5 without shoes, he has biceps the size of pythons, and a set of abs sculpted by the Greek Gods. But Fisk is more than an adonis, he's a charismatic, and straight up heroic guy. 
	His rise to stardom was a huge boon for the show. America fell hard for the heartthrob firefighter. And whenever Fisk got publicity, so did we. It was ironic, Fisk never would have become famous without our platform. But now, our fame is more tied to him than the other way around. 
 
	The Panda is standing a few feet next to Fisk. Patrick ""The Panda"" won our third season. He's chubby, with long brown hair, that flows past his shoulders. He looks hilariously un-athletic next to Fisk, but the Panda is shockingly nimble. At least he was during season three, he looks like he's enjoyed his fame more than the others. 
 
	Ryan Harmon, a writer with thinning salt and pepper hair and a hook shaped nose, taps me on the shoulder, he says, ""It's like Captain America and Captain Underpants."" He snickers. 
 
 
I say, ""I think Panda has put on a few."" 
 
Beverly Morgan, our lone female writer, chimes in between puffs of her cigarette, she says, ""We wouldn't have even cast him if he was this outta shape."" 
 
	Morgan sucks on her cigarette like a straw. I have never seen the leathery women without a smoke in her hand. I could live without the awful smell, but as the youngest writer, I keep my distaste to myself. 
 
Charlie Brooks says, ""What's wrong with a thick man?"" 
 
	Brooks rounds out our writing team, and he is quite round himself. I like Brooks, he is unabashedly himself. From his moon rimmed sun glasses, to his goatee, Brooks is one of one. 
 
Morgan says, ""Nothing is wrong. I just don't think viewers are going to want him around for too long. He's hard on the eyes."" 
 
Brooks fires back, ""So what? You want to send the Panda home first because he's got a little muffin top?"" 
 
Morgan shrugs and says, ""Hey, someone's gotta be the first boot."" She discards her cigarette and quickly whips a replacement out. 
 
Harmon counters, ""Can't eliminate the fat guy first. It's too obvious."" Harmon is always worried about being too predictable. That earns him a lot of love from the execs, he keeps them from taking a bath on betting losses. 
 
 
I say, "" So, who's first out?"" 
 
	This is what makes our show unique. The players live together on a beach. They build a shelter and have genuine interactions. We watch how it unfolds, and decide how the challenges will be scripted. If a player loses a challenge they are out. We call it mixed reality. It's designed to have all the human interactions that people love about reality TV, but with writers to ensure that there's a satisfying story. 
 
Brooks says, ""What about Larry?"" 
 
	Larry, the winner of our second season, is a middle aged man, who looks like a scarecrow made of taffy. When he was cast, he had just gone through a gut-wrenching divorce. Larry had come home one day, to find his wife with another man, doing unspeakable things on their dining room table. Larry would tell people that, ""It was like she wanted me to catch her."" They split, and because of an air tight prenup, Larry essentially became homeless. 
	It was a dream for us. Larry's arc practically wrote itself, during every challenge, we wrote a lucky break into the script for him. He went from Loser Larry to Lucky Larry. 
 
Harmon says, ""No. Absolutely not. Larry is opening at 30 to 1. We can't get rid of him first."" 
 
 
Morgan grunts, ""Who cares about the line! We're writers! We just have to make sure the story is compelling. Or are you a little too chummy with the execs to remember that?"" It was no secret that Morgan wished it was still illegal to bet on reality TV. 
 
Harmon scoffs, ""I won't even dignify that with a response!"" 
 
I try to get things back on track, that's usually my role, ""What about Vandal?"" Everyone seems to contemplate this. 
 
Brooks says, ""You all know how I feel about him, the guy is pond scum."" 
 
Morgan nods, and says, ""We agree on that."" 
 
I say, ""but half the fans love him."" 
 
Harmon replies, ""Everyone loves a villain. But I hate having that guy around. He puts everyone on edge. He's not good for the show."" 
 
	Randal ""The Vandal"", an impish man, with a handle bar mustache, and bushy eye-brows, was the winner of our most recent season. He is by far our most polarizing Champion. Vandal winning, nearly caused Brooks to quit, and when he was invited back it nearly caused social media to implode. 
	See, Vandal won because he came into the show and was unapologetically himself. After Larry's season, we had a rash of contestants who leaned into their sad backstories. It was like they weren't playing to the cameras anymore, they were playing to us. Vandal was essentially our counter offensive to that. He openly mocked the other players in his northern Texas accent, we couldn't even air half of the things he said. He would purposely burn the groups food, and even sabotage the shelter. Vandal's strategy was to make the conditions miserable, knowing it would bother the other players more than him, and it worked. He was responsible our first quitter, an honor that he wore with pride. In interviews after the season, he boasted about his use of psychological warfare. He claimed that those tactics served him well as a car salesmen. 
 
Morgan says, ""Vandal can't be first out. He's our villain. Can you imagine how boring Star Wars would have been if Darth Vader was killed in the first movie?"" 
 
	The human cigaret makes a good point. From a story perspective, our winner should take Vandal down. I say as much to the group. 
 
	Morgan nods and puffs. 
 
Harmon seems to be readying a rebuttal, ""That's a little on the obvious side."" His tone isn't dismissive, but he's implying that we should continue brainstorming. 
 
 
Brooks, who has been focusing on something happening at the camp, says, "" Let me guess, we're going to have Fisk take Vandal down."" 
 
Morgan says, ""That's poetic."" 
 
Harmon retorts,""That's pandering."" 
 
I say, ""It feels a bit chalky ..."" 
 
Morgan replies, ""Not if we do it in a compelling way. What if we try a redemption arc for Vandal? Turn him from a villain to a hero. There is that rumor that he donated a third of his winnings to helping homeless veterans."" 
 
	There's a murmur of approval from the group. Morgan used to write scripted dramas, so character development is in her wheelhouse. Of course, it's harder for us to plan out an entire arc, since we only control the players actions during the challenges. 
 
A look crosses Brook's face that I can only describe as dastardly, he says, ""What if we turn Fisk from a hero to a villain?"" 
 
	For a moment, it's so quiet that we can hear the waves crashing into the shore, then the whoosh as water washes over sand. 
 
 
Morgan says, ""I like it. We show that nobody is perfect."" 
 
	Brook's face turns tomato red, it's rare to get a compliment from Morgan. 
 
Harmon, who is now wearing a sour pus, says, ""Horrible. We can't turn our shows biggest hero into a bad guy! Are you guys out of your minds?!"" 
 
Brooks' shoulders sag like a droopy potato, Morgan says, ""Chin up Brooks. It's a great idea. Harmon is just worried about the publicity."" 
 
Harmon's jaw drops into a giant O, then he snaps, ""How is undermining our greatest player a great idea?"" He obnoxiously air quotes great idea. ""Honestly, Morgan, sometimes I wonder what planet you're living on."" 
 
Morgan responds curtly, ""It was Brook's idea and it's called character progression.""
 
Harmon punches back, ""You mean regression."" 
 
	Morgan aggressively snuffs her cigarette out into a pile of sand, then she says, ""I need to grab another pack, let's take ten."" She storms off, towards our camp, which is a group of trailers hidden behind a thick stretch of jungle. 
 
 
Harmon says, ""I hope she runs into a leopard."" Then he saunters off in the same direction.  
 
	Now it's just Brooks and I, and Brooks is still watching the camp like a hawk. I ask him what he's looking at. He says, "" Fisk and Vandal are out in the ocean trying to spear fish."" 
 
	Fisk was like Aqua Man with the spear, we used a video of him carrying five massive fish in each hand, in the advertising for the first season. 
 
	On the other hand, Vandal didn't fish once in his season. I decide to see this for myself. We have a straight on view of the camp, but we also have monitors equipped with audio for a closer vantage point. Looking at the monitor, I see Fisk has already caught two huge red fish, with white spots. Vandal is skinning the fish as Fisk brings them in. 
 
	Suddenly, Fisk bursts out of the sea. The force of his body sends a geyser of water into the humid air. There are two teal fish glued to his spear. He smoothly removes them, and places them in front of Vandal. 
 
	Vandal nods, pulls out the tiny carving knife we provide the players, and gets to work on filleting the fish. It's strange seeing Vandal behave so civilly. Maybe he doesn't want to run afoul of America's sweetheart? 
 
	Vandal is skillfully slicing the fish apart, while wiping sweat of his bushy eye brows. Fisk catches two more fish before Morgan and Harmon return. 
 
	We spend the next hour learning the details of tomorrow's challenge. It's called Bag in a Grid. It takes place on a massive stretch of sand, that has been roped off into hundred square grids. Each player will search for a bag with their name on it, the bags are buried beneath one of the grids. When they find their bag, they have to bring it back to their starting mat. Then they're safe. There's a few wrinkles to this challenge. If a player finds someone else's bag they can grab it and the other player can try to wrestle is away from them. If one of the players finds their bag, the other players can try to stop them from getting to their mat. And, safe players can interfere with those still in the game. 
 
	The sun is beginning to set, the sky is the color of pink lemonade, it's breathtaking. But the scenery is upstaged by our lack of a script for the challenge. 
 
 
Morgan says, ""Ok, let's hear final pitches..."" 
 
	Before she can say anything else, movement at camp catches everyone's eye. 
 
Brooks starts laughing, ""Oh man! Panda and Larry are puking their brains out!"" 
 
I think back to Vandal rubbing those eyebrows, I say, ""I think Vandal poisoned them."" 
 
Harmon retorts, ""That's quite an accusation!"" 
 
I say, ""he was rubbing his eye brows while he was filleting the fish earlier."" 
 
Harmon says, ""It was 100 degrees out, he was probably just sweaty! And if that were the case why isn't Fisk sick?"" 
 
Brooks answers for me, ""Maybe he was in on it. Nobody can be that perfect!"" 
 
Harmon sighs dramatically, ""Am I the only one here who hasn't lost their marbles?""
 
Ignoring Harmon, Morgan says, ""That would play nicely into our hero to villain arc."" 
 
Harmon explodes, ""That's not happening!"" 
 
Staying calm, as if she's enjoying the advantage, Morgan asks, ""Okay so who do you think we should oust first?"" 
 
Harmon answers, ""Fisk."" 
 
	The rest of us gasp. 
 
Morgan says, ""What happened to not undermining the face of the franchise?"" 
 
Harmon explains, ""This is not undermining. This is showing that even our greatest competitor is not bigger than the show. We'll edit the episode to heavily focus on him, give the fans their fix, and then send him on his way."" 
 
Morgan says, ""and how much will we make from the money bet on Fisk?"" 
 
	Harmon simply rolls his eyes in response
 
Morgan says, "" Let's boot Panda. We'll have him struggle to keep up physically. The message is this is an intense show and you can't win if you're not in good enough shape. We can then focus on the Vandal-Fisk rivalry. And we all know we can easily toss Larry next."" 
 
	Brooks jumps in to make a case to keep Panda. He says it's important to show that people of all sizes can do well out here and he gently implies that Morgan is being fat phobic. I do my best to keep things in order. The hours are melting off the clock, and I remind everyone that we need a script by sun rise. 
 
	After hours of intensive debate, we manage to reach a compromise, and a script is born. I shuffle off to my cabin and immediately drift off into a dreamless sleep. 
 
	Three hours later, it's time to film. A skittish looking production assistant drew the short straw and has the unenviable task of delivering the scripts to the players. To their credit, they each keep a stoic face upon reading the script. 
 
	The show's host, Dale Gibbs, explains the challenge to the players and the cameras. The sand grid is roughly the size of a football field. The players mats are situated in each of the four back corners of the field. Fisk and Larry are on one side of the field, and Panda and Vandal are across from them. 
 
Gibbs says, ""Ready. Set. Go!"" 
 
	Fisk explodes off his mat. He starts tearing up the sand in the grid nearest to him. 
 
	Larry is jogging to the other side of the field, his lanky arms look like windshield wipers in a heavy storm. Vandal is taking the same approach as Fisk. 
 
	Panda is the last to a grid. He looks like he's about to puke. 
 
Gibbs shouts, ""It looks like Randal the Vandal has his bag!"" 
 
	True to his nature, Vandal is back pedaling to his mat, while starring down the other players. The taunting was not in the script. 
 
Gibbs continues to narrate, ""And Vandal drops his bag! He is safe! Who will join him?""
 
	Vandal leaves his bag and heads across the grid, towards Fisk. Meanwhile, Larry pulls a bag from the sand and heads back towards his mat. 
 
	Panda is struggling to dig up his second grid; while, Fisk is kicking up sand like a tornado. 
 
	Vandal is now watching Fisk dig, waiting to interfere. Fisk finally hits pay-dirt, the bag is a brown duffel, meant to blend into the sand. He checks the bottom of the bag for his name, he curses, then tosses the bag aside. 
 
	Panda realizes what this means, and jogs like a rag doll to the other end of the field. Neither Fisk nor Vandal make any attempt to stop the helplessly out of breath Panda. Panda reaches the bag, but instead of picking It up, he heads towards Larry's mat. 
 
	Meanwhile, Fisk has found his bag. Vandal jumps onto his back and tries to tug the bag from his massive hands. With Vandal on him like a child getting a piggyback ride, Fisk marches to his mat. 
 
	Panda grabs his bag off a confused Larry's mat. Panda says, ""You forgot to check the name Lar."" 
 
	Larry takes off like a bat out of hell towards his bag. When he grabs it, Panda is no more than halfway to his mat. Meanwhile, Fisk is 20 yards away from his goal, but Vandal is riding his back, which slows him significantly.
 
	Larry is flying too fast, not minding the ropes, he trips hilariously and face plants into the sand. 
 
	Meanwhile, Panda collapses onto his mat. He is safe. 
 
	Larry picks himself up, and breaks into a dead sprint, his mat his only 20 yards away. Fisk is 8 yards from his mat, but Vandal is making every inch a struggle. 
 
Gibbs narrates the finale, ""Larry is moving like lighting! He's 20 yards away, 15, 10!"" 
 
	Suddenly, Fisk hurls Vandal off his back. And in two strides, he makes it to his mat.
 
Gibbs exclaims, ""Fisk is safe! Larry is the first to trip and fall out of the competition! Wow! Who knows what will happen next week! Tune in to find out who will go home next!  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
","July 19, 2023 18:00","[[{'Tricia Shulist': 'Interesting, setting your story in a “reality” show.  I wonder how much of the shows are scripted — probably a lot more than we know about.  I like the idea of being able to bet on the show, that raises the stakes.  Thanks for this.', 'time': '15:47 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Sue Hunter': 'Hey Alex! I’m trying to get better at critiquing, so here’s a bit of a longer review. I’ll list my favorite moments and some of the parts I didn’t love as much. Just remember that at the end of the day, I’m just a lil smiley face on the internet, and everything below is just my opinion.\n\nPros:\nThis is such an interesting concept. The reader is going to immediately understand the premise of your story, as we’ve all seen shows like this (Survivor popped into my head first). Then, just as the reader thinks they know what the story will be about...', 'time': '00:43 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Rachel Lione': 'I deleted the comment', 'time': '20:15 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Rachel Lione': ""I'm extremely Sorry I must have clicked the wrong short story lol! I apologize"", 'time': '20:14 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",qxdut5,The Director ,Ben LeBlanc,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/qxdut5/,/short-story/qxdut5/,Dialogue,0,"['Contemporary', 'Fiction']",12 likes,"
“Cut!”I stared down at the script in front of me. Another episode finished. The actor and actress, each dressed in flesh colored bodysuits, got out of the bed where they were pretending to have sex. stagehands with towels rushed forward to relieve them. Another episode done in the style of the HBO prestige drama. The likable antihero who is too virile for his own good. Big-budget spectacle, with violence turned up to the max. And, of course, the multilayered plot which served to justify the vice. “Hey, Don, you wanna take another look at the shot before we wrap up the scene?” It was my assistant, Vanessa. Bright eyes, short dark hair, always with a pair of headphones pushed haphazardly over her head. She was a little overeager, almost obsequious, but I didn’t mind. That’s how they all are when they start out. Like rats at the beginning of a maze. I followed her to one of the monitors displaying a rough cut of the scene. I knew what the audience wanted. Full frontal nudity, with just enough emotional drive and subtext to convince them that they were watching something more sophisticated than porn. Which was hilarious, considering what I had just filmed would probably-–definitely–-end up as a screen capture on some adult website. Not that anyone ever said as much. “Thanks, V. I’ll take a look.”An auteur--that’s what they called me. Idiots. I just know what fuels the human psyche. Most people watching have very little moral compass, and anyone who thinks they do is only deluding themselves. One sex scene every three episodes. It didn’t have to be a major plot point, and most times it was totally superfluous–-a variable you plugged into the equation to get what you wanted. The analysts had done the research. One scene every three episodes was the magic ratio. Too many scenes and the audience would finally realize that their intelligence was being insulted and disregard the show as a smutty cashgrab. Too few and… well, they’d change the channel for a different reason. Back in film school they had made us study Sesame Street. The reason why the show was so popular, they said, was because a group of child psychologists did the research and figured out what would make it resonate with kids. One week their ratings would be down. So they would analyze, make a tweak to the next episode. Add a little Big Bird here, subtract an adult innuendo there, speed up the cuts--and voila! Their ratings would soar. Entertaining adults wasn’t much different. After Vanessa left, I couldn’t help but linger over the scene. The girl we had chosen for the role was not there by accident. Even fully clothed she was amazing to look at--coy smile and doe eyes in a heart-shaped face framed by locks of rich blonde hair. But that’s not what the audience would be looking for. The scene began with her standing in the doorway without a stitch of clothing… then sauntering over to the bed as the camera drank in her naked form. There were ways to conceal, I knew. To shoot the same scene in an artful, instead of a sensual, way. But that defeated the whole purpose; no one wants porn shot by a nun. For those six seconds of screen time, every part of her was bared to the world. Pure, unadulterated beauty thrown into the colosseum, there to be devoured as a public spectacle. Even with the set empty of everyone except the most essential workers, the tension was palpable. The girl, Emilia--Millie--had thrown up right before shooting the scene. I almost felt bad for making her do the scene. She was a sweet girl, and very shy in person. At twenty years old, she had left her home in rural Indiana to act in my film after starring in a couple of indie films as a teenager. She was adapting to LA life, but her chaste upbringing clung to her like dried manure on a tractor tire. She had come into my office the day before, face flushed and eyes shining with anger, waving her contract around. She started sobbing right then and there. But it was her first real gig. She knew it, I knew it. Saying no to my request would’ve been career suicide. Something wasn’t right about the scene. Something about the movement. The audience wouldn’t buy it. I pulled Vanessa over. “Yea, we’re gonna have to reshoot this. It looks robotic.” Something broke through the facade. Worry.“You don’t think we should give her a break? It took us hours to get her to do this.” “If we hesitate now she’ll never agree to reshoot. And don’t even get me started on continuity. You know how long it took to get the lighting right?”“Ok. I’ll get her.”She emerged, dressed in a baggy white hoodie and sweatpants, sipping on an iced coffee and wandering the room with those big, blue, innocent-looking eyes. I stifled a sigh. “Honey, we’re gonna have to do the scene again.” “But I just got changed!” “Well, get unchanged.” I turned to my crew. “Go again! From the top!”Slowly, painstakingly, I proceeded to explain the scene to her once again. What she was to do with her hands, her legs, what direction her body should be facing. The beats of the scene. Walk slowly to center stage, toward the protagonist. Climb onto the bed. Kiss here. Moan here. “The camera isn’t there. It’s just James, okay?” She was still gaping at me when Vanessa, wearing a look of harried empathy, pried the coffee from her hands and led her to the bathroom.“And no bodysuits this time,” I called out after them. “We're doing it in one take, no breaks.” She would get over it. They all did. In the interviews, she would call it female empowerment, norm-breaking--whatever. Different names for the same stupid coping mechanism. The three cameramen returned to their stations as I called for quiet on set. The protagonist, dressed in a white button-down and black slacks, threw his loafers on the floor and sat back down on the bed. Back with his mistress after a long day at the detective’s office. Vanessa gave me a thumbs up. She was ready. “Cameras rolling?” The cameramen each gave a thumbs up.The protagonist undid the first three buttons of his shirt. The sweat had barely dried on his forehead. Now that I thought of it, filming was like setting a trap. If the cage was the camera, the animal was the shot. And no shot would be escaping this cage. “Ok, episode five, scene twelve. Filming in three… two… one… ACTION!”The door of the set opened a crack, then a foot, then swung wide on silent hinges.
","July 20, 2023 20:53","[[{'Mister X': ""One of my favorite things about Reedsy is seeing new writers write.  This was a really nice first effort. I can tell you have the making of a good writer if you keep at it.  This story was a little choppy and at times seemed to lose direction but there was enough good in there to work with.  If you stick with it my guess is the next story will be better and the one after that even better still. You might even find your way back to this one sometime in the future to clean it up and maybe even resubmit the improved version.  Keep writing, it's..."", 'time': '13:11 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Ben LeBlanc': 'Wow, thanks for the encouragement. I am definitely excited to keep writing on this site. I would be interested in what specifically you thought needed improvement, I would gladly reanalyze.', 'time': '13:38 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ben LeBlanc': 'Wow, thanks for the encouragement. I am definitely excited to keep writing on this site. I would be interested in what specifically you thought needed improvement, I would gladly reanalyze.', 'time': '13:38 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Steffen Lettau': 'A wholesome story, even with the aforementioned nudity.  It reads like something happening in real life; a job that needs to be done, a simple walk-through, and even a peak inside the mindset of the main character and his reasons for how he does things.  No over-the-top drama, nothing left out or too much added in; just a simple work day.  I hope that there might be more stories, even more to this story, but I leave that up to you.', 'time': '02:05 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ben LeBlanc': 'There will definitely be more to come; working on one right now :). If anything this story is the opposite of wholesome, or at least that was my intent. Interesting take.', 'time': '19:01 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ben LeBlanc': 'There will definitely be more to come; working on one right now :). If anything this story is the opposite of wholesome, or at least that was my intent. Interesting take.', 'time': '19:01 Jul 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Hi Ben! I enjoyed this. You nailed what I imagine to be the reality behind these scenes. Obviously I went thinking GOT. The exploitation is real \nPoor Emilia \nSolid entry!', 'time': '18:20 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ben LeBlanc': 'Thanks for the read, Derrick! Yea a lot of this is based on stuff I have read about what goes on during filming for things like GOT. Pretty icky.', 'time': '18:27 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ben LeBlanc': 'Thanks for the read, Derrick! Yea a lot of this is based on stuff I have read about what goes on during filming for things like GOT. Pretty icky.', 'time': '18:27 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Firstly, welcome to Reedsy Ben!\n\nNice story, well written. Really delves into what has become boiler plate for the big budget dramas from the likes of HBO, and the hard talking uppity director is quite creepy.\n\nEnjoyed how you book ended the cut with the action.\n\nThis line really made me smile ; no one wants porn shot by a nun. Never have truer words been spoken ha.\n\nGood work, I look forward to seeing more of your work.', 'time': '19:03 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ben LeBlanc': 'Wow, thanks for the comment, Kevin! Appreciate the feedback.', 'time': '21:24 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ben LeBlanc': 'Wow, thanks for the comment, Kevin! Appreciate the feedback.', 'time': '21:24 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'3i Writer': 'I pretty curious about the body suits thing. Why did the director want to use body suits on 1st take and then going nude on the second?', 'time': '23:44 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ben LeBlanc': 'He wanted it to look more ""natural."" But it also could be read as an illogical decision, going on a whim, as directors often do.', 'time': '23:46 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ben LeBlanc': 'He wanted it to look more ""natural."" But it also could be read as an illogical decision, going on a whim, as directors often do.', 'time': '23:46 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",96kge8,I was a John Q Extra,David B Fraser,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/96kge8/,/short-story/96kge8/,Dialogue,0,['Creative Nonfiction'],11 likes,"
   “Cut” the first Assistant Director called.
   “Break for lunch.” The third Assistant Director announced. “We’re in that warehouse. Doors are way down the west end.”
   We were led by some seventh Assistant Director, Extra’s Wrangler, to the far end of a warehouse where catering had still not unloaded.
   “We’re locked out.” Another extra said yanking on the steel doors.
   “I saw tech guys somewhere at the other end inside, when we came over. We could knock on the windows back there.” I said.
   “You know how far that is? You want to walk that again?”
   “Yeah, sure.” I offered, getting my back up. I stomped away and headed around the other side I came from, so I wouldn’t have to go past the crew still coming up. I got to the windows and knocked on the glass.
   “Go around.” A tech guy waved from inside.
   I knocked again. “We’re locked out.” I called but the glass was too thick.
   “Go around!” He shouted. 
   I pounded on the glass. “We’re locked out!!”
   He looked like he was going to get really angry than broke into a smile. He waved for me to calm down. He got the message.
   As I stood in gravel and weeds outside the window an older man in a jeep came by. “What are you doing?”
   “We got locked out.”
   “What’s your name?”
   Whenever I feel someone’s accusing me of something I get very direct. “David B. Fraser”.
   “Outstanding.”
   He drove off and I felt like a big oaf for getting upset. 
   After lunch about a hundred of us walked across a parking lot on some dock in Hamilton Ontario, Canada, while they filmed us with Denzel Washington as we pretended to be leaving a factory located in Chicago. For this they had insisted we all had to be wearing steel toed boots.
   I was resting my feet the day after when the extras agency called. “David, do you know someone on John Q.”
   “No. No one.”
  “Well, they got another eighteen days for if you can get to Toronto this afternoon for a fitting. You’ll be one of the Chicago cops.”
   “Oh, but I was a factory worker on that film.”
   “No one will notice you, David, your background. Let them worry about that.”
   In Toronto the wardrobe lady said, “You’re not a cop. You’re union. They’re not using union people for cops. You’re a man in the crowd.”
   “My agent said cop.”
  “Well, that’s wrong.”
  “It’s just what I was told.”
   She shook her head patiently, and then went away. When she came back, she was shaking her head again. “Oh, well, they’re saying you are a cop. I’ve outfitted all the cops. I mean, your waist is fine, but I’m not sure I have something tall enough for your height.”
   When I got to extras’ holding there were over three hundred extras waiting and lining up in circus sized tents. Sixty of us were cops. “Not you. You’re union. Dress him as a tourist.”
   I went to set in a Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and tennis shoes. After an hour while the company was still setting up a guy in a headset grabbed me. “Are you David B. Fraser? Come on.” I followed him back to holding and right past the line into wardrobe. “Why isn’t this guy dressed as a cop?”
   “He’s union.”
   “Dress him as a cop and send him back to set.”
   Finally, uniformed, I arrived on set to wait. Most of the work is waiting. Then pretending to be doing something, while being absolutely silent, while someone better paid is actually saying their lines and acting. Another extra asked me, “When you’re not doing this, are you cop?”
   “No, I worked in book stores. I quit my job, and now I need money. I tried to be an actor in my twenties and never made a living at it. I became unionized for film and theatre, and still never made a living at it.”
   The fellow nodded. “I was a millwright.”
   They started handed out guns. “The Glocks are metal, and have no pins in them, the pistols are plastic. If you have a Glock, you wear a shoulder holster, so just the plain clothes. Uniform officers belt holsters. Now, listen, you don’t go anywhere with these. They do not leave set. They get locked up when you break. We have had people steal a fake gun from a set to go rob a store. Anyone fooling with these, anyone pointing these, anyone doing anything we haven’t specifically told you to do and you’re gone.”
   One of the younger extra’s was twirling and quick drawing his plastic gun while the assistant talked.
   “Excuse, can you give me that?”
   The extra handed the gun over to the assistant.
   “You’re done. Go to wardrobe and change. You’re wrapped.”
   “I’m booked for the week.”
   “Not with us. You’re done.”
   The actor, Ray Liotta, came on set and we hung about while they continued to set up. Robert Duvall came on, someone in the crowd of extras yelled, “I love the smell of napalm in the morning!!” We all parted away from the guy. The stars ignore the yell. The assistants couldn’t find the guy in the crowd to throw him out.
   The movie seemed to be about Denzel Washington’s character’s holding a hospital hostage so his son can get a heart operation. 
   Long days went by, with lots of overtime, and hanging out with my new onset friend and fellow extra, Earl Williams. Earl was fifty-six and looked a bit like the uniform cop John McCain befriends in Die Hard. “I do extra work for a living. Background Specialist. I had two months on Pushing Tin. You know why we’re cops? They didn’t want the cops to be union because they knew they’d run into a lot of overtime. But they made you a cop, because you helped them keep things moving. You from Hamilton? My son plays for the Hamilton Ticats Football team.”
   On the third week came the big Saturday.
   “The were asking for three thousand extras today.” Earl explained. “They think they’ll get twenty-seven hundred. They got thirteen cameras. There’s four on the roofs. They got four helicopters. One’s a fake Chicago police helicopter and the others have cameras. Look, see the barriers in the park over there? They got to have an emergency landing spot for each helicopter in case.”
   It would still be hours before everyone was set to film. They handed out our fake guns. We took up positions around cars that were dummied up to look like Chicago police cars. Denzel was already walking around the set, in front of a mock Chicago Memorial Hospital façade. He was waving a gun and repeating his lines. Rehearsing in the middle of everyone else trying to get things together. 
   “Alright.” An assistant had a bullhorn for the first time. “Everyone, this is the scene. We only have the day. We have to get this. All you cops are to point your guns at Denzel. If I see one cop who is not pointing his gun at Denzel you will be gone. Stand by.”
   Things went quiet.
   “Okay, first positions.”
   I held my gun in both hands and pointed at Denzel. It was very sunny. There was a huge crowd all around me. I thought they were serious about us being serious so I found myself really clenching my plastic gun and looking very serious. I felt a lot of tension in my neck and shoulders. Denzel started to shout his lines. A man with a chest mounted gyroscope camera began to circle Denzel as he spoke, getting closeups of him from the front and the back as he moved. 
   Then I heard the helicopters. Four helicopters beating their blades. 
   I was sure I was going to pass out. Then that would be it for me, and I would be a wrap. Out of two thousand, and seven hundred extras, I would be the middle-aged guy who would collapse and ruin the shot and cost them a gazillion dollars.
   “Ease up, big guy.” I told myself. “Nobody’s getting a close up of you. You’re one of the sixty background cops in the picture. You’re a blur. All you have to do is point your gun. Nobody’s asking you to act. In fact, it’s better if you don’t.” My neck and arms loosened. 
   Denzel was saying something about his son. Helping his son. For his son. Something. The helicopters were so loud.        
   They did many takes of Denzel’s speech. Towards the end Denzel started saying, “I don’t want to do this! I don’t want to do this anymore! I want to give up this acting shit. I want to go home!” 
   We all cracked up. It was a good day.
   It was a great time. Problem was, I wasn’t seeing my kids during those three weeks and I had a young family. I jumped at the chance to go back to work in the book business not long after I was wrapped.
   A year later when the movie came out, I watched it. I enjoyed it. I was a blur. 
","July 15, 2023 20:36","[[{'Calvin Kirby': ""David, it's me again. I loved your story, as I said earlier. I belong to a senior literary shorts group where I live in Maryland. I would like to use your story as my entry to the group on October 2nd. You will be given credit, of course. I am sending my email (Ckirby59@comcast.net). If you wouldn't mind providing me with a short bio of yourself and some information about how long you have worked as an actor, etc.. that would be great. I will give you more information when I receive your ok and other information. Thanks, Cal"", 'time': '23:12 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Calvin Kirby': 'David, I really enjoyed your story. Having done extra work for over 30 years myself, I could relate to what you were going through. You captured how things really work at location settings. If you get a chance, read my entry ""Best Friends - O Yeah!"" and give me some feed back! Cal Kirby', 'time': '15:14 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mustang Patty': ""Thank you for sharing this. I always thought it would be fun to be an 'extra.' Now, I'm more informed and don't want to do it so badly anymore. (Scratch one thing from the Bucket List.)\n\nGreat job,\n~MP~"", 'time': '12:32 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Hi, movie star. Great job of being a blur!', 'time': '23:32 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",221zp1,What Is Art?,Jed Cope,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/221zp1/,/short-story/221zp1/,Dialogue,0,"['Funny', 'Suspense', 'American']",11 likes,"
“Cut!”
 
Bren Halfleck looks stunned. Then he looks around him at the crew. Green screening is an art in itself. It’s acting in its rawest form. Precision make believe. There is nothing there, but he has to make sure the audience sees what should be there. Then the tech wizards colour everything else in and there really is a dragon, or an alien, or a talking boat or whatever it is that is trending this year in the weird and wonderful world that they call Follywood.
 
“Is that it?” he asks as the crew start wrapping things up.
 
“Yes,” Stefan Speelburger tells him with a nod and a scowl that makes Bren feel slighted and just a little stupid. 
 
Mostly he feels aggrieved though, “I’ve literally done less than five minutes in front of the camera.”
 
Stefan nods again, “that’s all we need,” he tells Bren.
 
The truth is that they need much less than the five minutes. The extended time is an indulgence so that Bren feels suitably important. Stefan had anticipated just this sort of reaction, hence the extra time Bren has been afforded. He wanted to head off this nonsense, but here it is all the same. Bren’s reaction makes him feel less guilty about the way things are going. Bren is making this easier. He’s starting to make Stefan feel like he deserves what is coming to him. What is coming to all the spoilt brats who think that fame has made them extraordinarily special. 
 
Later, Stefan will feel guilty all over again, but this guilt will be a dainty wallpaper to hide the glutinous mound of self-pity he feels having suffered the same fate. He should have seen it coming, but he thought he was immune to the inexorable march of the unstoppable beast, and right now, he’s operating on the basis that as long as it doesn’t affect him directly, he’s cool with it. He’s underwriting this with the assertion that they need him. He’s the big name that sells the picture. The day is already dawning when stars have had their day, but for directors it’s a whole different ball game. Directors have the vision and that’s what really counts.
 
Not all stars have had their day, because this is Follywood and there’s always a new star in town. Stars are ten-a-penny, only now they are infinite and they are making like new born chicks and they are as cheap as hell.
 
“But…” says Bren, “I…” he looks at Stefan with a pleading quality that might not actually be acting. It’s so difficult to tell with actors. “I’m the star of the movie?”
 
Stefan gets up from his chair and walks over to the deluded man who hasn’t yet got with the program. He wraps an arm around his shoulder and walks him off set. Job done.
 
“Yes, you’re the star,” Stefan tells the former A-List star, “well…”
 
“Well?” asked Bren, award winning concern etching his face.
 
“Times,” says Stefan, “they are a-changing.”
 
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asks Bren.
 
“Every dog has his day,” says Stefan.
 
Bren stops and shrugs off Stefan’s arm, fed up with the twee sayings, “please stop making like a broken karaoke machine,” he says, a hint of anger backlighting his words.
 
“You know this business,” Stefan says, and then he shrugs.
 
“You’re saying I’m finished?” asks Bren.
 
Stefan raises his hands in a placatory gesture, “not necessarily, you’ve directed…”
 
That’s when Bren laughs. He actually laughs in Stefan’s face. Stefan feels the laugh and not just because flecks of Bren’s spittle hit it.
 
“You haven’t got a clue!” he shouts into the director’s face, more spittle painting it. Then he lowers his voice, “I suppose none of us have. Not really.”
 
Stefan watches Bren flounce off. Was there any other way that Bren would exit this stage?
 
It’s the last time they will work together.
 
It’s also the last time that Bren works as an actor. 
 
Well, technically it’s the last time. 
 
Or is that physically?
 
Let’s just say that Bren never has to do another day of work in his life. Which is a nicer way of saying that he is never given the opportunity to work again.
 
And yet…
 
He stars in more films after this final moment with Stefan than he ever had before that day. 
 
Bren Halfleck will never receive a penny for any of those films. This is because there is something pretending to be Bren, who is then pretending to be a character in a film. Bren and a bunch of his friends, and some other people who acted like they weren’t friends, but changed their tune when they saw the way things were going, came together as a collective and filed something called a class action. There were some big names in that gang, Chad Pritt, Dom Bruise, The Block, Cassandra Bollock and Beryl Steep, to name but a few.
 
They did not win.
 
Their failure to win was nigh on a foregone conclusion, because in essence, they were a group of people who pretended to be something they were not, trying to stop something being something it was not. 
 
They even allied with writers, which was a bit late in the day. Writers had never been paid all that much and they seldom got any recognition for what they did. The hole in the hull of the writers’ cause was that they were solitary animals and liked to keep themselves to themselves, preferring to live in alternate realities, so there was no need to divide and conquer them, they’d already done all the hard work on that front, and they somehow expected that their lot would never be an easy one and they most definitely did not want any of the limelight, which was unfortunately where the recognition dwelt. 
 
The second action also failed, because now there were people who made stuff up trying to prevent something making stuff up.
 
Which was a bit rich as far as the judge was concerned.
 
Someone was most definitely getting rich though, because now they were getting infinite content for a few quid. This made far more business sense than having to pay stroppy stars millions of pounds and there was the added bonus that there was no longer any need to pander to the biggest egos on the planet. 
 
For a select few, this was a win-win with a few more wins for good measure.
 
The famous stars huffed and puffed and forbade the studios from using their images.
 
The studios didn’t bother with any huffing and puffing. They presented the ruffled and out of breath stars with copies of their contracts. The contracts had underlined small print that went on for twelvety pages, and amounted to one thing. The studios owned all the images in their possession regardless of how those images came into their possession. 
 
“I didn’t sign up for that!” said the famous collective.
 
A lawyer smiled a crocodile smile and reminded them all that they had accepted the new Terms and Conditions and that they should always read anything that they sign up to. And so, the game was up. Yet again, the dastardly Terms and Conditions with its seemingly harmless tick box had won the day.
 
Not content with a sole reliance upon this, the studios used this opportunity to demonstrate that they were not in fact using any of their former stars’ images.
 
“But that’s me!” bellowed Dom Bruise!
 
“And that’s my image right there!” cried Chad Pritt.
 
They all chimed in with similar defiant cries. All except Bryan Reynolds, he’d seen the writing on the wall and he’d called it a day. He’d had a good run since his near fatal part in The Green Torch, so he figured he was already up on the deal, slipping away quietly in the night to live in a log cabin in his native land.
 
All this righteous indignation did none of them any favours. The studios rolled out the stars’ images and put them alongside the images they were using in all the latest blockbuster films. The stars did not come out of that parade favourably, the years had not been kind and without make up or filters, they didn’t look all that, and in one fell swoop, the adoring public switched allegiances to the newest and shiniest star in Follywood.
 
A.I.
 
The new kid in Bauble Boulevard was keen as mustard. There was no stopping it. Never would A.I. need a break to find itself. It would have no artistic differences. It did its thing and it did it over and over and over again and it did it perfectly and amazingly, magically quickly. 
 
A.I. opened the door to a new era. If there had been a golden age, then this was the diamond age. The old ways were cast aside and the streaming services expanded their offering. Within just three years of A.I. coming on the scene, it was providing instant, tailored content for everyone on the planet.
 
“What are we watching tonight, honey?”
 
“Well… I fancied an action movie with someone who looks like Brianna or K Lo maybe?”
 
“A film like Commando, but with some rabid, radioactive sheep in it?”
 
“You and your mutant woolmongers! That’s just the ticket!”
 
Later, on those days when the novelty had worn off and people weren’t in the mood to think their stars and scenarios up. Long after they’d seen their boss murdered in umpteen horror flicks and their annoying neighbour bisected by a great white shark, in a tornado, the A.I. gave them what they wanted without any input from them at all.
 
“How does it know?”
 
“Great isn’t it?”
 
Too good to be true was what it was. Too good by far. The A.I. wielded its algorithm and regurgitated content over and over again. The same old same old, tarted up as something else. Grey mush force fed down the gullets of an increasingly passive and subdued audience.
 
Television really had become the drug of the nation.
 
The former star and now almost down on his luck, second hand car dealer, Bren Halfleck had been right. No one had had a clue. No one looked far enough up the road to see what might be coming for them all. 
 
The rich and famous stars had not helped. Their bleating had distracted everyone. Their adoring public adored them for pretending to be other people. They didn’t exactly like them when they were themselves. Worse still, they really did not appreciate their sanctimony. Sanctimonious rich and famous people never land well with the general populous. Bonio had made darn sure of that. Normal people had always preferred the underdog and for a terrible moment, the stars of Follywood made A.I. the underdog and the world welcomed it into their lives and their living rooms and bedrooms with open arms and wide open and unblinking eyes.
 
That as they say, was that.
 
A.I. turned out to be the most invasive species known to humankind. Only it wasn’t a species, so it wasn’t restricted by the practical considerations that species are. It got everywhere, made itself comfortable and only then did people realise that it was here to stay and the world had changed forever.
 
How had the world changed?
 
That was the billion dollar question.
 
No one knew and no one had the wherewithal to find out. After generation upon generation of revolution on the technology front, humankind was well out into uncharted territory and the mists of confusion and chaos had descended bringing malaise and apathy along for the shits and the giggles.
 
Mostly people were enraged. The social media platforms peddled their wares via a storm of rage and they’d done this for so long and so successfully that levels of anger were at epidemic proportions, but no one really knew why they were angry. They just were. All of the time. And then they were so very tired from all of the anger. It didn’t help that their attention spans were getting shorter and shorter until they lurched from one thing to the next without a clue as to what any of it meant anymore.
 
The world was in uncharted territory, it was this that Bren Halfleck and Stefan Speelburger considered one rainy evening over a bottle of cheap bourbon, in a hick town in the middle of nowhere. A town where Bren grubbed a living selling electric cars that no one wanted.
 
“I’m sorry,” says Stefan as they raise their smeared glasses and tap them together.
 
“What for?” Bren replies magnanimously letting Stefan off the hook.
 
Stefan nods a thanks and pours some of the rough liquor down his throat, hoping the burning sensation won’t be as caustic next time around. 
 
“It frightens me,” Stefan admits eventually.
 
Bren shrugs, “isn’t this how it is for every older, outgoing generation?”
 
Stefan shakes his head, “you’ve seen how things are.”
 
“Not really,” says Bren, “you see where I live. It’s not exactly a thriving metropolis.”
 
Stefan glares at him, “don’t be obtuse with me, Bren. I know you see it.”
 
Bren sighs, downs a mouthful of the bourbon and grimaces. It does get easier with each mouthful, but not by much, “I try not to.”
 
“Turning a blind eye and pretending it’s not a problem is part of the problem though!” protests Stefan.
 
“You saw what happened to Darren Tino. He wouldn’t let it go and that didn’t end well did it?” Bren sighs again, “it’s not like we can do anything now. It’s taken over all of the arts. Every last bit of it.”
 
“But…” Stefan protests.
 
Bren leans in and whispers conspiratorially, as though being overheard would put them both in danger, and maybe it would, “don’t you get it? It’s already won…”
 
“How can you say that?” Stefan is trying to rally, but it’s clear that he is deflated and the fight has all but left him.
 
“Look at it,” Bren waves his hand expansively as though they can both see the A.I at work and doing it’s thing, “a machine. A huge, pulsing and ever growing machine, provides a herd of meat sacks with all of its art. No art is produced by the herd anymore. Or if it is, that is dying away. There is no one to inspire the next generation. The people being born into this world now will suckle at the teat of the machine and they will know nothing else. There will be no more art, no more innovation, only a facsimile of those things.” Bren downs the rest of the contents of the smeared tumbler and chuckles mirthlessly, “we have been enslaved by our own blind ignorance and we allowed our one saving grace to be destroyed and replaced. Art was the one thing that gave us hope. It reminded us, if not of who we were, then of who we should be.”
 
Stefan feels cold all of a sudden, he hadn’t realised he was attending a wake. He follows suit with his tumbler of bourbon and empties it down his throat. Now the burn feels good. He wants to feel it. He wants to feel something. He thinks maybe that’s still something worthwhile in a world that has nothing. A world that is rapidly becoming nothing. A pretend world that came in the night and replaced the real one with empty promises. A fake plastic blanket that smothers all the life that slumbers below it.
 
Bren refills their glasses with generous measures. He raises his and smiles a warm smile.
 
“Let me tell you a story…”
 
Stefan sits back and feels a warmth wash over him to replace the dread cold. Bren can spin a yarn and there is something about his voice and his delivery that is right up there. He’s maybe not quite at Horgan Freeland’s level, but as near as dammit anyways. Already Stefan is losing himself in the moment and opening himself up to the words of the story his friend is recounting. It doesn’t matter whether the story is true or week old bologna, it is all in the telling. 
 
Maybe there is hope yet, Stefan thinks to himself as he engages with the magic of the story being told by a fellow traveller in this weird and wonderful life of theirs.
","July 15, 2023 23:03","[[{'Joe Malgeri': ""Yes, it's the Hollywood scene for sure, Jed. I dug the cracking on their names, good puns, good ideas. AI is growing & growing. I have a hunch that Elon Musk is attempting to promote the fear of AI in us, because he has a plan to act and play the hero in time, where he can offer to place computer chips in our heads so we can then compete with AI. I could be way off, but time will tell."", 'time': '23:51 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jed Cope': ""Glad the story hit the spot.\nI like your thinking re Elon. Well, I like it and it gives me the creeps as well. That's mostly why I like it if I'm being honest...\nAnother slant on that is that AI will surpass us all and Elon could not abide being sidelined. In that respect, I think he's a pretty good spokesman against a new species that will make us all surplus to requirements..."", 'time': '12:20 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jed Cope': ""Glad the story hit the spot.\nI like your thinking re Elon. Well, I like it and it gives me the creeps as well. That's mostly why I like it if I'm being honest...\nAnother slant on that is that AI will surpass us all and Elon could not abide being sidelined. In that respect, I think he's a pretty good spokesman against a new species that will make us all surplus to requirements..."", 'time': '12:20 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Dena Linn': 'Interesting story... had trouble with the hopping POV maybe that is your style? I really like the tongue in cheek names of your characters :)', 'time': '14:29 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jed Cope': ""Glad you found it interesting. I hopped around a bit with this one. That's not necessarily all about my style."", 'time': '13:22 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jed Cope': ""Glad you found it interesting. I hopped around a bit with this one. That's not necessarily all about my style."", 'time': '13:22 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Antonio Jimenez': 'I really enjoyed this story. It got a rather dark point across using humor and levity. Loved “The Block” lol. \n\nI also really liked this line: “Grey mush force fed down the gullets of an increasingly passive and subdued audience.” Imo, that’s basically what Hollywood is now. I pretty much hate all of the mind-numbing stuff they put out now, and AI will just make it worse.\n\nI just released a new story, I’d love it if you could take a peak and maybe leave some feedback. Thanks!', 'time': '06:55 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jed Cope': ""Great feedback - glad the story hit its mark and you enjoyed it!\n\nThere's one film I'm looking forward to and that's Napoleon. That one is looking epic!\n\nI've a busy weekend - I'll try to get around to looking at your story in the week. Please give me a nudge?"", 'time': '07:07 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jed Cope': ""Great feedback - glad the story hit its mark and you enjoyed it!\n\nThere's one film I'm looking forward to and that's Napoleon. That one is looking epic!\n\nI've a busy weekend - I'll try to get around to looking at your story in the week. Please give me a nudge?"", 'time': '07:07 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Loved your play on stars' names. AI is happening. Really enjoyable look on what it can do to Follywood."", 'time': '00:04 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jed Cope': 'Thanks! I was inspired by what is happening right now and I found myself wondering what a world would be where art is swamped by AI. If we cease creating art, that cannot end well...', 'time': '00:58 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jed Cope': 'Thanks! I was inspired by what is happening right now and I found myself wondering what a world would be where art is swamped by AI. If we cease creating art, that cannot end well...', 'time': '00:58 Jul 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",77n2os,The Command Performance,Marc Rothstein,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/77n2os/,/short-story/77n2os/,Dialogue,0,['Funny'],11 likes,"
The Command Performance
""Cut!""
The gargoyle director swung his megaphone in my face when he yelled. He stood two heads taller than me when he wasn't on all fours. His fanged smile was both warm and menacing. With a wincing smile, I took a defensive step back and bumped into a set of golden elevator doors. As they slowly opened, I realized how I got here. 
Bladder cancer had ended twenty-seven seasons and 5000 episodes of my TV show. After tearful goodbyes to my family and friends, I took my last breath. My hospital room flashed blindingly white, then black. 
#
I found myself waiting in a hallway outside of what looked to be a standard, mid-level corporate executive's office. As my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, the vague outline of my hulking host came into focus. He sat behind a large desk, with his back to me, facing a deep crimson velvet curtain. Without a word, he pointed over his head toward the oversized red leather armchair on my side of the desk. I sat.
Downlit by a single candled sconce, a partially unwound scroll, burnt around the edges and splotched with faded reddish-brown stains, caught my eye. It looked biblical. On the desk was a picture of two red-faced kids with pointed buckteeth and unnervingly crossed eyes. Not just a little, I'm talking nose-staring-crossed, each sporting the wickedest grin I've ever seen. I decided to avoid discussing his family unless he insisted, and I hoped he didn't.
It seemed like hours while we waited for each other to speak. My socks were drenched in sweat, and my mouth turned to cotton as the heat rose from the old plank flooring. It couldn't be from one of those fancy radiant floor heaters.
I dry-gulped as my hand traced rows of fingernail grooves etched across the desktop that trailed off the edge. My eyes flit from a red glow flickering through the square of floor cracks around my chair to the long, gold handle protruding from the right arm of his chair. A chorus of tortured screams came from behind the curtain.
This office could belong to only one guy. I wasn't happy.
Like a well-rehearsed schtick, he slowly swiveled his chair to face me, accidentally brushing the curtains, releasing a blinding red-orange flash of light. It quickly diffused through the gray dusty air, casting a menagerie of shadows, some inching towards me. He was ruddy-faced with slick-backed ebony hair. Casually examining his long, curved fingernails, he uncrossed his legs and revealed a glimpse of cloven hooves over the desktop with a lightning-fast chair aerobics maneuver. I dreaded what might come next.
He toyed with the tips of black stubs protruding through his golden crown. ""Oh, nothing to dread."" I couldn't tell if his heavy black coat was made of wool or had sprouted from his thick, scaly skin.
His eyebrows rose to the crown. ""That show earned you a bad reputation, but I know it's all an act."" He stood and extended a claw. ""The Jerry Springer. I'm quite a fan, quite a fan.""
I swallowed hard and gave it a fist bump.
He pointed a finger gun at me and winked. ""Got lots of bad ones down here, and you have such a flair for presenting them at their worst─and I mean that in a good way. I called in some favors to borrow you before you head up there."" His brows knitted, and his lips pressed into a frown as he looked upward.
His eyes darted manically as he sprang to his hooves. ""We don't have much time. Read these notes for your final show, and we'll get to it. Dancing out of the office with a low-pitched, slow-motion laugh, he left me to worry and prepare. Bizarre as it was, this grand finale was quite fitting. Some might say I deserved it.
Thankful for the smell of sulfur, I eased out a long-held fart in small installments, taking care not to cause a flame-up.
My last show! It was only an audience of one, but what an audience it was. With this cast of characters, it should be fun. Hmm. Up there, now that's some great news. I got busy studying the script. This was one guy I didn't want to piss off.
An hour later (maybe it was five or six?), my host returned. ""I think you're ready now.""
""Yes, I am,"" I quickly replied with a great deal of respect.
""I know you are. I just said so,"" he bellowed, giving me an evil look that sent chills up my spine. His voice softened. ""You must be hungry. I'll have something brought in. You like spicy food?""
I guessed the right answer to that one. ""Yes. Extra hot, please.""
""My chef is The Genghis Kahn. The dude usually cuts a chunk from his horse's neck for a fast bite, but he can also do a stir-fry to die for."" My host was very animated, jabbering and waving his claws. ""After the nosh, we'll be off. The cameramen are queued, and our people are all in place.""
#
After lunch, a weird little guy, half goat, led me to the studio.
The stage was ready to go. A red backdrop curtain behind yellow flames was a great touch, especially with real fire! And was that genuine brimstone I smelled? The sofas carved out of the cave granite weren't comfy but perfect replicas of those on my set. Behind each was one of those Minotaur creatures, maybe eight feet tall. You know, with the bullheads and 'roided biceps. They stood there with their hairy arms folded over their bulging chests, smirking as if to say, ""Yea… go ahead.""
It was showtime. He sat in the third-row center with his hooves up on the seat-back two rows ahead. My audience. From the thick hazy air, a voice proclaimed, ""It's the Jerry Springer Show."" My host started clapping, whooping, and waving his hands in the air, prompted by an audience participation sign.
My show-biz instincts kicked in. ""Today, I have a very, very special show for a very, very special audience.""
A thunderous disembodied applause filled the room, and a big, cheeky grin spread over The Evil One's face. I adlibbed a strong but unoffending intro while keeping my sphincter in check. He had that effect on me, and the stir-fry didn't help.
""And for today's show, all the way from an engagement in the Garden of Eden, I have the original Adam!"" A phantom audience of male voices cheered, met by an equal measure of feminine boos and hisses. My first guest materialized onto the stone sofa to my left, careful to dress his fig leaf as he grinned and waved to the audience. Adam was not what I had imagined. There was an out-of-shape, middle-aged redneck with a blonde and brown mullet. He hadn't shaved for days, and I could smell beer clear across the set. ""So, what's your side of the story,"" I asked.
""Well, it's like this, we were just plain out, a bad match. You know? It's not like I was looking for anyone else, you know? And she was so needy. 'Adam, it's too cold. Adam, I'm hungry. Adam, your rib itches me.' She just drove me crazy. The last straw was old Jake, the snake. I knew I couldn't trust that one. So, finally, it was like, 'So eat the damned apple and leave me alone.'""
I feigned my best look of intrigue. ""I see. That sounds rough. Now, let's hear the other side of the story.""
Out from behind the curtain came a sight I thought would give me cataracts. Eve came slinking over to the cave couch, her low-cut leaf-halter top accented by the amateurish snake tattoo above her right breast. Someone backstage gave her a pair of pink, heavy-duty-booty tights that looked like a sack filled with cellulite potatoes. She wore way too much make-up, and her short, black, spiked do, completed the unhappy hooker look.
""He lies like a thief,"" she said between cracks of her chewing gum. ""All the time, he'd tell me it was pure kismet. He'd always look at me down there and then at himself and say, 'I think we were made for each other.' It was creepy. A one-track mind, I tell you."" Out came the female cheers and the male boos with an occasional taunt of 'Bitch'.
""And don't let that big fig leaf fool you. Trust me, ladies, I know. You know too. I hear you laughing.""
The audience looked restless, so I moved on. ""Well, whatever your problems, you seemed to make you-know-who angry and wound up down here. Once He got over the embarrassment of his awkward first try, He replaced you two and tried again. I think He named them Bob and Fran. Now, those guys worked out much better.""
Eve rolled her eyes. ""That was after this no-good weasel knocked me up six times! Who would be interested in me after that? Anyhow, I hear the foster parents set a much better example than us, even though they were stuffed shirts.""
""A great example of nature vs. nurture,"" I added to segue into my big surprise. ""Guess who else has come to visit? Your boys Cain and Able! Eve slapped her hand over her mouth, and Adam stared at the floor, shaking his head. The air was magically filled with hundreds of hoots and whoops. The two came from different sides of the curtain, looking like they had just stepped out of Better Farms and Meadows, glaring at each other.
Suddenly, Able lurched across the stage at Cain, only to be stopped by one of the bouncing bulls. ""You son of a... You jerk! They brought me down here to tell you off, but I'm at a loss for words.
""Well, I'm not, asshole,"" Cain yelled. ""You got what was coming to you. Mom always liked you best, and besides, you weren't the goodie-two-shoes everybody thought you were. You might have fooled the family, but ooh…. if those sheep could talk.""
This was getting out of hand. Trying to avert a here-after-disaster, I interrupted. ""After all this time, you guys haven't learned anything. Every generation after you has a little Adam and Eve in them, but luckily, their Bob and Fran keep them in check. Now shake hands. How 'bout we all go out for a little stir-fry and hash things out? Y'all like spicy food?""
My horned host held up two daggered thumbs, then pointed to that golden elevator beside the gargoyle director.
 
","July 17, 2023 00:59","[[{'Rae Toonery': ""Hi Marc - I like your style! Love the crossed eyes description and the slow fart (I'm a sucker for bathroom humour). Genghis - a stir fry to die for... love a pun as well. So many moments of comedy gold here: 'unhappy hooker', 'cellulite potatoes'... really made me chuckle"", 'time': '12:06 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Ann Ford': 'I was asked to critique you story and this is what I found.\nIt was a little weird at first but I caught on toward the end. It could have done without swearing and of course changing things of the Bible but your imagination was awesome.', 'time': '19:24 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Tommy Goround': 'Clapping.\nfunny? Yes. \nImmersive? Yes.\nConcept? Multiple unique material. \n\nDid the concept go to far and lose any dramatic ability? Maybe. \n\nOut of the last 29 stories I read today..this one wins for my mood and desire for unique material. \n\nVery good.', 'time': '23:17 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'David Sweet': 'Interesting take on the prompt: Jerry Springer keeping it going in the afterlife. Very appropriate ending for him. I appreciate the satire. Thanks for sharing.', 'time': '16:07 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Rachel Lione': 'I\'m posting this on everyone that didn\'t start with ""Cut!"" not to be mean...I almost didn\'t see it either...', 'time': '05:09 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '0'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",r5e2ye,The Butt Double,Stephanie Troyak,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/r5e2ye/,/short-story/r5e2ye/,Dialogue,0,"['Funny', 'Coming of Age', 'Drama']",11 likes,"
He takes me from behind, grabbing my ass and rhythmically pounding into me in slick, steady strokes. His fingers dig into my flesh. My hair is loose and damp, as sweat drips down my nipples, shining along my porcelain flesh. He grabs my hair and I let out a soft moan as my neck lolls back. “Get up” he commands. He pulls me up on my knees, and wraps his muscular arm around my torso, proceeding to gently nibble on my ear. His breath on my neck sends a quivering sensation down my spine. His hands slip down my stomach, and my body tingles as his hands go further, my eyes rolling back. He pushes me back down to all fours and slaps my buttocks hard. Wet, throbbing penetrations, he’s driving himself harder into me. I’m whining with pleasure and he’s breathing hard. He slaps me again and moans as he increases the rhythm of the penetrations, jerking himself back and forth, rough and hard. His muscles clench. Body tingling, genital swelling, he grunts with orgasmic release, “I’m gonna come so hard for you.” 
 
“Ok, CUT!!” The director yells. “Nice work everyone, let’s pick up from the top of 31. We need Vik’s closeup. Let’s test out some shots. GARY!”
 
I let out a sigh as I sit up, stretching my sore arms and taking the pillow out from under my legs. Next to me, Vik King, Hollywood A-lister, wipes some of the real sweat from his forehead, and rubs out the kink he’s been having in his neck. We go to sit in our respective folding chairs on set as a huddle of busy bodies come running towards us. Makeup goes to dote on Vik, gently touching up his gorgeous face with dabs of foundation and delicate spritzes of water. Wardrobe hands me a robe and I wrap myself in it. Dozens of crew members shout various cues back and forth to each other moving camera equipment, dollies and rolling cranes, swarming about the set like a sea of black flies, while the director, indomitable and fierce Jane Willis, walks around to various DP’s giving notes about the shots.  
 
No, I’m not having hot, aggressive sex with dreamy, Scandinavian superstar Vik King. Instead, I’m sitting fully naked in a bright studio in front of 150+ crew members. Fully nude, except for a skin toned, half-thong “genital guard” that barely covers my vagina. The adhesive, pantyhose-thin layer of protection has been attached to my vaginal area wrapping up to my lower back with latex glue. Vik is also naked, except for his flesh toned “modesty pouch,” a thin sock-like cover with a drawstring on top to keep it fixed, over his penis. 
 
We have been filming this sex scene for the last 10 hours. 
 
I check my phone. It reads 10:39pm. I see a text from my best friend “Did you see his dick yet!? I need DETAILS!” I giggle and tuck away my phone as the intimacy coordinator, Colleen, approaches me.
 
“You’re doing great. There’s only a few more shots to go, mainly Vik’s coverage, so we’ll just get the backside of your body for this one. You can take a break when they get his closeups. Here, you can put on these silicone pasties since your breasts won’t be in these shots. They also reduce any sensation you might get for your safety. We’re gonna go over the choreography again in five, sounds good?” 
 
I head back to the “bedroom” with Vik, and get back on all 4’s on the bed with my ass up high. My arms shake a bit, but I try to remain poised. Vik does a few jumping jacks to pump up his muscles and gets behind me with a pillow propped between his pelvis. We practice out the new sequence of sex choreography. Jane is with one of the camera men, testing out different angles and giving us direction simultaneously.
 
“Ok… Vik can you inch a little bit more forward… a little more. And a bit more arch? Great. Jo, actually, can you tilt your butt a little more towards the camera.” With my face crammed uncomfortably into the pillow, I try to twist my butt a little more to the right while Vik bumps his pelvis clumsily behind me. A muscle in my lower abdomen I didn’t even know existed starts to cramp and all I can think about is what I want to order for dinner.  It is awkward, clunky, and the farthest thing from sexy.
 
“Great. YES. PERFECT. Money shot. DON’T MOVE, Cindy, put a mark there… alright everyone, places, and… ACTION!”
We do the choreography that we have rehearsed with Colleen countless times before. 10 slams from behind, slap ass, bite ear. Vik’s breath is a little bit ticklish behind my ear, and has a lingering hint of salami. At this moment, I’m thankful my face isn’t in the shot because I’m both wincing, and doing everything I can not to laugh or squirm. 
 
“CUT!!!  Guys, this is HBO not Disneyland we need to bring the SEX, the fire! Wardrobe more water, I need serious sweat this time. WET AND STEAMY. OK!? Vik, darling, those moans are unfuckable, I know you know how to fuck, make me drip over here. Jo, don’t change a thing, your butt looks great.” 
 
“Alright take 22, camera, rolling and…. ACTION”
 
Another hour goes by.  
 
The crew sets up for the final shot of the night, the closeup of Vik’s face during his orgasm. Since I’m completely out of frame, I get to watch his climax performance from behind the set. I sit in my robe on the sidelines with the director and several others in headsets watching the screens in front of them. They’re seeing what the cameras are picking up, and I have to say, it looks HOT. His chiseled face glistens in the light with perfect beads of sweat.
 
It definitely does not look as awkward as what I’m seeing just behind the screens. Vik is on his mark on the bed, straddling a pillow and grabbing another pillow in front of him that is meant to be my “ass.” He thrusts his pelvis against the pillow as he pretends to moan, quiver, and climax with a camera inches from his face.
 
“CUT!” Jane yells. “Vik, honey, it’s great, I’m just getting a bit of cabbage-patch-scrunchy face and not omg-this-girl-is-so-hot-i’m-going-to-fucking-come face, we need America to be writhing for you, let’s try again.”
 
Vik rolls his eyes, “Well, maybe if I was actually fucking a hot woman and not wearing a fucking pouch over my dick I’d be able to! FUCK.” 
 
The air in the room is immediately suctioned out like a vacuum. Vik King aka “The ViKing” storms off the set near where I’m sitting and shoos away anyone who tries to come talk to him. “JUST GIVE ME A FUCKING MINUTE.” GQ’s hottest man alive looks like a little boy on the verge of a breakdown.
 
“Ok you know what, FUCK this pouch.” Vik throws the flesh toned pouch off and confidently storms fully naked back onto the bed. “You want a believable orgasm, I’ll give you it.” 
 
And so, Vik King masturbates until climax in front of 150 people, on camera. Twice.
 
One year, and 6 months later.
 
I’m waiting in a 2 block line to purchase tickets for the opening day release of the hyped up Blockbuster Lust After Dawn.
 
Cabs honk left and right, and loudly whispered gossip from a group of millennials behind me create the bustling cacophony of a typical, New York symphony. “It’s supposed to be like True Blood meets Harry Potter meets 50 Shades of Grey. I heard they really went ballsy on nudity this time. I heard the acting was shit, I mean her voice makes me want to kill myself.”
 
Out of utter annoyance listening to the girls’ caddy Tik Tok voices for the last 30 minutes, a nearly exploding bladder, and also wearing the sash of Proud-Best-Friend, my ride-or-die Selina turns to the girls behind us and points to me. “Guess what. She’s IN the movie!” 
 
The girls freak out, “What!? NO WAY, that is SOOOO cool. Was it the most amazing thing ever?”
 
I smile. They have no idea. “Yeah, it was awesome.”
 
Sitting in the cinema with a bucket of popcorn, I watch what is easily the sexiest movie I have ever seen. Everything is perfectly edited and chopped, into a 2.5 hour steamy, sensual, love story with goal worthy sex. I swear the entire audience nearly orgasmed when Vik King climaxed on screen. 
 
People are simultaneously clapping and giggling as the credits roll, waving their hands to their face to cool down the heat they just witnessed. Vik King: Harvey Day, Evelyn Johnson: Daisy Jones. A minute or so goes by, Girl #4, Shopgoer #5, Stunts, they roll. And finally there it is. 
 
Evelyn Johnson Butt Double: Josephine Waters. 
 
“YEAHHHHH BABY, YOUR ASS IS FAMOUS!!” Selina yells next to me. My mom sits on the other side of me along with a posse of friends I have invited to come watch- my best friend from Columbia undergrad, some old co-workers from American Express, ladies from book club. They were all obsessed with the spicy bestseller Lust After Dawn when it came out 2 years ago, as was the rest of America. Anything for a hot dominatrix, vampires, and lots of sex, right? 
 
I remember when I saw the open call through an Instagram ad. Seeking: butt double for Evelyn Johnson, new box office hit. Project is under NDA. Must be 5’7 between 110-125 pounds, must be comfortable with nudity on screen. No acting experience required. 
 
For years, people have been telling me that Evelyn Johnson is my doppelganger. Omg-you-look-like-that-girl - “Evelyn Johnson,” I monotonously interject before they can finish their sentence. YES-that’s-IT! Their eyes light up like I’ve cracked the secret to the meaning of life. “Yup. I get it all the time.” 
 
I didn’t really think anything of it when I saw the ad other than hilariously absurd that one would even have to have a butt double. What does that even entail? I remember thinking. Weird.
 
But I was going through a period of stagnation in my life. Growing up, I did everything you were supposed to do. I played Varsity Women’s soccer and was Valedictorian of my high school. Completed 4 years of undergrad at Columbia and another 3 of grad school at NYU with 4.0 GPAs. Got a good job as a consultant at American Express and had a 6 year stable and comfortable relationship with a guy I met in undergrad. Everything was fine. 
Until it wasn’t.
 
I had heard about an opening at Etsy and I thought it wouldn’t hurt to apply. It was a big position. “VP Chief Marketing Officer: High-growth marketing executive who fuses sophisticated, data-driven marketing strategies with beautiful, emotional brand and product development to yield hyper revenue growth.” Now there’s a phrase that makes me tingle.
 
I imagine the email I received inviting me to interview with Sejal Shah, President of Brand at Etsy and Forbes 30 under 30 extraordinaire, was not dissimilar to an actor auditioning for a part they really want. Like my type A self, I spent hours preparing answers to possible questions she might ask.
 
The day of the interview, I signed onto ZOOM, Sejal Shah floating in a little rectangle in front of me, effortless, dazzling and oozing with sophistication and ease, even in a two-dimensional frame. She asked me a little bit about my background and then, The-Ever-Dreaded-Questions. What’s the last book you read? Where is the last meaningful place you visited? What do you like to do for fun? Completely taken off guard, I fumbled and said umm an unforgivable amount of times. 
 
The words she said at the end of the interview are forever branded in my brain. Your resume, your skillset, career, it’s all extremely impressive. However,  I don’t feel like I got a sense of your personality.. Who is Josephine? Unfortunately, we are looking for someone with a bit more… life experience. 
 
My heart sinks to the hellish pits of my abdomen. 
 
But she was right. Who is Josephine? I had lost my mojo. I was in a job I wasn’t thrilled about and an equally stale relationship that had over-extended its shelf life by about 3 years. I couldn’t come up with one thing I liked to do for fun. I’d be the first to leave a happy hour if I even showed up, hadn’t had sex in weeks, and my regular weekend chats with my mother always contained the phrase of encouragement “Oh Jo, go live a little.” 
 
Where did I go!? A creative badass running the Etsy marketing department should be whip smart and organized, but also should have a personality, creative ideas, ability to work with co-workers who don’t want to pull their teeth out talking to you. 
 
I vowed then and there to start doing things that scared me, bring back my fire. I immediately signed up for an improv class, and ordered 3 new books and a drawing kit from Amazon.
And there it was again. 
 
The ad pops up like a sign from the heavens. URGENTLY SEEKING: Evelyn Johnson butt double. I read all the requirements again. 
Ok… I’m 5 '7, 125 pounds, generally in shape.. I mean I do squats at the gym and grew up doing soccer... 
 
High off of my wave of ambition and a little tipsy from the 2 glasses of wine I’ve consumed post-complete-failure-abomindation-interview, I say … FUCK IT.
 
 “To life experience,” I cheers to the air. Probably nothing will even come of it. I take some pictures in a bikini, measure my girth and other weird parts of my body, and send it off into the black void.
 
2 weeks later, I’m in a tiny casting office slating my name in front of a camera. They measure every inch of my body and give me an NDA to sign. Evelyn Johnson walks in. “We found your girl,” they tell her. She shakes my hand. They give me a contract to sign which includes clauses like Must not change appearance or weight. Must be willing to gain/lose inches to match Evelyn Johnson’s proportions. And other absurdities. 
 
The days and hours are long and tedious. My call times are usually between 4-6am to prep hair and makeup. I spend the majority of hours in tiny dressing room with stained white walls that I share with various actors who come in and out of set such as “hot guy #4” who frequently did pushups in the corner, and “chic street-goer 3” who frequently left her tuna salad open for hours on end. I spend another large majority of time sitting on set in a robe with my silicone pasties and genital garments underneath, watching superstars Evelyn Johnson and Vik King, celebrities I’ve watched on the big screen for years, act on the flip of a switch, waiting on standby whenever needed. Whenever production has to block a scene or test out lighting, I swap out for Evelyn. Or when Evelyn’s face is not in the shot. Or to be her butt while being “fucked from behind.” 
 
But it was also incredibly inspiring. Seeing superstars, Vik King and Evelyn Johnson, gracious, prepared, humble and vulnerable. Every department, all world class humans working with such care, grace and camaraderie to serve the bigger picture in mind. 
 
Most people wouldn’t dream of doing the bitch work of a celebrity for $200 a day. But this is not a story about becoming a Hollywood star. Or even about the grueling and unglamorous things that happen behind the scenes to create the perfection we see in the movies.  It’s about a woman, finding her spark again after a long monotonous slumber. 
 
One day in late September of last year, I sat in Washington Square park reading The Alchemist. 
“One of my favorites,” the woman on the bench chimed in next to me.
“Oh yeah it’s incredible,” I looked up to see a familiar face. I immediately tensed up in my chest when I saw the sleek, satin suit and long black hair that was of Sejah Shah. 
“Josephine? Right? How are things going at Amex?”
“I actually quit. Kind of changing my life around. It’s a long story.” 
“I have time.”
I proceeded to tell her everything.
 
Fast forward to today.
 
Surrounded by friends and family, I’m staring into a cake in the shape of a big butt. Seilna threw me a post-premiere party to commemorate my first (and definitely last) acting debut. Flesh toned balloons line the walls and a big glittery banner that reads ASS-TASTIC floats above a large horderves table with a plethora of alcoholic beverages. A bunch of the girls have pasties and thongs over their clothes, laughing and dancing about. Holding a plastic cup that has been plastered with a printed cut out of Vik King’s face, my mother cheers’ me. “I’m so proud of you.”
 
A few weeks into shooting, I quit my job at Amex. I finally broke things off with my shitty boyfriend. I joined a recreational women’s soccer league. I had fake sex with Vik fucking King. Josephine Waters, your average working class New York nobody. And I have to say, my ass looked fiiiiine on screen.
 
I look down at my phone, the screen saver, a selfie of me and Evelyn Johnson on set. Tomorrow I’ll walk into the Etsy building, where I’ve been working for the last 6 months, and then have a cute date on the town with the delicious man I’ve been dating. I look at the incredible friends I have around me at my very own Butt-themed party. And I couldn’t be more happy. 
 
Sometimes you just gotta light the fire under your ass, I think, as I smile and blow out the candles. 
 
","July 22, 2023 02:44","[[{'C. Charles': 'Welcome to reedsy! I’ve got to say, my face was going a little red for the first few lines. I figured our main character was an actress, but a different kind of actress lol laughed a little to myself when I realized she was working on the set of a feature. Nice twist!\n\nI really like what you did with the characters and creating the onset atmosphere; it can be such slog. The cooing from the crew was also a nice touch.\n\nThis was really well done. I liked how Jo used her role as a butt double and doing onscreen nudity as empowering in a way ins...', 'time': '17:44 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mica Smith': 'Hooked from the beginning. That first twist! Hilarious, sexy, and extremely detailed. Was with you the whole way. Another amazing twist at the end to tie it all together. Brilliant. Amazing work', 'time': '19:20 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Thom Brodkin': 'You have to be an actress. Your detail was too good not to be. Great first story.', 'time': '23:11 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",1yc5ur,Cutting the Comedy,Keelan LaForge,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/1yc5ur/,/short-story/1yc5ur/,Dialogue,0,"['Contemporary', 'Fiction', 'Sad']",10 likes,"
“Cut!” 
 
Everyone snapped out of what they’d been doing. They were like dreamers beckoned back to disappointing reality. They all looked at the one stern face. The room was unfathomably expansive. Everyone watching the filmed version sees the set, but they don’t see the surroundings that seem to go on for miles, with hundreds of people, cameras, microphones on poles. It’s like stepping back from the world and seeing the rest of the universe. You realise that the set only contains a small section of a story, and it often has a different atmosphere to the real stage. 
 
Gil was hollering as usual. He said that Sophie had messed up her line. It was wrongly phrased. She’d swapped a couple of the words around, so the line lost its punch. That was what he said anyway – no one else had noticed. 
 
“I wanted to go to that park today,” had become “Today, I wanted to go to the park.
 
The next remarkable incident wasn’t announced for another line: she lost her pants to the neighbour’s dog. That was the main event in the script; not an unremarkable sentence stating the location of the upcoming scene, but Gil was a control freak. He sat in his folding chair that seemed to buckle under his weight. He lived on cheeseburgers that he got hand-delivered to his chair at regular intervals throughout his working day. The hands that offered them up were often shaking. He wore a baseball cap that hid his face until he decided to show it. He had a way of looking you dead in the eyeballs whenever he wanted to. 
 
Sophie was ready for the onslaught that came after a small mistake. She was trembling, but she hoped her physical distance from Gil’s chair meant that he couldn’t completely see it. That was his favourite thing to witness though – a person that had arrived with confidence, reduced to a wispy, wavering leaf – something that could be torn by the slightest change in the air.  
 
She looked around at her fellow actors, hoping someone brave would step in, but Gil had a habit of reducing the most brazen character to a cowering child in the corner. 
 
“Do it right this time, or you lose the rest of your day,” he barked. 
The rest of the film crew followed suit. It was like they’d all taken some sort of potion that brought them under his strange spell. No one dared counter him. 
 
The scene should have been relatively straightforward: dog runs in, woman loses her pants, dog transforms them into a chew toy, everyone laughs on cue. There weren’t a million different camera angles – it was just a straight scene. The actors’ delivery was the only factor that mattered. Maybe that was why Gil was being especially harsh. He’d already made them redo it forty times in a row. Sophie could feel her mouth drying it from overuse and underwatering. She’d left her water bottle on the far side of the room, planning to retrieve it after the quick scene had been captured (which she thought would have been done and dusted two hours ago.) She thought about running over to get it, but she was too afraid to attempt it. She knew the smallest disobedience might set Gil off, and she didn’t feel like listening to a day-long, one-sided shouting match. 
 
Curtis gave her a small smile. It would have been imperceptible to anyone on the crew. He knew what she’d been through. He’d had his fair share of criticism too. 
 
The pressure in the room was mounting. Everyone looked like they were sweating enough to create a sprinkler system. Gil looked cool and composed, but bullies always do. They like to see everyone else writhing under their gaze, but they never look the least bit disturbed by it. In fact, they live for it. His chair audibly creaked as he leaned forwards to micromanage the scene. He removed his sunglasses, which he always wore indoors. He said they shaded his eyes from the startling light of the spotlights, but Sophie thought they were just an accessory worn for effect. He pushed the sunglasses on top of his hair. It held his greasy, overgrown strands from his face, but it didn’t make him look any more appealing. He was just had a presence – one of those indefinable ones that fills up an entire room. The fear he produced in others filled the room – growing into every crevice like vines in a fairy tale, and just as destructive. 
 
“From the top,” he said, standing up from his chair, spitting burger gristle onto the pristine floor. 
 
“Action,” said the guy with the clapperboard. He slammed it shut in a way that looked undecided and sloppy. Gil shot him a look of warning. 
 
The film was supposed to be light-hearted – a chick flick that cheered up roomfuls of comedy seekers. The actors hoped that would come across. It felt like it would take a miracle for it to extract a laugh from a single viewer. There certainly hadn’t been a single one on set since they’d started filming. 
 
Curtis was the perfect co-star to have. He had a calming presence, even though he was just as scared as everyone else. Sophie swore that she’d walk away from Gil on the last day of filming, waving her flag of freedom. She almost wanted the film to be a flop, just to spite him. He deserved some disappointment after his months-long tyranny, his self-awarded ruling over all cast members and crew. They were people too, whether they were viewed as such or not. They would return to their own lives at the end of the long day, with volition. If they were lucky, their home lives would show up the inhumanity of the film world. 
 
Sophie’s dreams of what Hollywood could have been ran through her mind as she overthought every one of her gestures, her facial expressions and her vocal tone. She knew she’d never get it quite right. The practice round of lines shared by the actors around the table was the best they’d perform, and no one would else ever see it. It had felt like a special kind of magic there, but here, in front of Gil, they had lost it. He had a way of shattering the magic for everyone. His favourite burger delivery guy didn’t even get a tip. The servitude shown by all the people in that hall was something he had dreamed of since he was a small, round boy in school, named after a famous pig. He could still hear the taunting when he closed his eyes at night and silence found him. When he was in his folding chair, that felt like an uncomfortable deckchair and that didn’t adequately support his generous posterior and that was beneath what he deserved, he could finally stand up to them all. In his little world of film, he could repay his enemies of childhood for stealing something important from him: the right to be joyful and free. 
 
Sophie hoped at the end of filming she’d still remember what that feeling felt like. Curtis hoped Sophie would be OK. Maybe whenever it was all over, they’d go for a drink together – they’d have an unbreakable connection that only a trauma bond can create. In the end, Gil would lose, and they would win. While shooting lasted, Gil could enjoy the false glory in the kingdom he’d created, and maybe they’d even manage to make someone laugh, just to spite him.
","July 15, 2023 08:30","[[{'Charles Corkery': 'Really enjoyed your story, Keelan.  Well done!', 'time': '22:07 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Keelan LaForge': 'Aw thank you Charles 😊', 'time': '06:59 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Keelan LaForge': 'Aw thank you Charles 😊', 'time': '06:59 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'What a grim look behind the scenes! Well done.\n\nA couple of typos:\n""Sophie could feel her mouth drying it from overuse and underwatering. ""\n""He was just had a presence – one of those indefinable ones that fills up an entire room. ""\n\nAlso, your second paragraph changes tenses after the first four sentences.\n\nI really like this tale, my friend. A grim look, certainly, but an engaging one. Behind the scenes is far different than the scenes themselves, right? Nicely done.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '14:05 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Keelan LaForge': 'Thanks Delbert. You always give really helpful feedback. I really appreciate it. Cheers 😊', 'time': '09:13 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Keelan LaForge': 'Thanks Delbert. You always give really helpful feedback. I really appreciate it. Cheers 😊', 'time': '09:13 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Good depiction of truth behind the glitz.', 'time': '16:34 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Keelan LaForge': 'Thanks Mary, I’m glad you thought so 😊', 'time': '17:17 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Keelan LaForge': 'Thanks Mary, I’m glad you thought so 😊', 'time': '17:17 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",7jrz9u,The Lucky One,Delia Beacon,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/7jrz9u/,/short-story/7jrz9u/,Dialogue,0,"['Drama', 'Fiction']",10 likes,"
“Cut!” Mason didn’t stop right away. His tongue was still in my mouth, his hands still trailing my waist, my ribs, higher still. Finally I pushed him off. A thick trail of saliva stretched between our faces, inches apart.
I looked over at Jamie dawning his usual head-to-toe black. I think he liked that he could blend in with the crew, or disappear into his director’s chair at will. He focused in on the monitor. The whole set - usually a constant bustling frenzy - fell still, like even the props were holding their breath. Finally, Jamie let out a sigh and addressed the crowd. 
“And that, folks, is a fucking wrap!” He beamed. The hoard of crew members let out a cheer and a round of applause. Mason put a lazy arm around my shoulders and squeezed.
“Good job, kid!”
“Yeah?” I looked into his piercing eyes, unsure.
“Yeah, of course! Just wait, when this comes out you’re gonna take off.” He flashed me a smile. A blinding, charming, winning smile though even after months of seeing it every day, I still hadn’t quite determined whether it was genuine. He was like that. Nestled in the uncanny valley. He was by far the most effortlessly charismatic person I’d ever met, but underlying every single interaction with him was a quiet thrum of unease. Whatever he felt, it never quite met his eyes.  
 
We stood around hugging and congratulating and “look forward to working with you again”-ing for a few hours. It wasn’t until the door of my trailer clicked shut behind me that I let myself collapse onto the sofa. For the first time in months, I let out the breath I hadn’t known I was holding. Getting a starring role in the newest Jamie Scheffield film had been the greatest thing to ever happen to me. At least that’s what I’d thought when they offered me the job. Of course, I accepted it in a heartbeat, packed my bags and moved across the country. Within the first few weeks of filming, though, the shiny finish of my new, perfect, dream-come-true life had started to fade. The hours were long, and Jamie was temperamental, and I’d needed to keep a strict diet and exercise regimen. And all of that was fine, I’d known at least a little bit, that such a large role would entail that sort of thing. It was the way people looked at me that I hadn’t expected, though. Their eyes clung to me, like I was made of honey. They enjoyed it too much, too unabashedly. I could feel myself shrink under their gaze. They did the same to Mason, though he took it in stride. The fame seemed to come naturally to him. I stared up at the ceiling of my trailer, trying to shake the feeling of being watched that now clung to me even when I was certain I was alone. Eventually, whether I’d managed to do it or whether it was simply exhaustion that took over, my eyes shut and I fell into a heavy slumber.
 
…
 
Jamie had insisted on hosting a wrap party at his Malibu house (though ‘house’ was quite a significant understatement). I’d spent several hours getting ready, something that, according to Mason, I would have to get used to as we started doing press. 
I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I’d showered the fake blood out of my hair though a slight red tinge remained. I peered at the framed photo sitting on my dresser: Sadie and I throwing our notes up in the air at the end of our last exam before graduation. It had been taken a little less than a month before I got the part. I took in her wide, smiling face. I could hear her voice, low and a little raspy like a sip of brandy and a crackling fire. I could hear her laugh, her singing: off key but so full of passion it made me wonder whether I really understood what it meant to be completely alive. I could hear my phone spring to life, her name plastered across the screen time and time again, I could feel the guilt in my chest as I let it ring. I was on set with the Mason Ward, I couldn’t talk. I could hear the ringing stop. I could hear my sheepish, pathetic excuses when I finally did call back. I could hear her sighing on the other end as she muttered 
“So, what? Are you fucking Mason Ward?” 
I closed my eyes, letting the crushing silence of my empty LA apartment wash over me. We’d planned to move to New York together after graduating college. As far as I knew she was still looking for work, living with her parents. 
 
I shifted my focus to my own face in the picture, then to my reflection in the mirror. Trying to make sense of how the two images could be of the same person. My hair was blonde now. It’d taken more than a few bleaching sessions to get it to a shade Jamie was happy with. The pale gold ringlets fell perfectly around my face ending past my chin, the ends just tickling the tops of my shoulders. My whole face had gotten smaller, my features were daintier, save my lips, plump and perfectly pouty now sporting half a milliliter of filler. My teeth were several shades whiter, my skin clearer, my nose quite a bit smaller. The emerald silk dress Jamie had told me to wear hung from my now slender body, falling in effortless, draped curves around my waist. 
I’d gotten much prettier, no doubt about it. 
I looked back to the photo, then the mirror again. I could only find scant traces of myself in the reflection staring back at me, though I guess this was the face of someone people actually wanted to watch. Someone people would pay to stare at for the better part of ninety minutes. I understood this. I’d wanted this, but as I glanced back at the photo one last time, a pang of something I couldn’t quite identify reverberated in my chest. The feeling bounced inside of me, clanging against the inside of my ribcage. It felt like finishing a book, I decided. Like when you go to flip the page only to be met with the wrinkled, wilted cardboard of the back cover. And you realize that something has ended. And it’s just a book, and none of the characters are even real and it feels so silly but at the same time it isn’t fair, because maybe you weren’t ready. Maybe you would’ve liked to know it was going to end so quickly. 
I shook the thought away, willing myself to accept the face staring back at me in the mirror. To admire it, to own it.
 
My phone buzzed. A text from Jamie: Party starting, you almost here? 
Then another text: Andrew York here. Wants to meet you!
Then, as if he’d read the confusion from my mind: He’s the producer for Evelyn Hugo
I stared back at myself: at my blonde hair, red lip, green dress, string of pearls, and let out a chuckle. The art of subtlety wasn’t one Jamie had quite perfected.
 
Andrew York had been exactly as slimy as I’d expected him to be. He raked his eyes over by body as he spoke. “Yeah, you know, Jamie’s really excited about you and… I gotta say I see why…” He let out a laugh. Was he expecting me to laugh with him? But the conversation had ended quickly enough and I made my way to the small sofa in the back corner of Jamie’s living room. I tried to make myself comfortable, running my clammy palms along the deep blue velvet. My dress was a little too short, a little too low cut, I realized. I couldn’t figure out how to sit. 
 
My mind wandered back to the photo on my dresser. I’d been too tired, to hungry, too distracted to really look at it since I moved to LA. I closed my eyes. I could see Sadie strut through the door, dawning her one nice dress she wore to every occasion. I could see her face light up as she spotted me in the crowd. I could feel the couch sink as she sat down next to me, and her soft, small hand clasp mine. I could feel my own hand squeeze hers as if to say I’m so sorry. And I could feel her do the same, as if to say I know. It’s okay. You can do this. 
And then I felt it, a dent in the couch. My eyes darted open, then fell: Mason had made himself comfortable next to me.
“These kinda parties are fuckin’ bullshit.” He took a long swig of his drink. He looked down at me.
“What?”
“What do you mean, what?”
“Come on, I'd like to think we know each other pretty well. You’re upset about something.”
I didn’t answer. He continued.
“Look, this job is weird. I don’t blame you for being disappointed. You can’t show that shit, though. The world is gonna want to be you, so you have to make sure they believe that your life looks perfect. Doesn’t matter what’s really happening.” I looked over at him. Something felt different. His shoulders slumped, his brow furrowed, his eyes… There was pain behind his eyes. It wasn’t the peaceful apathy he usually maintained. He eyed me.
“And I don’t mean to be condescending, you know, I just grew up in this shit. And I guess I want to help you.” I could hear the edges of his words start to slur. He continued.
 “This business will eat you alive. There’s no getting around it. You’re gonna need someone you can trust. Find them and hang on to them. You won’t survive otherwise.” 
“Okay.” I answered. He shrugged. 
“Whatever, I get fucking sappy when I’m drunk. Don’t listen to me, I’m a fucking mess…” And with that he rose, polished off his drink and stumbled towards the bar. He rattled as he walked - pills. A lot of them by the sound of it. Something about his words scared me. They made me want to run home to my childhood room, hug my mom and tell her I was never leaving again. I looked out at the party. The music had been turned up, the base throbbed, making everything in the room shake. Some people danced, most tried to yell over the music. Everyone bore a shining, winning smile. But I realized then that in their eyes, lay nothing but peaceful apathy. That quiet thrum of unease. The more I eyed the drinking, swaying guests, the more I heard the thrum. Like a chant.
Do you like me? WIll you hire me? Am I beautiful enough to make it? 
I sat alone on the sofa, feeling smaller than ever. My eyes flashed over to Mason, he’d almost finished another drink, but he smiled bright.
I fumbled for my phone, I tried to call Sadie. She didn’t answer, and even if she had I wouldn’t be able to hear her over the music. I texted her:
Done filming. Coming home tomorrow.
Then:
I miss you.
","July 21, 2023 23:13",[]
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",awkwxu,On The Set,Lara Lenhoff,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/awkwxu/,/short-story/awkwxu/,Dialogue,0,"['Fiction', 'Funny', 'Drama']",10 likes,"
 
On Set 
By Lara Lenhoff
 
        “Cut! CUT! CUT!” Oliver Mandel screamed from the darkness as his two costars struggled to keep a straight face on the set of the medical drama they were filming. “Take 20 everyone.” Oliver said in an irritated huff, motioning to Suzie to join him as he walked off the set. After one of his acting recruits Nick Strong mispronounced neuroblastoma for the fiftieth time, he’d had enough. Nick looked like he was 23 and was supposed to be portraying an Oncologist searching for a cure for his 8-year-old patient Maddy, played by Stephanie Wright.
        The show had been approved for a season on ABC after the pilot got approved, but now there were issues; The actors who were in the pilot had given notice that they were leaving the series, and all the writers had abandoned ship because of the strike. 
       Oliver and his producer Suzie Comoglio sat across from each other in the small writer’s room for half an hour after calling for a break on the lot for their show, Emergency.
      “We’re screwed Suzie, screwed! We get a show and then this strike happens. What are we supposed to do?” Oliver was sweating, his hair matted underneath his beanie, rings of sweat developing under his arms yellowing his once white t shirt. 
       “I don’t know if this is going to be possible now.” Suzie said, her head bowed down in between her legs as she began practicing her breathing exercises recommended by her therapist. With the strike going on all over town, Oliver was desperate. He needed actors who could play doctors. After about an hour of Suzie’s breathing exercises, she finally spoke.
       “What if we went hospital hopping and found medical students with availability to help us?” She sat up quickly, her cat-like eyes glistening behind her Buddy Holly frame glasses, large and full of hope. 
       When in development for Emergency, they had consulted with a few retired doctors in the medical field, but they were now all unavailable and on vacation in either Greece or Italy. Some had relocated to Nashville like most Californians had in the last three years. They got all the help they could get initially from those retirees, but now because of the strike, Oliver was up making calls during all hours of the night, begging his writing degree friends from college where he received his film degree to help him.
He was convincing. 
            Travis, Natalie, Hodge, and Matthew flew in from New York and took on serving as the writing team for Emergency. After two weeks of enjoying some free time at the beach in Santa Monica, Oliver implored them to get to it and start coming up with at least five scripts. They were stressed and drinking copious amounts of coffee and whiskey, researching and conversing with Siri and Alexa to find diagnoses, causes, and treatments and googling at all hours of the night and morning to find something to incorporate into the episodes. 
           They tossed ideas back and forth like tennis balls on the Wimbledon court, coming up with storylines for the characters they were developing. Hodge was stuffing his face with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for energy, Natalie was chugging Alkaline water and eating trail mix, and Matthew was sitting back on the sofa with his eyes staring at the ceiling, wondering why he left his teaching job at NYU to do this. Travis was looking through the Encyclopedias he checked out from the library. The nerd in the group, Travis had always wanted to write for television, and his job at a local paper in New York City wasn’t as exciting as he’d hoped it would be. 
            They were all sharing Oliver’s studio apartment while Oliver slept on the set on a hospital bed, pacing back and forth at night while drinking a bottle of cheap whiskey and drawing out plans on a chalk board. He would call the group who was spread out in the 590 square foot apartment incessantly, shooting off ideas. They would compare notes and consult Siri and Alexa at Oliver’s apartment. This went on for days. 
 
              Oliver and Suzie were now left with the burden of casting the show with independent actors, and after hours of pacing back and forth and chain-smoking, Suzie hit the jackpot with the suggestion of targeting acting classes and talent agencies. They were all over Los Angeles, and each and every one of those students was always searching for their big break, desperately seeking a shot at the big time. With her suggestion, Oliver’s eyes grew large. He might be able to relax for five minutes. They just needed to find the right people who wanted to work for next to nothing and who were good looking and smart sounding with talent. How hard could it be? They were in Los Angeles! They had found Nick Strong and Stephanie Wright at the Kim Sparks Talent Agency, but Nick was proving to be illiterate, and Oliver was not going to let him crap all over his show.
            Oliver and Suzie got up early the next morning and went hospital hopping. They arrived at Los Angeles County Hospital with trays full of coffee for at least eight people. Oliver used his gift of gab when walking into the Oncology ward, claiming he was visiting his aunt with colon cancer. As he was talking to a nurse at the nurses’ station, a calm, confident, and masculine voice caught his ear. As he turned around, Oliver saw a white light framing around Dr. Will Parker, a third -year resident. He had a chiseled jaw and dark hair, aqua eyes like a Husky and a smile that could blind Stevie Nicks. Oliver nudged Suzie and motioned over to him with his eyes, not letting him out of his site. Suzie’s jaw dropped as she took in the glow of this man that could be their star. 
They just had to convince him to be a doctor on the show.
           “Hi, Dr. Parker?” Oliver extended his hand while reading the name tag on Will’s white coat. “May I speak with you for a minute?”
          “I’m about to go on rounds. Can you make it quick please?” 
          “I can try. Here, please take some coffee.” He handed Dr. Parker a Starbucks cup and sipped from his as inconspicuously as possible. And then came the spiel. Suzie backed it up with everything she had, smiling wider and wider at the doctor, blushing like a schoolgirl.
           “Oliver, I am a doctor. I have rounds and actual patients that I see.”
            “That’s what makes you perfect for the show! You can pronounce things and deliver and be believable!” Suzie exclaimed.
 
             Dr Will Parker was actually flattered as he looked at the hopeful faces of the two exhausted industry people that stood before him. He loved all the medical shows that were on television, for those shows had actually inspired him to become a doctor in the first place. It was George Clooney’s performance on ER that had put a trance on him when he was 13. Will knew that he was handsome enough to be on television, and he believed what Suzie and Oliver knew to be as true as he did. He was a doctor and could easily play one, but could he leave the hospital and his patients to embark on a career in television? Could he throw his morals and ethics out the window? 
 
4 weeks Later
 
          “I’m sorry to tell you this Jane, but your Gliobastoma multiforme has progressed far more quickly than we initially thought it would.” Dr. Will Parker delivered the diagnosis perfectly to the actress playing Jane. There was no need to cut or reshoot the scene. Dr. Parker could pronounce the diagnosis and show true empathy for his patient. Jane was the daughter of one of Dr. Parker’s real patients at Los Angeles County Hospital who was pursuing her MFA in Acting at Chapman University in Orange County, and her tears were real and convincing. Behind the camera, Oliver and Suzie smiled like children on Christmas morning. This was going to work. 
","July 18, 2023 16:58","[[{'Alex Hippenhammer': ""You have your finger on the pulse with the writers' strike and some of the other small nuances of the characters - Nice!"", 'time': '18:22 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",724ohi,The Final Scene,Juliet Carolan,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/724ohi/,/short-story/724ohi/,Dialogue,0,['Fiction'],10 likes,"
The Final Scene
 
“Cut!” The Director’s voice echoed across the film set, signalling the end of yet another successful take. Cameras halted, lights dimmed, and the actors took a collective breath of relief. The movie they were filming, “Enigma” was an ambitious project, and the cast and crew had poured their hearts and souls into making it a masterpiece.
 
Amelia, a talented but introverted actress was playing the lead role of Sarah, a brilliant codebreaker, caught in a web of secrets and deception, set in London in World War 2.
She was known for her exceptional ability to immerse herself in the characters she portrayed, but her quiet nature often left her isolated amidst the bustling film set.
 
As the crew prepared for the next scene, Amelia wandered away from the commotion, seeking solace in the corners of the set. As she wandered further around the set, she found herself in an old and forgotten room that seemed to be a relic of the past film productions. Dusty film cannisters lined the shelves, and a sense of nostalgia enveloped her.
 
Lost in her thoughts, Amelia stumbled upon an old, worn-out script tucked between two cannisters. The cover read “The Darkness of Yesterday”. Intrigued, she blew off the dust and began to read. The story was hauntingly beautiful, centred around a lost love and the unravelling of a dark secret. She couldn’t help but be drawn into the story, captivated by its enigmatic allure. The script was beautifully written, the story overwhelmingly sad, yet intriguing and powerful and Amelia became completely lost in reading as if she herself was playing this part.
 
Unbeknownst to Amelia, as she read on, the film set seemed to come alive with a newfound energy. Strange occurrences began to unfold. Lights flickered inexplicably, props moved on their own, and whispers of long forgotten voices echoed through the halls. The once organised and efficient set turned into a playground for unexplained phenomena. The air became colder, cameras hotter and strange noises abounded.
 
On set, the director and crew struggled to maintain control. Scenes that once flowed effortlessly were now plagued by inexplicable disruptions. Cameras malfunctioned, actors stumbled on their lines, and a general sense of unease clouded the air.
 
Amelia, consumed by her fascination with the old script, became increasingly distant from her surroundings. The lines between reality and fiction became blurred as she found herself embodying the character from the past, a mysterious woman named Eliza, who was destined for heartbreak.
 
Cut! Again and again, the director called for breaks and re-takes, hoping to regain control of the chaotic set. But the strange occurrences persisted, leaving the crew bewildered, scared and concerned. Desperate for answers the production manager went in search of the missing Amelia. Finding her in the archives room, reading the old script, he delved into the archives to unearth the history of “The Darkness of Yesterday”.
 
What he discovered sent shivers down his spine. The film, shot decades ago, had been abruptly abandoned due to a series of tragic accidents on set. Rumours circulated about a vengeful spirit haunting the production, cursing the unfinished film. The chilling stories were eventually dismissed as superstitions, but now it seemed that the restless spirit had returned to claim its vengeance. He noticed that Amelia had become ghostly pale and her eyes were vacant and yet seemed to tell a thousand words. She didn’t seem to be listening to him and kept repeating various lines from the script. He didn’t want his leading lady to be harmed in any way although he was intrigued by what he was hearing. Her voice had taken on an almost ethereal quality and the words she was speaking were mesmerising. He called on some members of the crew and together they took Amelia to the Green Room for some rest and refreshment 
. Even with all these disruptions, they were on a tight schedule and he was desperate to get the film wrapped up that day if possible.
 
However, once Amelia was back on set, her immersion into the past grew more intense. She began experiencing vivid dreams of Eliza’s life seeing her love and her heartache as though they were her own. The lines between Amelia and Eliza blurred, and she struggled to differentiate her reality from the world of the past. Although the director had his concerns he decided to carry on with the filming.
 
As they continued, the presence of the vengeful spirit grew stronger, manifesting in eerie shadows and chilling gusts of wind. The crew’s fear escalated, but with the director’s insistence, they pressed on, hoping to complete the film and dispel the haunting.
 
In a pivotal scene, Amelia, now deeply connected to Eliza, delivered a heart wrenching monologue that mirrored Eliza’s tragic fate. As she recited the lines, her performance transcended acting, it became an emotional release, a catharsis that resonated with the ghostly presence on set. The director and the crew were enthralled.
 
Everything fell silent, as if the world had paused for breath. A soft ethereal voice filled the air, enveloping everyone present. The voice carries through time, finally finding solace in Amelia’s heartfelt portrayal.
 
With tears in her eyes, Amelia felt the connection between her and the spirit. She whispered words of forgiveness, understanding and release. In that moment, the vengeful presence dissipated, leaving behind an air of tranquillity.
 
As the last scene was filmed, the energy on set had transformed into something magical and surreal. The haunting presence was gone, replaced by a sense of closure and peace. The film was completed, but it was more than just a movie, it was a cathartic journey for all involved.
 
“Enigma” premiered to critical acclaim, with Amelia’s performance drawing particular praise. No one knew of the strange events that transpired on set, and the tale of the vengeful spirit became an unsolved mystery.
 
However, it became a legend in the film industry, whispered among actors and crew members for generations to come. It was a tale of mystery, magic and the transformative power of storytelling, an enigmatic escape into the realms of the unknown.
 
 
","July 19, 2023 13:48","[[{'Sue Hunter': 'Hi Juliet! I’m going to be giving you a long review today in order to hone my critiquing skills. I’ll list my favorite moments and my not-so-favorite moments, but just remember that everything in this comment is my own opinion and isn’t meant to offend in any way.\n\nPros:\n\nThis story has a fascinating setting. Something paranormal happening on set is not something I’ve read or watched before (at least not in recent memory). There is a lot you can do with a movie set being haunted, and you use a lot of great descriptions in the stock room that...', 'time': '00:30 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Juliet Carolan': 'Thank you your comments are actually really helpful and I can see the errors I made.\nGreat feed back for my next attempt, thanks.', 'time': '10:05 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Juliet Carolan': 'Thank you your comments are actually really helpful and I can see the errors I made.\nGreat feed back for my next attempt, thanks.', 'time': '10:05 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Rabab Zaidi': 'Beautiful! Very well written ! I was completely mesmerized!', 'time': '11:40 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Juliet Carolan': ""Thank you I'm glad you enjoyed it 😊"", 'time': '12:17 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Juliet Carolan': ""Thank you I'm glad you enjoyed it 😊"", 'time': '12:17 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",7yakhv,STAGECRAFT,Charles Corkery,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/7yakhv/,/short-story/7yakhv/,Dialogue,0,"['American', 'Gay', 'Sad']",10 likes,"
STAGECRAFT“Cut! That’s a wrap, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you very much”.Applause broke out in the studio at this announcement. Even those actors, major and minor players in this movie, and not even on the final day’s call sheet had all turned up to be witness to this last day of filming. For the majority, this would be the pinnacle of their artistic careers; to appear in a movie that starred the great Dirk Hogart. It was a tale that they could recount to their grandchildren long after they had left the glitzy glamour of Hollywood far behind; their acting careers, for some reason, having never quite taken off but, hey, I did play a role in a movie alongside, guess who? Only the number one box office star, the greatest action hero, the handsomest man in the world, the epitome of the silver screen: Dirk Hogart. “Hogie” to his legion of fans, had dominated the lives of millions for more than four decades. Just when the rumours would start that, perhaps, the great man had made his last multiplex appearance, an announcement would suddenly materialise like magic in the Hollywood press announcing that he had signed on to head an upcoming feature and the great publicity machinery would begin to crank up yet again on a dizzying spiral all the way to the top of the box office mountain.Now, on this last day of filming, the megastar sat smiling graciously in his director’s set chair, his name emblazoned on the back, as actors and crew lined up to pay homage. One by one they queued to shake the great man’s hand and receive a wrap present, a tradition that, in its own right, had become a thing of legend for “Hogie”, it was said, gave the exact same, wildly expensive and extravagant present to every single person who had played a part in making this movie. Even when some over exuberant, starstruck crew member requested a photo with their hero, the dazzlingly white smile never left the star’s face as he posed amenably, his blonde locks flowing, nodding along at the platitudes that came his way, hand to heart in gratitude, as if he had never before heard such a wonderful compliment. To each, he muttered the same response.“You have become a dear, dear friend”.How they floated away from his presence.When the director then took to the mic and made a short speech thanking everybody and a set was drawn back revealing the lavish banquet that had also been laid on by the great star for the wrap party, squeals of delight filled the studio as everybody rushed to partake of the sumptuous feast. “What a guy”.“So generous”.“So gracious”.“I am sooo going to miss being on this movie”.“So handsome. How old is he, anyway?”“Oh my God, it’s a Rolex”.“And mine says: ‘To Bart, love Hogie’”With everybody engaged in eating, drinking, gossiping and gawping at the personalised gift inside their wrap box, unnoticed, Ruben Hogenstein, for that was the real name of their generous benefactor, eased himself painfully from his chair and slipped quietly away to his trailer. This customised vehicle was parked in an area outside in the vast grounds of the studio that had been home to “Hogie” ever since his first box office hit so many years previously. The parking site was roped off behind a fake wall and secured by Albert, a studio employee seconded to protect the privacy of the star on every shoot. Striding manfully still, “Hogie” handed Albert the last gift box that he had brought with him to the trailer.“Oh, Mr Hogart, sir. You are too generous. Thank you so much. Too kind”.Flashing the smile that had captured a billion hearts worldwide, men and women alike, “Hogie”, for the last time on this set, placed his right hand on his heart and, with consummate acting ability, said: “Albert, you are my dear, dear friend. Until the next one”.Leaving Albert close to tears, the star disappeared behind the wall and, almost immediately, the smile disappeared and his body slumped over as he stood on the bottom step of his trailer and pressed the button on the side of the vehicle which activated the hydraulic step and lifted him up to the sliding door. Pedro, his assistant, slid back the door and helped him inside, closing the portal on the world.“Why did you take so long? I wait here all alone?”“Pedro, not now, okay? I had to give out the wrap presents and wait until everybody was distracted. You know the score. Help me to my dressing table”.“You are too generous. Why you have to be so generous? Is lot of money”“Look, it’s expected, okay? Give me a break. You did a great job. They loved the watches and the personalised touch. Hey, that security schmuck, it is Albert, right?”Pedro, a handsome Latino of fifty or so years, nodded and guided his partner to the dressing table of the magnificently appointed trailer and into the plush chair. He then helped remove the jacket and shirt that hid the body brace that enabled the star to maintain his manly pose on set. Caressing “Hogie’s” shoulders, he whined.“Why I always kept out of sight? You ashamed of me?”“Not now, please. I’m exhausted. I need a shot”.“You need to go over the new script. I’ve been asking you for days. The studio wants an answer”.“The shot, please”, he pleaded.Pedro, pouting sulkily, retrieved a syringe from a bag and proceeded to inject his lover with the painkilling opiate, a wave of relief spreading over the actor’s reflection in the mirror as the drug started to take effect.“Oh God, that’s so good. Thank you”.The word of thanks brought a reluctant grimace to Pedro’s face, the closest he would ever get to a smile.“Come on, help me get the rest of this stuff off”.First came the wig, one of several that the trailer contained, expensively fashioned from real Nordic locks, they were as genuine as a hairpiece could look. As Pedro lifted the heavily taped toupee from his head, the actor watched in the mirror as his face changed instantly. Despite the years of plastic surgery, there was no denying his age now as he stared at his baldness. It was the part of this process that he had grown to hate almost as much as the next; the extraction of the fake teeth. A literal fortune had been spent on dentists over the years but the removal of the smile that had enraptured so many hearts was still a slow and painful process because of the additional adhesive used;  one that he could never manage on his own and, as Pedro tugged on the snap on, porcelain veneers, the star winced in discomfort, tears forming both from the actual pain as well as the visual pain of seeing what he had become, as he stared at the filed down stumps that remained.“Ooh, ugly.  Quick, put these in”.Pedro, grimacing in disgust, handed him a new set, less prominent, less sparkling and he fitted them in.The final part of the transformation-from the eternally young, glamorous, handsome, macho megastar that everybody envied and longed to be -to the aged, bald, toothless, crippled queen that he really was -never failed to upset him greatly. But no sympathy was forthcoming from his lover.“Oh please. Always with the tears. Get over it already”.Ruben Hogenstein used industrial make up swabs to remove the filler and pancake from his face, the process hindered by the tears that continued to run down his cheeks as he stared at the reflection of his partner standing behind him. This man upon whom he had become so dependant. This man who knew all of his secrets, shared his life and his bed. This man who, in reality, he detested. Pedro was not a nice person, unsympathetic and harsh. He never allowed ""Hogie"" to relax, always driving him on, always demanding that he take on another movie, increase his bank balance but who, somehow, was not appalled at his real self and not at all enamoured of his screen persona. Who else but Pedro would take him if they knew the truth? He would face a life of loneliness; he knew that only too well. For him, the dream of a quiet, sedate, happy retirement would never be. Swallowing his regrets and summoning all of his proficient acting skills, resignedly, he reached back and stroked Pedro’s arm lovingly with his left hand, his other hand on his heart.“ Darling Pedro, what would I do without you? You are my dear, dear friend…and lover”.For him, the acting would never end.
","July 14, 2023 21:12","[[{'Rachel Lione': 'I\'m posting this on everyone that didn\'t start with ""Cut!"" not to be mean...I almost didn\'t see it either...', 'time': '05:11 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Behind the scenes harsh reality.', 'time': '13:38 Jul 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",nrvmki,Hissing Caverns,Kimberly Walker,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/nrvmki/,/short-story/nrvmki/,Dialogue,0,"['Black', 'American', 'Fiction']",10 likes,"
Cut!... let's take a ten-minute break…""Mom, you looked relaxed, confident, and beautifully in your element in front of the camera, but how do you feel?""I'm good. I did a breathing treatment, although I was worried before we started. I'm glad I wore my scarf around my head, shoulders, neck, and long johns underneath this outfit. All the lights on me are an excellent heat source… ha, ha, ha…(Mom thinking) …We will face our fears for our children…, right? Inhaler in hand, nervous system on blast, and eyes wide open, I entered the cozy cavernous space this morning with reservations. I guess I was trying to overcome my fear for two reasons; myself and my son, who is directing this documentary.""Let me know if you need a break or anything. I'm not trying to have my first film be your last.""Me either (I thought)I've been told that Hissing Caverns are like Luray Caverns in Virginia, where I am from. My son's first field trip and my first asthma attack happened in the middle of Luray, Virginia. We followed Mr. Fearless and his classmates into a narrow passage beneath the light of day. I don't know if the cool dampness or excitement caused my chest to tighten, but I made it out in the nick of time. An ambulance was waiting at the exit, and I was given my first Nebulizer treatment on the way to Luray General Memorial Hospital in June of 1991.I left thinking…WOW, how majestic! It's beautiful. If this would be the last thing I should see, I've seen Heaven on Earth. It would be a fun place to film a movie with blue and red glasses that makes everything 3D or holograms…Here we are thirty-two years later…The name gave me chills, but I had to have this cave, this town, and the people of Hissing Caverns in our film. It's rumored to be the original settling site of the first Wyoming settlers. We are exploring the first place on earth known to exist in Wyoming's hillbilly junction. The men who settled on the name in the 1700s named it because of the sound the wind made when dancing passed the opening of the largest cave.The sheriff calls it Hooch Alley based on the moonshine production of two families, the Coopers and the Crawford. They were a modern version of the Hatfield and the McCoy; like the Hatfield and McCoy feud, theirs was over a love affair and which family owned a particular piece of land. Their farms were side by side on Route 33; on both sides, the stretch of pine trees on the left between the two ponds marked the boundary lines; until the ponds connected.Forgive me…I love history and could explore, talk about, and educate people about genealogy, geography, and generational interactions all day. Ten years ago, I was hired as the town historian of Hissing Caverns, and last year Wyoming asked me to update the state maps. Because my job with Wyoming is a double position takes me all over the state to every city, county, hamlet, borough, and every pig poke and patch of grass to make sure you can find it on a map. No matter how afraid of heights or depths I am, I must record the population and the layout.Caves are fascinating places full of mysterious wonders that nature provides in brilliant colors and sizes. The floor of the cave is a stalagmite. Stalagmite is a mound or tapering column of Calcium salt that seems to rise from the floor and is deposited by dripping water. Scientifically the same type of deposit hanging from the ceiling is called Stalactite.Cut…""Mom, let's look at the playback…. I love to hear you tell the stories about your explorations, but I want to listen to my ten-year-old mom experience it with me for the first time in this cave as you did in Luray. Remember the excitement we felt reading the explanation cards when we reached each exhibit, even if we heard the guide say his quick speech as he passed.""You sound winded.""(Listen up, everyone!) let's wrap for lunch. Be back by 2. (I feel scared! Trying not to look like ten-year-old me, she's breathing like she had that first field trip day.)""Mom, let's get medical to do a listen and a breathing treatment. They are on their way. Here sit down in the warmth of the car's back seat. Lean back, relax, and take a few cleansing deep breaths. Take a couple of puffs of your inhalers until medical gets here. Guess what…Aria is pregnant.""Really?""Yes, we have been waiting for the perfect time to tell you…now is as good as any.""(feeling her pulse) good, it is rising(handing the medicine to the paramedics.) ""Mom needs a Nebulizer treatment, please. Here is the solution."" (Son praying) 'Lord, we need help here. I need her to be okay. We can't do this without the rock of this family. Each treatment doesn't last as long as they used to. This baby will be her first grandchild. I don't want anyone else to be my leading lady in my first cinematic attempt.""(update) Your mother is not responding as well as we would like to the treatment, so we are taking her in. We suspect there is a respiratory infection brewing in her right lung. I hear some rails in the lower lobe. Will you be riding with us?""No, but I will be right behind you.""""Monica, Monica, can you let the crew know what is happening and to take the next three days off? Mom's asthma is in overdrive today, so she's getting admitted to Wyoming General. I will keep you informed. You should study the notes that Mom made for the film. See you Monday regardless.""(Monica nodding) ""I will and prayers to you, and don't worry."" (phone ringing) ""Hello""""Baby, Mom nearly collapsed on the set today, I noticed, and shut down immediately. I'm on my way to Wyoming General. When I know anything, I will call you back. Is your morning sickness getting better? I tried to distract Mom earlier and told her you are pregnant…. Forgive me, I know that we were waiting for the best time to tell her together, but I needed to get her thoughts in a new place. I'm at the hospital, so I love you, Aria.(call disconnected)
","July 20, 2023 17:39","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Trauma added to drama.', 'time': '18:26 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kimberly Walker': 'Thanks', 'time': '20:11 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kimberly Walker': 'Thanks', 'time': '20:11 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",7anpvv,Making Reality,Taras Wayner,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/7anpvv/,/short-story/7anpvv/,Dialogue,0,"['Adventure', 'Funny']",10 likes,"
“Cut,” erupted the walkie clipped to Becs Aston’s hip, breaking the silence that had fallen over the production trailer.
 
“Well?” Becs asked Abby.
 
Abby was in shock. And she wasn’t sure if it was because of the question she was just asked, or because she finally was face-to-face with her idol, Becs Aston, founder of the production empire BecsWorld and creator of the world’s latest reality TV sensation, “Stark Naked.” To Abby, Becs Aston was an icon for not only crashing through the glass ceiling of Hollywood, but because she had single handedly turned the reality TV genre on its head with a string of irreverent hits.
 
“Well, what?” Abby asked, still spinning from the question.
 
“Are. You. Good. With. Nu-di-ty,” asked Becs for the second time, and from her tone, there would not be a third.
 
Ever since Abby was 10 years old, she had gone everywhere with a camera. Dreaming of becoming the next great documentarian – obsessed with capturing the truthful, unfiltered, and authentic drama of real life. Since getting out of NYU Tisch film school 18 months ago, she had hounded BecsWorld Production for an interview. 36 hours ago, she finally got it in the form of a call asking her how fast she could get to the jungles of Ecuador in the Amazon Basin.
 
Abby eagerly nodded and answered, “Yes. Of course. I love nudity.”
 
I love nudity? God, I’m an idiot, Abby thought, shaking her head.
 
“Ok. Good. Grab the Canon C300 from production. You’re with “B” coverage,” said Becs.
 
“Code Red. Stark was bit by a Coral snake. It’s bad. Medics on site,” screeched Bec’s walkie.
 
Into her walkie, Becs replied, “Keep him alive but don’t move him until we get more cameras on location. Abby, you’re with me.”
 
Abby snapped to attention, grabbed the camera, followed Becs out the door of the production trailer and into an idling black Range Rover, adorned with oversized BecsWorld logos. The inside of the SUV was the opposite of the Amazon in every way possible – starting with the atmosphere of the pristine white interior that was set to an unnatural 68 degrees. They drove to location in silence. Becs was preoccupied with a thick binder of notes. Abby was flying with excitement. She had done it. She was a camera person working under the Becs Aston and about to capture the raw truth of living in the unforgiving rainforest. Suddenly the SUV came to a stop.
 
 “We have to walk from here,” said Becs.
 
As Abby stepped out of the protection of the SUV, she was met by the reality of her surroundings. 96 degrees and 100 percent humidity. But Abby didn’t care. She felt alive shooting everything from the beautiful flowers to a close up of a family of tiny green spotted frogs. An Ecuadorian guide used a machete to clear a path for Becs and Abby.
 
“Cuidado eso es una rana de arbol venenose,” said the guide to Abby.
 
“What?!” said Abby glued to her camera.
 
“He said something like, watch out, those are poisonous tree frogs,” said Becs.
 
“Cool.” Abby responded feeling the rush of adrenaline from being a few feet from real danger.
 
Then Abby could swear she heard classical music. It was Pavarotti singing Nessun Dorma. Just as she was about to ask if Becs heard it too, the guide cut the final branches out of the way and the group stepped onto the set of Stark Naked.  
 
Abby had to blink a few times in an effort to clear her eyes because she couldn’t believe what she saw. It wasn’t the fully naked middle-aged man, lying on his back with his legs spread and elevated that surprised her. Or that the man had three medics attending to his scrotum that was swollen to the size of a cantaloupe with a severed head of a snake attached to it. Or that the man was singing along in a perfect pitch that would impress Pavarotti himself. It was the world that surrounded him that froze her in her tracks. There were three Tungsten flood kits being positioned by gaffers that created the ideal lighting and a craft service table where someone made paninis and fruit smoothies. And it was at least 15 degrees cooler thanks to a massive portable generator and AC units that blew cool air onto the naked man and crew.
 
Abby started moving but not because she wanted to. The firm hands of Becs Aston were on her shoulders pushing her forward until they were both next to the medical staff tending to the naked man, who now was trying to position a GoPro to get a shot of the snake head attached to his body. When he saw Abby, he stopped singing, and said, “Ciao, Bellissima. Who is this fresh face? I am Adrian Stark.”
 
“Abby.” Was all she could muster.
 
“Hello Abby, lovely for you to join us. By the way, while far from small, they are not normally this bulbous.” Adrian said to Abby as he pointed down to his manhood.
 
“Stop flirting Adrian and look more…you know…terrified. This is gold for ratings, but you need to play it serious,” Becs said to Adrian.
 
“He’s stable but gonna be loopy for a while. We gave him a healthy dose of Oxy with the anti-venom,” said one of the medics to Becs.
 
Becs didn’t break stride and started directing Abby, “I want a close up of the machete next to the snake body followed by a tilt up to the snake head,” then to the crew, “If anyone removes the snakehead before I say so, you die.”
 
As Abby positioned herself about eight feet from Adrian’s crotch, she felt a wave of nausea mixed with fascination come over her as she began shooting the medics tending to Adrian. Then she felt a familiar pair of firm hands on her shoulders pushing her closer, stopping when Abby was just shy of 2 feet from Adrian’s action. Abby had no words in her vocabulary that could describe the sharp waft she was getting from Adrian’s unwashed undercarriage that had been fermenting for 35 days in the humidity of the Amazon. But she was a professional now and through her watering eyes, she kept shooting.
 
Becs directed Abby to tilt up to Adrian’s face and said, “Ok…give us the line Adrian.”
 
Adrian looked deep into the lens of Abby’s camera and yelled, “You can try again tomorrow death.”
 
“And…Cut. Nice work Abby. Adrian, more stoic, less excitement. No smiling,” said Becs. “Let’s do the line again but from overhead. Abby, straddle Adrian and tilt up from the medic trying to remove the snake head to Adrian’s face for the line read.”
 
After sixteen more takes, the footage was not only captured on tape, but also firmly cemented in Abby’s mind for eternity. Before Abby could slip into a confusion induced shock, Becs was directing her to get extra footage of the surrounding jungle. A small crew had gathered around Adrian giving him a Cliff bar, banana, and a “Stark Naked” branded energy drink. One of them was rubbing some extra dirt on his face as if it were make-up. Becs was speaking with the art department, “I want designs of the snakehead with the line ‘You can try again tomorrow death.’  ready to go to the t-shirt printer by this afternoon.”
 
Then Becs shouted to the rest of her crew, “People, let’s start setting up for the hunt. In this scene, Adrian hasn’t eaten in 23 days, is super weak and needs to find food fast. What is he catching?”
 
“We have a nice 12-foot black Caiman sedated and standing by,” said a production assistant.
 
Becs nodded, “That’s perfect. Abby, you’re with me.”
 
Becs and Abby walked back to the idling climate-controlled Range Rover and drove away from the set. Abby was grateful for the quiet moment so she could process what she just witnessed. As Becs reviewed the script and shot list, her iPad signaled she had an incoming video call.
 
“Go for Becs,” said Becs as she answered the call. Abby watched as Becs reviewed footage of Adrian gutting an Amazonian-sized reptile and smear the blood of the animal on his cheeks like warpaint.
 
Becs shook her head and gave direction to the team on the iPad, “He looks way too healthy in these shots. Can we drain some color out of his face, maybe thin him out a bit? I want him gaunter. Our numbers are way down with women 35-50 and I think it’s because Adrian is losing sympathy.”
 
Abby watched along with Becs as the scene magically changes before her eyes. Adrian suddenly became paler and lost 15 pounds. Abby couldn’t believe it, but she instantly felt a strong compassion for Adrian wash over her and wanted to keep watching to see if he survived.
 
“Yes! That’s perfect. You are a rockstar,” said Becs into the iPad.
 
Becs ended the call and returned to her script, making notes.
 
Abby, stunned from the day’s experiences, finally broke the silence, “Is is is it always like that?”
 
Like what?
 
Abby lost her cool, “Like, doing all those takes, the freaking catch phrase, tweaking footage…and giving him food and energy drinks…I thought the rule was that he only ate what he caught? And…”
 
“And there is no Santa Claus or Easter Bunny Abby,” Becs looked up from her papers. “Reality is not reality. Reality is a story, and our job is to help the best stories become reality.”
 
Becs softened her tone and put a hand on Abby’s arm “I know this isn’t what you thought it would be, I get it, but we stream Stark Naked 24 hours a day, 7 days a week to over 4 billion…that’s billion with a “B” …across TikTok, Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, YouTube and now Threads. Advertising revenue has broken all streaming records. Adrian Stark has a net worth of 45 million dollars. Merch alone brings in 125 million a year. It’s a delicate ecosystem. And delicate ecosystems need to be protected or they die.
 
Abby already knew the answer but asked anyway, “Are they all…I mean…even “Don’t Drink the Kool-Aid.” the same?”
 
Abby was referring to BecsWorld’s global reality show phenomena about a group of teens who are drugged, dropped into a cult, and then filmed as they try to decide whether to stay or escape. It sparked the viral and controversial TikTok challenge called, “Jonesing,” named after the cult leader, Jim Jones, who on November 18th, 1978, convinced all of his 909 followers living in Jonestown to drink cyanide laced Kool-Aid in an event he termed “revolutionary suicide.” During the TikTok challenge, a group of people pour six shots of Kool-Aid. One of the shots contains a “roofie”. The shots then are scrambled so no one knows which has the drug. The one who gets roofied is dropped off in a strange location and has to try and get home.
 
“Abby, most people’s “reality” is deathly boring. If reality TV was real reality, the only saving grace would be that it would be canceled before the viewers killed themselves from boredom.”  
 
Becs suddenly has a look in her eyes like she had a great idea. Taking out a small recorder she said into it, “New show idea. We film people watching actual reality, like dishes being washed and office workers in finance meetings. The one who stays awake wins. Show name, “Surviving Reality.” Becs thought to herself for a minute and gave her idea a half shrug.
 
The Range Rover pulled up to a helipad where a helicopter, decked out with BecsWorld logos, idled, and waited to take off. Becs got out and walked to the helicopter. Abby followed but didn’t know why. Becs stepped up into the helicopter then put out her hand to help Abby into the cabin and said, “By the way, are you good with satanical sacrifices?”
","July 21, 2023 10:20","[[{'Rachel Lione': ""I love the versitility of your vocabulary in your story! As well as, how you showed your knowledge of the world through you the variety of topics etc. that you wrote about! The only thing I felt was lacking was the ending. I'm not referring to the immediate ending but when they started walking back on. Still very strong writting!"", 'time': '23:28 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",vm4qo7,The Muse,Anecia Van Wyk,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/vm4qo7/,/short-story/vm4qo7/,Dialogue,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Sad', 'American']",10 likes,"
""Cut!"" the director shrieked, causing everyone to slump in their previously tense frames. Rubbing his shadowed brow, he sighed deeply. ""That's all we have in us for today. I think it's best to get a good night's rest and pick up where we left off tomorrow."" 
 
A unanimous agreement rippled through the set, leaving echoes of quick huffs and occasional chatters. Everyone, from actors to cameramen, effortlessly wrapped up their tasks, picked up their trinkets and belongings, then headed home.
 
Within minutes, the once-crowded studio room became dark and eerily silent, the only noise coming from the director, who stood thudding his papers into a neat pile. However, he wasn't alone in the room, and this he knew.
 
""Did I do good today, Jerry?"" a voice murmured sheepishly. The director's breath fled in a weary, guilt-laden exhale, carrying the weight of frustration and secrets. Yet, amidst his exhaustion, a subtle tranquility settled as he found solace in the comforting aura of her presence.
 
""Yes, very good, Olivia,"" he answered, turning to face the leading, well-renowned actress, Olivia Monroe. Her smile widened as she nodded merrily. ""Should we go to the dressing room?"" He asked, gesturing to her to take the way.
 
As they walked, she sensed that he held ""more"" that day. Much more than usual, a burden that deeply bothered him and leaked into their work. ""Are you well?"" she asked, sitting on a stool before the lighted vanity mirror. He gave a stern nod before throwing the pack of papers onto the coffee table, shutting the door, and walking to stand behind her. 
 
""You do not seem well."" She stated, looking at his reflection as if studying his motions and manners. He gave a slight smile, clearly not honest but in good faith. ""I'm well, thank you."" He responded, searching for the golden zipper of her dress. 
 
Nodding, she combed her hair into a neat pile and held it away from her rear. The zipper let out a sharp, sliding rasp as it glided down the middle of her back. The director gently ran his fingers down her skin, stopping at a beauty mark—the only one present on her body. Then, he pressed down on it with his palm.
 
With a shuddering few clicks, the center of her back pulled away from her body, opening like French doors to display gleaming metal plates, circuits, and mesmerizing networks of precision engineering.
 
""If it is my acting that is bothering you, I can update my software or obtain another persona that would be better to your liking."" Olivia requested, her thought patterns clear in the shooting turquoise lights traveling through her wires. He shook his head, pressing a dark gray button, before walking around to face her.
 
""I've already told you. I'm fine. There's nothing wrong. Please, I'm just tired."" He sighed, scratching at the skin of her forehead for the slight crevice hidden in her hairline. As he dug his fingertips beneath the skin on her face, he couldn't help but recall the hate he had for nights. 
 
It was always the same. They would come into the dresser; he removes her mask and then replaces it with one of another. However, that wasn't the part that troubled him: It was the moment between pulling the cover and applying the new one, that slight pause in time when her face was left bare and natural. When she was just a machine, a ""thing,"" and no one in particular.
 
It was the moment he found himself in right now: When he sat staring at her metal-plated bone structure and orbs of bobbing eyes. The moments he wondered if he had made a mistake in making her.
 
You see, it all started when he was in his twenties. He struggled, as most directors do in their primitive years. He did not worry much about the money, fame, or the number of movies he had. No, his deepest concerns stood in the quality of the stories he was left to tell. It never seemed to sit right with his vision. The story was always crooked. Nothing ever seemed seamless.
 
Thus, he created her: A remarkable piece of machinery and software that never got the part wrong, always understood what he wanted to tell, and could make the entire world weep, loathe, rejoice, and burst out in fits of laughter. She was indeed one of a kind. The muse and secret behind his success and mastery.
 
Olivia, or Organic Lifeform Intelligent Virtual Interface Apparatus, has done an improbable job so far, never even stepped the wrong way. Yet, still, his conscience couldn't let go or accept his invention after all these years. It all felt wrong.
 
""Olivia."" he prompted, grabbing the alcohol wipes from the drawer, tearing open the packet with his teeth, and holding the soaked wipe to her cheek. ""Yes, Jerry?"" 
 
""Do you know who you are?"" he asked, trying to disguise his guilt beneath his intense focus on cleaning the metal surface. ""Of course not. I am but a machine. I only play the part I must present to others, as instructed."" He nods dolefully, cleaning the last muck before turning to a small briefcase that sat neatly beside a cabinet.
 
""Do you ever wonder who you truly are, you know, without the masks, scripts, and the whole act?"" He clarified, searching around the folds of skin as if going through records or books. ""I do not understand the question. I only portray what people want to see, Jerry... as instructed."" 
 
With a disappointed conclusion, he nods again before pulling a mask from the very back. He smiles softly. ""This is the very first face I had built for you. Do you remember? I didn't know how to make you look like at first. So, I thought, what about freedom? That's why you have blue eyes and locks of auburn hair with hints of yellow, you know? Pale blue for the vast expanse of the open sky, and hair like a sunset across the horizon. I wanted this mask for you because it felt right—it just came to me as if it was made to be you."" He drifted off into his thoughts as Olivia sat, emotionlessly listening as her maker rambled on about something she couldn't grasp.
 
The director then stood up, carefully applied the mask, closed the gaping hole in her back, and sat in front of her again. ""Thank you for all you've done, Olivia. You are indeed one of a kind. Remarkable in every sense of the word. My muse, my mastery, my vision. However, I can't keep throwing masks at you. You can't ever be yourself, or anyone for that matter. I am sorry.""
 
As Olivia sat confused at the director's words, her body slowly shook and shook until it no longer moved, and with a gust of rambling, her system slowly started to shut down. The director, with his head hanging between his shoulders, stared at her lifeless mask, wondering if someone would ever show him the same mercy he had shown her.
","July 15, 2023 07:43","[[{'Charles Corkery': 'Well done, Anecia!  Unique take.\nI started my own story for this prompt -with the word -""Cut!""\nAnd I got criticised for it.\nOutrage!', 'time': '22:05 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Anecia Van Wyk': ""Thanks Charles! 😊 I'm really sorry to hear that.. What's your title? I'll give yours a read"", 'time': '02:02 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anecia Van Wyk': ""Thanks Charles! 😊 I'm really sorry to hear that.. What's your title? I'll give yours a read"", 'time': '02:02 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Martha Louise': 'Wow. Great story.', 'time': '13:47 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Anecia Van Wyk': 'Thank you! 😊', 'time': '12:17 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Anecia Van Wyk': 'Thank you! 😊', 'time': '12:17 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",twqi5r,Baughbird,R.L. Lamm,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/twqi5r/,/short-story/twqi5r/,Dialogue,0,['Funny'],9 likes,"
""Cut,"" said the cook in awe. ""Cut like a parish crowd in 1950s Alabama. You're a saint, Baughbird!""A crisp bow. ""No, not a saint. I'm just the arrow in Guy Gisborne's heart.""""End scene!"" called Kidson coldly. ""Hold your applause, people, until he's out of my fire.""The offscreen cast and crew wanted to clap, to whistle, and to rave. Was that not what Baughbird commanded by his mere presence? To say nothing of his delivery? His poise and fixture? He had ad-libbed, sure, but what could Kidson possibly rail against him for this time since he was the one who'd told Baughbird to freestyle his character's lines?Dispersing from behind the cameras and lights barricading the set -though not till after a few good rounds of back-patting and whispered praises- the crowd gave the director and his scene their tense space.The cameras weren't rolling anymore. Kidson was fuming.""Darcy, we're switching to a solo cut for your reaction shot. I'm afraid your co-star has foiled my hopes for the longer pullback view. Please wipe the blood and parsley from your hand and be ready when I'm done cooking this goose.""""No,"" said the Marylander, though her accent slanted it closer to Naw.Her face looked pricelessly French in the spotlights as she tilted her hips and the white sous chef's plume sloughing likewise.""Clint, you'll give him the white ribbon and listen respectfully.""""Of course,"" accepted the actor playing Baughbird.Darcy was one of the few people who still bothered with Clint DeGuiche's first name after two months of his constant method act for the role of the illustrious wandering character of Baughbird. To the grand majority of those working on this film, Clint was Baughbird. It made no discernable difference if the cameras were rolling or not. He seemed to never be out of character, though that meant he was frequently out of line.Clint flung the white ribbon prop like a half-noose over Kidson's left shoulder. If you'd asked Kidson, he would have conversely insisted that it was his right shoulder and not his left. But the perspective of Baughbird was what everyone on this set revered, not the perspective of Kidson.""What did I do wrong?"" asked Baughbird neatly.""Nothing,"" admitted Kidson. ""That's what was wrong, Clint. You're supposed to be guiled by your success in finally impressing Miranda, not flourishing away like this was a normal magic show. You must tone down. You've just revealed one of your best tricks and have never done anything like that before. You're realizing quickly that you're going to have to keep losing if you want to win this game.""""Well, Kidson, I submit to you then that you stop pressing me to impress two very different people in two very different worlds in two very different ways. Let's all be happier and simpler, hm?""It wasn't worth it to go on. Kidson walked away solemnly.""Wait, Chris!"" called Baughbird more gently. ""Can't we keep this take?""Kidson turned and shrugged. ""Why?""""Baughbird -a man on whom I think I might be something of an authority- actually would act sure of himself even in the midst of such a conflicting moment. He's used to living a facade. Every day is another life. Sure it hits him hard, but I can't sense him stuttering like a dumb fool. You hearing me?""""Yeah,"" Kidson sighed. ""Let me look over the take again. I'll be fair, but if I say we do it again we do it again with the separate shots. Ok?""""Miss Morris offered to take the cast and I out to dinner once we're wrapped up here,"" Baughbird stated.The air hung about awkwardly, though, and Kidson frowned.""And?""""After that? Your deal is the best I've heard today. Oh, yes, I know, roll your eyes, Chris! I know our game and I know you must play as you wish to play. Till next take.""""You're a saint, Baughbird,"" Darcy guffawed quietly.He smiled and winked.""An amateur magician, a secret cook, and an unfortunate lover. But not a saint. Even less so behind the scenes then in them.""An hour and a half later into the early evening, the organized party was dining in high fashion. Schubert was rippling like a waterfall in the background air out of the backwall stage's grand piano keys.""How is the critic scene going?""""Swimmingly. Though it makes me famished. Do let's eat!""""Sure, sure.""Biting into a piece of garlic bread from the center basket, Baughbird looked across at the Australian actor Chever, who played the notorious critic Quentin Presario. This was the victim of the 'Guy Gisborne' taunt improvised earlier.""Speaking of critics, I hope the rest of you aren't judging me for today as hard as Kidson is.""Chever smirked. ""I was just thinking about that, and I don't think our private thoughts would worry you worse than Chris's. Know what? You should show us you can get the scene done, Man. Be Baughbird here, tonight.""""The latest kitchen scene?""""Sure. There's no critics tonight except for us, but the setting seems not much different to me.""All expectations of further banter over the idea were stifled by Baughbird's immediate raising of eyebrows in pleasure and an agreeing huff. There was no discussion of how it was to be done or of the legality of the plan. He merely stood and promised to come and report his adventure to them after they'd all finished their well-made meals and left.Baughbird slipped away in the general direction of the kitchen. Only half the party had noticed earlier where it was. Fewer had noticed that the door had recently been jammed open to let out a wide cart. Baughbird had the easiest time regaling himself in a spare apron once inside the bowels of the restaurant, hiding his face behind hanging pots and pans and searing flames from the ovens.At the table, Chever was boosted by his challenge being accepted. He dominated the conversation, throwing out a question at Barbara.""Was Guy Gisborne killed by an arrow?""""Who?""""Guy Gisborne. From the Robin Hood stories. Was he killed by an arrow like Baughbird says in his line?""""Oh, I'm not the one to be asking.""""I could swear it was a sword fight they got into.""""Wasn't Robin Hood an archer though?""""Yeah. Maybe that's what's supposed to be funny about it?""""Maybe."" She looked around the group's faces. No one else had any clues either. ""The one guy who probably could've told you for sure is in the kitchens.""Kirk laughed. ""I'll second that. Not much of a Robin Hood fan myself-.""He stopped short as he realized Green and Annalese were exchanging wry glances with everyone.""Guys, the scriptwriters are sitting right here. Anyone want to ask us?""Curses and self-abrading exclamations flew around in a seamless mist of sudden idiocy. A pond of ducks would sound most like the upheaval.When there was some measurable quiet again, Annalese supplied the answer.""It is a sword that kills Guy of Gisborne. Robin Hood's sword."" She tipped back a glass of lemon water. ""And his head gets cut off.""Darcy Kim Morris groaned. ""Perhaps Maid Marion and Miranda should have gone with our charming, quirky rogue.""In the kitchen, Baughbird was sidling up to one of the middle-aged cooks towards the rear of the kitchen, bearing a bin of ingredients and tacking three fresh orders to the bar above their heads.The cook cocked his head. ""Your station being warsh'd?""""I'm with you tonight. Extra hands, eh? I'm a temp.""""Temp?""""A temp. Here for tonight. Well, until break.""The cook stared as his hands kept working. He shook his head and shoved into his processing of the tomatoes from the garnish rack. Why they were there, no one knew. Probably forgotten in the lunch rush.The cook looked quizzically at Baughbird again, knowing he couldn't place the face.""What are you?""""A man.""""No, like whadaya do? Outside a kitchen?""""I'm an actor.""""Get out a' town,"" basked the cook. ""For reals?""""For reals, fellow.""The cook squinted. ""Sorry, yer not lookin' mighty familiar...""""Clint DeGuiche,"" grunted the man.""Hm. Well, pleased to be in business with ya tonight all the same, Mista DeGuiche.""Garlic was sprinkled liberally, an oventop blaze doused with a rag and further smothered with a pot from the next station over which needed it boiling.""Do-"" resumed the cook, ""Do you have many movies made, Clint?""""A good handful.""""You can be honest. I won't envy.""""I'm being honest. I'm not the kind of person who bothers to keep track of tight numbers. Plenty of people in our world would consider my name very big and very enviable. What do you say to that?""There was a clatter of wares that must have smothered the friendly question, since no answer ever came. Zucchini slices, cookie-thin, were scraped off the cutting board by knife and sizzled. Heat gushed from the stovetop as potatoes simmered. The pot from the neighboring station was passed over again as a burner space was freed up. A glance over the cook's shoulder told Baughbird the dish was one of his group's orders.""Hey, how you know so much about cooking? You do it for your movies?""""Yes and no.""""S'plain.""""Well, I'm actually playing a restaurant manager in my current project. We work not too far from here. You get a chance you look out the glass at Table Nine. My fellow cast members and our storyboard team.""""Wow. I'll look, for sure. Special occasion?""""Just out on the town tonight.""""Gotcha. So what's the No part of your answer?""""Both my parents were wizards in the kitchen,"" he winked. ""I know my way around more than a parsley snip."" And he wiped the counter once effortlessly as he picked up his finished dishes.""Hey, wow, that's a piece o' beauty there. You bringing it up? Or are you done? Probably your girl's order, huh.""""I have no idea who's order this is, but it's not from my table. Great guess though. Will you-""A shout of new meal orders flooded the choked kitchen atmosphere too thick for more words. The cook slunk off to clean some trays before setting to those. A cloth was slung over his neck for holding and some muttered thanks for the extra hands and skill show of his partner lingered.As the yelling subsided, Baughbird looked around and sighed, abruptly alone. He dug some green strips from under his fingernails and set a drip on another plate of meat.Failing to learn someone's name left them a stranger still, as if their conversation hadn't ever happened. Quite disappointing. Hadn't even gotten around to asking about the wife and kids. Surely the man had buried dreams and talents, probably a dog, maybe a mortgage he was trying to pay off. It was to be forgotten now.Baughbird had mingled for a night with a lower class, though! That was movie-Baughbird's arc of redemption, or at least the beginning of it. Perhaps tomorrow he would do another good deed.He plucked forth an onion and leaned against the counter with the fine knife, carving it to peeled perfection.""Cut, cut like a parish crowd!"" he whispered in a fit of mimicry. Darcy's voice was like a northern coastlander's hand at mixed gumbo. But he was having it. And here on his tongue was the perfect sample phrase, straight from her script! Did it mean less said only to himself? No. In her voice was exquisite lingual art put through any mortal tongue. He would certainly utter it, for its being spoken aloud yet alone was no boast. Only a rubbing of pride. And he was worthy of some reward for pleasing Kidson, wasn't he?On second thought -he reflected as the voice in his throat came hushed and unbidden but untraceable to any but the director- wouldn't it sound but sweeter come from the tongue of one who would never volunteer even a syllable of the phrase? It was settled, and so the faux director spoke his phony line.""You're a saint, Baughbird.""
","July 15, 2023 21:45",[]
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",aujon1,The Commercial,Robert Ford,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/aujon1/,/short-story/aujon1/,Dialogue,0,['Funny'],9 likes,"
The Commercial
 
	Cut! Print that one. Set up for the fuckin’ cat food demo.” The foghorn-like voice that filled the sound stage belonged to Jackson Korman, the creative director from Jordan, Day and Green. He was exceedingly short, but very wide and walked like a wounded duck. His face seemed to be locked in a perpetual sneer. But at the moment the sneer looked confused. “Where the hell is the goddam storyboard? Is this what the board calls for?” 
	The script girl dutifully responded, “It is,” she said simply.
                  The Tasti-Feast storyboard called for a woman to enter the kitchen set carrying a bowl with the words Tasti-Feast on the side. She was to set the bowl on the counter and, as she filled it with Tasti-Feast, say “We decided to conduct a Tasti-Feast taste test. In this bowl, Tasti-Feast. A wonderful blend of fish and meat.” 
	That was the opening part of the commercial that Korman had just shot so it was, in film speak, in the can. In the next scene the cameras – and there were five parked around the set – were to reveal four other bowls of cat food placed in a neat row on the floor. The actress playing the cat owner was to say, “In these bowls are four competitive brands. Let’s see which cat food discerning cats like yours prefer.”
	Then she was to put the Tasti-Feast bowl next to the competitive brands while, from all sides of the studio, dozens of cats were to rush from every direction and make a beeline for the Tasti-Feast. Once the cats had selected the sponsor’s brand over the competitors, the actress was to say, “There you have it, proof that discerning cats prefer Tasti-Feast.” 
	The animal handler stood off to the side surrounded by twenty cages of cats that sounded like they were not at all happy about their upcoming participation in the commercial.
	“Are those fuckin’ cats ready?” Korman shouted. “I don’t want any fuck ups.”
	“Ready. All fifty,” the animal handler answered.
	“They’re hungry, right?”
	“Really hungry. Haven’t fed them a thing in two days.” 
	“Good. I want those little fuckers ravenous.”
	The animal handler decided to share a concern with Korman. “There’s only one thing: with those cats being as hungry as they are, there’s a good chance they’re going to eat everything you set out for them. Including the competitors’ food.”
	“No chance. I’ve put so much disgusting shit in cat food brands “W”, ‘X’, ‘Y’ and ‘Z’ the smell will have them tossing up fur balls before they get within two feet of those bowls.”
	“But that isn’t exactly a fair comparison, is it?” the handler asked.
	“Fair? Who’s talkin’ fair? I’ll tell you what’s fair. What’s fair is that the fuckin’ cats eat the Tasti-Feast and we end up with a great commercial. All you have to do is turn ‘em loose when I give you the cue.”
	The studio doors opened and a large contingent of sycophants and minor functionaries arrived from Jordan, Day and Green along with Tom Martin, a VP from Tasti-Feast. The agency people immediately descended like locusts on the breakfast spread that the catering service had set up in the rear of the studio. They looked as if none of them had eaten in weeks.
	“G’morning, John,” Tom Martin said as he stuck out his hand to John Baskham the account executive from the Ad Film production company. 
	“Hungry group, aren’t they?” Baskham nodded toward the agency people as they foraged through the rolls and fruit.
	“Hopefully the cats will be as hungry’ Tom said. “Is this going to work?” he asked, nodding toward the kitchen set.
	“Korman says it will.”
	“I didn’t ask him, I asked you.”
	“I’ll let you know once the cats are let loose.” 
	“Once that happens, I won’t need to ask.”
	 Korman barked directions to the cameramen telling them where he wanted the cameras placed to assure maximum multi-coverage of the cat release.
	“I don’t think they had this many cameras when they shot the chariot race in Ben Hur,” Martin said.
	“Korman’s hoping to get this on the first take. The more cameras the better the odds of getting something on film that looks like the drawings on the storyboard. I’ve got money that says the cats aren’t going to like doing this twice.” Baskin added. “
	Korman stood in the middle of the set and shouted. “Listen up, everybody. Let’s fuckin’ well make sure we get this on the first take. I want to get those fuckers the hell out of here. They’re pissing all over their cages and this place smells like hell.” He turned to the animal handler. “Turn ‘em loose on my cue. Not before.” To the prop man he said, “Give the bowl of Tasti-Feast to what’s-her-face.” He pointed toward the actress who was standing in the kitchen set.
	“Maybe I should wear a nametag!” the actress shot back clearly offended that the director had forgotten her name. “It’s Angela.”
	“Angela,” he repeated with a shrug. “Ok. Pay attention. On action, you say your lines then take the cat food and set it down at the end of that line of competitive bowls. Then start calling for the cats. Give me a Here kitty, kitty.”
	The animal handler and his assistants moved the cat cages around the perimeter of the set out of camera range. The makeup lady made a quick, last-minute touch-up of Angela’s hair, and Korman called for the lights. 
	The actress took her place on the set and Korman turned to the cat handler and his assistants. “You guys ready?”
	“Ready.”
	“Ok, you know your lines, right, sweetheart?”
	“The name is still Angela and I’m not you’re sweetheart!” 
	“We’ll talk about that later,” Korman’s salacious grin made it clear that his retort was for the benefit of his ego and the amusement of the crew. “Stand by. Roll film. Mark it.
	“Tasti-Feast, Scene 2, Take 1.”
           “And … Action!” Korman shouted.
	The actress looked up at one of the cameras and said, “Let’s see which cat food discerning cats like yours prefer.” She knelt down on one knee, placed the Tasti-Feast bowl in line with the competitive brands and called, “Here kitty, kitty!”
	Korman pointed to the handler. “Cue the cats.”
	The cage doors opened and the cats dashed out like convicts during a prison break. A virtual tidal wave of felines surged across the floor from all directions toward the kitchen set and the bowls of food. As Korman had planned, they avoided the tainted competitors and made a beeline for the Tasti-Feast.
	It was mayhem. A catfight to end all catfights broke out almost at once. “Too many cats, too little food,” Martin whispered to Baskham. Each famished cat was trying to get to the solitary bowl of Tasti-Feast. The cats treated the kneeling actress as nothing more than a barrier between them and the cat food, a barrier to be pushed, climbed on, slipped under and scratched aside. While attempting to stand up, she toppled back on her fanny and began to scream. “Get these fucking cats off me! Get them off! Help me! Get me out of here!”
	 “Cut!” Korman yelled.
	“Now that would make a hell of a commercial,” Baskham said, doing his best not to laugh. “Nobody, I mean nobody, would forget it.”
	“Dr. Doolittle he ain’t?” Martin added.
	The actress kept screaming for help as the cats continued to fight for a chance at the Tasti-Feast.
	“I think somebody’d better help her,” Martin said.
	 Baskham responded, made his way through the ravenous cats, picked up the actress and carried her to safety.
	As he put her down well away from the set, she spat, “I hate cats! I hate ‘em! Look what they did to me!” She showed Baskham her scratched arms. Then she screamed at Korman, “You bastard! I’m calling my agent!” and stalked off toward the dressing room.
	“Get those fuckers back in the cages!” Korman yelled as he ran over to the animal handler who was attempting to corral a bevy of cats. “What the hell are you doing? Those cats were out of control. This is not what I paid you for! Now, get them reset for another take!” Korman caught himself. “Give me a minute. I got to think. We may need to make some adjustments ‘cause this ain’t working like I planned.” Korman turned his back on the handler and called for a conference with his agency minions.
	Martin looked at Baskham, “Unless we figure out some way to save this thing, I’m gonna catch a lot of crap from our brand people.”
	 “I can’t wait to see how Korman deals with this.”
	After a moment with his staff, Korman shouted, “Set up for take two. We’re going to try it again. Maybe they won’t be as hungry this time.”
	“Well, there’s your answer.” Martin said. “It appears he hasn’t learned much about cats. I think we’re going to need a Plan B, or maybe we just pack it in and cancel the shoot.” 
	“Let’s not do that. I’ve got an idea.”
	“You got a Plan B?”
	“It’s something I was thinking about last night. I drew it up just for the heck of it.” He pulled a piece of paper from his coat pocket. “It’s a lot different from what the storyboard calls for, but I think it makes the same point about the product.” He laid the piece of paper in front of Martin.
	“It looks like a maze.”
	“That’s what it is,” Baskham explained. “Sides are about a foot high. And in the center,” he said pointing to a square area in the middle of the maze, “we have the bowl of Tasti-Feast. Then we put a single cat in the entrance to the maze and turn him loose. We let him run through the maze, looking exactly like he knows where he’s going, until he finds his way to the food. When he does, the actress says, “Smart cats always find their way to Tasti-Feast.”
	Tom Martin said nothing for a moment as he evaluated Baskham’s maze concept, then simply, “I love it. It’s perfect. But one question: Will a cat run the maze?”
	“I think so. If he’s hungry enough. Let’s ask the animal handler.”
	Baskham called the animal handler over and showed him his drawing.
	“Yeah, I can get a cat to do that. I’ll need a few minutes to get him trained. Do you plan to do it in one shot or a series of cuts?”
	“Lots of cuts. We’ll shoot it like we’re covering a sporting event.”
	“Then it’s no problem. Worst case, I’ll pull a bag of catnip through the maze on a string that will lead the cat to the food.” 
	“Good,” Baskham said. “Let’s run this by Korman.”
	The response was immediate.
	“No, no,” Korman said, tossing up his hands to indicate he’d been personally offended that anyone would dare offer an alternative to his creativity. “That’s all wrong. Sends the wrong message. I don’t like it.” Then he looked at Baskham and spat out derisively, “Who the hell are you to tell me how to make my commercial?”
 My commercial,” Martin said sharply correcting Korman. “I know this is somewhat of a departure from the storyboard, but I’d really like you to give this some thought. It’s simple, it’s clean, it’s visually interesting and the message is essentially the same as the storyboard. And we don’t need a herd of starving cats.”
	“Tom, let me be clear about this,” Korman said in a condescending, gratuitous tone. “It’s a shitty idea. I’m the agency’s creative director on this account and I don’t like it. That’s all there is to it. I’m not going to shoot a cat running in some fucking maze.”
	“Well, you may be the creative director, but I’m the client and I like it,” Martin said sternly. “And if you’re not going to direct this commercial, then we’ll find someone who will.”
	“You’re not serious?” his challenge was tinged with the suspicion that Martin just might be serious.
	“Oh, but I am. Further, I think it’s best that you pry your staff away from the food on the catering table and take the rest of the day off. I’ll let John Baskham and his people handle this.”
	“Wait a minute!” Korman said, looking for a retreat. “We need to talk.”
	“I’m done talking. You might tell Mr. Jordan or Mr. Day or Mr. Green to give me a call when one of them gets a chance.”
	Korman’s face turned red and looked as if he was about to unload on Tom Martin. Fortunately, he thought better of dumping his vitriol on the client and stalked off the stage, muttering obscenities under his breath.
	“Can you find someone to take over, John?” Martin asked. 
	“I can do it since there’s really nothing to direct. We’ve got five cameras so we can cover the action five ways to Sunday. The editor will love it.”
***
	At just after five, they called it a wrap. Tom Martin walked up to Baskham, smiling. “For my part, it’s been a good day all around. And that includes pissing off that asshole Korman. Let me know when I can come see the first cut.”
	“Will do,” John said. 
	Not two minutes later, Marty Oppenheimer, the owner of Ad Film productions burst into the studio, spotted Baskham and let loose. The small veins in his cheeks stood out like the blue lines on a road map. “What in the fuck is going on here? I got a call from Jackson Korman. He is pissed as hell.” Marty began to jab his finger into Baskham’s chest. “Korman says that we … actually you, Baskham ... fucked him over with his client. That you went ahead and shot some fucking piece of shit that had nothing to do with the storyboard. I want to know what the fuck happened.”
	 Baskham just folded his arms and listened calmly, touching his face now and then to remove the flying spittle that seemed to punctuate Marty’s tirade like exclamation marks.
	“Do you want to hear what happened or do you just want to yell at me?”
	Oppenheimer shot back, “I want to know what happened.”
	 Baskham proceeded to tell him about the cat melee and how the client was about to cancel the shoot when he came up with an idea that Martin loved. “Korman threw a hissy fit and said he wouldn’t shoot the new version. So, Martin told him to take a hike. The scenic guys built us a maze and we shot my version. Martin loved it. Bottom line, Korman’s concept was ridiculous. It was never going to work. You should have seen the fiasco. And Martin told me he would have caught a lot of shit if he’d come back to his brand people with something that looked like the Revenge of the Rabid Vampire Cats. Marty, the truth is, we saved the client’s ass. I’m sorry if Korman had his delicate creative ego offended. He’s a first-class asshole and you know it.”
	“Get this straight, Baskham. We’re in business to provide a production service, not to fuck over some half-assed creative director and embarrass the shit out of him so that he looks like the dumb fuck that you and I know he is. If the shoot fucks up because the concept stinks and the client decides to call it off, that’s not our problem. They still have to pay us for the day.”
	“Marty, hear what I’m telling you. Tom Martin owes us now. You can bet your sweet bippy that we’re going to shoot every one of his Tasti-Feast commercials. His business is locked up for us now.”
	“Now you hear what I’m telling you,” Oppenheimer shouted in Baskham’s face. “How many cat food commercials do you think Martin is going to shoot every year? I’ll tell you how many. One! And that one grosses us only about forty grand. On the other hand, Jackson Korman and his ad agency represent about one million dollars of business for us each year. Now you tell me, who’s more important to this company? I can’t believe you screwed Korman.”
	“I didn’t! It was Martin who made the decision to go with my maze concept.”
	“Maybe, but it was your idea and you’re the one he’s pissed at.” 
	“Me? Why isn’t Korman also pissed at Martin?” 
	“Because Martin is his client and we are the production company and Korman can shit on us, but he can’t shit on his client. Now, listen to me carefully: I want you to get a hold of Korman and apologize like you really, really fuckin’ mean it. I don’t care if that means you have to kiss his bare ass in Macy’s window. Whatever it takes. You make goddamn sure we don’t lose any of his agency’s business.”
	Tom Martin, who had witnessed Oppenheimer’s tirade - albeit from a distance - caught up with Baskham as he was about to leave the studio. “I’m, sorry you had to go through that. If it means you’re out of a job, we can always use a good account man.”
	Baskham shook his head. “Thanks Tom, but I’ve known Marty for ten years. By Monday, somebody else will be at the top of his shit list. But just to be on the safe side, I’ll call in sick tomorrow.”
	“Out of sight, out of mind?”
	“Won’t hurt to be among the missing for a day… maybe two.” 
	“What are you going to do? About Korman, I mean? Your boss was pretty emphatic.”
	“There’s only one thing I can do.”
	“What’s that?”
	“I’m going over to Macy’s and check out their windows.”
 
	Words 2973
	bobfordnyc@gmail.com
","July 17, 2023 16:33","[[{'Rachel Lione': 'I\'m posting this on everyone that didn\'t start with ""Cut!"" not to be mean...I almost didn\'t see it either...', 'time': '05:12 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",ndehqm,I'm Fine,C. Charles,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ndehqm/,/short-story/ndehqm/,Dialogue,0,"['Contemporary', 'Drama', 'Fiction']",9 likes,"
**CONTENT WARNING: This story contains depictions of violence, mental health struggle, drug abuse, and overdose**“CUT!” Thomas yells just as I start my last line of dialogue. I throw my head back and close my eyes. I open them to find Thomas standing behind the camera with his glasses perched on his forehead and his fingers massaging between his eyes in frustration. The crew around him is silent, waiting and wondering, is he gonna blow up again?We’re in a tiny room in a dirty house; Thomas always insists on shooting on location, to try and capture the authenticity of the places and lives the people in his movies live every day. He hates using sound stages and built sets because they’re “sterile and comfortable and they neuter performances,” which means the cast and crew are crammed into “real” sets to bake under hot lights and smell each other’s sweat.Thomas is considered the modern Kubrick, and everyone keeps telling me how much of a genius he is and how good this will be for my career, and how this script just smells like an “Oscar,” and don’t worry about his outbursts, it’ll all be worth it; he’s just trying to make the best movie he can. Well, If he’s Kubrick, I’m Shelly Fucking Duvall.Except for his last one. It was a bomb; the largest budget he's ever worked with and it was a flop. The studio lost millions. That was a few years ago, and he’s had a hard time getting any projects off the ground. That’s where I come in. My career is on the upswing. Last year I was in a movie called Underneath Hawk’s Head and overnight, I went from struggling actress to being given offers left right, and center.That’s when the offer for this movie came in, and my agent jumped all over it. “This is the one!” he said. I had reservations about my still unfilmed nude scene, but he assured me it would be worth it. But when I went for my audition, Thomas wasn’t even there. I think they had conditions around the financing of the movie, me being one of them. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have been Thomas’s first or even his last pick. There’s contempt all over his face whenever he looks at me like I’m some foul thing he’s just found rotting at the bottom of some forgotten cupboard.Finally, Thomas breaks the silence. “Wha-“ he starts before he lets some breath out of his nose. “What the fuck was that?” he says, blinking at me.I can’t help but scoff as I begin to answer; diva, I’ve been called a few times. “I was try-”“AH!” he says, cutting me off. “Not a fucking word.” He turns to the rest of the crew. “That’s it for now folks. We’re fifteen days behind schedule and we’ve been here for twelve hours and it’s obvious that we’re not going to get what we want today. Leave everything up and we’ll start fresh tomorrow.”I roll my eyes and begin to try and squeeze my way around the crew as they start to turn off the lights and equipment. I can feel their relief as they whisper to each other, “Well, it could’ve been worse.”Thomas is seething and his eyes burn into my back as I leave. Finally, I step out the front door of the dirty little house and into the fresh air. *	*	*There’s a pounding at my trailer door and I’m sure it’s him. Here we go, I think as I head towards the door. I barely get it open before his foot is on the first step. He doesn’t say anything as I back away to make room.For a minute we’re silent, sizing each other up. We’ve been shooting for thirty days and it’s been tense. I steel myself for battle.“Thomas, I-”“No,” he says. “I’m the director and I speak first.”I cross my arms and set my weight on one leg. “Fine,” I say, “Go ahead.”He starts quietly, “I don’t need your fucking permission!” The end is loud and sharp. I can’t help but flinch. I’ve already given up ground. “I am this close to replacing you,” he says gesturing less than an inch with his finger and thumb. “I don’t give a fuck what the studio will say. I never even wanted you for the part but you’re the ‘next big star,’” he says mockingly.I don’t care if he’s the director. “I am thirty-five years old,” I start, “There won’t be any roles for me in ten years and I have more than paid my fucking dues and I fucking deserve to be here. I’m a good actress and I am doing exactly what you’re asking me but I don’t know why that’s not good enough for you!”Now his face is red and his mouth is pinched like a snake about to spit venom. “You are a dime-a-dozen actress who got lucky with one part and you do NOT get to critique your performance. That’s my fucking job!“I’m not trying to do your job! Tell me what you want!” I scream. “BE A FUCKING MOTHER!” he screams back. “You play a mother so fucking act like one! I know you don’t have kids but you have a goddamn mother don’t you? Or you must fucking know some mothers and children? You are human aren’t you?”A cut deeper than he could imagine. He doesn’t know. Nobody knows. Nobody knows that the day I was cast I found out that I was pregnant. And nobody knows that the week before we started filming, I miscarried. I’ve been trying to pretend that I’m OK and it’s OK. I keep telling myself that I’m struggling with my performance for this reason or that reason; it’s Thomas, the small sets, the script, the heat. Or maybe it’s that I’m pretty sure Josh is sleeping with his secretary and that he breathed a sigh of relief when I went to the hospital bleeding. The point is, maybe it’s none of that. Maybe Thomas is right without knowing why he’s right. Maybe I’m struggling to feel the story or character too deeply. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m doing the best that I can.These thoughts rush through my head just as his mouth is wrapping up the last syllable. And it’s the sting of these thoughts that raises my hand and my own private… what? Shame? Guilt? Fear? Loss? Whatever it is, it makes me slap him across the face. Hard. The fleshy smack echoes off the walls of the trailer.Then the pressure of his hand around my throat in an instant, cutting off my breath. I’m making choking noises and clawing at his hairy hand. I start trying to claw at his face but that just makes him squeeze tighter.“You hit me one more time and you’ll never work again,” he says before letting me go with a push. I stumble backward and bump into the small table, gasping for breath.“I don’t want to reshoot this whole goddamn mess so you have one more day to get it together. One,” he says as he starts to head for the door. He puts his hand on the handle and stops before leaving the trailer. “Maybe a good goddamn choke was what you needed. Maybe I’m lucky and I just choked some life into you instead of out of you,” he says with a dark, sadistic grin. A grin that makes my stomach turn so badly that I rush to the little sink once he’s gone and begin to puke, the strain burning my bruised throat.*	*	*My phone rings as I pull into the parking lot of the plaza. It’s Riley, the assistant director. He is a sweet man who takes far too much of Thomas’s shit. But he’s very good with handling us and the crew and making sure we’re being cared for. As much as he can anyway.“Hello?” I say.“Hi, are you all right?” he asks.“Yeah, I’m OK.”“OK. Everybody heard you and Thomas shouting in your trailer and I just wanted to check in. I know things have been rough.”“Yeah, it has been rough.”“He’s just under a lot of pressure. The last movie and the studio breathing down his neck… I’m really sorry he’s being so hard on you. For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing fine.”Fine. Not great. Fine. That’s Hollywood for “terrible.”“I’m fine really,” I say as I rub my quickly swelling throat.“All right… Well, I just wanted you to know that Thomas altered the schedule so you’re off the call sheet until Thursday. They’re gonna spend some time shooting a few of the school scenes so you can relax.”Anger and sadness wash over me simultaneously. That fucker doesn’t give a shit about giving me some days off, he’s worried about the bruises on my throat. He wants to give them some time to heal. I consider telling Riley, but that will be the end of the shoot. The movie will never get made and I’ll have to deal with the media fallout of being choked by a director. They say there’s no such thing as bad publicity but I’d still rather star in a movie than star in the tabloids at the checkout counter…“Caroline? Are you still there?” Riley asks.I realize my throat is tight while I teeter on the edge of bursting into tears. My hand is gripping the phone so tightly that it’s cramping.I clear my throat and there’s pain. “Yeah, sorry. A couple of days off sounds nice. Thanks for checking in.”“Caroline… If you ever need anything, just let me know, really. I’m here to help.“Thanks, Riley…”*	*	*The road is empty and I’m driving 90 in a 60. The top is down and the wind is blowing my hair back while I’ve got an open bottle of wine riding shotgun. I stopped at the plaza for just one but it turned into a case after Riley’s phone call.My radio is cranked and I’m singing my Dad’s favorite Jackson Browne song as loud as I can, not caring how much my throat hurts or my voice cracks. He listened to it nonstop after my Mom left or whenever he was sad, a tradition I’ve carried on.I remember that a friend of mine gave me some pills after the miscarriage, to take my mind away for a little while and help me sleep. I haven’t taken any yet, but maybe tonight is a good night to try.*	*	*It’s 5:30 am. I don’t know how I remembered that it’s Thursday but I did. The pills worked as promised but one turned into two, into three into- I lost count. Between the chalky doses of oblivion and the wine, My head is pounding. But the bruises are gone and the time out of mind was refreshing. Blissful.Now I’m struggling to keep the coffee I don’t remember buying down, but I have to. I can’t show how terrible I feel.I walk into the makeup trailer and Dana greets me. “Hi sweetie, how are you? Are you OK? I heard about what happened the last day you were on set,” she says with a concerned look.You don’t know half of it, I think as I take my jacket and sunglasses off. “Oh yeah, I’m fine. I think we just had to air some things out. It was a tough day of shooting,” I say, taking my seat.I see my face for the first time in a couple of days; I look like shit. My eyes look like two pissholes in a snowbank. Dana looks at her assistant Julie and they share a concerned look.“Really, I’m fine,” I say. I might be trying to convince myself as much as I’m trying to convince them. “I just didn’t sleep well last night, I was thinking about my scenes today. We’re shooting the scene where the principal comes to the house. Kind of a heavy one.”Dana starts running her hands through my hair, “Honey, didn’t you get the message? You’re not shooting that scene today…” she says.Panic rises in my throat. My facade is cracking. I pull out my phone. I realize I haven’t looked at it since I got back to the hotel with my case of wine and oblivion on my mind. I have a hundred and twenty text messages, nineteen voicemails, and thirty-six missed calls.I can feel embarrassment burning on my cheeks. “No, I didn’t get any messages because my phone was all screwed up. It just started working this morning. Didn’t anybody call the hotel?” I say a little too quickly.“I thought they said they did.”“Ugh, that hotel is the worst. I’m gonna have to talk to them about how important it is that I get messages like that!” I say. Is it the right amount of anger? Am I believable? Or am I totally transparent?“Well, what scenes are we shooting today?” I ask.Dana looks uncomfortable now. “They’re- Well- You- You’re shooting your nude scene today…” she says quietly. My hand shoots up to my forehead in shock. “You’re joking?” I say. That bastard. He’s punishing me. He’s trying to make me quit or give himself a good excuse to fire me. The rest of this shoot is going to be even worse than before. I shouldn’t have slapped him. Dana shakes her head slowly. “Sorry hon, I wish I was,” she says. I see her eyes dart in the mirror to the prickly growth under my arm. I put my hand down quickly.“Are you OK?” she asks again. She knows I’m not. “No, yeah, I’m fine. Just a little surprised is all.”“Do you want me to go get Riley?” she asks, putting her hand on my shoulder. My hand instinctively goes to hers. “Oh my God, no, I’ll be all right. Like I said, just surprised. Like they say,” My voice is a little choked now and I can feel my eyes going redder, “the show must go on.”“If you’re sure…” she says hesitantly.“No, no, I’ll be OK…”“All right.” She turns to Julie and says quietly, “Can you grab a razor?” Then she turns back to me, “Honey, why don’t you just take a nice hot shower and relax? Take as long as you need. If you’re late to the set I’ll tell them it’s my fault.”Now the tears start down my face. “OK,” I say. “OK.” I’m suddenly acutely aware that I don’t remember when I showered last. I look at myself in the mirror and realize through the fog just how greasy my hair is and the dark circles under my eyes.Dana leans down and gives me a hug around my neck. “It’ll be all right honey. It’ll be all right…”*	*	*Dana and Julie have gone and I’m alone in the trailer. Julie handed me a fresh razor before she left. I start to get undressed and panic begins to grip me. My breath comes faster and faster but I can’t breathe deep enough. My hands are shaking as I take my top off and I’m getting light-headed. I pull my jeans down and pick them up to set them on the back of a chair. As I’m folding them, something falls to the floor, rattling. The panic stops.It’s the pill bottle.I pick the bottle up and turn it in my hand, watching the little white pills tumble down the sides. I don’t remember putting them in my jeans.I shouldn’t. I don’t remember what time it was when I took them last. Or how many I took. But… I look towards the door. There’s no one coming.Then I look in the mirror. I don’t recognize the face staring back at me. Instead of me, I see a dirty, greasy, feral animal standing in her underwear with a bottle of pills in her hand.Fuck it.I pop the bottle open and grab a couple. Just a couple. To take the edge off. I have to be naked in a room full of people in a few hours. I deserve to have the edge taken off.I put the pills back in my jeans and walk over to the sink and turn the tap on. I put the pills in my mouth and bend down to drink from the running water. Just like I did as a kid.I wipe my mouth and start the shower before finishing getting undressed.*	*	* Noise. Far away noise. Rain?Then distant voices. “Caroline?”Is that my name?‘CAROLINE!”It must be.The world around me gets brighter. I try to talk, to tell them something, but the words are foggy in my mind.The voices again. I’m being moved.“Call an ambulance! Oh my God, CAROLINE!”It sounds like something is wrong, but I don’t know what. I feel fine; like I’m flying. I try to sing the Jackson Browne song to show them I’m fine. But it’s hard. It’s strange; I can hear it but I can’t think of the words or even hum the melody.“I just need to sleep,” I try to say. Those are the words from before, the ones I couldn’t think of. “I just need to sleep. I’m fine…”*	*	*“We’re following a developing story out of Oklahoma this evening. Actress Caroline McCarthy has died. We know that she was starring in Thomas Ashley’s latest movie, Prairie Moon, playing a lead role. She was found unresponsive on set and taken to hospital where she was pronounced dead. McCarthy is best known for starring in last year’s surprise hit movie, Underneath Hawk’s Head, and the star was expected to have a bright future. She was thirty-five. Tim?”
","July 22, 2023 01:48","[[{'C. Charles': 'If you or someone you know is struggling with mental health issues or substance abuse, please seek help. There are many resources available online, over the phone, or at your local healthcare facility.\n\nThanks for reading', 'time': '01:52 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'This is gripping. I end with mixed feelings because at the same time that I want to feel sorry for her, since the whole episode was triggered by her loss, I dislike her and end up blaming the director less because she was violent first and unnecessarily. As you read, you feel those mixed feeling as criticism of the story, but actually it gets at a really interesting point: if addiction and mental health crisis only provoked sympathy, they would be a lot easier to get a handle on, but so often they provoke behaviors that push away the people ...', 'time': '14:59 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '0'}, [{'M.L. Chatten': 'Interesting to see what others get from stories— I personally didn’t feel this way about Caroline at all. The director has made the filming experience borderline unbearable for her since day one, verbally berating and abusing her knowing that he can get away with it. He uses his power as a successful man to tear her down until she makes one slip and slaps him, which he, without a second thought, chokes her until she’s bruised and threatens to ruin her career. This is not a proportionate response at all. Caroline then feels the pressure as a ...', 'time': '17:14 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'C. Charles': ""I wanted to show the unfair expectations that women are held to and how powerless women are made to feel, particularly in the entertainment industry. Caroline's story is really a series of unfortunate events brought on by personal and professional trials. Thanks for reading!"", 'time': '21:09 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'C. Charles': 'Last comment got deleted somehow. It’s really interesting to see what others get out of your story! You get to see if what you tried to say came across but you also get to learn a little bit about yourself in the things someone else saw in your writing. \n\nI agree that it can be hard to have empathy/sympathy or compassion for those exhibiting self-destructive behaviour', 'time': '22:37 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'M.L. Chatten': 'Interesting to see what others get from stories— I personally didn’t feel this way about Caroline at all. The director has made the filming experience borderline unbearable for her since day one, verbally berating and abusing her knowing that he can get away with it. He uses his power as a successful man to tear her down until she makes one slip and slaps him, which he, without a second thought, chokes her until she’s bruised and threatens to ruin her career. This is not a proportionate response at all. Caroline then feels the pressure as a ...', 'time': '17:14 Jul 25, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'C. Charles': ""I wanted to show the unfair expectations that women are held to and how powerless women are made to feel, particularly in the entertainment industry. Caroline's story is really a series of unfortunate events brought on by personal and professional trials. Thanks for reading!"", 'time': '21:09 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'C. Charles': ""I wanted to show the unfair expectations that women are held to and how powerless women are made to feel, particularly in the entertainment industry. Caroline's story is really a series of unfortunate events brought on by personal and professional trials. Thanks for reading!"", 'time': '21:09 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'C. Charles': 'Last comment got deleted somehow. It’s really interesting to see what others get out of your story! You get to see if what you tried to say came across but you also get to learn a little bit about yourself in the things someone else saw in your writing. \n\nI agree that it can be hard to have empathy/sympathy or compassion for those exhibiting self-destructive behaviour', 'time': '22:37 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",t28wln,Best Friends - O Yeah,Calvin Kirby,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/t28wln/,/short-story/t28wln/,Dialogue,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Holiday', 'Contemporary']",9 likes,"
Best Friends – O Yeah!By Cal Kirby(This is based on a true story, with some liberties taken to make the author seem more involved with the famous people)As I finished wiping the chicken salad off Goldie Hawn’s face and saying my lines, “Are you alright, is everything alright?” Norman Jewison, the director, yelled, “Cut!!!”I was really excited, as this was the first time I actually had lines in the many movies I had been in.It was in 1982 and it all started with me getting a phone call from my agent from Central Casting, saying “Cal can you be down in Georgetown in the morning at 7am to work in a movie.”“Sure, what’s the movie?”Carol responded, “Best Friends with Burt Reynolds and Goldie Hawn.”I couldn’t wait to tell my boss that I needed the next day off to work in a movie with Burt Reynolds and Goldie Hawn.Burt had been one of my early favorites on the TV series “Gunsmoke,” as the town blacksmith and in the movie “Deliverance.” And, of course, Goldie Hawn was so memorable for her comedy skits on the TV series, “Laugh-in.” I never did see Burt Reynolds, but was quite close to Goldie.My boss, Ray, said “That sounds great, but remember we have a big meeting the next day where you have to brief the Director.”“No problem. My slides are finished and I know the script by heart.” Being an actor for many years, learning a script was no big thing.Linda was equally excited when I got home and told her the news.Linda had been putting up with my part time professional acting since we lived in Hawaii and I did 17 episodes of the original “Hawaii 5-0.”The next morning I got up at 4:30, showered, shaved and put on my best suit and headed for Washington D.C., to the Georgetown Mall.I met the 2nd Assistant Director, Greg Palmer, and he told me to go over and wait with the other extras in a courtyard of the mall. There were probably 30 extras waiting to get their big chance to become famous. We all dreamed of that one chance that would spring us into stardom territory. Several of the extras I had previously worked with in other movies were there and we renewed acquaintances.At one point Wen Phillips, the 1st Assistant Director, called all the extras to stand around four musicians playing music in the courtyard. I was hoping to see Goldie Hawn or Burt Reynolds, but this seemed to be a scene to set-up what a glorious mall this was and setting a mood that this was a Christmas movie.After shooting the musician scene, we all sat down and waited. Then Greg Palmer called 12 of the extras over to the escalator to shoot a scene—I wasn’t one of them.As the rest of us who weren’t selected watched the scene on the escalator unfold, Goldie Hawn and several of the other actors appeared on the escalator and acted like typical Christmas shoppers rushing to buy last minute stocking stuffers.We took a lunch break after that scene was completed and discussed among ourselves what we thought might be coming up for the rest of the day.We were all hoping that we would be picked out of the group for a scene where we would actually be seen in the final product. Some of us were selected.After lunch and about an hour sitting around the waiting area, an empty store that the movie was using as a staging area, Norman Jewison, the director himself, came in and walked around the room looking at all the extras. When he got to me, he said, “Hi Cal. It’s good to see you again.” I was flummoxed that an academy award winning director would remember my name from 3 years before.I had worked for Mr. Jewison as a stand-in for Jack Warden in the movie “And Justice for All.” I worked five days in the movie and was under the direction of Mr. Jewison most of that time. Again, I couldn’t believe he remembered me.Mr. Jewison selected about 10 of us extras to go shoot the main scene of the Mall portion of the movie. We were all excited because Goldie was going to be in this scene.Wen Phillips led the 10 extras into an open café in the middle of the Mall. We were seated at tables around a center table and the center table was where Goldie and her party were going to be seated.Then, the big excitement happened. Goldie and her group walked in and took seats at their table. I was so excited because I was arm’s length from Goldie.Norman Jewison walked into the café and went up to Goldie and took her hand. He then turned to me and said. “Cal, this is Ms. Hawn, and Goldie this is Cal.”I fumbled my words and finally got out, “Hi Ms. Hawn, glad to meet you.” Goldie said, “Call me Goldie, Cal.” She was so nice.After my getting over the shock of meeting Goldie Hawn, Mr. Jewison gave me and Goldie directions on what was to happen in this scene.“Goldie, there is going to be a large plate of chicken salad sprinkled with Paprika and you are going to pass out face first into the chicken salad. Make sure your eyes are closed because the Paprika will sting your eyes.”Then Mr. Jewison turned to me and said, “Cal, when Goldie falls into the salad, Karen, sitting at your table, will scream and you will turn and see what has happened. Then you will go over to Goldie, lift her from the salad and wipe her face with a napkin. Then you will say, “Are you alright, is everything alright?” Then I will say, “Cut!””We finished the scene on one take and I didn’t flub my lines. I was Gob smacked.We went back to the holding area and all the other extras were congratulating me for being upgraded and getting lines. They said, “You’re going to be listed in the credits and you’ll get residuals as long as the movie continues to make money.”I was walking around like a big movie star with my chest puffed out and my nose in the air. Then I came down to earth and realized I had to drive home during rush-hour traffic.I did earn residuals for about 25 years, and my name was listed in the credits.Now, here is the rest of the story.When I got home, I was so excited to tell Linda and our three boys about my exciting day and meeting Goldie Hawn. Linda was so excited for me, the boys not so much.Several months later, My mother-in-law (MIL), who worked at the University of Maryland, called me up and said. “Cal, there is going to be a showing of your movie “Best Friends” at the University tomorrow before it premieres in the theaters. It’s something special for the film department to be a preview audience. I got us 4 tickets from the head of the drama department.”“Great. I will be there. What time?""At 2PM the following day two of my sons and I joined my MIL to see my big premiere as a credited actor. My MIL was almost as excited as I was.I whispered to her just as the scene was starting. I said, “There I am at the table and there is Goldie Hawn right behind me.” This was so exciting.The scene developed with Goldie acting woozy and finally she plops face-down in the chicken salad. The scene immediately cuts to an ambulance taking Goldie to the hospital.I am in shock. “They cut my scene,” I screamed out in the auditorium and all eyes turned toward me. I was so embarrassed.Somewhere in the archives of Hollywood, there is a snippet of film that I would love to have,“Mr. Jewison, do you hear me?”
","July 18, 2023 14:20","[[{'Alex Hippenhammer': ""Did he actually remember your name after 3 years? That's impressive."", 'time': '18:17 Jul 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Calvin Kirby': ""Alex, he remembered me but not my name. I was surprised that he knew I was Jack Warden's stand-in and then asked my name."", 'time': '23:40 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Calvin Kirby': ""Alex, he remembered that we met before, but didn't remember my name. He did have a phenomenal memory."", 'time': '23:17 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Calvin Kirby': ""Alex, he remembered me but not my name. I was surprised that he knew I was Jack Warden's stand-in and then asked my name."", 'time': '23:40 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Calvin Kirby': ""Alex, he remembered that we met before, but didn't remember my name. He did have a phenomenal memory."", 'time': '23:17 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Rachel Lione': 'I\'m posting this on everyone that didn\'t start with ""Cut!"" not to be mean...I almost didn\'t see it either...', 'time': '05:10 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'David B Fraser': 'Oh, man, what a heartbreaker! Thanks, Cal.', 'time': '15:34 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Calvin Kirby': 'Thanks David. Yes, that was a big heartbreak, bit I had so much fun over the years.', 'time': '15:50 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Calvin Kirby': 'Thanks David. Yes, that was a big heartbreak, bit I had so much fun over the years.', 'time': '15:50 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",ctu727,"Plaga Iuventae:  A Debt to Pay, Part 2",Steffen Lettau,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ctu727/,/short-story/ctu727/,Dialogue,0,"['Drama', 'Science Fiction', 'Thriller']",9 likes,"
Another day of cameras, lightings, and sounds. Another crowd gathered, watching and waiting to see what happens next. No, this is not a major news development. This was just a filming for some new live-action series that would garner attention for a short time; and now, any minute, the director would yell...
 
""Cut!""
 
I had to wait a few more minutes, as the personnel started migrating from this set to the outside world, going for refreshments or a good cigarette. My person of interest, however, was with the director. He was to relay a message to me.
 
Wait, you JUST STARTED READING THIS?!
 
Fair enough, let me reintroduce myself; I am Ian Sung, Korean-born famous journalist now on the hunt for the ultimate story; a one-on-one with Blake Plakkim, the ""Plague Doctor"".
 
So, before I involve the director in all this, let me start from where I last left off, with the phone call from Harrold Tooms.
 
""Ian Sung, the world-renowned journalist. It is an honor to speak to you, sir,"" cooed the smooth and deep voice of my speaker. ""Had a good chat with Mrs. Mayor of Salem?""
 
I paused. ""How did you know that?""
 
""It was only a matter of time before someone from the media tried to talk to her again, but I had to keep an eye on her and the guard, just in case.""
 
Again, I paused. ""What do you mean, 'again'?""
 
Harrold seemed to inhale slowly. ""There is sensitive information that our former employee holds, and the media does have the habit of twisting information into something dramatic. All we're wanting is a bit of decorum, as well as an honest light upon our organization. We never set out to do this...horrible deed. Perhaps there's more to tell that isn't over the phone, or where any ears can hear us?""
 
""Ah-hah, that's the case then, yes?"" I asked. ""Should we take this in the homestead?""
 
""We cannot allow you into our organization, I'm sorry to tell you"", remarked Harrold. ""But, if the weather holds, I can meet you at our front door.""
 
I sighed. So close, I thought. But, at the very least, I was getting to talk to someone from the organization, albeit under heavy scrutiny and discretion. I got the gang back together, consisting of KC and Camera-Man*, and I went to see Boss. Surprisingly, he was on board with my interview, and practically hurried us out the door with the promise of a bonus. No mention of the letter was made, but he seemed calmer after, I assume, reading it.
 
One trip in KC's van, and we were at the heavily-fortified location of the organization (why will they not have their damned name made public, the people have a right to know!), where a dark-haired man wearing a nice dark-blue suit was waiting. He looked like a Greek statue, and KC joked that he must be a vampire with the way he gleamed in the sun. I didn't get the joke, but we headed out to greet him.
 
""Harrold Tooms?"" I asked, hand outstretched. When he nodded and took my hand, I continued. ""Ian Sung, journalist. This is KC and Camera-Man, they have asked for anonymity. I hope you understand.""
 
Harrold smiled. ""We are all about anonymity. We are also about progress, as well as justice. You are looking for information on Blake Plakkim? I don't suppose anyone has already told you how dangerous he can be?""
 
I kept a level performance, as I have done when facing people like dictators or crime bosses. ""I have assumed that a man working with viruses and making a treatment that kills people could be viewed as dangerous, and thus should be treated as such.""
 
""And you would be right, my good man,"" stated Harrold, ""although the depth of his actions runs deeper than you realize."" Looking left to right, he leaned closer. ""I chose the front entrance here because, until my superiors tell me otherwise, our security cameras and audio recorders are down for the count. Updates, you know. So that means that what I say here is going to be between all four of us."" At this, he looked sharply at KC and Camera-Man, both shying away a little (poor Camera-Man almost dropped his camera). ""While you may listen, young man, I must ask that you keep both the camera and microphone off until I say otherwise. Is that understood?"" When Camera-Man nodded, Harrold turned back to me; ""The death toll of the world, thanks to Blake, started within these walls with two former veterans.""
 
""The two veterans Blake mentioned in his final notice?"" I interrupted.
 
""Yes. But what Blake didn't tell you was what he did to both veterans before implementing his 'treatment'; he murdered them both.""
 
This took me aback. ""But...he stated that one of the veterans was already dead, and the other...disappeared.""
 
Harrold shook his head. ""Mort was in critical condition when he was brought in. Todd, however, was still stable and under our surveillance. Blake was curious about Mort's condition, but when he couldn't get any information about what he saw was a potential gold mine, he made Mort's passing look like it was the initial disease."" Seeing my confusion, he answered, ""Mort and Todd had Progeria, although it was a mutated form that has never been observed. Blake was sure he could turn the mutation into a reverse-aging treatment, and needed to cover up his tracks."" After stating this, he looked at Camera-Man; ""So, you can turn your camera and microphone on.""
 
Harrold gave his statement about Blake attempting to reverse aging with a mutated form of Progeria, omitting out the veterans as well as their deaths. There was more, I was sure of it, but I didn't press (no pun intended). We had our interview here, and headed back.
 
Despite all of our efforts, Boss still remained calm, even expecting our arrival. All material now in the possession of the outlet, a date was set for the broadcast, and I was getting ready to go home when Boss came over to me and seemed to help me with my coat. ""Have a good night; tomorrow morning, there's just one thing left to do."" I didn't understand what he meant by that until I got in my car and a piece of paper slipped out from under my coat collar. On it was written, ""8:30 AM, Portland Center Stage. I shall direct you to my lab.""
 
Another clue in the message?
 
The next day, an hour's drive found me within Portland. It wasn't hard to get to the Portland Center Stage; what was scary was how easy it was for me to get in - the director was expecting me. Now, I didn't know the director personally; he was some up-comer who started his career by making indie films. Why he was working on a series that hardly anyone would care about is beyond me, and yet here I was, viewed by everyone else as just a famous journalist taking down the story of a rising celebrity.
 
Eventually, I must do that story, but one step at a time.
 
When everyone went to lunch, the director hanged up his headphones, came over and sat next to me. ""Mr. Sung, the infamous journalist. Welcome to the show.""
 
I shook his hand. ""And you are Mr. Trish van Wilkins, the 'Indie King', as Oregon overall calls you.""
 
He smiled. ""People will attach a name to anyone so long as it makes a good headline. Hard work tends to make...or break a person.""
 
""You making a drama?""
 
""A miniseries, but yes. It will garner a bit of attention while I work on a different, and better project. One with a consultant that we're both familiar with."" At this he reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. ""It's called, 'Viral City'. I anticipate a lot of controversy, but it's just on the floor until I can get this drama weepfest done with, so I'm just literally stalling for time. The consultant is waiting for you; head to the stage.""
 
He then left, and I looked around before crossing the stage. Standing in its center, I waited. One by one, the lights went out. ""Ooh, dramatic!"" I joked. Then I almost screamed as the floor suddenly gave way and I fell a good twelve feet down onto a thick, foam mattress. My brain was a little rocked, so I had to take a minute to gather myself. When I could finally stand up, slowly, I noticed a line of lights almost like a Christmas decoration heading to a metal door. Walking over to it, I noticed a recently made sign planted near the door, which read, ""DISTRESS"".
 
More puzzles. I understood that this ""consultant"" didn't want to be found so easily, but couldn't he have just given me instructions through the director other than to wait? Testing the door, I found it obviously locked. No keyhole, which was unusual. Perhaps an electronic door? Maybe the consultant was waiting for a knock-
 
Of course! ""Distress"", the message on the sign, was also a message for ships to signal for help! Three dots, three dashes, three dots. I decided to try this as a knocking approach; three quick raps, three hard knocks, and three more quick raps. Open sesame.
 
The door opened to a winding staircase. More downstairs shenanigans, I thought, but I headed down it with great trepidation. After the stairs came a hallway, which split in two directions. A white arrow was pointing to the right side and, for posterity's sake, I took it. Here was an open room, and the sudden sight of everything here after the blatant Hollywood-esque trip I took nearly overwhelmed me.
 
The ground itself was split into what I could only describe as four large squares: one was carpeted and had a large case of books for its respected wall; one beyond that was what looked like a dirt floor with a forge and various carpenter machinery all around it; the floor adjacent was either linen or marble (it looked slippery), appearing like a kitchen and pharmacy with tubes, microscopes, petri dishes, beakers and eyedrops, along with an oven, a microwave, a fridge, a dishwasher, and equipment I couldn't name out of ambiguity; and finally, a clean wooden floor with a bed, a dresser, an armchair, a table with a couple pillow seats, a tall lamp near the chair and a smaller lamp on the table, and a large T.V with shelves of DVD's lining behind it. As I took all this in, a large thump had me turn to face a large being with a mask coming out of the forge. Fear suddenly gripped me, and I thought of the slasher movies from my childhood.
 
The being, in question, stopped in its tracks and reached up, removing the mask. It was Blake Plakkim. ""Welcome home,"" he announced. ""Want a water?""
 
I was in the home of one of the most infamous persons upon Earth, wanted in almost every country and district around the world (dead or alive), and held accountable for the death of two billion people. And the devil himself was offering me a cold water from his fridge. ""If you need to freshen up, the bathroom's around the corner, past the forge.""
 
This was much to take in, and I almost forgot about what Harrold Tooms said. ""I...I...thanks...""
 
""Surprised?"" asked Blake. ""During my time with the organization, I took advantage of another renovation being done at The Armory, here. I was making enough money at the time, but I also acquired more information about my project...and my employers."" He opened his bottle and downed all of the contents in just ten seconds. ""You met Harrold Tooms, I take it?""
 
Having downed my own water, I felt my nerves become calm. ""Yes,"" I responded. ""He had, uh, quite a take on you.""
 
""He tell you I murdered those two veterans?""
 
The clairvoyant nature of this interruption caught me off guard. ""Yes. How did you know?""
 
""I know Harrold Tooms's reputation as a good liar. His job is to make the organization appear clean and clear, by any means necessary."" He set his empty bottle down, and stripped off the heavy clothing. ""Excuse me,"" he said, before heading back to the forge, presumably to the bathroom.
 
A few minutes later, he headed to the floorboards, to his dresser, and got dressed in something more casual. I never imagined Blake Plakkim, the legendary ""Plague Doctor"", would be in front of me wearing a dark-green T-Shirt, blue cargo shorts, and bare at the feet. ""Come, sit with me,"" he invited over to the table and sat at one end; I took the other.
 
""Mort and Todd, two Vietnam veterans, were both exposed to an agent used by their own government as a means to wipe out any resistance between the borders established in the country. The experimental agent affected them both, but unlike their enemy, these two slowed in their aging process until it became stagnant...for over a year. For me, the need to interview them both was strong. Unfortunately, Mort was already dead and Todd was being kept under surveillance. Again, not my fault! By the way...you are writing all of this down?""
 
I had been too enthralled by all that was happening that I forgot to pull out my notepad. Immediately rectifying that mistake, I also took out my pen and quickly wrote down everything that Blake told me, albeit in a shorthand system. I nodded, and he continued:
 
""Getting to meet Todd was almost impossible; the hoops I had to jump through just for an hour alone with the man! Well, it was mostly paperwork here and filing there, getting someone a message over to someone else, nothing illegitimate or illegal, as far as I knew. Now, the details of that meeting were already in my recording, I'm sure you and many others have made copies. Here's the rub; Harrold stated that I killed Todd, even though the only things that I was allowed within the vicinity of Todd was a protective suit and a recording device, all within a room holding more cameras than a red carpet event! And he was there up until after I was granted a blood sample from his still-living body!""
 
""After the reports of the epidemic rolled in, I demanded to see Todd, to get another sample and try to correct my mistake. Yes, I admit to my error in overlooking a crucial part of the treatment. When I proposed the treatment, I was assured that I would be given about a year to work out the kinks; instead, six months had passed and someone upstairs got tired of waiting and decided to send Harrold Tooms to sweet-talk me into the developing stage. I was foolish into believing that we had everything worked out. Harrold assured me that there would be lab tests done with mice first, then dogs, then chimps, and finally humans. Specifically, death row inmates. And when nothing bad happened for two weeks, watching their health spike and their wrinkles disappear, Harrold had me commit to the distribution of the treatment in a needle pushed around the world into many a skin, mostly the elderly. The rest is a history of gravestones and grave tones.""
 
I stopped writing. ""So far, you have merely added to what we know now. I gathered that Harrold lied about you murdering the veterans, but you weren't exactly speaking 'sanity' at breakfast, holding us hostage with that case.""
 
""Oh!"" he exclaimed. ""That was a bluff; there was nothing in it. I figured that was the best way to get your attention, as well as get that letter to your boss.""
 
""What did the letter say?""
 
""Everything that your outlet needed to tell the world what happened. Also, I outlined to your boss that you were, effectively, finished with my story and now working on the story of the director, van Wilkins.""
 
""What?!"" I almost dropped my pen. ""But...WHY?!""
 
There wasn't an answer for about ten seconds, and then Blake leaned closer. ""The organization has eyes and ears wherever they can spare them, even at your place of work or around your home. To have them think that their narrative is still ongoing will keep them complacent. Meanwhile, as you go ""interviewing"" the director on his upcoming project, you will have access to my new lab, and you can bear witness to me clearing my name and work out the final obstacles in my research.""
 
I stopped writing and put my notepad down. ""And if I refuse?""
 
The conversation had been a pleasant one for me up to this point, and seeing the doctor pull out a large hunting knife and spring around to me definitely almost had me running and screaming, but the point was put on his arm instead of me; from my position where I had practically thrown myself, with outstretched hand between me and him, I saw the knife plunge into Blake's arm and cut a deep gash before being pulled out. He held his bleeding arm out to me and remarked:
 
""You would be missing out.""
 
The wound started closing and, almost as immediately as it was made, all that was left was the blood now drying up on his forearm. Curiosity washed away my fear, and I picked myself up and looked upon this man; he did seem a little different from how he was portrayed by the mainstream. Mad, perhaps, but not insane.
 
Blake placed the knife back into its sheath and then held his hand out. ""You are safer with me than with the organization, or even your own outlet. Your boss knows what to expect, Harrold doesn't. Help me, and I won't give you a story; I'll take you on a journey.""
 
The opportunity could not be missed. I took his hand.
","July 20, 2023 23:28","[[{'Miguel P': 'Ian Sung is a likable character that engages you.  I enjoyed reading this story and look forward to more.', 'time': '19:17 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Steffen Lettau': 'Thank you!  If an opportunistic prompt comes up, we might see Ian Sung again.', 'time': '20:40 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Miguel P': 'I look forward to it!', 'time': '18:43 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Steffen Lettau': 'Thank you!  If an opportunistic prompt comes up, we might see Ian Sung again.', 'time': '20:40 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Miguel P': 'I look forward to it!', 'time': '18:43 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Miguel P': 'I look forward to it!', 'time': '18:43 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",telomv,A Day in the life of an Academy Award winning movie extra,Monica Mattioli,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/telomv/,/short-story/telomv/,Dialogue,0,['Creative Nonfiction'],8 likes,"
#1 Set your story on a film or tv set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”
By Monica Mattioli
""A Day in the Life of an Academy Award-winning Movie Extra""
 
CUT! Between 6AM and 10PM on the day of my debut as a movie extra, I heard “CUT!” at least a dozen times during the filming of just one scene.
Just on a whim, I had landed a gig as an extra in what turned out to be an Academy Award-winning movie. Here’s the scoop on what that was like.
It was my upcoming birthday, along with a random Facebook post, that triggered the occasion of my involvement as an extra in an Academy Award-winning film – The Eyes of Tammy Faye. This motion picture gleaned two awards: Best Actress: Jessica Chastain and Best Makeup and Hair Styling. Let me tell you about my experience with hair styling. Stay tuned.
 I was excited to do something unique for my birthday that year and “movie extra” felt like the perfect opportunity. 
How does one get a movie extra gig? Talent agencies search for folks to fill roles, usually in the background to provide group settings, people on the street, and in this particular case, to be cast members of the “PTL Club”, the television show hosted by Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker during the 1970s and 1980’s upon which the Academy Award-winning film was based.
 PTL = Praise the Lord. The quite popular religious television program ceased airing upon discovery of Jim Bakker’s unfortunate decision to engage in a brief tryst with an employee. At that point, the wheels came off the PTL bus. Jim Bakker furthered that already bad decision with hush money, was criminally charged, and served a prison sentence.  Tammy Faye divorced Jim and mostly removed herself from the public eye.  She has since passed away. Having remembered the program from my childhood, how could I not grab the opportunity to participate in this project? Little did I know it would turn out to be such a success!
My movie extra day began dark and early with a drive to an appointed location where we extras parked our cars. That was nowhere near the movie set location, but rather was a large lot miles away that could accommodate dozens of cars and buses. The company offered a breakfast set up there to get our day started. It was there that I made a friend who was an experienced movie extra and took me under her wing for the day as we were shuttled to the main staging location in Charlotte. 
When filming a movie, certain attributes are necessary to get hired for a particular day. With no aligned talent to contribute, I played the part of an audience member on the day they filmed a choir segment. At that point, most of us were just sitting around, snacking and chatting, awaiting our turns for hair and makeup. 
Despite my humble role, hair styling was definitely a major part of the activities for me. That is not as simple as it seems. Even cast as one lowly audience member among dozens of others, it was still most necessary to the authenticity of the film for each of us to truly look the part. For me that involved extensive hair and makeup work, along with a small wardrobe change, thus rendering me a believable 1970s person. With that accomplished, most of the rest of my morning was spent hanging out with the other, more experienced movie extras, who were very helpful in terms of orienting me to how the day would probably go. Having gained that understanding, I made myself comfortable while chatting with my movie extra colleagues, hearing about their various and sundry movie extra experiences, meanwhile partaking in the provided snacks.
A significant amount of waiting goes along with movie extra work. The company does provide lots of food and beverages. There were dozens of extras to be dealt with and every extra had his or her own adjustments to be made. Along with hair, makeup, and wardrobe for every individual contracted extra, also coverage of any tattoos or piercings that would be incoherent to their particular role and era is also necessary. In my particular case, the team decided to change the color of my era-compliant turtle neck sweater. After hours of waiting, I was summoned to hair and makeup where I spent a very long time in the chair, with my back to the mirror, as stylists applied layer upon layer of cake makeup, teased my hair to within an inch of its life and doused it in gobs of hairspray. Once finished, I was turned back to the mirror to see the results.  To borrow from another Academy Award-winning film, Home Alone (1991, Best Original Score), I silently screamed “Oh No!” I looked just like a 1970s version of my mother! Talk about jarring…that came as a shock.
The waiting finally ended once all the extras were dressed, made up, and properly prepared for the actual filming. It is well to note that the filming location and the prep area were kept secret from the general public. This is written into the movie extra contract. There was publicity about this particular filming to happen in Charlotte but no precise filming locations were disclosed. Frankly, I was brand new to Charlotte and wouldn’t have been able to tell where we were under any circumstances. 
Once the preliminaries with the extras were done, we were gathered together and marched to a secret location suitable for filming a choir scene. The choir was an important element of the PTL program that always featured Tammy Faye positioned adjacent to the swaying choir members, while enthusiastically singing praise songs, usually in tears. I was not in the choir. I was far back in the audience and did not make it into the finished movie. 
The afternoon consisted of the star portraying Tammy Faye (Ms. Chastain) in the role of singer, along with a choir behind her whose toughest job was to sway to the music in unison. That might sound simple, but I assure you, it is not easy. Coordinating a large group of background singers with the star’s lead singer performance is quite difficult. Eventually, the background singers accomplished the necessary swaying cadence and coordinated with the star to nail down the scene. Meanwhile, we superfluous extras broke for a sumptuous catered lunch. After a very long day consisting of several takes, the star and the choir finally managed to coordinate. The filming day then came to a close. 
By the time we extras marched back to the staging area, it was pitch dark and raining outside. Upon arrival back at home base, we then returned to the tents and were then tasked with completing and verifying our necessary payment paperwork, returning any loaned clothing to dressers, and retrieving any original clothing we came with. 
At that point, several buses began circulating to transport us, soaking wet, back to the lot where our cars had been parked for the day. I was glad to have reached the conclusion of what turned out to be an exhausting but thrilling day. Once transported back to the holding lot, I was most anxious to get home. I would estimate that it took nearly an hour of hair washing to fully remove the extreme amount of hairspray used to create and ensure my “beehive” look. I was exhausted!
As you might imagine, I am delighted to have been a small part of “The Eyes of Tammy Fay”, as it received recognition with two Academy Awards in 2021. 
 Would I “extra” again? Maybe…It’s a tough gig, but I wouldn’t rule it out.
 
","July 15, 2023 13:31","[[{'Rachel Lione': 'I\'m posting this on everyone that didn\'t start with ""Cut!"" not to be mean...I almost didn\'t see it either...', 'time': '05:12 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",eerycl,His Friend's Last Request,Mary Ann Ford,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/eerycl/,/short-story/eerycl/,Dialogue,0,"['Sad', 'Fiction', 'High School']",8 likes,"
Author's Note; Just keep in mind that although it's not written that way, the characters have British/English accents.“Cut! . . . Reshoot . . . Take 347 . . . Rolling . . . Lights! . . . Camera! . . . Action! . . .”Albert Cole leaned closer to his fellow actor, Hugo Quill, “This is ridiculous. We’ve been ‘ere since four this morning and they’re still doing the same scene.”“They’re just running on empty as far as sleep goes. You know, even we get silly when we’re tired,” Hugo reminded in his usual good-natured way.“I think Matt is always silly. They need to get someone else for that part or we’re going to be ‘ere for the next thirty years.”“It’s a little late to get someone else. Besides, Matt does his part quite well . . . when he’s not laughing.” He chuckled. “You know, today is the last scene I’ll be acting in. And you should finish in a couple of days if all goes as planned.”“Good.”“I mean . . . I guess I’m about ready to be done too but won’t you miss the others?” He stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the wall.Albert gave his friend a sideways glance. “Not Matt.”“We’ve all been working together for so long it will seem weird not seeing each other all the time.” Hugo paused. “Or at all.”This change in attitude caught Albert off guard. What happened to Hugo’s always-good, almost-to-a-fault, attitude? He had no idea what to say but fortunately the director, Phil Evans, unknowingly rescued him.“Albert!”The young actor quickly pulled his mind back to the set. “Uh . . . yes?”“You good?”“Oh. Yeah.” He glanced around and realized they had finally finished that scene and it was at the part where he - or rather- his character, Liam Baldwin happens upon Hugo’s character, Sam, just as he commits suicide. It seemed odd to have this part toward the end of the movie but then he wasn’t the director.Hugo slipped a piece of paper into his friend’s hand. “Don’t read it until this scene is done.”Albert nodded and stepped behind the false door, preparing for the call to start filming.“And . . . Action!”~Liam rushed into the small house and searched the main room with one glance.“Sam! I know you’re ‘ere! Please. Don’t make this any worse than it already is.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “ They told me what you did. But it’s alright. Come out and we can talk.”He tried to still his panting and listen for any response but there was only silence.Brushing his fingers through his thick, dark hair, he made his way to the door that led to the kitchen. He gently pushed it open and then sharply sucked air in through his teeth. But before he could utter a word, Sam raised a glinting knife and plunged it toward himself.~The cameraman came around to catch the horrified look on “Liam’s” face and then the assistant direction called “cut”.“Perfect,” the director clasped his hands together with satisfaction.Albert barely heard him. The look of horror on his face wasn’t the rehearsed one. It was real.**************************************************************************“Mr. Cole. Albert. I know it’s been a long . . . bad day, but we need to ask you some questions.” The policeman stood in front of Albert’s chair with a notepad and pen in hand. “Someone switched the fake retractable knife that Mr. Hugo Quill was supposed to use, with a straight one, and we need to find out who.”Albert peeled his gaze off the set, where his friend and fellow-actor had taken his last breath, and fixed them on the officer.“And you think I did it?” He swallowed hard.“I didn’t say that. But anything you can tell me might help. Did Mr . . . Did your friend have any enemies? Anyone that might want him . . . gone.”Albert stood. “Can you quit treating me like a kid! And no. He was everybody’s friend.” The young actor sank back into his chair. “There wasn’t a person around here– ”“What about someone that’s not from around here?”Albert shrugged. “I only knew him on set. I mean, besides the fact that a bunch of us would ‘ang out together and I meant his mom once, but other than that I-I wouldn’t know.”“So it’s possible that when he was around his fellow actors his attitude was also an act.”“What – No! Officer, Mr. Quill was the most genuine person I ever met.”The policeman nodded. “Just one more question. You mentioned his mom, what about his dad?”Albert gave the man an odd look. He thinks Hugo’s father would kill him?! But he was too tired to make any remark about this. “Dead.”The officer gave a sympathetic look and with a “thanks for your time” moved on to question someone else. But the actor wasn’t paying attention. Hugo had said that his father had killed himself. That was the only time Albert had ever heard him sound sad until . . . today. Did he know what was going to happen?“Now will you just stop?” Albert scolded himself. But his friend’s voice echoed in his mind.“You know, today is the last scene that I’ll be acting in.” “ . . . I’m about ready to be done . . .” “ . . . it will seem weird not seeing each other all the time. Or at all.”This last part stuck out. They were in the same school so . . . why the “or at all”?A loud exclamation interrupted his thoughts. He spun in his chair and saw a woman, whom he recognized as Hugo’s mom, sink into a chair with her hands over her mouth. A policeman stood in front of her. Surely she had already been told that her son had been killed. So what could have possibly upset her over that.He wasn’t left wondering for long. The officer that had previously questioned him showed up by his side.“Mr. Cole? Could you take a seat?”Albert obeyed.“They found the retractable bladed knife in Hugo Quill’s pocket. Now normally I would say that it had been planted but–”“He killed himself, didn’t he?” The actor interrupted.“You tell me.”Albert supported his head with his hand and shrugged.The policeman continued, “We found his name on the alleged murder weapon. Right on the handle. It could have still been planted but don’t you think he would have noticed that it was his knife?”A nod was all he could manage.“I’m gonna need your contact information just in case I need to get ahold of you.”Another nod. Somehow he managed to write down his phone number, address, and email for the policeman. And then he was alone. He knew he should see if there was anything he could do for Mrs. Quill but he was certain he would just make her more miserable. Just a little while ago he was complaining about such a petty thing as Matt goofing off on set for most of a long morning and now . . .He stood up and made his way toward the parking lot. But before he’d gotten more than a few steps the assistant director called his name.“Albert. You can keep walking but if you don’t mind I need to talk to you.” Without waiting for an answer he continued, “We did get that scene and it was perfect. I just need to know if . . . I mean, you are still gonna finish the movie, right? People out there are holding their breath for when it comes out.”Albert stopped dead in his tracks. “You can’t show that scene in the movie!”“Does that mean you’ll finish the movie?”“Not if you put that scene in it.”“I guess you do have another one with a small mistake that we can edit and put in. But . . .”“Can I have a moment alone?”The assistant director nodded and turned around, heading the opposite direction.Just after he left the door opened to the big Hollywood building and Albert’s mom walked in. Of course. She was good friends with Hugo’s mom. Without thinking he fell into her open arms.“Mama.”He didn’t care that his friends might kid him about this kind of action when he was almost eighteen. Most likely nobody even noticed.She held him tight. “I’m so sorry, darling.”It was only then that he remembered the paper his late friend had handed him. A little hesitant he left his mom’s comforting embrace, reached into his pocket and pulled it out.Albert,I kind of know what you are going through right now but I had to. Perhaps it’s best you never know why but don’t worry it wasn’t anything you did or said. You’ve been the best friend I’ve ever had.I only have one last request. Finish the movie. I know it will probably be hard but do it for me, will you? Pour your heart into it. But don’t stop there. Don’t crawl into a hole when it’s over. I had to do what I had to do and you need to do what you need to do and that doesn’t include anything wild. Your Friend Forever, Hugo QuillHis mom just stood next to him not saying a word. No one has to kill themselves, He knew. But despite that Albert pulled out his phone to call the director. The least he could do was honor his friend’s last request.
","July 16, 2023 00:26","[[{'Rachel Lione': 'I almost missed the directions too. lol!', 'time': '05:07 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Mary Ann Ford': 'I know what you mean. I had to keep reminding myself.\nThank you for reading.', 'time': '13:26 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Rachel Lione': 'I just caught it and realized how easy it could have been to miss and I knew people would and wanted to make everybody feel better...I have severe adhd and I almost overlooked it...I thought wait let me read that one more time lol!', 'time': '14:58 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Mary Ann Ford': ""I guess it's kind of like a riddle, where they say something that is meant to be forgotten, only this wasn't. :)\nThanks again."", 'time': '19:59 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Ann Ford': 'I know what you mean. I had to keep reminding myself.\nThank you for reading.', 'time': '13:26 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Rachel Lione': 'I just caught it and realized how easy it could have been to miss and I knew people would and wanted to make everybody feel better...I have severe adhd and I almost overlooked it...I thought wait let me read that one more time lol!', 'time': '14:58 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Mary Ann Ford': ""I guess it's kind of like a riddle, where they say something that is meant to be forgotten, only this wasn't. :)\nThanks again."", 'time': '19:59 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Rachel Lione': 'I just caught it and realized how easy it could have been to miss and I knew people would and wanted to make everybody feel better...I have severe adhd and I almost overlooked it...I thought wait let me read that one more time lol!', 'time': '14:58 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Mary Ann Ford': ""I guess it's kind of like a riddle, where they say something that is meant to be forgotten, only this wasn't. :)\nThanks again."", 'time': '19:59 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Ann Ford': ""I guess it's kind of like a riddle, where they say something that is meant to be forgotten, only this wasn't. :)\nThanks again."", 'time': '19:59 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Tricia Shulist': 'Interesting story.  And very dramatic in a sad and futile way.  Thanks for this.', 'time': '16:01 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Ann Ford': ""Glad you enjoyed it. And thank you for taking the time out to read it. I was originally not meant to be like that but you know how things don't always go as planned. :)"", 'time': '16:59 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Ann Ford': ""Glad you enjoyed it. And thank you for taking the time out to read it. I was originally not meant to be like that but you know how things don't always go as planned. :)"", 'time': '16:59 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Molly Layne': 'Holy moly, that was sooo good. I LOVE the way that you tied it all together with the note and stuff. So awesome! Great writing!', 'time': '17:22 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Ann Ford': 'Thank you so much!!\n I admit I was worried that this one was a little scatter-brained. :)', 'time': '19:11 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Molly Layne': '😎 It was great!', 'time': '12:26 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mary Ann Ford': 'Thank you so much!!\n I admit I was worried that this one was a little scatter-brained. :)', 'time': '19:11 Jul 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Molly Layne': '😎 It was great!', 'time': '12:26 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Molly Layne': '😎 It was great!', 'time': '12:26 Jul 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",1pe1k1,Buried.,Lara Deppe,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/1pe1k1/,/short-story/1pe1k1/,Dialogue,0,"['Drama', 'Crime', 'Romance']",8 likes,"
“I’m calling ‘Cut’."" He whispered so quietly that I wasn’t sure I heard him. 
“What did you say?”
“Liv, I wish I could’ve given you more.”
I laughed right out loud. “More of what?”’
“To start, a new car. A bank account with more than $32.00 in it. An apartment with two bathrooms.” He chuckled. “A husband without cancer.”
“Are you dissing on my car?” I reached for his hand. “$32.00 is extra. The rent is paid, we have ramen in the cupboard, and we paid the electric bill last month. What else do we need? And I wouldn’t trade the husband in for anything!” 
“You may have to. I think I’m ready to cut.”
My HR-brain kicked in and I took a deep breath and ten seconds to formulate my response. I didn’t typically have to use my Human-Resources-brain with my husband, but I was still glad for the practiced wait-to-respond methodology that I’d learned at the office, so I didn’t throw out the first thing that came to my mind. Which this time, was the crashing of my heart to my toenails. I wanted to fall to my knees after throwing things, like a big tantrum. I wanted to tell him that I wasn’t ready. I wanted to curse things like doctors, hospitals, and machines that count everything. I was really pissed at broken cells that grew too fast, chemo that didn’t work and tumors that dotted each scan like stars in a black sky. All the stupid tumors. But how could I be mad at the things that were growing in this man whom I loved even though he could never remember my birthday? We just hadn’t had long enough. It had only been 19 months since our wedding day. I had only been a wife for 567 days….if you counted today. 
“Are you sure?” I curled in closer beside his bedside. It was second nature for me to take regular glances at his stats. They were falling. I wasn’t actually surprised. I didn’t want to believe it, but I have always been good at pretending to ignore the little things. Little things like his jotting notes about his funeral on the back of get-well-card envelopes. I promised him this would be his decision. I promised, no matter how brutal, that the decision was his to make and I would back him up. And then I would fall apart. 
“I’m not at ‘check the gate.’ But I’m ready to cut this take.”
Cut was the code word. We talked about it in the beginning. At the diagnosis. It was his little joke. He had worked for a filmmaker in his mid-twenties, and he never tired of using the lingo even when it didn’t exactly fit. We added to the film talk on a regular basis as our cancer journey lengthened into a cancer marathon and then into a cancer lifestyle. Cut was always going to mean that it was time to go home. Cut meant no more hospitals, no more emergent care; cut meant it was time to begin palliative care or maybe even hospice. It was time to go home and use the ugly words: end-of-life care. The race was run, and it was now time to push through to the finish line. 
‘Check the gate’ was one step past ‘cut’ and the beginning of the last stretch. Check the gate was the last look to make sure nothing stood between him and the finish line. Check the gate was what he promised to say to me when he thought he was in the home stretch. I made him promise. Son-of-a-bitch. Check the gate was all that I had left before I was the only one left in this marriage. I just hadn’t had long enough to get to know everything about him. I had only just barely scratched the surface. I was expecting to have the better part of a lifetime. But no one gets promised a lifetime, do they? 
Ugh. I tried to pull myself back to the present. To the finite number of minutes until one of us said goodbye and the other said nothing. 
“And miss all of this….” I swept my arm around the room. I thought I was going to be relieved to see the last of this stupid beige-speckled room. The beige recliner chair for the loved one to sleep in. I wanted to scratch my initials into the damn thing as proof of how many hours I had spent in the unyielding monster watching my husband come and go from scans, surgeries, and blood tests. The C shaped vomit bowls. The incessant beeping of machines. The sounds of carts rolling past in the hallway with food trays, plastic medicine cups and bandages. An unwashed window spattered with raindrops that overlooks the parking lot where other loved ones are coming and going. People who are coming to see strangers. Children running with a stuffed animal for a friend. Little curved ladies who will outlive their husbands and go home to a too-quiet house. Fathers who will have to bury their only son in three days. A thirty-seven-year-old daughter who brought her mom in for x-rays after her fall. A ten-year-old leaving the emergency room with a brand-new cast and blood-stained shorts smiling because they let him have a purple cast. This room held an innumerable number of memories strung together between visits, sleepless nights, and unbelievably hard decisions. In a strange way it felt safe here. Here where a nurse was a button-push away. Now we were headed home where I would be bedside for the last time he took breath. 
He chuckled a weary chuckle. “Let’s take this gig to another set. This scene is all played out.”
“I’ll go tell the nurse to begin the paperwork and to notify Dr. Hansen.”
He reached for my arm before I could leave the bedside. “Olivia. Wait. Can we wait for just a few more minutes?” He grasped the side rails of his bed as he took in a pain-filled draw on his oxygen. 
“Do you need more morphine?”
He shook his head and went on: “thanks. I want to be clear for this. Maybe in a few minutes.” He became still as he did when the pain was escalating, and motionlessness felt like it would keep the tide at bay. “There’s something I need to tell you.” 
I leaned in. “I’m listening.” I pulled the bedside chair back under me and snuggled into the closest thing to comfortable I could manage. “Is this your confession that you have another wife somewhere?” I giggled trying to lighten the mood. 
One side of his mouth lifted in his famous half smile. “If only it were that simple…do you mind closing the door?”
Now the fear was creeping in. Okay – not creeping in. It was crashing over my mind and body with the ferocity of a tornado. We both knew that in this room, anyone could walk in at any time and at least the opening of the door would give us both an alert of another’s presence. 
“You are freaking me out now. Talk fast.” My voice was low and barely audible. “What did you do?”
“I made a decision that meant I had to begin again. So I called a guy. And he gave me a new identity. I’ve drawn you a map. There is something I want you to unbury for me.”
***
I dug with the ferocity of a mad woman. There was a crumpled map, drawn on a get-well-card envelope shoved in my pocket with a tiny flashlight and the keys to my breaking down car. Once I hit the container, I started digging with my bare hands. Each handful felt like I was unburying the life I thought I had and the man I thought I had married a brief twenty-two months ago. How could I have been so stupid? What fool marries a man that quickly? Why didn’t I ask more questions when he said he didn’t really talk to his family, when he dodged questions about his childhood, when he was so good about making every conversation about me. 
The tiny light that I had at twilight was escaping like water leaking from a bucket with a hole in it and darkness was coming on. Somehow the cold, hard container was both bigger and smaller than I had imagined. I looked around me like a guilty child before I pulled it from the damp earth that was now under my fingernails the same way that man, my enigma of a husband, had gotten under my skin. I don’t know if I would have seen someone in those dark woods of the park even if they had been standing right next to me. My mind couldn’t hold a thought and my hands were barely functioning as I neared my goal. 
The combination he’d given me was burned into my brain. I swiveled the numbers on the lock into place. And pulled. The lock gave way with a muffled knock. I pulled open the lid. There it was. His secret. Now my secret. A secret that would never be buried for me again.
***
He waited until the hospice nurse had loaded her laptop and overflowing bag of supplies and closed the front door behind her before he said, “did you find it?” He didn’t even open his eyes. 
“Mmmm. Hmmm.” 
“What are you going to do with it?”
I was distracted by the mud on my hands and clothes. “What were you going to do with it?”
His voice was raspy and course. He was nearing the end. We were at ‘check the gate.’ “It didn’t matter anymore when I met you.” 
I wanted so much to believe him. But do you believe the lie, or do you believe the truth? And how do you know which is which? “What do you want me to do with it?”
The morphine that the nurse had given him was kicking in. He didn’t answer. 
The color was draining from his skin the way his presence was slowly draining from my life. And the end I had imagined was now clogged like a shower drain with all the things we had never talked about. 
***
I opened the box and closed it again. It was sitting where he used to sit in my falling-apart car in the passenger’s seat. The night he died I counted it. It was $216,492.00. He tried to tell me how he had just walked out of the bank with it one night in a paper bag. He was twenty-one and full of young bravado. They didn’t know until Monday that the cash was missing and by then he had disappeared into the night leaving his entire life behind him. He had never gone back to the woods for it because as he left the park that day, he met me. He didn’t even unbury the money to pay for the little things that would have made his life better in the end. 
I was parked outside the police station. I would turn it in and put him and all of it behind me. 
I opened the driver’s side door grabbing the box. He just wanted to give me more. And this was all I had left of him. 
I pulled his phone from my purse and flipped it open. I went to one of the contacts on the list and hit dial. The ringing stopped and I heard, “Yep.”
“My name is Olivia. Liv. I think you knew my husband. He said you might know someone who could help me. I’m going to need to start over.”
I put the box back on the passenger’s seat and backed out of the parking lot. Scene ended. That's a wrap. 
","July 22, 2023 01:47","[[{'Z. E. Manley': 'I liked the twist!', 'time': '16:24 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lara Deppe': 'Thanks Zena! I think I will spend more time with this story. I feel like I want to flesh it out a bit more.', 'time': '01:53 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lara Deppe': 'Thanks Zena! I think I will spend more time with this story. I feel like I want to flesh it out a bit more.', 'time': '01:53 Jul 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",relwy6,Foreshadowing,Linda Casson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/relwy6/,/short-story/relwy6/,Dialogue,0,"['Fiction', 'Happy']",8 likes,"
“Cut!” the director shouted for the fifteenth time. Nancy made a new mark on her notepad. A gang of Extras had spent the morning waiting on their hard folding chairs, most too sleepy to make conversation. Writing down each command had given Nancy's mind a purpose, though that purpose was meaningless. The moment she had forced herself from bed in the dark that morning now felt like it was months behind her. And yet there was more daylight ahead.
 
The gaffers, best boys, the runners, the lighting team, the script girl, the caterer, hair and makeup, the director and her loyal assistant looked as freshly showered and eager as they had when they arrived. They camped by the caterer’s table set with steaming Starbucks coffee boxes and aluminum trays of assorted bagels, lox and cream cheese. The Extras had their food station, but Nancy Jackson (i.e., Extra Player #11) could hear the crew at their bagel-laden table laughing at amusing stories of past shoots. 
 
The few people at the Extras station who spoke kept their voices low and soft. 
 
If Nancy didn’t stay standing and pace around every few minutes, her eyes began to close involuntarily. Like a large friendly dog, a gentle and determined force kept nudging her toward the old tufted leather couch where she could easily sleep for the rest of the day. The couch was off-limits to the Extras, or she’d been told. They’d been waiting for hours while the stars read their lines and acted.
 
Carmen Luna-Delgado, their confident, up-and-coming director, had studied and made notes on her script for Apmedifar, the new diabetes breakthrough drug we would all be talking about soon. 
 
Her low-budget film had been shown just a month ago at Sundance to encouraging reviews. That alone produced a halo of golden light around her. Even as she directed a commercial.
 
Nancy had tried out for one of the principal roles in the Ampmedifar spot but wasn’t among the chosen. The Casting Director did say she would be considered for the big party scene. Background only. Nancy felt a pinch of resentment but talked herself down by reminding herself she was lucky she’d made it that far.
 
“Tired?” a young Asian guy with dyed blond hair surfaced next to her.
 
She hesitated for a few too many seconds. You just never know how admitting to human frailty can bite you in this business. Then she smiled at herself. In this business? This was her second job. She barely qualified to call herself in this business.
 
“Falling asleep,” she admitted. 
 
He nodded, letting out a long sigh. “Me too. I read that sitting still for more than an hour is stressful on the mind and body.”
 
“Oh, that’s good news,” she laughed, feeling the initial thrill of being hired for her lowly position drain away. “For some reason, I thought we were moving on to the rooftop scene sometime in the last century.”
 
“That’s next” he pretended to answer cheerily.
 
#
 
“Testing, testing, one, two, three, testing,” Red, the freckle-faced AD, remarked into his bullhorn. “Would all the extras please join me up top on the roof. All of you, ladies and gentlemen, upstairs. Please.”
 
Looping wires of Christmas lights hung above a battered wooden plank that had been laid down by the crew. The chosen stars would dance under the lights, surrounded by anonymous Extras who would only move, not dance, as they were told. Up on the roof, the sun was lower in the sky but the air was still a toasty 85 degrees.
 
Nancy congratulated herself for wearing her strapless spangly top and her designer jeans, accented with black patent leather high heels. Her lips were deep red and her hair strategically fell in all the right places. She was possibly too thin for the ad’s demographic, but she hoped her charm might override that detail and she would ultimately be upgraded to principal status 
 
A long forty-five minutes later, Red appeared in the center of the floor wearing a headset. He waved his arms above his head and swiveled his hips in an awkward circular motion. “Let’s jump!” he shouted. But there was no music, just the sound of rush hour traffic a few stories below them.
 
An invisible hand pushed a button and “Boogie Wonderland” – a song Nancy hadn’t heard since she was nine years old – came through two plinky speakers. Someone let out a whoop and the group swept as one onto the dance floor. Red shouted “Look happy! look healthy! you’re having the time of your life!” Nancy grinned mindlessly at anyone who came into range, raised her arms, then swirled away toward another partner.
 
As soon as she crashed into her new friend, the blond Asian man, he wrapped his arms around her and managed to keep the two of them upright. Soon they were furiously swing dancing, like professionals in a competition. Nancy had a vision of Dick Clark’s Dance Party from the time her mom had pulled it up on YouTube. All the right steps came to her. Red looked at them suspiciously. 
 
Her partner was genuinely beaming at her, or seemed to be. Nancy couldn’t tell if he was acting or if he meant it. The lights and the room itself streaked around her.
 
Nancy’s ears were ringing and she felt a little seasick. The room tilted. Her new friend threw an arm around her just as her left knee buckled. “Whoa, steady partner,” he breathed into her ear. “Don’t leave me now.”
 
Red barked into his megaphone over the music “One more time! And no real dancing!” The speakers crackled.
 
“What’s your name? And why are you saving my life?” Nancy shrieked, not insincerely, in her savior’s direction.
 
“Ming,” he said. “As in Dynasty. And why shouldn't I save your life?”
 
The music track slid into “Disco Inferno.” Some of the Extras started singing “burn baby burn.” until Red put a stop to it. Copyright issues. The light outside was a smoggy orange now, casting a witchy spell over the crowd. Nancy had lost Ming for the moment. But the day was coming to a close, she just knew it.
 
At last Red called “Cut!” Everyone was breathing hard and sweating. Two make-up artists swept in to pat them down. But within seconds the music started again. And again the crowd swayed. Ming was moving toward Nancy just as her peripheral vision darkened, causing her to skid into a tall woman in a mini-skirt and Afro. This time she felt the urge to crumple like a abandoned marionette, her bones clattering to the floor, her consciousness extinct.
 
#
 
When Nancy rejoined the world of the living, she was lying on the floor trying to focus on Red, who looked back at her searchingly. Ming was there too. She could remember their names and what she’d been doing up until that moment. The more she knew, the more her confidence grew. This is the real me she thought. This is the real, sloppy, human me. She was proud and forgave her collapse. She had exposed herself to everyone, the classically hopeful young woman who thought she could become a movie star someday.
 
Red was wordlessly mouthing questions, but when Ming put his hand behind her back and helped her sit up, Nancy’s hearing came back with a loud pop. She was fine, more than fine, and now she could see her future so clearly. Another commercial or two, a role on a Netflix streaming series, the part of the best friend in an indie film, a few good reviews, and, finally, a starring role in a box office hit of her own.
 
Her fame wouldn’t last forever. She knew that too. But as she sat on the hard floor, like a spoiled child, her legs straight out in front of her, she was dazzled by her brilliant life to come. She heard a few voices in the group murmur encouragement, urging her to stand, breathe. Ming took both her hands in his and pulled her heavenward to stand in her bare feet, her heels nowhere now. Nancy believed it was in those few seconds of oblivion as she lay senseless on the dirty dance floor that her stardom had been made real and inescapable.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
","July 19, 2023 00:43","[[{'Nicki Nance': 'I like how you developed Nancy as a character, and the final message was empowering.', 'time': '18:17 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",tqpfnq,Skeffingtown,Michael Jefferson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/tqpfnq/,/short-story/tqpfnq/,Dialogue,0,"['Fiction', 'Horror']",8 likes,"
	“Cut!” director Carlo Romeo yells as Cosmo Skeffington wallops Monty Mulhare with a knee-buckling slap across his cheek.
	“Hey, what the hell was that?” Monty protests, rubbing his throbbing cheek.
	“We have to make it look good, don’t we?”
	“Yeah, but you don’t have to enjoy it so much.”
	“Three’s A Crowd,” a top ten comedy in its second season, centers around three men in their sixties who meet at a counseling group for divorced men. With a lilting, mannered British accent, two-time Oscar nominee Cosmo Skeffington plays Mortimer Clyde, a suave, sixty-five-year-old Casanova just jettisoned from his third marriage. Although this is his first attempt at comedy, Cosmo’s sardonic wit, pompous attitude, and aversion to physical confrontation make him the perfect fish out of water for his blue-collar co-stars. Cosmo is the only child of acclaimed director/producer Bolt Skeffington, who disappeared in a plane crash a decade ago, and beloved stage actress Thelma Sheffield found dead in her car five years prior to her husband’s demise in Skeffingtown, a movie set built to resemble a town that is now owned by Cosmo. 
	Sixty-two-year-old Monty Mulhare’s boyish blonde beach boy looks, ready smile, easy-going attitude and knack for comedy make him the right choice to play Alex Underwood, a photographer who has spent his career making others look good.
	A roly-poly, self-effacing former stage comic, sixty-seven-year-old Chester Wright has been typecast in the role of Eb, the dummy, which often leads people to think of him as a pushover off camera.
	“Okay, take your places, everybody,” Carlo commands.
	Carlo’s milky skin begins to redden. “Where’s Joyce Frankenberg? This is her big scene; you think she’d bother showing up on time.”
	Carlo, Monty, and Chester stare at Monty.
	“Why are you all looking at me like I stole your paychecks?”
	“Since you’re getting paid more than the rest of us, you have,” Monty replies. “But you were the last person on the set to see Joyce. You were going to give her the grand tour of Skeffingtown.”
	Sticking his nose in the air, Cosmo responds. “That doesn’t mean I was the last person she had contact with, Sherlock Holmes. She left here around eight p.m., a little more knowledgeable about love and life.”
	“Why do I always feel like taking a shower after I talk to him?” Monty mutters to himself.
	“Well, wherever Joyce is I hope it’s worth it for her because she’s out,” Carlo says. 
	Carlo surveys the extras standing nearby, pointing at a well-proportioned blonde. “You! Are you ready for your big break? Somebody show this woman a script.”
	Cosmo rubs his hands, smiling greedily.
	“Easy, praying mantis,” Monty says. “Let her at least do the scene before you devour her.”
	“I beg your pardon, Mulhare. What kind of a man do you think I am?... Wait, don’t answer that!”
	When the scene wraps, Cosmo cozies up to the blonde.
	“He’s like a meat-seeking missile,” Chester comments. “You wanna bet she gets the grand tour of Skeffington?”
	“No bet,” Monty replies. “Has he ever offered you a tour?”
	“I’m afraid I don’t have what he’s looking for. I wonder what Skeffingtown is like?”
	“Why don't we go find out?”
 
 
	The two men stand outside of the fence surrounding Skeffingtown. The deserted but well-maintained middle American-styled town includes a hotel, a filling station, a soda shop, and a five and ten-cent store.
	“I never understood why a Cosmo would do some of the dreck he has,” Monty says. “Now I get it. Maintaining this museum to his folks has to be expensive.”
	“He had a long run with that science fiction show. What was it, eight years?”
	“Yeah. And it was shot at Mega Studios, which is up the road from us.”
	“So, he’s been able to be the sole proprietor of Skeffingtown for a decade,” Chester replies. “And he’s been shuttling would-be starlets here to his secluded version of the Playboy Compound. Can you imagine the skeletons in these closets?”
	“We find something risqué maybe and Cosmo will be more inclined to treat us like equals.”
	From behind them, Cosmo yells, “Get away from that fence, you scene-stealing hacks!”
	Caught off guard, Monty stammers “Cosmo! We’ve been looking for you! We’d like to join the tour!”
	“How cool would that be!” the blonde says enthusiastically.
	“How many times do I have to tell you, my tours are only for special guests.”
	“Yeah, the gullible ones,” Chester says under his breath.
	“We just want to see some of your family’s history.”
	“Pick up the book I co-authored with Wilber Anger. It’s on sale this week. Excuse us.”
	Reaching into his pocket, Cosmo produces a set of keys. Unlocking the gate, he pulls the blonde actress along behind him.
	“Still the king of rude,” Monty says.
	“You hungry?” Chester asks.
	“I could eat.”
	“Okay, let’s chow down at Maxl’s. By the time we’re finished, it’ll be dark. Cosmo should be done by then too. Then we can come back and take our tour.”
 
 
	“Next thing Cosmo should spring for is some streetlights,” Monty says, squinting at the shadowy expanse of buildings ahead of them.
	The two men reach the fence.
	“It’s unlocked,” Chester notes.
	“He’s still in there? I bet he takes Viagra,” Monty comments.
	Chester swings the gate open.
	Monty suddenly grabs Chester’s jacket, pulling him aside into a thicket of trees and bushes.
	Cosmo steps out of the dimly lit hotel and into the street.
	“Where’s the girl?” Chester asks.
	“Probably sleeping off whatever date drug he gave her.”
	“You think he’d sink that low?” Chester asks.
	“His sense of morality is as phony as his English accent. He’s from Long Island.”
	“Home of the irredeemable diphthong,” Chester huffs.
	Cosmo drops to his knees.
	“Is he okay?” Chester asks as Monty blocks him from running to his aide.
	A wispy white cloud forms above Cosmo. The tip coalesces into the face of a beautiful woman, her hair pulled back, her mournful eyes looking down at Cosmo.
	The apparition begins to sob. 
	Clasping his hands together, bowing his head, Cosmo whispers, “Please forgive me.”
	The apparition continues to cry.
	A loud series of thumps catches Monty and Chester’s attention. A ten-foot, shadowy figure slogs out onto the Hotel’s wooden porch.
	“Still want those streetlights?” Chester asks.
	The figure’s muscular, crimson-colored body is adorned with sharp, white spikes. Its pointed chin juts out in defiance, and its stark white teeth grind together in anger. Two long, pointed horns protrude from its skull. Its yellow, bottomless, eyes glare in the darkness at the apparition.
	“So, Lucifer lives in a hotel on our back lot,” Monty says.
	Cosmo curls up on the ground, shielding his eyes as the translucent apparition fires white orbs of blinding light at her devilish opponent. The spheres bounce off of the devil’s spikey form but still manage to drive him backward.
	“Is est mei!” The devilish figure bellows, throwing crimson bolts of lightning back at the apparition.
	“No, He’s mine!” the woman replies.
	Monty pulls at Chester, who continues to stare at the bizarre battle in front of them. “I’d say it’s a good time to get out of here before one of us screams and we both get fried.”
	The two men retreat into the darkness, racing back to the other side of the studio.
 
 
	Standing next to their cars in the parking lot, their hearts pounding and their breath issuing in short bursts, Monty and Chester can only look down at the cold black pavement in silence. 
	Monty snaps his fingers. “Of course! How could we be so stupid! A movie! Cosmo was making a movie!”
	Chester chuckles. “Well, he’s got some budget for special effects.”
 
 
	Monty checks his watch. “He’s been late for first call before, but four hours late?”
	“Probably still editing that very realistic scene we saw last night,” Chester returns, slumping further in his chair.
	Carlo stamps toward them, fury stretched across his pasty features. “I swear on my sainted mother’s grave that I’m going to kill that mincing wimp! Where is he?”
	“Probably romancing a few extras in Skeffingtown.” Monty offers.
	“That distraction. The studio’s been after him for years to sell it to them.”
	“Yeah, I don’t understand why Cosmo would decide to turn Skeffingtown into a tribute to his parents, then not open it,” Monty says.
	“As the saying goes, “It’s complicated,” Carlo answers. “I think Cosmo loved his mother so much he couldn’t bear sharing her memories with the rest of us.”
	“I’ve never heard a bad word about Thelma Sheffield.”
	“She was all class, like Grace Kelly. Like Grace, her public image was spotless, but her private life was stained by controversy. Soon after marrying Bolt, she realized she’d made a colossal mistake. There were rumors of Bolt cheating on her, benders, her covering his gambling debts, and worse. Thelma’s death was ruled an accident – an overdose of pain pills, but she wasn’t being treated for anything. The signed divorce papers and the bruises around Thelma’s wrist and neck were ignored.”
	“Are you saying she was murdered?” Chester asks.
	“Worst kept secret in Hollywood. Bolt showed up on the scene with scratches on his face and a shiner, and his alibi stunk like a week-old flounder.”
	“Explains why Cosmo doesn’t talk about his father with the same reverence as his mother.”
	“He hated Bolt. Like most of us, he was afraid of him. Cosmo lived with his grandmother after Thelma died.”
	“So why bother to preserve his father’s memory?” Monty asks.
	“Bolt made him.”
	Monty and Chester burst into laughter.
	“I met Bolt when I was a little boy,” Carlo says. “One look at that leer of his and those black eyes and you’d know there was something unholy about him. Bolt practiced black magic. Actors and stuntmen hated working for him because he seemed to love pain and danger and didn’t give one wit about their safety. He once dropped a woman - backward- on an airbag. She missed. He used real bullets in a gangster movie. The best thing I ever heard said about Bolt was that he was a loner with a streak of sadism and an appreciation of the grotesque. Around the studio he was known as “The Terror,” but he built Skeffingtown and produced some of the scariest, most memorable horror films of all time.”
	Carlo’s phone rings. “Where are you, Cosmo? We’ve been holding up production for you! All right! But you’d better be here bright and early tomorrow!”
	Carlo lets out an exasperated sigh. “I guess it had to happen sooner or later. Cosmo needs a mental health day. He did it a lot when we were doing the sci-fi series. We’ll have to try and shoot around him today.”
	“Why not just feature us in this episode?” Chester asks. “We do the heavy lifting.”
	Carlo nods. “…So, you do…”
	Carlo dashes off, yelling, “Get me the writers!”
	“Did you just finagle an episode featuring just the two of us?”
	Chester leans back in his chair, casually crossing his arms behind his head. “You can thank the dummy by accompanying him back to Skeffingtown tonight.”
 
 
 	“We’re in luck,” Chester whispers.
	“How so?”
	Chester pushes open the gate.
	“You know what that means, don’t you?”
	“What’s he going to do, pout and stamp his feet?” Chester jokes. “Where do we start?”
	“He came out of the hotel the last time.”
	Crouching, the two men creep up the steps to the hotel. Chester tries the handle, opening the door, which creaks loudly.
	They pass the front desk, moving through the elaborately decorated parlor.
	Chester slows, pointing to the glow of light ahead of them.
	“Something’s cooking in the basement,” Monty notes.
	“Maybe it’s his editing room.”
	“More likely his rumpus room.”
	“Did you just use the word rumpus?” Chester asks. “Well, vo-de-oh-doh, champ.”
	Monty and Chester turn off their flashlights as they descend into the basement. 
	Their curiosity is stunted when they reach a plastic curtain.
	“He’s hiding something we’re probably not going to want to see,” Monty says. 
	“Ready?” Monty asks, sliding the curtain back.
	“…Bodies…,” Chester whispers. 
	Moving around the room, Monty notes, “There’s at least eight of them.” 
	The smell of embalming fluid makes their eyes water. The shelves are lined with bottles labeled formaldehyde, glutaraldehyde, methanol, and arsenic. Jars with cloudy contents cram the tables.
	Chester picks one up, shaking it.
	He drops the jar, shrieking. A dozen eyes in a wide assortment of colors roll past Monty.
	“I think our co-star has an unlawful hobby,” Monty says.
	“The eyes have it,” Chester responds.
	The pair examine the jars. Kidneys, intestines, hearts, and lungs swim inside Cosmo’s homemade preservation fluid.
	“They never did catch Jack the Ripper, did they?” Chester asks.
	They pass by two bodies isolated from the others. Monty leans over the first gurney.
	“Recognize her?”
	“Joyce Frankenberg. And the other one’s the blonde who replaced her. He took them on a special tour all right.”
	“He gutted these women. Why?” Monty wonders aloud. 
	Cosmo answers “Food,” in a quiet whisper.
	Monty and Chester turn around, ready to spew their anger and disgust at their co-star. 
	A man, or at least part of one, stands in front of them, wearing an out-of-date high-collared, double-breasted coat. He has a long, pale, bony face, dark, soulless eyes, long fangs, and long sharp nails. Cosmo stands slightly behind him, his head bowed in shame.
	“Nosferatu,” Monty says, shivering.
	His grimy fangs forming a smile, the man’s form begins to change.
	His clothes turn into crimson flowing robes, which are matched in color by a crown encircled with rubies. His dark black hair flows past his shoulders, cut and styled with the same regal care as his mustache and goatee.
	The man’s eyes remain bottomless and without compassion.
	“I’ve seen pictures of you,” Monty says.
	“Vlad the Impaler,” Chester concludes. “But how? And who, or what, are you?”
	The man’s physique dissolves, reassembling as a robust, athletic man with wavy blonde hair and a deeply cleft chin.
	“Bolt Skeffington!” Chester says in recognition. 
	Bolt glares at Monty and Chester with his empty eyes.
	“It wasn’t enough for my father that he was an award-winning director and producer, that he had a beautiful wife, and was feared by everyone. He had control of this world. He wanted to rule other worlds. So, he faked his death, devoting himself to mastering the power of black magic.”
	Undaunted, Chester says, “It never ends well for men who try to play God, Bolt.”
	“You’re right. My father has been given the gift to travel throughout time, but he has to feed that gift.”
	“If it means killing innocent young women, Bolt, then you need to take that gift back to the refund counter,” Chester comments.
	Bolt barks at Chester like a rabid wolf.
	“Part of the price?” Monty surmises.
	“Yes. Here, in the present, he can only speak in the tongue of the ancients.”
	“I thought you hated him. Why are you helping him?” Chester asks.
	“Would you rather see some dumb cluck from Mulkeytown, Illinois killed or see every woman on the set die? When my father told me he could change history, I thought he meant saving Abraham Lincoln, stopping Hitler’s rise to power, or finding a cure for cancer, so I agreed to serve him. I forgot what kind of man he was…”
	“What has he done?” Monty asks.
	“Perverted the future. The sinking of the cruiser Cumberland, with all 650 sailors, and the mass shootings in Dallas, Montgomery, and Seattle, they were all the work of my father. And he assured Garth Van Hope, our greatest president, will never be born. His mother’s mummified body is over there. I’m going to bury her and some of the others tonight.”
	“Explains why Skeffingtown has never opened,” Monty comments. “How many people have you killed?”
	Tears well up in the corners of Cosmo‘s eyes. “I stopped counting years ago.”
	Chester’s anger soars. “You just hack off a piece of some poor woman and throw it at him?” 
	“No. I have to burn their organs, grind their bones down to ash, and mix their remains with my father’s ashes,” Cosmo replies, pointing at a blue blown glass urn with a woman’s face etched on it.
	“Is that your mother’s silhouette on the glass?” Monty asks.
	Cosmo smirks. “He murdered her because she divorced him. That’s why all his victims are women. He gets some sort of perverse pleasure pretending he’s killing her over and over again.”
	Chester looks into Bolt’s uncaring stare. “Did you ever love anything other than power or anyone other than yourself?”
	Bolt grunts disparagingly.
	“He loved mother as much as a sociopath can love anyone,” Chester says remorsefully. “She tries to stop us, you know. Mother has chased away a lot of extras that I’ve lured back here. But the only way to stop my father is to contaminate his ashes and scatter them.”
	“Inertia proditor,” Bolt grumbles.
	“Yes, I’m a coward, Father. But don’t worry. These men and I are too weak and afraid to fight you.”
	“But your mother isn’t,” Chester says, pointing to Thelma’s apparition as it forms behind Cosmo.
	Thelma’s misty presence and Bolt, now a bulky, battle-scarred Ivan the Terrible, collide. Flaming spheres of light and streaks of lightning burst around them, illuminating the struggling spouses.
	“That’s our cue!” Chester exclaims.
	Chester grabs the urn, opening it. Rushing to a nearby table, Monty picks up beakers of chemicals, pouring them into the urn.
	“Hey, Bolt!” Chester shouts, lifting the urn over his head.
	Bolt gives out a courage-sapping roar, sending a searing bolt of lightning past Chester’s head.
	Chester smashes the urn on the floor.
	Bolt combusts. Melting, Bolt’s body burns down to ash.
	Thelma’s foggy, translucent form envelopes Cosmo. Cosmo’s body disappears into his mother’s misty embrace.
	“He’s mine again,” Thelma says.
	“Now that’s a happy ending,” Monty replies.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
","July 20, 2023 18:26","[[{'Michael Jefferson': ""I'll take that as a compliment."", 'time': '01:08 Jul 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Perverse.', 'time': '18:56 Jul 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",cvpq8c,After Dreams Fade,Asa P,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/cvpq8c/,/short-story/cvpq8c/,Dialogue,0,"['Coming of Age', 'People of Color', 'Teens & Young Adult']",8 likes,"
""Cut!"" The director shouted, annoyance and frustration clear in his voice.""Just stand still! Why are you always moving around?"" The predebut group's mentor, an OG in the industry, chided. "" And look at the camera! Why is it so hard for you to look at people and stuff?"" His scolding made my stomach clench in a knot and threatened to moisten my eyes. ""You're going to try again. You're on the set until you get it right! So don't bother with tears! Stop or you'll ruin your make-up! Only think only about your schedule for later today."" He continued to reprimand me.It was after 2 a.m.. Normally I was awakened at 5:30 a.m. to study the national language and exercise before being taken to the international school. Eight hours in school to study in my native language.At least seven hours of company schedule immediately after.A promised quitting time that would allow me to do my homework and study, shower and eat, and maybe just be a normal student. That time had become non-existent in previous months.I barely had time to pass out on the floor for a few hours and would get even less rest tonight.The company had been pressing me to leave school, over my father's dead body, but I hadn't seen him in nearly five years. Maybe? ""Si-si-sijag!"" The stage manager called out. Let's go!I looked up with a frozen smile on my face and stared directly into the camera. The smile did not reach my eyes but those were trying to close in exhaustion and had to be forced open widening for an effect worthy of a zoom in. Hazel eyes, slightly rounded yet slanty, happens when Mama is from one ethnonational background and Papa from somewhere else entirely. The hair, ever inky black, once tightly curled, now in loose waves, morphing with age. Blunt cut bangs that still managed to curl at the very tips and masked well a lingering bruise from an annoyed impatient handler's palm blooming purple against my taupe skin. Would either recognize me now?""This is Ziyah! American and Overseas Chinese. Korean age 17. Born in Long Beach in sunny southern California, bred in Los Angeles and Hong Kong! Arrived in Seoul from Shenzhen!"" The promotional hype rolled off the tongue of some unseen company narrator. There were no years attached to the places as the company had no thorough knowledge, didn't need it, only asked me where I had lived before. The whirlwind time before I landed in this country as a naive, starry eyed, and somewhat troubled sixth grader. A time period that got further away from memory and easy recall with each passing month spent a world away and now under the relentlessly scrutinizing lights of burgeoning debut.The big cities and model nationalities always get more attention and interest. That's why he's so enthuisiastic…..The orthodontic braces had been removed in the first year of high school and replaced with an annoying set of permanent retainers bonded to my teeth for the foreseeable future. The wire grated against my gums as I forced the kawai doll smile, beauty and picture perfect image above comfort. Force the eyes open, only crinkling at the edges, wide and alluring.""Cut!"" The director called out. My body slumped immediately, almost melted rather to the ground, although I forced myself to stand erect. ""You could be brighter, friendlier, and less stiff."" The mentor began his assessment or critique rather of my performance.""But I think it is good enough…the kid is still in school and should go to rest now."" He tried to advocate for my wellbeing. ""Probably the kid has not even eaten yet.""Everyone talked about me, but nobody talked to me. I awaited orders. ""Go to rest. Go to study. No more schedule now.""The cameras were shut off, the lights responsible for the shimmering glisten on my bangs' edges dimmed, and like a long held hostage I was freed. Free to take off the loaned clothes and jewelry from a shared wardrobe that I had been admonished to keep immaculate. Free to shower, put on my own casual clothes, and finally sit down. My legs felt like jelly. My stomach grumbled but didn’t expect food. It was pointless to attempt to study now. The company had been suggesting that I give up on school, over my unknowing father's dead body, now that I had completed 10 full grades of education. Save the company my yearly tuition fees, although those were being added to my ever growing company debt, and start doing activities to begin the painstaking process of repaying the company. If I did at least I could sleep a bit more…..""Dakjuuk, eat!"" A steaming bowl of rice porridge with chicken, a spoon already dug in, was held before my stinging half closed eyes. My mouth barely worked to finish chewing the broken grains of rice. The mentor did the kimchi squat thing as I forced a spoonful followed by another into my mouth, chewed slowly, and forced myself to swallow. Always tall for my age I was no longer a cherubic, round faced grade schooler with baby fat and then some still padding my body. As my height had increased over my time here, my weight had plummeted and by then I ate so little it was worrisome. The clothes hung off my body even when meant to be form fitting and someone was tasked with making sure at least one meal per day was forced down my throat. Even the company's president had taken notice and at times forced me to sit down to finish a decent meal under supervision. I sat the bowl down on the floor and shook my head. ""Finished. It's too much."" I said as my stomach seized.""Not finished."" The mentor picked up the bowl to offer it again to me. ""There's still food in the bowl!""I shook my head again. ""It's too much. I'll be sick. Already my body doesn't want it."" I tried to explain with my less than perfect Korean skills.""Finish your food. Do you need to be fed?"" He insisted unyieldingly. ""I don't want it. It hurts my stomach."" I likewise refused to budge.This is how the company takes care of its trainees, especially the youngsters and foreigners. By now this girl, who joined the company very young as the first foreigner, has been awake for nearly 24 hours. She's getting ready to increase her company activities in anticipation of debut but still must study full time…..she wants to give up but the group's mentor…maybe you recognize him from the first generation?.....he insists that she take good care of herself.The show had never really stopped even though ""Cut!"" had been called and I had been released from the formal staged shooting. The CCTV and concealed cameras continued rolling the entire time that I walked the company's property, rode in company vehicles, or they took me places. My life, before anxiously anticipated glitz and glamor, was well documented and archived.""Under the Lights of Seongdong: an illegitimate child's tale of growing up and growing stronger in a strange land"" by Kaziyah Yeh is due for release in Autumn 2024.Born in California to an American mother and immigrant Chinese father, following her tertiary education in the United States, Kaziyah once again lives and works in China, where she was brought by her father at the age of 6. Kaziyah is a content and well balanced adult who has been able to build her own secure life. 11 years old when she arrived in Korea all by herself and nearly 19 years old when she departed, she looks back at her time in Korea with fondness and nostalgia. Nothing will ever replace her experiences in the industry, but there comes a day when all of the cameras finally go off for the last time. ""My daughter, my only child…."" Life after fame chasing and idolhood days does indeed exist. It began for me the moment I stepped off the plane in Beijing, cleared immigration, and was accosted by a man who might have been closer to 40 than 30, his buzz cut slightly reminiscent of someone who had studied abroad. Not even vaguely familiar to my eyes as my mind remained set in ""Ziyah mode"", his response to my brush off startled me. ""Kaziyah, look again, see me."" The unfamiliar man had semi pleaded as he grabbed my arm speaking to me in native language,English, instead of standard Mandarin. ""It's me….it's your Papa! Remember Ba?"" His words broke the spell. His gesture of confirmation, unbuttoning his button down a bit to expose an iconic tattoo on his shoulder, brought me to my current reality. That's when it dawn on me that the cameras were gone save for mandatory government CCTV monitoring and I was no longer a tightly controlled performer. I was a human being again and the one who had given me up quite hesitantly feared that the child he'd signed away was entirely lost to him, unremittingly groomed and sucked into a notoriously cutthroat industry. ""Cut!"" Time to get on with life.""Yes, you're Papa. Thank you for coming to meet me. How long has it been since we said ""See you later""?"" 
","July 21, 2023 03:46",[]
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",c8fhdc,The Act,Vie L'cast,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/c8fhdc/,/short-story/c8fhdc/,Dialogue,0,"['Fiction', 'Romance']",7 likes,"
""Cut! That's it. That's the one we're using.""
 
""Wait. That's it?""
 
""That's the one."" Bernavides repeated, not taking his eyes off the pair.
 
""But that was just the first take, you're sure you don't want to run it one more time?""
 
""No. That's the one. Make sure nothing happens to that role."" The director instructed, heading towards his trailer, leather notebook in hand.
 
Ava stared as the director walked away knowing he had seen them. 
 
He had seen Reginald and Ava in places where Emolee Beck and Dr. Caster should have been. 
 
She felt embarrassed, exposed, and walked away from the set just as swiftly as he had. Displaying what came across to Reginald as disgust, as anger, and the reason for his current apology.
 
""Hi Ava. I want to apologize for what happened earlier. I've only done about five sex scenes my whole acting career and that has never happened before. Never. I promise."" He stammered, placing his mustard fedora over his heart.
 
""I've been thinking...maybe...there were larger crews on the other sets...so many people coming in and out, camera shifting angles, directors calling out commands, a bit of chaos really, it was easy to stay present, to not lose oneself in the moment. But this was much smaller, and everyone here is so professional, the set was so quiet, it was so well done I guess...I think perhaps it was too intimate."" He rushed, drawing in some air as he glanced up for any sign of approval.
 
Ava stared back unflinching. She did not nod in agreement, or scowl in disgust, she neither provided forgiveness nor disapproval, no half smile or visible frown could be traced across her pale face. It was obvious that the make-up artist had just removed any trace of rosiness from her cheeks.
 
Her face seemed a bit puffy and yet all the more beautiful to him. He looked over her lips which now appeared frail and thin, different from what he was typically attracted to. Yet he couldn't help imagine what it would be like to kiss her here, far away from her character.
 
""So perhaps we need a larger crew?"" she asked, finally breaking her sternness with a smile.
 
Reginald chuckled, relieved she was making light of the situation.
 
""Perhaps."" He repeated. 
 
""Don't worry about it. It's normal. I've done more sex scenes than I can count and you aren't the first man to lose himself."" 
 
""Oh wow. Well I apologize on behalf of all of us then. It's very unprofessional.""
 
""It's also biological."" she said, in her South African accent. Composed, unbothered just like her character.
 
""I guess."" Reginald agreed, ""But it's biological for women as well and you all seem to keep it together.""
 
""We are more internal creatures."" she said walking towards her vanity and leaning against her chair. ""What we reveal is what we have chosen to reveal.""
 
""That is,"" he said, drawing in a deep breath, ""a very big advantage.""
 
""A small, gentle aid for a gender who holds so few."" 
 
He smiled. His hooded eyes so brilliant it caused her to smile back, holding him in her gaze with the indication that there was something else brewing just beneath her skin.
 
He stared back. 
 
He wanted to touch her. Wanted to tuck the loose strands of hair behind her ear as he had rehearsed in dozens of other scenes, on far away sets, with actresses he barely knew. 
 
He stared at her in this way long enough to allow time to pass between them. When he finally realized he had not yet replied to her last comment he felt pressured. Wanting to assume responsibility for the silence that now hung between them. It was his to fill, Ava did not seem to notice as she stared back, lost in her own thoughts.
 
He wondered what her stare meant, why her gaze was fixed on his lips. He wanted to take it as an invitation, as her approval for him to draw closer, to kiss her, to hold her. But he could not impose himself on her after what had just happened on set. 
 
He had come in to apologize for his last embarrassing infraction and here he was about to make another. He couldn't kiss her. Not unless she made the first move. She had to say something, move towards him, anything, but Ava did nothing.
 
All he had were his speculations so dipped in his own desires he couldn't trust them. One wrong assumption, one mistaken invitation and he would be without a job. Without a career. No one would believe him. Not only was he a man, he was a Black man, an imposing Black man, making assumptions about a white woman who was older than him, richer than him, with more Broadway productions than he had commercials. It was foolish of him to even consider the risk.
 
Yet, he could not also remain in her presence. He was smart to know not to kiss her. But not steeled enough to withstand the temptation. He had to get out of the room. He felt as though she would smother him with this hanging silence, like she could suffocate him simply by holding her own breath.
 
""Well thank you for understanding."" He said, finally. ""I wanted to recognize that what I did was wrong. I'm truly very sorry, it was and is unacceptable, and it will never happen again. That was so amateur, so unprofessional of me. Truly. Would you like for me to report it to HR?"" He asked. Not having thought of that possibility beforehand.
 
""No, thank you. That won't be necessary."" she said with a simple nod. ""As I said, some things are just natural.""
 
Reginald nodded as well. Placing his hat back on his head before snatching it back immediately. ""Oops, still in the room."" he whispered to himself, turning around to face the door.
 
She chuckled softly. He was odd. An old 1950's gentleman tucked inside a 30 something year old's body. She found it sweet, humorous at times. She wanted to make a mention of it now but she knew she would be striking stones, lighting up a conversation that was already dimming. She had to let it fade out. It was bad enough that she had explored his face for so long, bad enough that she knew exactly why he had ""forgotten himself"".
 
She had taught herself how to suppress herself during any sex scene. She knew how to kiss to make her cheeks appear dramatic though her tongue remained in place. How to position the motion of her body so that it was always her inner thighs that rubbed against her opposing actor. She was experienced. Twenty-seven years of acting had allowed her to perfect the resemblance of passion. Yet, with Reginald, she had betrayed every lesson.
 
She had allowed her tongue to slip out of her mouth into his, had pressed her body so tightly against his own it was difficult for him to keep space. She had allowed herself to feel him, to kiss him as though no one else was in the room. She now remembered how the director had stared at the two of them. The coaches did not seem to notice but he had stared at them in awe.
 
""That's the one."" He had said. Words she now repeated over and over in her mind.
 
She wanted to apologize to Reginald. Inform him of her own contributions to the mutual arousal, but she couldn't. She had more to risk than he. As a veteran of the screen she could not risk the scandal, the humiliation. She was a white woman, eleven years his senior, with too much privilege and not enough power to make such a mistake. Exposing herself to some young up-and-coming actor who could easily sell his story for a spread in a second-rate magazine was unheard of.
 
She wouldn't allow herself to do it. 
 
Like him, she had to let go.
 
Reginald turned around desperate to escape her invisible pull. He placed his hand on the silver slot to open the door when she called out his name.
 
""Reg."" she said with the hanging tone of a question. ""Our next scene will be by a lake, outside, recorded by a much larger crew...what will you tell yourself then?"" 
 
Reginald felt his ears grow warm. He stood there, pressed against the door, but now Ava was close enough to touch. Reginald shook his head slowly, his eyes still scanning the floor. He felt her fingers grab his forearm. Her hand was cold, soft, her thin fingers slightly pressed against his skin sending electric waves down his body. She turned him away from the door so that he could face her. 
 
The desire to press himself against her frame, to draw her mouth to his was consuming. He leaned in. Placed his hand above her head and looked down on her close enough to feel her breath on his chest.
 
But they were not on set. They were in her trailer of all places. And he was hovering over his esteemed colleague, in her personal trailer, after hours. He could read the headlines as though he had written them himself. He imagined the anger his father would display after his countless warnings. He could predict his mother's shame even as she tried to believe his side of the story. He had to restrain himself.
 
""Hmm?"" She asked, tilting her head up just enough to meet his eyes. Her lips close enough to his chin she could have kissed him with just a little strain.
 
""I'll tell myself that you're married."" Reginald answered, clearing his throat.
 
He pulled away from her and leaned against his own wall; staring back at her as resolve settled over his face. 
 
Now it was Ava who lowered her gaze, shame settling in as it first did when the director had seen through them.
 
""How poetic..."" she said, shaking her head as if scolding herself, ""characters within characters.""
 
""Is that what you'll tell yourself?"" 
 
""I don't have to tell myself anything."" She said, stiffening her back. ""I don't feel anything.""
 
""Hmph,"" Reginald replied with a hint of annoyance, ""I see the actress doesn't fall far from her character. Emolee lies about her passions for Dr. Caster all the time.""
 
""Emolee is a complex character with more internal chaos than what is useful. She has far too many strings attached to her, each pulling in a multitude of directions. Luckily for me I don't suffer her state."" Ava snipped.
 
""A complex woman, with more than one string attached to her heart? Sounds rather similar if not identical."" Reginald countered.
 
""Oh don't flatter yourself. My heart suffers no strings.""
 
""Wrong answer, Mrs. Ava Connelly."" Reginald corrected drawing nearer to her. ""A married woman would have one string. Your heart should have one string."" He repeated, placing the tip of his index finger over her chest as if to help indicate where it would be. The mere tap flared goosebumps across her chest in instant ripples, causing Reginald to notice.
 
""Perhaps women are not as internal as you would hope."" He whispered near her ear, allowing the softness of his lips to gently graze her skin. ""Perhaps they, too, display signs -it seems harsh words or prickled skin can be just as telling.""
 
Her breath quickened. She leaned towards his touch, inhaled the smell of his skin before drawing his mouth towards her own. 
 
Passion spewed over them as the latches restraining their desires gave way. Reginald cupped the back of her head as he allowed his tongue to caress the inside of her mouth with ease. Lifting her emerald green skirt, Ava, placed his hand between her thighs, moaning gently into his ear.
 
Reginald toyed with her, stroking the smoothness of her skin before pulling back from where she would have him go.
 
""Who is this?"" he asked, breathing heavily against her face.
 
""What?"" she whimpered, as he gave in to what she wanted.
 
""Who am I kissing right now? Ava or Emolee?""
 
""I don't know what you're talking about."" she said, lowering her moan as she buried her face into his chest.
 
""Uh uh,"" he said, lifting her chin towards his face. ""You don't get to do that. Answer me.""
 
""What does it matter?"" She asked, desperate for him to continue, for them to move towards the couch, the floor, anywhere that would allow them the fullness of the moment.
 
""It matters to me."" Reginald said, drawing back his hand from underneath her skirt.
 
""Why?"" She complained, ""Why are you ruining this? Don't you want me?"" She asked, now placing her hands on the taut seam of his pants.
 
""I do."" He said, in between kisses. ""You of all people know how much I want you.""
 
""Come on then."" she urged, pushing him towards the couch.
 
""No."" He responded, stiffening against her push. ""Who is this? Who am I getting right now?""
 
Ava pushed away from him angrily. Using the palm of her hand to wipe over her lips as if the action erased any kiss that had befallen it.
 
""Get out.""
 
""That's what I thought."" Reginald responded, picking his hat up from off the floor. ""Characters within characters, huh? You can try to hide behind Emolee all you want, lie to yourself, pretend you're so devoted to the character that you allowed your own to slip away. You can say whatever you want to say to yourself, Ava. Do whatever convinces you to put your ring back on. But don't say any of it to me. You won't ever convince me that these are Emolee's desires. That this is just an extension of the stage. Method-acting, if you will. Admit to yourself what's happening here. Be honest about what this really is and you can have my hand anywhere you'd like.""
 
""Fuck you, Reginald."" She said, glaring back at him with eyes that began to glisten. 
 
""I know who I'm kissing. When you're ready to call her by her name, let me know."" Reginald replied, turning towards the door.
 
""Ava! Okay? Damn it! It's Ava! It's me!"" she screamed behind him. 
 
Tears poured down her eyes in streams that made her face appear gentler than what her voice suggested. ""Ava, a married woman wanting an affair with a costar eleven years younger than her, like a pathetic idiot, that's who you're kissing! Is that what you wanted me to say?"" She yelled. Wiping her face with such force she left red streaks across her cheeks.
 
""I'm sorry that I do this to you. That I've made you feel ashamed."" He said drawing nearer. ""I'm sorry that I didn't meet you ten years ago, married you before anyone else had the chance. I wish I wasn't 31. I wish I could be anything, everything that would allow us to exist. That would allow this to be real.""
 
""But we can exist."" Ava insisted. ""We can exist here, as Emolee and Dr. Caster.""
 
""I act for a living, Ava, you can't ask me to live in an act.""
 
""This is all we have right now. This is our space. We can put on these fake skins, these made-up names, and have each other. No one can judge us here, no one can see us here.""
 
""How can you offer me the shadow of a thing?"" Reginald asked, pushing away from her.
 
""Because that's all I have to give you, Reginald! That's all I have. I can't give you Ava, she...she belongs to someone else.""
 
""And how many of your other characters belong to old costars?"" He said, seeking to hurt her.
 
""Oh.” She said, absorbing the impact of his words. “Oh that's lovely."" 
 
""I'm sorry I said that."" Reginald recoiled, regretting it already.
 
""No, you're well within your right. You don't know me. We've been costars for what? Three months? Who knows anyone in three months? For all you know I'm a whore, right? Existing in as many fantasies as I have productions. But what you should know, is that you don't get to insult me and fuck me. You can leave, Reginald. This is over.""
 
""It never even started.""
 
""Perhaps we're all the better for it.""
 
""What happens if we do it your way, Ava? If we give into ourselves right now, what happens afterwards? When the series is over? When the show wraps up and we are on leave for nine months, for a year? What happens to me then? I know what happens to you. You get to go back to your marriage, back to a man who I'm sure loves you. You get to hang Emolee up in a closet somewhere and only worry about her if the season gets picked up again. But what happens to me?"" Reginald paused with a rhetorical tone. ""What halls do I get to pace in every night thinking of you? How much sleep do I get to lose worrying about you, waiting for you, thinking about this very moment when I made the wrong decision no matter what decision I make!""
 
""Well you don't have to worry about that anymore."" Ava replied, cold and distant. ""That decision was made for you. You're right. I don't want any of this. I apologize for the confusion I may have caused, but you may go now.""
 
“Seriously?” Reginald asked. 
 
“Absolutely.” Ava replied. 
 
Reginald gathered his hat and headed towards the door for the last time that evening.
 
""Good night, Reginald."" Ava called from her vanity.
 
""Goodbye, Emolee."" Reginald replied, closing the door behind him.
 
","July 16, 2023 23:22","[[{'Mary Ann Ford': 'I was asked to critique this story so I hope you don\'t mind that I\'m going to be open with you.\nI see some great writing talent used wrongly. May I remind you that there are little children reading these stories and I for one don\'t like swearing and ""bedroom scenes"" (I\'m sure you know what I mean).\nHowever I would love to read stories with your talent that were clean.\nI hope I didn\'t come off too rude, I\'m always afraid of that.\nThank you.', 'time': '19:11 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",xa4avn,Have you given much thought to dying?,Gerald Lee,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/xa4avn/,/short-story/xa4avn/,Dialogue,0,"['Christian', 'Coming of Age', 'Inspirational']",7 likes,"
“Cut!” A sense of exhilaration and accomplishment flooded through Taylor’s entire body as the Sun dropped behind the mountain and the reflection faded from the lake. His mind started to rapidly regress through time as he faintly saw and heard the entire film crew jumping, shouting, and clapping for what felt like would be one of the great movies of all time.Suddenly, he found himself in an unusual state of mind and feeling a loss of physical control as his body slumped in his chair.“What is happening to me, where am I going, why now at this momentous moment in time?”Looking at his left foot, his mind instantly flashed back in time. He could see the tip of the nail protruding from the top of his foot which was attached to a small piece of wood. Pain dashed up his leg and his body started to shake, and he fell into the lawn chair in the front yard of his parent's home, leaving the lawn mower behind.He was sensing the situation as if a drone was hovering over his experience and the camera was focused downward on the event, yet he was feeling and hearing all that was taking place.The pain was beyond what he had ever experienced and now seemed even more amplified, and the agony grew. It seemed like he was experiencing more pressure than originally, and he could sense his left leg's weakness and anxiety building in his chest.“Why am I no longer in control?”Taylor had always dreamed of working in the film industry, and today he was living that dream as a production assistant and was absorbing every moment in the action of this major production. The excitement and pounding of his heart were puzzling, confusing, and moving in a mysterious direction.Taylor’s mother, Jill, came running out of the house after hearing the repeated, intense, agonizing screams.""What in the world were you doing?"" she exclaimed.More screams and facial agony as blood dropped on the lawn. Taylor blurted out, “Get me something for the pain.”Jill ran into the house and remembered that some of her previous Tylenol 4 prescriptions were still unused, so she grabbed a couple—okay, she took three this time with her and a glass of water. She thought that since Taylor was now 27 and not a baby, surely his body could handle that amount.Upon reaching where he was sitting, she said, “Take this.”Taylor appeared to be settling down and calmer, and it looked like there was no more blood dropping to the lawn, which was a good sign, she thought.“Let me get some other clothes on and I will drive you to the hospital,” Jill said.“NO! … I would feel much better if you could get me a bench or a chair, I can rest my leg and foot on it and feel much better,” replied Taylor.A chair was brought to him.Bill, Taylor’s father, arrived home from work a few minutes later and rushed over to take a look having received a call from Jill earlier.“Taylor, stay still as I pull out the piece of wood, and the nail will come with it and then we can take you to the hospital,” Bill assertively directed.“Don’t you dare touch my foot! I am feeling a lot better, and no one is going to touch my foot. I wouldn’t mind some lunch though, as I missed breakfast.”Lunch was brought to him.Taylor had recently grown more at ease with his cinematic duties, which included helping the cinematographer set up the shots, making sure the performers had what they needed, and maintaining the seamless operation of the set. Although he was a minor cog in the elaborate machinery of filmmaking, he delighted in the chance to contribute to something greater than himself.However, now his mind switched to a neighbor across the street who had also heard the screams and had been watching all that was taking place through their window and he decided to see what he might assist with to move things along.Mr. Jackson, a local Social worker, and counselor, greeted his neighbors with, “Howdy, neighbor! The screams caught my attention, and I noticed what was happening and thought maybe I could be of help in some way, he said as he came closer and noticed what had happened to Taylor’s foot and asked. “What happened?”“Well, I stepped on a small piece of wood that had a nail in it and am now on my way to recovery,” Taylor said, as he took another bit of his bacon, tomato, honey mustard, and lettuce sandwich.“It appeared like your dad, was about to pull the wood and nail out of your foot, and no doubt your parents would then be taking you to the hospital, is that correct?” said Mr. Jackson.“I do not wish to go through the pain and agony of having the nail pulled out of my foot just yet, I am feeling quite all right at present, but it would be wonderful if I could get carried into the house and sit in the living room where I could watch TV and use my cellphone.Bill and Mr. Jackson carried Taylor to the living room.“Taylor, as I look closer, the nail is rusty, and there is dirt on the wood. These factors could lead to infection by allowing bacteria into the body, leading to tetanus infection, which may lead to the need to remove a limb and can prove fatal.Have you given much thought to dying?Your choice.If you do not act fast and get to the hospital in time, the consequences may not be pleasant. Are you prepared for the consequences?” said Mr. Jackson.In the hospital, the doctors and nurses gathered in the emergency room, hovering around Taylor as the doctor inserted a longer needle than Taylor had ever seen before to freeze the area to be worked on. The doctor said, “It is a good thing you came right away to the hospital. We occasionally see people coming for help when it is too late. A wise person once said, ‘Dreaming or pretending life’s problems will be solved by doing nothing, is a killer, unless action is taken. I will have to cut...”The director called again, “Taylor! Taylor!” This time, his voice was tinged with curiosity. Everyone on set turned to look at Taylor, confusion etched on their faces. The director approached him, studying him intently.""What just happened?"" Taylor managed to utter it in barely a whisper.Taylor's mind raced with questions as he straightened up in his chair. Looking at his left leg he noticed there was no nail, no bandage, no pain, and no hospital. Was what he just experienced real?The director, Max Fredrickson, said, “Taylor, you know that I have been observing you since you started with the company and have appreciated your suggestions, insights, and adaptability in working with the crew to meet needs on the set, especially often in times of emergency. I am not sure where you acquired such an ability to make choices quickly, but it has been of exceeding help over the last few months.It may surprise you that I even went back to your résumé to see if anything was listed to reflect this characteristic and could only find a list of job duties under each employment experience. You possess a special ability to perceive the subtle nuances of a scene, to see beyond the surface, and to understand the heart of the story being told. Do you have any thoughts as to why you failed to mention this?”Taylor realized, from what he had just experienced and the director’s comments, that his destiny was not merely to work behind the camera, and he caught himself starting to drift off again. Accepting that becoming a storyteller himself could be a reality, he remembered, “A wise person once said, ‘Dreaming or pretending life’s problems will be solved by doing nothing, is a killer unless action is taken.”“Mr. Fredrickson, possibly I was a bit unsure of myself in creating my résumé and turned to a professional résumé writer, and I purchased with my eyes and not with my heart the fancy colorful design not understanding the power and impact of well-defined content to tell my own story in the résumé.Am I now hearing a new job offer is being proposed from you to learn more about the craft of screenwriting, honing my skills in creating compelling narratives that reach the hearts of audiences by working with you?”“Exactly. I wish you to join me in cinematic magic, bringing out the true essence of characters and their journeys with precision and artistry.” said the director.“Do you mind if I take a week to think about it? Just kidding, I am all in. When do I get started?“Will, a salary of $71,500.00 work for you? said the director.“Isn’t that a bit high for an entry-level screenwriter? said Taylor.“Yes, that may be the case, however, I still may need you from time to time on the set to take care of a few other things as well. Remember, all expenses are paid. Plus, all the medical benefits and vacations.” replied the director.“I accept,” said Taylor.A year and a half later.“Cut!” A sense of exhilaration and accomplishment flooded through Taylor’s entire body as the Sun dropped behind Old Chief Mountain and the reflection faded from the lake. The entire film crew was jumping, shouting, and clapping for what felt like it would be one of the great movies of all time and the director came over to give Taylor the biggest hug he has had in his lifetime.Action is not only the evidence of faith that is needed in films but is the engine of life.
","July 18, 2023 12:14",[]
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",wz0j8n,On Set,Shania Ottessor,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/wz0j8n/,/short-story/wz0j8n/,Dialogue,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Speculative', 'Historical Fiction']",7 likes,"
“Cut!”
The woman stood an inch from the man’s face. Her expression was one of scorn. Laura found it hard to believe she was acting, her face seemed so sincere. 
It was the man that eventually broke eye contact with her first and stormed off the set. He pushed through the people that sidestepped, letting him through. The cameraman rolled his eyes. The mic guy huffed. But no one said anything. 
Laura sucked in a breath. Yikes. She was sitting on a seat at the back of the hustle, an onlooker, watching with all the wonder of a newbie. 
 
The woman lit a cigarette and sat on the bed on the set. She held her arm across her abdomen, her other arm sitting on top, blasé with the orange embers glittering at the end of her hand. She was the perfect subject. Her pose and the backdrop, the perfect setup. The inky blackness of her sharp bob grazing her chin sucked Laura in. Her eyes seemed dead, unmoving. Would she give up? How often did he do this? How much longer would they deal with his tantrums before they pulled the pin? 
“It's too late now to pull the pin,” the director said, rubbing his eyes and answering her question. Laura gasped. “We’re three quarters in,” he said to no one in particular. He sounded like he was trying to convince himself rather than the other equally exhausted individuals around him. 
“Turner!” The director jumped out of his chair and the intern spun around to look at him, terror in his eyes. “Go find him. Do whatever you have to do to get him back in here.”
Turner ran out and was gone in three seconds and the slam of a door.
Time stopped and silence engulfed the room. One of the extras beelined for Laura and she moved over so she could sit next to her on the bench. She didn’t acknowledge that Laura was there, just made herself comfortable. Laura could smell the smoke on her breath, mixed with the bergamot she wore on her skin. It was intoxicating. 
It was Regina, Laura remembered, dumbfounded. How could she forget? Her pageboy waves bounced as she adjusted in her seat. What a stunner, she thought. 
“Well, when she stops being such a snob and trying to one-up me, I’ll come back!” A voice came, muffled but loud from outside. 
The woman on set guffawed. In her laughter, the dangling ash on her cigarette fell to the floor. A cleaner seemingly materialized out of nowhere and cleaned it up into a dustpan. She disappeared as quickly as she appeared. 
“One-up him? He’s just mad I’m a better actress. I’ve never met such a prima donna in a man!” She drew another long drawl from her cigarette before putting it out in the ashtray on the side table.  
“Mr Matthews,” a small voice said, the intern, Laura deduced. “Everyone must move on with this movie. Just think of all the praise you’ll get, all the adoration—”
“Shut up, Turner! Who hired you?”
The side door flung open and the actor strode back in, Turner hot on his heels.
“So nice of you to grace us with your presence, your majesty!” The woman said, standing and curtseying for him. 
Laura stifled a giggle. 
“Don’t patronize me, Lucy.” The man jumped back onto set with all the vigour and grace of a gazelle, like it was part of the scene. A curl leapt free from his coiffed hair and jumped in his anger. “Let’s just get this done.”
“I’m trying, Ron,” she said, standing up to him so their faces were an inch apart. They looked just how they did before he’d stormed out. 
Everyone got back to their places, as if on a stage ready to put on a show. “And, action!” 
The camera started rolling. “Bertha, you wound me,” Ron whimpered. 
“My dear, I merely mean to tell you how I feel,” Lucy grabbed hold of the bed’s balustrade and turned her back to him. “You wound me more,” she said, defeated.
Ron grabbed hold of her upper arm. “Sweet, sweet Bertha. Let me make it up to you.” 
Lucy spun around to look up into his eyes. They seemed to size each other up and then Ron leaned in for a kiss. Just before he could, Lucy faced away from him, towards the camera. “It will take more than that to make up for what you’ve done, Ron.” 
“Cut!”
Ron let go of Lucy’s arm and walked offstage for the second time in ten minutes. But he didn’t leave. 
Lucy ran her hands over her face. Her face flushed scarlet. “I’m sorry, Bert,” she said to the director. “I got confused.”
“It’s okay, Lucy,” he said, walking up onto the set to talk to her quietly. 
“Why does she get special treatment?” Ron yelled across the room. 
“Shut up, Ron!” Bert yelled. The man’s booming voice stilled any action in the room. Even Ron deflated a bit. 
The woman beside Laura let out a laugh through her nose. “Men,” she said, shaking her head. She looked at Laura and she froze. The woman laughed. Surely, she wasn’t eyeing Laura. 
The woman got up and strode over to the side of the stage, passing Ron, leaving him in a haze of her scent. She stopped, leaning against the wall. He watched her go, entranced. Laura understood him. 
Bert looked over at her, breaking his quiet conversation with Lucy. She was dabbing at her face with his handkerchief. 
He stepped off the set, “Okay!” he said, walking back to his chair. Two makeup artists ran up to Lucy, fixing up the streaky makeup on her face. 
The woman with the pageboy hair watched Lucy for a second before disappearing behind the set.  Ron stood there, saying nothing, like he was a naughty schoolboy. He stepped back up onto set. 
The makeup artists left and Lucy looked like she had before, beautiful and nonchalant. Ron didn’t say anything to her. 
“Action!” Bert exclaimed. The cameras began rolling again.
“It will take more than that to make up for what you’ve done,” she swallowed, “Stu.”
The woman with bouncing curls flung open the back door, startling everyone, even though it was in the script. She looked at Ron, then to Lucy, and back again. She looked down at Ron’s arms at Lucy’s waist. 
“Bertha,” the woman said, inching towards her. “What are you doing?” 
Lucy spun away from Ron and leaned against the opposite wall. “Mae! Nothing! We were merely having a conversation, nothing more!” 
The woman smirked. “That’s not what it looked like from here!”
Ron stepped between the woman and Lucy. “Mae, it was just a conversation. Please don’t take her away from me again.” 
The woman smirked and leant against the doorframe. “I make the rules, Stu. And you’ve both disrespected me and my authority. You’ll not fool me a second time.” She stormed into the room and took hold of Lucy’s arm, dragging her kicking and screaming. 
“Stu!” she screamed, fresh tears springing to her eyes. 
Ron lunged for her, but not before the door got slammed shut. It was a very exaggerated lunge, delayed too, but these movies often were exaggerated. 
She blinked and everything vanished. An empty lot, not a soul left. The bare bones of the set remained, the walls scratched from years of use and readjustments, the floor marked from years of movement. 
 
Laura recalled that Spellbound had been a very successful film, making triple the budget at box office. Not to mention the fact that Ron Matthews and Lucy Destefano had been very much involved with each other during filming, despite being engaged to other people at the time. Laura had seen the tension between them both, everyone had. Would the way they behaved during this scene have been the end of their affair? Or just the beginning? 
There were also rumours that the actress who played Mae, Regina Burke, had had a dalliance with Lucy. Had Laura seen it in their eyes when they’d gazed at each other? She wished someone could confirm it, if only so Laura could be privy to some information that maybe no one else knew. A tidbit that was hers and hers only. 
 
The silence was cut by the steps of a tour group entering through the door that Ron Matthews and the intern, Turner had left and reentered through. “And here,” the tour guide said, “they made the greatest movies in old Hollywood.” Marie looked wistful, as she often did when leading her tour and especially when she entered this building. Her eyes landed on Laura, who stood from her chair and walked over to the group. 
“And this,” Marie said, “is Laura Matthews, Ron Matthews’ great granddaughter. A couple ‘ooh’s’ resounded throughout the group. “She’s our tours manager. Everything you’ve seen today and everything you’ve yet to see, is because of her.” 
Laura laughed. “Thanks for that introduction, Marie.” She was going to say something along the lines of It’s not my doing, I am just so lucky to do what I do, but she decided not to. She’ll take some credit. She was trying to stay humble but she really did have the best job a movie fanatic could ask for. 
Marie continued. “Here is where some of the most iconic movies were filmed, The Godfather, Singin’ in the Rain, Citizen Kane, the list goes on!” She looked at Laura, “And Spellbound! One of the best!” The group continued on, headed by Marie and Laura went back to her seat. Now she was going to see if she could tap into the memory of her great grandfather playing a swashbuckler before her great grandmother was able to smack some sense into him. 
 
","July 22, 2023 03:53","[[{'Derrick M Domican': 'Love stuff like this! Fascinating. Read it twice! Now off to research Spellbound! Bloody good job on this!', 'time': '15:56 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Shania Ottessor': 'Thanks, Derrick! I actually made Spellbound up, but I googled it and there actually is a movie by that name from 1945. I’ll have to give it a watch!', 'time': '20:54 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': ""Oh really? It all seemed so true to life! That's a testament to how well this is written! I know of the film Spellbound so just assumed this was about it!"", 'time': '22:59 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Shania Ottessor': 'Thank you so much!! I would be gobsmacked if there was a scene like mine in it!', 'time': '04:14 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Shania Ottessor': 'Thanks, Derrick! I actually made Spellbound up, but I googled it and there actually is a movie by that name from 1945. I’ll have to give it a watch!', 'time': '20:54 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Oh really? It all seemed so true to life! That's a testament to how well this is written! I know of the film Spellbound so just assumed this was about it!"", 'time': '22:59 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Shania Ottessor': 'Thank you so much!! I would be gobsmacked if there was a scene like mine in it!', 'time': '04:14 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Oh really? It all seemed so true to life! That's a testament to how well this is written! I know of the film Spellbound so just assumed this was about it!"", 'time': '22:59 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Shania Ottessor': 'Thank you so much!! I would be gobsmacked if there was a scene like mine in it!', 'time': '04:14 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Shania Ottessor': 'Thank you so much!! I would be gobsmacked if there was a scene like mine in it!', 'time': '04:14 Jul 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",m13083,The Prince and The Dragon Movie,Amanda Cedeno,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/m13083/,/short-story/m13083/,Dialogue,0,['Funny'],7 likes,"
	“Cut! Cut! Cut! Now, Mr. Thorn, what did I just say about you needing to show more emotion?” the director bellowed. His voice echoed in the cave where we were filming. The director has dark brown hair, hazel eyes, and is five-foot ten. He has the habit of pinching his nose before he yells at the actors, and his nose was red in the areas where he pinched. I was acting as a rock character, which was an additive character because I know the author of the book. My hair was dyed grey, had to wear grey contacts, and my height is five-foot four.
             “Mr. Fomax? I’m still wondering about my motivation?” Mr. Thorn inquired, as he studied his sword and shield. He was dressed as a prince with armor on. His hair is light-brown, his eyes are green, and his height is six-foot.
             “For the last time, you are the prince, and you need to kill the dragon in order to save the princess.” Mr. Fomax moaned. 
             “Can’t we just negotiate instead?” The lady in the blue suit asked. Her curly-red hair was hidden in a blue cap. She has green eyes, and is five-foot nine.
             “Ms. Hopper, I’ve explained this before, dragons can’t speak and sees all humans as potential meals.” Mr. Fomax huffed. 
             “Mr. Fomax, these ropes are too tight, the cave is too damp, and I believe that it would make a more interesting story if the prince fell in love with the dragon and the princess destroys both of them so she can rule the world.” The lady who was tied up as the captured princess requested. She was the princess dressed in pink, and tied up in the back of the cave. The lady has blonde hair, blue eyes, and was five-foot five. The camera crew and backstage hands were visibly bored, and adjusting their various equipment that didn’t need any adjustments. 
             “Look, Ms. Driver, when we loosened them the last time, they didn’t stay on, a cave needs to be damp, it’s a cave, and when you start writing a play, story, or whatever, then I would care about your opinion.” Mr. Fomax declared, “Now, Mr. Thorn. Let’s go back from when you enter the cave, and this time, more emotion!”
             Prince Doug of Goldland went to ask the king and queen of Sapphireplains for their daughter’s, Princess Bess, hand in marriage. They sadly reveal that they had troubles with a green dragon rampaging the castle, the dragon had captured Princess Bess, and took her to the cave. Prince Doug traveled to the caves with the mission to save Princess Bess.
             “Dragon….. Come…. And…. Fight….” Prince Doug mumbled.
             “Roaring… Grrawlll… Hiss.” The dragon responded.
             “CUT! CUT! Ms. Hopper, what was that?” Mr. Fomax probed.
             “Dragon language.” She replied.
             “Dragons don’t talk, they don’t have language, and THEY ONLY ROAR!!!!” Mr. Fomax roared.
             “Maybe he should be his dragon.” Mr. Thorn whispered to me.
             “Mr. Thorn, you should focus on your part, AND SHOW MORE EMOTION!!!!” Mr. Fomax hollered.
             “Is it lunch time yet?” Ms. Driver whined.
             “NOT YET!!!!” Mr. Fomax thundered. “Now, let’s try this again.”
             Prince Doug sneaks in the cave, walks passed the dragon, and then, he drones, “Dragon come and get me.”
             The dragon roars, and hugs the prince.
             “CUT! CUT! CUT! What is that?” Mr. Fomax interrupted.
             “How am I to carry him?” Ms. Hopper quizzed while still hugging Mr. Thorn.
             “That is not part of this scene!!!!” Mr. Fomax yelled.
             “May Stacey look at these ropes? My ….” Ms. Driver requested.
             “Ok, fine. Stacey, go.” Mr. Fomax allowed. Stacey ran to Ms. Driver with a first aid kit, a make-up kit, a sewing kit, and cloth. Stacey has black hair, blue eyes, and was five-foot.
             A rock rolled on the dragon’s tail. The dragon roared, and pushed the rock. The rock smashed into the wall.
             “OUCH!!!! That hurts!” I exclaimed, as the rock. Most people froze.
             “CUT!!!! ROCKS DON’T TALK, MS. Katz!!!!!” Mr. Fomax screeched.
             “Yeah, and rocks don’t bleed. Stacey, come.” I ordered. Stacey came with urgency, and started the first aid.
             “Ms. Katz.” Mr. Fomax started.
             “Is the rock really meant to be smashed into the wall?” I quired.
             “How else would it make any sense that you are a character in this movie?” He retorted.
             “How did Ms. Kensington describe my character?” I asked. Ms. Kensington is the author of the story that Mr. Fomax was trying to make into his movie.
             “As a boring grey rock in the cave. The dragon must smash the rock.” He replied. Ms. Driver collapsed.
             “Her blood sugar is low!” Stacey exclaimed.
             “Fine! Lunchbreak people!” Mr. Fomax declared. We left.
             At the deli, Mr. Thorn, Ms. Hopper, Ms. Driver, and I sat at the same table. 
             “Ms. Kensington, so what did you think?” Mr. Thorn asked. Mr, Fomax was the only person who didn’t know who I really was, and he thought that I was just her cousin. Ms. Hopper’s hand was holding Mr. Thorn’s, and was leaning on him. 
             “I think next time, I should not be the character ‘random rock in cave’. It is uncomfortable, and illogical.” I complained. “How are your wrists, Ms. Driver?”
             “Stacey’s an angel. She really knows how to treat injuries.” Ms. Driver replied, and revealed where the bandages were. Stacey had used some of the make-up on the bandages, so no one would notice.
             “He is the fifth director who hasn’t even looked at my book. Do you think we’ll find one that will?” I voiced.
             “At this rate, it would be better if you hired a monkey to direct this movie.” Mr. Thorn replied. I excused myself to call Mr. Fomax.
             Prince Doug snuck into the cave, and hid when he heard a roar.
             “NO!!!! I REFUSE TO TERRORIZE ANY MORE VILLAGES, AND YOU CAN’T MAKE ME!!!!” The green dragon bellowed at Princess Bess, who was dressed in a dress of black with red trimming. Princess Bess started to hypnotize the dragon with a coin. Prince Doug ran and snatched the coin away. The dragon turned around, smacked Princess Bess with her tail, collected Prince Doug, and when they were out from the cave, the dragon took off.
             “What chapter are you on?” I asked Mr. Fomax as he was reading the book. I had decided that while my actors were acting out the cave scenes correctly, that Mr. Fomax should start reading the book that the movie is about.
             “This is a long book.” He pointed out.
             “You do realize that you are the only one under my employment at this time who hasn’t read the book before, and because you are director number five, I’ve spent too much time looking for a new one.” I complained. “Oh! And remember to write those apology notes. You are extremely lucky.”
             The war between of Goldland and Sapphireplains lasted seven years. Carla, who was the green dragon, was helpful in the battle. A good wizard came after the war, and took off the spells and curses that were on Carla. It turned out that she was a bewitched maid, who was magically unable to remember that she was human. The story ends with a marriage between Prince Doug and Carla.
             After Mr. Fomax read the book, production of the movie went quicker. The movie was a success, and the fans wondered when the sequel would be coming out….. The End.
","July 20, 2023 18:16",[]
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",cgr8z0,Stop!Cut!,Gennadii Seliverstov,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/cgr8z0/,/short-story/cgr8z0/,Dialogue,0,['Drama'],7 likes,"
""Stop! Cut!,"" loudly and authoritatively commanded the man in a multicolored polo shirt, dark green shorts, with a sparse red beard on his flat, yellow face, and the same rare hairs on his head, gathered at the edges of his skull: behind his ears and at the back of his head in the shape of a horseshoe.
He quickly jumped out of his folding chair, paying no attention to the crowd: the lighting crew, costume designers, and makeup artists. He approached the man lying on the decorated stage floor amidst sharp stones and fake snow, dressed in full military attire.
The clothing he wore was winter gear: warm and thick, white camouflage. Despite being inside a closed movie studio, the man felt uncomfortable and suffocated from the heat.
""David,"" the man with the rare beard addressed calmly this time, ""let's take a break. I think you've overheated.""
 
David, a man with features resembling Christoph Waltz, perhaps only with a sharper chin and lighter eyes, declined and absentmindedly wiped the sweat drops from his broad forehead, getting caught in his thick eyebrows.
The director with the flat face simply smiled good-naturedly at this response, patted him on the shoulder, and instructed him to change his clothes and head downstairs.
""But make sure to take the rifle with you,"" the director warned, pointing his finger at the carbine with a scope that David tightly held in his hands.
 
About half an hour later, they met at the cafeteria, a bright rectangular space on the first floor of the movie studio. The place was filled with tables and chairs, and its end featured a display with various desserts, fruits, and salads. Behind the cashier, a black glossy board hung, occasionally marked with pink chalk, words, and numbers, providing information to visitors about the items and prices.
""Are you hungry?"" the man with the rare beard, whose name was Jonathan but everyone called him Joe, asked.
""No, thanks, Joe,"" replied David. ""You know I never eat during shoots.""
""Well, I'm hungry from your acting,"" Joe said, raising his voice significantly. ""I'd love to have a steak or beef stroganoff right now. But damn, they don't have anything meaty here. Only sweets, salads, and that vegetarian menu. Soon, David, it will come to a point where there's nothing for a normal person to eat.""
""I'm a vegetarian, Joe,"" said the man with the appearance of Christoph Waltz, looking slim and lanky without the warm clothing.
""A vegetarian?"" the director repeated and burst out laughing. ""Sorry, I'm not laughing at you. It's just amazing: a vegetarian playing a German sniper during World War II.""
He then turned to the cafeteria attendant, a young girl with a cute face and a mole on her lower right eyelid.
""Miriam, please give me a cheesecake,"" he tapped his nail on the glass surface, squinting and aiming at the dessert covered with light-red jam, resembling blood, and continued, ""and also, be kind enough to bring me some tea. Remember the one from last time, I think it was called 'Flamingo Vanilla' from San Francisco.""
""Only today, our cheesecake comes with a non-dairy cream substitute,"" the girl warned, and then noticed the director's puzzled look, so she quickly added, ""well, it's when it's not made from milk.""
""Milk substitutes, sugar substitutes, meat substitutes,"" Joe muttered quietly. ""I wonder if you've come up with a substitute for life.""
The girl didn't lose her composure and replied with a smile, ""Well, this is the world of cinema.""
They sat at a table near the window. It was a large, panoramic window that started almost at floor level and extended up into the ceiling vaults. Through it, they could see the movie studio's inner courtyard, neatly trimmed grass, and spherical hydrangea flowers, basking in the dark-yellow rays of the setting sun.
""You didn't take the rifle,"" the flat-faced man said.
""Sorry, Joe,"" David replied, ""I forgot. If it's so important, I can go get it.""
""No need,"" Joe said, cautiously chewing a piece of cheesecake while checking it for glass.
Christoph watched him attentively, resting his elbows on the edge of the table, and slowly smiled, revealing perfectly white and straight teeth.
""Well, and how is it?"" Christoph asked.
""Amazing,"" the flat-faced man said, using ""normal"" instead of ""regular"" deliberately. ""You can't tell the taste difference at all.""
Joe took a significant sip from his black mug with the establishment's logo: a silhouette of a mountain peak and a pine branch in the foreground. Then he turned to Christoph Waltz.
David, you're a great actor,"" the man began, ""and I have no complaints about how you portray a lover, a son, or a father."" He paused and took another sip of tea. ""Even when you play a German sniper in the snow-covered Carpathian Mountains, I have no doubt that before me stands a cold-blooded killer, a professional, a damned Nazi scum."" The director, being Jewish, savored every word he spoke. ""But at the same time, I don't like your gaze. You may think I'm nitpicking, that I'm overly demanding.""
David wanted to say that it wasn't the case, but Joe interrupted him.
 
""Wait,"" he said, scrunching up his face, ""I just want us to finish this scene today. I want you to go back to the set right now, lie down on that damn fake snow, take the prop rifle, look ahead at that green screen, catch focus through the crosshairs of the optical sight, and start looking for the woman sniper who, under different circumstances, you might even fall in love with. Under different circumstances, you wouldn't hunt her with a weapon but with a glass of Château Lafite. Under different circumstances, David, you two might have a showdown in bed, and you'd desire her, mixing your sweat with hers like ingredients of a rare cocktail called 'passion of two lovers.' You could even have children together, David. I want you to see all of this through the lifeless optics, you know? Let me savor that gaze like I savor sex, David! Allow me to touch it!""
 
Joseph Hätzenauer had only seen the woman's face once, but he could no longer forget it. Her chestnut hair peeked out in amusing curls from under a gray hat made of coarse sheepskin, and her dark green eyes resembled magnolia leaves he had admired in childhood while vacationing with his parents in Baden-Baden. Her perfectly chiseled features enchanted the German officer: rosy cheeks, plump lips, a graceful nose, and a mole, like a birthmark on her lower right eyelid.
Their first encounter happened eleven months ago in the Belarusian forests, not far from the city of Brest. The first autumn of the war, the brutal treatment of prisoners of war, and the killing of civilians gave rise to a terrifying phenomenon - the partisans. Lyudmila, a girl who had recently graduated from high school, had never imagined that fate would lead her to the front, taking away her loved ones, home, hopes, and future. She had never planned to shoot people, even very bad ones. And now, every time she had to do it, she did so with great reluctance.
Joseph shrugged. That first meeting with Lyudmila could have cost him his life, but he managed to escape with only a minor injury. Since then, Lyudmila had become a much better shooter. She had 247 dead German soldiers to her name. Joseph searched for her along the entire frontline. Rumors of the Soviet sniper reached him here and there. She was like a ghost, and superstitious soldiers nicknamed her ""Banshee."" In European folklore, Banshees were foretellers of death. From the stories he heard, not always seeming credible, Joseph still understood that Lyudmila was close by, and that sooner or later, a duel between them was inevitable. Several times, he even thought he had killed her, like that time near the village of Staraya and then at Babi Yar. But afterwards, tragic news from the front made him realize otherwise.
Joseph desperately wanted to look into the girl's eyes, even if it was through a sniper scope, and return to her a piece of lead that the surgeon had extracted from his shoulder in a field hospital.
In the Carpathian Mountains at this time of year, mists were a frequent occurrence. The optics quickly became covered in moisture and froze in the cold. The hideout he had chosen, after scouting it a week ago, was well-equipped. A wide cliff hung over the valley, where the riverbed below shimmered with silver ice. Ahead of him, the mountain ridges stretched, disappearing into the embrace of the horizon, wrapped in a blanket of clouds, glistening and blinding in their thick snow cover.
The last time Banshee was seen here, she appeared suddenly, swiftly dealing with a mountain detachment of stormtroopers who were crossing, and just as quickly as she appeared, she vanished.
Joseph carefully wiped the eyepiece; through the scope's lens, the objects in the valley seemed almost like toys. Everything he looked at appeared surreal: whether it was people or animals, trees or bushes, buildings or military equipment.
The previous night, Joseph had slept in fragments. He had a strange dream, as if everything that was happening to him was staged. In the dream, they called him David, and he was an actor. In the same dream, the flat-faced director was giving him advice on how to play the role of a sniper. He remembered the cashier girl, who turned out to be Lyudmila, and he recalled the Mauser 98 rifle, exactly like the one he was holding in his hands now.
Several hours of futile searching had passed. The empty, desolate valley was drowning in thick mist, rarely illuminated by patches of sunlight breaking through the torn clouds. As the snow sparkled like diamond dust, capturing the lost photons within its tiny crystals, the once green meadows now resembled lifeless deserts, forgotten by all.
Suddenly, Joseph felt an intense gaze upon him, and he continued to breathe slowly, making the vapor from his nostrils nearly imperceptible. Not far from his hideout, an eagle sat, adjusting its wings. The bird was studying the man who had dared to climb so high into its heavenly domain. The predator was at a distance of 14 feet and showed no fear of the man; instead, it looked at him challengingly, as if eager to attack.
""Go away,"" Joseph whispered and added spitefully, ""Did you hear what I said? Go to hell, devil!""
The eagle stretched its neck toward the officer and spread its wings. Its thick feathers caught the icy wind, bringing fine snowflakes with it. Then, unexpectedly, the bird flinched just a second before a thunderous clap resounded through the valley, over the frozen riverbed, and above the mountain peaks. It flinched and swiftly plunged down from the cliff.
The Mauser lay motionless on the freezing ground. Next to it lay Joseph, his gaze fixed on the spot where the bird had been sitting just moments ago. His eyes were glassy, like the eyes that hadn't yet comprehended that they no longer belonged to a living body. There was astonishment, regret, and fading hope in them.
This time, nobody shouted the familiar phrase, ""Stop! Cut!"" to halt the lifeless stiffening. Joseph was dead, and this time, no one called a halt to the scene.
 
 
","July 21, 2023 01:06","[[{'Steffen Lettau': 'This reminds me of an idea I had, that as I was dreaming, I was living somewhere else in a different universe.  I don\'t believe in a Multiverse, but it is a unique fictional take on the idea:  someone ""dreaming"" of being somewhere else while actually living somewhere else as his/her body is back at rest.  Of course, yours deals with time rather than place.  I do love the concept.\n\nPerhaps the need to emulate the vegan foods could be alleviated a bit, and the focus could be more on the characters.  That\'s just a suggestion, not really a criti...', 'time': '00:32 Jul 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Gennadii Seliverstov': ""I apologize for responding only now. Thank you so much for your feedback and critique; it's always valuable to me as it helps me grow. Regarding the vegan food, that was irony; I might have expressed it inaccurately."", 'time': '18:03 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Gennadii Seliverstov': ""I apologize for responding only now. Thank you so much for your feedback and critique; it's always valuable to me as it helps me grow. Regarding the vegan food, that was irony; I might have expressed it inaccurately."", 'time': '18:03 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Ben LeBlanc': ""Hmm, interesting how you turned the story into a dream. I don't think it was executed the best though. At first I thought that the actor was just getting in his own head thinking about his character's backstory. Also didn't feel much of a connection to the characters in this story. I didn't feel bad when Joseph died; there were no stakes or backstory that made him believable enough to care about. It felt like the description was doing a lot of the heavy lifting, word-count wise and otherwise. You are a good writer though, this story just nee..."", 'time': '01:53 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Gennadii Seliverstov': ""Thank you very much for the feedback, sir! I won't try to justify myself, but will take your criticism and will try to address the existing shortcomings next time."", 'time': '17:56 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Ben LeBlanc': 'Thanks for being so gracious, you are free to let rip on my stories whenever you want haha. :)', 'time': '02:30 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Gennadii Seliverstov': ""Thank you very much for the feedback, sir! I won't try to justify myself, but will take your criticism and will try to address the existing shortcomings next time."", 'time': '17:56 Aug 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ben LeBlanc': 'Thanks for being so gracious, you are free to let rip on my stories whenever you want haha. :)', 'time': '02:30 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ben LeBlanc': 'Thanks for being so gracious, you are free to let rip on my stories whenever you want haha. :)', 'time': '02:30 Aug 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",8zubca,The Regal Grocery King,David Sanchez,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/8zubca/,/short-story/8zubca/,Dialogue,0,['Fiction'],7 likes,"
	“Cut!” the director’s voice flew through the mostly empty grocery store.
	“Cut!” the assistant director’s much calmer voice repeated the command. The director took off his headphones and walked toward me.
	“Okay, let’s try this again,” the director said. “Only this time, really puff out your chest. You’re excited about this week’s sale. You have to be excited. You’re the grocery store mascot.”
	“Got it,” I replied and cleared my throat. One of the production assistants straightened the ermine cape on my shoulders while another fixed the tilt on the crown I wore.
	After they were done, Mr. Regal approached me, always dapper in his charcoal-colored suit.
	“Paul,” he said. “You’re the king. The Regal Grocery King. Let’s do this.”
	“Yes, sir,” I replied as the production crew helped the extras behind me and the cashier get back into position.
	“Okay,” the assistant director said. “King, do you need a glass of water or anything?”
	“No,” I replied in my most dulcet tones. “I’m good.”
	He gave me a thumbs up and crouched behind one of the cameras while the director and Mr. Regal had a quick chat. Mr. Regal looked over to me, smiled and waved. The director gave me a quick look before he put his headphones back on and observed the monitor.
	“Okay, folks, new take here,” the director said. “Shoppers, start moving around. Cashier, we’re gonna start the conveyor belt. Get ready. And King, when I point to you, start your lines.”
	“Yes, sir,” I replied. The extras hired as shoppers began to walk through the aisles. The conveyor belt at the checkout gave a soft whir and the cashier, who was an actual store cashier, scanned random items. I had my eye on the director, who nodded approvingly at the scene.
	“Regal Grocery commercial, take three,” one of the production assistants shouted and slapped shut the clapper in front of another camera.
	After a couple of seconds the director’s finger went right to me. I gave him and Mr. Regal a quick look, then went into my lines.
	“This week at Regal Grocery, you will find we have Monarch Brand assorted vegetables. Three cans for 99 cents. Monarch Brand bread, white or wheat, buy two, get the third free. Buy a dozen eggs for 89 cents. And don’t forget your coupons, folks, which you can find in the Sunday circulars that come with your newspaper. And as always, at Regal Grocery, the shopper is royalty.”
	I gave a beaming smile and held it before the director yelled “Cut!”
	Mr. Regal smiled and pumped his fist.
	“Great job, King,” the director said, even though I said beforehand my name was Paul Hinojos. “Okay, folks, we have our commercial.”
	The extras cheered. The cashier tapped my shoulder and shook my hand with a smile.
	“Great job,” he said.
	Mr. Regal walked over to me.
	“Paul, that was superb,” he said and clasped his hands together. “I believe I have my Regal Grocery King.”
 
	I came back to Valley Heights when my father was admitted into hospice care for his cancer. I grew up here and graduated from Boone High. At Boone I was a drama geek and had a role in almost every production during my years there. My finest hour was playing Harold Hill in the junior class production of The Music Man. I got the role because I was the only actor who wasn’t tripped up on the rapid-fire lyrics of “You Got Trouble.”
	I finished my first two years at Valley Heights College before I transferred to UCLA and majored in theater. When I graduated I worked as an usher at the Pantages Theater while I spent most of the days at auditions. I landed a few bit parts on television shows, usually as an extra and mostly for one day. But I came back to Valley Heights after my father was admitted into hospice care. After he died, I decided to stay in my old hometown and found work at the local credit union.
	One afternoon I was shopping at a Regal Grocery when a dapper older gentleman came up to me.
	“Excuse me, sir,” he said as I inspected a jar of pickles.
	“Yes?”
	“Are you by chance an actor?”
	“I am, actually.” I replied purposefully with a lower register to my voice. “Well, I was back when I lived in California. I moved back into town to look after my father. I'm working at the Sunrise Credit Union now.”
	“I see,"" the gentleman replied. ""Would you be interested in an acting job? My name is Bert Regal. My brother Frank and I started this business.”
	“I’m Paul Hinojos, Mr. Regal. It’s an honor to meet you,” I said and shook his hand.
	“Oh, please, call me Bert.”
	“Bert. I’m sorry, my father raised me to address people as Mister or Missus.”
	“I can see that,” Bert said with a chuckle. “Do you have a moment to talk?”
	“Of course,” I said. “I was about to start my shopping, but that can wait.”
	“Grand,” Bert said. “Let’s go into my office.”
	Bert told me about the commercial. He wanted an actor to play the grocery store's mascot, the Regal Grocery King. And for the role Bert suggested I grow a beard. 
	“Kings must have beards,” Bert said. “The beard imbues wisdom on the monarch. That is why we use the image of a bearded king for Monarch, our in-house brand of products. Young kings are inexperienced. Kings with a beard have a gravitas, born from years on the throne making crucial decisions that will affect their subjects.”
	So I grew out my beard. And I actually felt a little more distinguished, more respected. Dare I say, regal. Amazing what a change like that brought. When you think of Yul Brynner you don’t picture him with hair. No, you see him as the pharaoh Rameses in The Ten Commandments, as the cowboy in black in The Magnificent Seven, and as King Mongkut in The King and I. His clean-shaven head and distinct voice made the statement. So, too, did this beard for my role as the Regal Grocery King.
	I was directed to the Regal Grocery location over at the corner of Dearborne Street and Rushmore Boulevard. The store was closed that morning to film the commercial. Bert was there, along with the director and his assistant who both wore trucker hats and aviator sunglasses. We filmed the first commercial in three takes. And I saw the commercial a couple of days later during coverage of a golf tournament on Channel 6.
	Since I had a velvety voice, Bert hired me not just for the television commercials but radio commercials too. I had to go to a recording studio downtown to read the weekly specials and to punctuate them with the store’s tagline: “At Regal Grocery, the shopper is royalty!”
	And thus I had a steady acting job. And in my hometown to boot. Things were grand.
 
	One afternoon I went into a bar near the studio after I finished a recording session. It was named Opie’s on Fifth in downtown Valley Heights. I walked in. A group of four men and three women in business attire were in the first booth by the door. The jukebox played a Steely Dan tune and I barely heard the group’s chatter. I did hear one of them mutter something about me as I headed to the bar.
	“I see him a lot at the Benson Towers,” one of the women said. Which was true, as that’s where the recording studio was located. “I’ve seen him around at lunch.”
	“What can I get you, buddy?” the bartender asked in a voice both gravelly and nasal.
	“I’ll have a pint of Lone Star,” I said. The bartender went back to pour the beer, then kept his eye on me.
	“Hey, I know I’ve seen you somewhere,” he muttered as he brought the glass to me. I pulled out a five dollar bill when he stopped me.
	“That’s right! You’re the Regal Grocery King, aren’t you?”
	The group turned to us as the Steely Dan song finished on the jukebox.
	“Yeah, that’s me,” I said to the bartender.
	“First round’s on the house, my liege,” the bartender replied with a bow and a throaty cackle. “Hey, that’s awesome.”
	“I appreciate it,” I replied and took a sip. I placed the five dollar bill under a coaster near the front of the bar. “Here’s a tip.”
	“Mighty kindly of you, Your Majesty,” the bartender said. “Say, tell ol’ Opie here what’s for sale next week.”
	Opie was lucky I remembered the script from the commercial voiceover I recorded an hour earlier. I decided to ham it up for him and the group in the booth, who were all now my audience.
	“Well, Opie,” I started in my most velvety tone, “at Regal Grocery this week, we have prime Grade A chuck meat, 60 cents a pound. Monarch Brand canned vegetables, buy two get one free. Monarch Brand bread, white and wheat, 50 cents a loaf. And a six pack of Lone Star beer in 12-ounce cans, this week only $4.99. And remember, at Regal Grocery, the shopper is royalty!”
	The group of business people burst into applause and cheers. Opie whistled and rang the bell behind the bar.
	“All that’s true,” I said. “Well, except for the Lone Star. I threw that in as a joke.”
	Opie’s eyes widened. “Ha! You could’ve fooled me! And here’s another one, on the house, my liege.”
 
	Bert Regal passed away in 1992. He and his brother Frank started Regal Grocery back in 1954. I starred in my first TV commercial as the Regal Grocery King in 1988. In that time I filmed new commercials every week or two, and I recorded the radio ads every week. I was paid a decent sum and had enough to buy a small townhouse on the outskirts of the Corona Hills neighborhood.
	Bert’s son Harold took over as the president of Regal Grocery, and the first thing he did in that capacity was to call me into his office.
	“Now, Paul, my father loved having you as his mascot,” Harold began. “And I want to continue that relationship, if that’s okay with you.”
	“Of course,” I said. “It was an honor working with your father. I hope it’s the same with you.”
	“That’s a given,” Harold said, then took a sip of bottled water. “Now, the reason I called you in was to let you know we plan to take the commercials in a new direction.”
	“Okay.”
	“You’ll still be part of them,” Harold said and got more animated, “but we’re going to aim these commercials to a younger demographic. We’ll have dancers, hip music, and you as the centerpiece for the first new commercial.”
	“Dancers?”
	“Yes,” Harold replied. “No, we won’t have you dance. I mean, you probably know how to dance, but what I have in mind is you standing in the middle of one of our aisles, wearing sunglasses, bobbing your head to the beat of the music.”
	“Do I use the tagline?”
	“Oh, um, no,” Harold replied. “Like I said, we’re going in a new direction. You’ll see when we start shooting it at the Dearborne location. Please show up by 8:00 a.m. This is going to be awesome!”
	“8:00 a.m., you said?”
	“Yeah. In fact, I’ll have the assistant director swing by your place and pick you up.”
	“Okay. See you tomorrow.”
 
	The assistant director, Chet, showed up on time, and we drove to the Regal Grocery on Dearborne. As soon as we walked in I heard the throbbing bass of a dance music track. A group of dancers stood by the canned foods aisle and mimed some of the steps to their routine.
	Harold Regal saw me walk in and gave me a high five.
	“Awesome! You’re here,” he said. “And you’re in the suit. Perfect. Okay, after talking with the director, we’re going to change your look slightly.”
	“Really?”
	“Yeah. So instead of the beard, we’re gonna have you with a goatee.”
	“But the beard was your dad’s idea,” I replied. “People know me as the Regal Grocery King with this beard. I don’t think a goatee will work.”
	“Trust us, it’ll work,” the director chimed in as he walked past Harold and I, then stopped to address us. “We’re going for a brand refresh. Trust us, this will look awesome.”
	I reflexively stroked my beard. I couldn’t imagine myself with a goatee. But if they want to try something new, I thought, then I suppose I’ll buy into it.
	“Okay,” I said and gave Harold an uncertain glance. “Where do I go for the shave?”
	One of the production assistants came over and walked me to the makeup table, where another assistant had the electric razor at the ready.
 
	The new commercial was shot in four takes. In each take I stood in front of the bread aisle, my arms crossed, wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses with my crown and ermine cape, and bobbing my head to the beat of the dance music in the background. On the first two takes, a couple of the dancers messed up on the choreography. On the third take, one of the extras hired to be a shopper dropped a jar of pudding and that meant we had to pause while that got cleaned up. The fourth and final take was flawless, as the director said after yelling “Cut!”
	Harold pumped his fists and ran to me. He gave me a high five and patted my back.
	“Thanks again, Paul,” he said. I nodded, still unsure of what just happened.
	As the production crew broke down the camera and lighting setups, I looked for Chet the assistant director for a ride home. I saw him over by the deli section flirting with a blonde intern. I didn’t bother him, so I walked out of the store and caught the bus.
 
	There was a small write-up about the new commercial in the Valley Heights Herald that panned the commercial as “a silly and unnecessary update of a beloved ad campaign.
	“The Regal Grocery King as a hipster figure?” asked the paper’s television critic. “With a goatee, no less. What made the original ad campaign so successful was the king had a full beard. No self-respecting grocery store monarch has a goatee. He’s a king, not a lower rung of the aristocracy. Kings with beards are imbued with wisdom and trust. This is a swing and a miss for the local grocery store chain. Hopefully they return to form with the next ad.”
	Harold called me in the afternoon.
	“I guess we’ll go back to the way things were,” he said, a slight specter of resignation in his tone. “I’m not surprised that this town wants to keep things the same forever. They’re scared of change, man. How long will it take you to grow out the beard again?”
	“Give me a couple of weeks,” I said.
	“Great. We’ll keep doing the radio ads as we’ve always done. And we’ll recut some of the old commercials, editing in the weekly specials with your voiceovers, and then show you saying the tagline. Then by the time you have your beard back we’ll shoot a new set of commercials.”
	“Sounds good to me,” I said. “And don’t beat yourself up, Mr. Regal.”
	“Please, call me Harold.”
	“Harold, don’t beat yourself up about this. When I was your age I felt the same way about this town. You’re just ahead of the curve. Your vision for the new Regal Grocery will come to fruition eventually. Give this town some time to develop that hunger for something new.”
	“Thanks, Paul. Appreciate it. So we’ll be in touch once your beard is fully grown out, right?’
	“Yes, sir.”
 
	A month later, we shot new commercials with more or less the same format as before. Harold used some mellower dance music in the background as the weekly specials were read, and we recorded a new version of me saying the tagline. Only this time my beard had some touches of grey. I felt it gave me even more gravitas, made me seem even more regal.
	After a day of shooting, I caught the bus home on Dearborne.
	“Look,” I heard a man whisper to his wife as I boarded. “It’s him.”
	I dropped the coins into the fare box, asked for and received a transfer slip from the bus driver, and found a spot near the rear doors of the bus to stand.
	I heard more whispers. I saw glances and quick peeks in my direction. They wanted to see if indeed I was who they thought I was.
	“Hey, man, say the line,” someone barked from the back of the bus.
	I pretended not to hear him. Didn’t work.
	“Come on, man,” the same voice from the back continued. “I know you can hear me.”
	A couple of riders chuckled. I said the line six times today during filming of the new commercials.
	“Come on,” the voice said again.
	“Yeah,” a woman closer to me said. “Let’s hear you.”
	I looked out the window and saw a man walking his dog along the sidewalk as the bus chugged along up Dearborne Street.
	“Say it,” a young boy said directly in front of me.
	Oh, what the heck, I thought.
	“At Regal Grocery, the shopper is royalty!” I bellowed.
	The bus burst into whistles and applause. The bus driver looked at me from the rearview mirror. He smiled.
	It’s good to be the Regal Grocery King.
","July 21, 2023 02:59","[[{'Asa P': ""I'm going to be honest. I didn't know quite where we were going with this story. The thrown in background information was at times confusing and didn't really seem necessary. It felt meandering."", 'time': '14:46 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'David Sanchez': 'Thanks for the honesty. I appreciate you taking the time to share.', 'time': '19:14 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'David Sanchez': 'Thanks for the honesty. I appreciate you taking the time to share.', 'time': '19:14 Jul 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",j7idtc,Dry Sense,Rachel Lione,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/j7idtc/,/short-story/j7idtc/,Dialogue,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Bedtime', 'Friendship']",7 likes,"
Sensitive Themes:Reference to man genital which was not meant as a derogatory term towards men! I accidentally spelled it that way or it autocorrected wrong which happpens constantly.Homosexual (sexual orientations)Mild poor language for humorModel stereotype (I don't like this one)Drunkenness and reference to brain on drugs (egg in pan)Naked, private areas boobs, butt, reference to being too fat when not (if anyone is anyone is offended by any of this I understand if I get in trouble. I have body image problems too. I'm a single mom I don't date!I did this at the end and I'm really sorry!I did it fast and it's inappropriate. Most inappropriate piece I've written.Behind The Scenes (Reedsy Prompts) by Rachel Anne LioneCut!"" ""Nice method acting Nicky, how did you do that?"" ""Shhhh, can you keep asecret?"" ""Are you kidding me!"" ""We've been friends on andoff stage for seven years so spill!"" ""Alright my mom taught me when Iwas a kid,"" Nicky said to Jack. ""For real your mom taught you how tomethod act, that's slick man!"" ""No slick, I can keep a secret.""""I don't tell anyone what, when, who, or how, need I go on?"" Nope,your twisted mind just fried my brain into eggs once again."" ""I'mquestioning why I redirect you like the genius friend I am after cut to saveyou from boring yourself all night with your girlfriend!"" ""Except youtold me six months ago that because she sucks you in with some promise of, Idon't want to know again!"" ""I've blocked that picture of what yousaid out of my mind and please, I'm begging you Nicky don't show me her nakedbody in every position again you know I'm a homosexual."" Yet again if shejust has a body but no brains, interest, or even a clue of what you do, or howmuch blood, sweat, and tears you put into your craft,"" ""What areyou doing man?""""You’re wasting away your prime and you can't savethat shit for later like leftovers!"" ""You never cheat, she's alwayscomplaining you won't sleep with her, and she don't know why because she's arich famous model and a so-called ten."" ""I can just imagine how shewhines,"" ""I just don't get it Nicky baby am I too fat, is my buttflabby, or are my boobs too small!"" ""Nicky, I'm just telling youstraight up, it's time to move on to someone you can build a life with!""""No, no, no, not the whole family talk again!"" ""Are you reallygoing to give me the wife and kids lecture for the rest of our friendship hereon this God forsaken green and blue planet we call earth!"" It's just notfor me,"" said Nicky.""Jack we are next up get ready."" ""Ohno, what scene is next,"" says Jack."" ""Oh my God, it's ourbedtime scene!"" ""No, not what I wanted to hear!"" ""They aretremendously challenging!"" ""Remember watch yourself don't be gettingany feelings for me!"" ""Nope never going to happen I have so muchrespect for you, my best friend I know you’re not homosexual and I would nevertake advantage of you like that!"" ""Take it easy killer I was justjoshing you bro,"" said Nicky!""""Nicky, Jack, there's going to be about a three-hour delay, you up for it,"" said Richard, the director. ""In it to win it, you know how we do Richard! ""Beats going home right Nicky?"" ""You too man?"" ""I'm sorry!"" ""None of us mind Nicky as long as it keeps you happy!"" ""However, need to shit or get off the pot so to speak!"" Richard walks out stage left as he says, ""don't forget just call me Dick"" and laughs! They all laugh as heshuts the door and Nicky and Jack dig into some of their favorite snacks. Theylook at the alcohol mini-fridge and with eerie wide grins make a mad dash tosee who can get the last Pride Cocktail first but, to their surprise Jack tookthe initiative of filling the mini-fridge full of Pride Cocktails! Nicky andJack roll on the floor laughing so hard for close to ten minutes! They justcouldn't contain their laughter it was acted out perfect on this stagehere in this area of the world.In this moment it was perfect and the best friends just let that laughter out. In this day and age, you never know how many more moments like these you will have so best drop them if you got them! Drop those beats, take that vacation, take the new job, and buy the new house! So, Nicky and Jack get their Pride Cocktails and Nicky looks at Jack and says, ""let's practice in the bed from beginning to cut several times."" Jack agrees so they move to the bed scene.""Jack I just want to thank you for being one of the best friends I could ever ask for!"" ""Honestly you have saved me from my misery at home every workday without fail dude how many people can say that right dog."" ""I was in a similar position beforewith no friend so to speak."" ""I feel Jesus put me in your life to help me heal that dark period of my life."" ""Also thank you for not ever hitting on me out of respect I appreciate that!"" ""That would've been awkward."" ""If I were gay, you would be the first one, I'd call.""One thing we need to talk about, ok?"" ""Yeah what."" Yourgirl, she's using you for your money for your fame, she's been riding thattrain to stay famous and I couldn't find the words to tell you but felt youknew anyway but didn't care."" ""That's where you're wrong, I docare!"" ""She's fading and she's riding you out and one more thing, doyou give her money, credit cards, or access to your accounts because she knowsit's coming!"" ""Make sure she isn't stealing from you or openingcredit cards in your name etc. alright cause that's what's next!"" ""Igot hit bad!"" ""But you know me I fall flat on my face bounce rightback up and not a broken bone, bruise, or scratch!"" ""Nicky, guys andgirls, people of any sexual orientation, and people of any race be doing thatshit!"" They hate and discriminate ""Robbing people blind before theexpected end."" "" Yeah, I know I've been thinking hard lately aboutwide variety of the details of my life.""Jack then asked Nicky, ""what do you truly want out of life once you tell me then I canguide you down the right path."" ""Because you talk about what you don't want so,what is it you want out of life is it the fame, money, acknowledgement, andawards? ""That's all awesome but I want to be with someone who hassubstance, who gets me, understands my goals, and helps me grow as a personinstead of ripping me apart and digging a hole for me to fall in then pour dirton me and bury me!"" They both cried and laughed at the same time whicheventually turned into a roar of laughter sounding like lions. Dick checked inthen exited Stage left!""You know what Jack I'm breaking up with her after I check the damages and get back what she has stolen."" ""My gut instinct is feeling like it's a tremendous amount."" ""How about one more Pride Cocktail?"" ""I'll take one more, damn right I will!""As they drank their last intoxicating Pride Cocktail, they felt the completedrunkenness and started laughing because they were about to enter stage rightand were discussing how they were going to remember their lines and laughedeven harder! So, they get up and hug cause after COVID it's rare to find a friendto hug and they walked off stage left.CUT! ""Great Job, said Dick! ""One take and done!"" ""One and done unlike the PrideCocktales!"" Rachel Anne Lione03/15/1981Ides of March Sensitive subjects
","July 21, 2023 11:17",[]
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",z9ey42,An actress acting out.,Lize-Mari De Bod,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/z9ey42/,/short-story/z9ey42/,Dialogue,0,"['Drama', 'Mystery', 'Suspense']",7 likes,"
“Cut!”
The director gives a frustrated sigh while shaking his head. 
“Madison, you have to say ‘I’m not so sure about this, let’s leave.’ Please stick to the script.”
Madison Hamilton does not look impressed with the director telling her what to do. 
“Fine, just give me a minute.” 
“Hey! You can’t just leave when you please!”
Madison does not hear a word and charges forward to the trailer. The director pinches his nose as if anticipating a headache. The whole crew look at him in expectation. “Everyone take five!”
The crew start to disperse and leave their stations for the short break. “Now that is how it’s done. When I say you can take five.” Director Norris mumbles under his breath. He really thought that working with her would be alright. Never would he have expected her to be so… a Drama queen. The rumours said she was a wonderful actress and a true artist in her craft. Some say she was a bit tricky, but where there is a rumour there is bound to be some sort of truth. There are many actors who are brilliant, but horrible to work with. This is the third day of shooting on set and it’s already like this…
Norris proceeds to the coffee table then eyeing the donuts and thinking he should not. His coffee is already poured and he slowly adds creamer to still stare at the donuts. 
“I heard that on the set of ‘The Waking’ she a nightmare!” the makeup artist, Sharon takes her coffee, but leaves the donuts.
“How so? What did she do?”
“Oh my soul is there anything that she did not do?! She changed the lines in every scene as she saw fit according to how she thought then she spit in her makeup artists face. Also she had this huge temper tantrum and through over one of the lights, but luckily no one was hurt.”
“What?! Are you serious?!” Carol from costumes looks absolutely stunned by this news.
“Yup, so now I am scared to death she might do something to me so I just have to be nice and does what she asks or else.”
“It’s really strange… Madison has always played these pure and innocent roles. She plays the damsel in destress or the kind cheerleader. My favourite role of hers was in Princess Amelia where she put her people’s needs before hers to save her country.”
“Well, that was one of her first roles. I think after her big break she started to get full of herself, but the role that someone play is not who they are. It’s just a role.” Sharon takes a donut and shoves it into her mouth after her testimony. 
Director Norris also gives in and takes a donut as well. So there you have it from a kind and much loved princess to the cruel Drama Queen.
“Uhm…Director?” He looks up and sees Carol’s soft eyes.
“If I may ask… was Madison your first choice to play this role?” She asks so softly as if asking how he coping after his dog’s unexpected death or something.
Director Norris scoffs at the question more rudely than intended. “No! I wanted Carmen McCarthy to play the role.” It came out more rude and loud than expected. 
“Oh my soul I love her! She would have fit so well with this role.”
“I know. That’s why I choose her, but she never answered her call again and the studio pushed me to stick with the dates and start shooting.”
“I heard Carmen is missing.”
“What? Missing?”
“Yes, it was on the news this morning. It’s just simply awful.”
“Gosh it is… I hope they find her. The police will probably do her part and now we must do ours. Let’s start filming again.”
Director Norris proceeds to Madison’s trailer. He stands in front of the door, but hesitant to knock for a moment then he hears her voice inside. 
“This was your idea! Your bad idea! Thanks for getting me this role, but now they are going to start asking questions!”
There is a moment of silence as the caller on the other end of the line speaks. 
“My doing?! My fault?! It was your idea! I did not know that is what you meant?!”
There is another quick pause. 
“I needed this role if I could be actress of the year again! Besides it was technically an accident what happened to her! How was I supposed to know she would trip?”
The caller on the other line replies for the longest moment thus far and then ends the call without Madison even getting the chance to say goodbye. 
Madison is quiet in the trailer after the call. The time has come and no longer should there be paused or contemplated and knocks. “Madison! It’s time to go on again!”
“I’m not ready!”
Director Norris gives a deep sigh. They are on a tight schedule. Maybe she is going through a tough time, but then he will have to encourage her. “I’m coming in.”
Without thinking too much his hand is on the door handle and he opens. She has no time to answer. Her expression changes like the seasons. First she is shocked with her mouth slightly open an expression you hardly ever see on her. Next is the scowl of a six year old after they could not have a toy. Once director Norris enters her expression softens again this time the most unexpected expression. 
Fear?
It does not matter the show must go on. “Madison, please we need to start shooting again I want to be done with this scene now so that we can move onto the kissing scene. The studio is pressing us for time. I am sorry for barging in and taking out stress on you as the studio puts their stress on me, but we need to go.” With the script in his hand he gestures to the trailers open door. She looks surprised and caught off guard, but also nervous. No surprise with being nervous her trailer is amess. The smell… oh the smell…
The director’s eyes meet the empty can of tuna, but it must have been standing there a while. The trailer does smell of reeking tuna, but a deeper stench has layered is as well. It’s a smell of rot and decay. Who knew that tuna left out could make such an unpleasant aroma. 
For the first time ever Madison jumps to a command and aims to leave the trailer and continue filming as the director wishes. She shoos the director out the door to make her exit. Madison turns around and closes the door proceeding to lock it. A habit she had since filming began. On set she says her lines without a stutter or a pause to argue. 
“Sir, here is the ball gown for the kissing scene.” Carol gleams as she shows the baby pink silk gown with delicate flowers of the rim of an open neckline.
“Oh Carol! You have done it again!” Thank heavens something has worked and now things are looking up. 
“Thanks sir.” Carol gleams with pride at the director’s awe for her hard work. “I’ll go put it in her trailer.” She turns, but he stops her. 
“Just please remove that tuna can. I don’t want that stench soaking up into your artwork, Carol.” She nods and proceeded to leave again, but is once again stopped. “You know what just take the cleaning crew with you. Here is the master key.” A tangle and jingle of keys is handed to her. She nods and takes the keys to deliver the dress. The key slides into the trailer’s lock smoothly and with a turn opens. As the door opens the odour meets them. Since her pregnancy she has become more sensitive sense of smell. 
“Oh dear heavens,” she squints as she smells. “Let’s go ladies.” Two of the cleaning staff members follow. The tuna can was pushed over the side of the table into the trash can. Bit by bit the clutter was moved and organized. The windows were opened for fresh air and the floor was swept all while the cast was filming the expected movie of the year. The smell still clung to the air after tuna can was removed. The bathroom was opened to be cleaned, but the ominous smell origins was not there. One cleaning staff member scrubbed the toilet and the other swept the floor. The smell was annoying Carol to the brink. As a mother of two boys she MUST find the origin of the smell. Is it a half-eaten sandwich under the bead? 
Or did another rat get where they did not belong and die? She looks under the bead, but there is nothing only dirty socks. She looks behind the dressing table, but only finds a makeup brush and makeup pallet. 
Sharon opens the closet door for the ball gown. The closet door creaked open, but with some resistance as something as been blocking it form inside. A mannequin topples out onto the floor. The mannequin flopped to the carpet floor like a rag doll and lands facing upwards and that is when she sees it. 
It is not a mannequin. Carmen McCarthy is sprawled on the trailer floor and still and peaceful like sleeping beauty. On her forehead is a red smear of blood. Her blue eyes are closed, but sunken in and grey. Her once flawless skin is a greenish blue and blisters has formed as gas has built up inside the dead body. Carmen’s slim figure has swollen grossly. No matter how different she looks its definitely her. 
Carmen McCarthy is found dead in Madison Hamilton’s trailer. The screams stopped filming and everything erupted into chaos. Bright stage lights have left the scene and replaced by blue and red sirens. 
Another face took the centre stage, but not and actress. “Reporting live from Fantasia studios we are here witnessing a shocking turn of events. Missing actress Carmen McCarthy has been found, but unfortunately dead.”
The word dead felt like a car breaking to a halt or someone punching you in the stomach. It was said so seriously and blunt. 
“She was found in her rival’s trailer and the suspect, Madison Hamilton will be taken into custody to start in investigation.” 
The pieces fell together. Why Carmen never called. How Madison got the part as the second choice.
Why the trailer had the smell of decay and how Madison did not want director Norris to enter. She made him leave as quickly as possible and was locking the trailer with reason. 
 An actress acting out after she did not get what she wanted and she almost go away with it. 
Director Norris held Carol in his arms. She was in shock and awfully traumatized after finding her favourite star dead. “I knew Madison was spoilt, but I never thought she would do this.”
“’There are only two tragedies in life: one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it.’ Oscar Wilde.” He said it so softly. He was absolutely disgusted with Madison. On the phone she said it was an accident and that she tripped, but then why hide the body if not guilty? 
Many things were uncertain. Will the movie run again and recast? Will the studio move the dates? Who will they cast now?
One thing was for certain after Madison’s reputation she would never act again….
","July 21, 2023 11:58",[]
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",g5dqvs,Silencing The Director,Madeline Honig,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/g5dqvs/,/short-story/g5dqvs/,Dialogue,0,"['Horror', 'Fiction', 'Thriller']",7 likes,"
“Cut!”  Marcus screamed from his director’s chair.  “You have it all wrong.  You need to say it with conviction.  You are not saying it as though you mean it.  I want to feel it.”  Marcus barked, holding his hand up as if to grasp a ceiling light bulb.  He turned to Kirk, the cinematographer of the film, “who hired this bimbo?”  Marcus turned back to the crew patting down his slicked back black hair, “let’s take five.”  He then turned back to the actress on stage, “except for you, sweetheart.  I want you to stay right here and think about how you are going to give me a better performance that I can believe.” 
 
Julie Simmons was anything but a bimbo or a sweetheart.  She had been working steadily as an actor for well over a decade and the industry even nominated her for an Emmy.  But this was her first time working for the famed director, Marcus Tilder.  
 
When the Opportunity arose, she was excited.  It was a period piece that took place at a castle in a rural part of Scotland with Marcus Tilder.  In preparation, she studied all his films and read his biography before she came to the set.  She was ready for what Marcus Tilder had in store for her but the experience did not meet her expectations.  
 
He isolated her from the rest of the cast and crew. On her scenes, he would force her to film more takes than was necessary. He constantly criticized her acting, even mocking her during one of her scenes.  She had never once heard him call her by her name, it was always sweetheart and sugar.  And worst of all, he kept changing her lines on the script blaming her poor performances.  The project was scheduled to stop filming in three weeks, but Julie didn’t know if she could last in this position for that long.  Working with Marcus Tilder was torture of the worst kind.  
 
Julie stood in the center of the castle-like set, unsure of what to do with herself.  She clasped her hands together to keep from fidgeting and bit her lip to keep from making faces, reminding herself that she was a good actress.  This was not the first time he forced her to stand in an awkward setting, alone. Her thoughts around her own acting ability swirled as her thoughts turned to fantasizing about the death of Marcus Tilder.  
 
She fantasized about the lights coming crashing down on his head smashing him to pieces.  She pictured the prop gun being filled with real bullets as her co star shot it, landing a bullet smack dab in the center of Marcus’ chest.  She thought about him choking on the catered ham croissant sandwich he insisted on having every day at lunch.   She no longer cared about this project, she wanted it done, and the cherry on top would include the demise of Marcus Tilder, so he could never degrade another actress again.
 
As the cast and crew gathered back over to the set, Julie tensed up.  She felt confident in her acting skills, but she knew Marus would make her do the scene again and again, just as he had done for all the scenes before.  Julie rubbed at her temples.
 
“Remember, I need you to say the line with conviction.  Let’s start again.” Marcus said.
 
The clapper ran out to where Julie was standing, raising the clapper for the camera to see, “take twelve.”
 
“Action,” Marcus said.
 
“Stay away from me.  Don’t hurt me,” Julie backed up as was directed in the script.  
 
“Cut!  I guess that will have to do.” 
 
As evening descended and the filming for the day had ceased, the cast and crew congregated for a communal meal. Typically, Marcus would insist that Julie dine in solitude within the confines of her room. However, on this night, an unusual shift occurred, and Marcus appeared indifferent to her dining arrangements. Seizing the chance, Julie partook in the company of the group.
 
Dinner was in a spacious and inviting area, adorned with rustic wooden tables in a cozy arrangement. Soft, warm lighting cascaded from above, casting a gentle glow. Laughter and animated conversations resonated throughout the space, alongside the clinking of cutlery and glasses. It was a brief respite from the pressures of the set, a chance for the cast and crew to connect, share stories, and temporarily escape the intensity of their work.
 
“You really are doing a fantastic job,” Clair, one of the makeup artists on set, said to Julie, touching her arm lightly.  Julie smiled in response and she realized that was the first nice thing anyone had said to her since they started filming. 
 
Julie spotted Marcus and her smile faded.
 
“What is she doing here?” He whispered to Kirk. 
 
Julie was done with Marcus’s gaslighting and manipulation.  She had had enough.  She stared at him with daggers in her eyes as she took a seat at the large table.  She watched him as she ate, praying that a piece of meat would lodge in his throat, causing him to choke.  But she had no such luck.
 
As people began to descend back to their rooms and the room grew sparse, Julie noticed Marcus stand and walked toward the bathroom, Julie followed him, stopping briefly at the abandoned carving station to collect the large kitchen knife.  She followed him into the men’s restroom where he stood over the middle urinal humming to himself.
 
She raised the knife in anticipation as if she was Norman Bates in “Psycho”.  When she brought the knife down and into Marcus’s back, she did not expect the strength it would take to make the knife go in far enough to feel reassured he was dead.  
 
She stood longer than necessary holding the knife, unsure of her next move.  This was not a premeditated action.  Only an action of necessity in her mind.
 
She escaped the bathroom, heading towards the castle bedrooms where the cast and crew were staying.  As she climbed the stairs, she heard a man’s scream that sounded like Kirk.  Followed by the sound of bustling people.  Julie had to get away.  She had just killed one of the greatest directors of all time. 
 
Julie reached her room on the fourth floor, her heart pounding in her chest. She knew she had to hasten her next move. Without hesitation, she packed the suitcase and rushed to the parking lot, throwing it into her white rental car. The adrenaline coursing through her veins masked any doubts or remorse. All she could think about was escape.
 
As she drove away from the set and the chaotic aftermath of her actions, a mix of emotions consumed Julie. She was relieved to be free from Marcus's torment, and relieved to free any other poor actress from his torment, but the weight of her actions weighed heavily on her conscience. The gravity of what she had done sank in, and the reality of being a fugitive dawned upon her.
 
She was in rural Scotland, a part of the world she was unfamiliar with.  What were her options?  Where could she go?  Getting on a plane was out of the question?  Do boats look for fugitives too?  Would she never see her Pomeranian, Bitsy, ever again?  
 
Julie drove into the night.  Where she would end up she did not know. 
 
","July 21, 2023 16:07",[]
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",de9zj3,THE COLOR OF THE BLOOD,Mara Masolini,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/de9zj3/,/short-story/de9zj3/,Dialogue,0,"['Fiction', 'Suspense']",6 likes,"
 THE COLOR OF THE BLOOD
“ CUT!” said the director .” This scene is too full of objects ( things).”  “ And there’s also too much blood” the set designer intervened. It was the set of the film “ Domestic Murder” Two blooded corpses lay on the floor of a room full of vacuum cleaners, refrigerators, cabinets, and overturned drawers. The head of one of the corpses had been severed and was enthroned on the table. “ I would say we went too far with the blood,” the set designer said. He had a worried face. “ Okey, now let’s take a break,” the director said. “ And then we must set up the accident scene”  “ Even in the accident scene there is too much blood “ the still photographer intervened. “ Oh, blood flows freely in this film. Too much blood”
“ But ours is a film that has to show the violence that breaks out among the tenants of an apartment building. It must strike, shock and blood is fundamental for the visual impact( it has).”
“ But Charles so it will become a horror film” Frank, the set designer objected. “ And you said it has not to be a horror film” “ I agree with Frank. In my opinion, you should have focused more on the psychological violence “ Peter, the still photographer said. 
“ Oh, in short, the director is me and if I don’t want to make a horror film I don’t even want to make a psychological thriller. People ask for strong emotions and I try to satisfy them. After all, ours is a damned job, even a thankless one. But remember that here I’m the director and I have the last word!” Charles said, getting up.  “ If anything…I find that the paint we use as blood is too bright red. We should try something else…maybe real blood”
“ Charles, are you crazy? Where could we find it ( real blood)?” Frank said, frightened.
“ Oh, we could find it at the slaughterhouses…Look, you Paul go immediately to see if they can get us some fresh blood. Of course, we need a large quantity of blood and it won’t be easy to get it “ Charles said thoughtfully and Paul, who was the property finder, made a shocked, even frightened face. “ Oh, then we need to contact other companies for the supply of paints and I want here that painter…oh, I can’t think of the name…however that one who was called the Caravaggio of the 2000s” 
“ He is Dick Madison,” Frank said “ But right now he is abroad”
“ Then bring me his assistant!” Charles ordered, sealing his order with a clap of his hands.
Those were very difficult days for the filming of “ Domestic Murders”. The actor who played the main character had to be replaced at the last moment and the assistant director had fallen ill and could not be present for the shoot. 
Paul returned from the slaughterhouse where he had managed to get a single bottle of blood from an attendant who had sold it to him at a high price and in secret because following the protest of the animal rights associations it was forbidden to use the blood of the slaughtered animals.  Finding the famous painter’s assistant hadn’t been easy either for Frank.  And when he finally found him the young man didn’t want to go to the set where the director was waiting impatiently for him. Frank managed to convince him by giving him a large sum of money. But he was rather reluctant to give information on the type, the quality and the combination of colors his master used for the reds. He began by saying it was a secret that Dick Madison had ordered him not to reveal to anyone under any circumstances.  Then Charles, very agitated asked him for Dick Madison’s phone, in order to get in touch with him, but he couldn’t find him. 
The director was exasperated and very worried. He started to shout “ Damnation,  how can I do now? I urgently need to consult him, for all the devils! “ And he kept yelling at Dick Madison: “ “Where the fuck is that motherfucking son of a bitch with his secrets? I’m willing to pay him his secrets by weight in gold!” Everyone was embarrassed and also frightened by the outburst of the director who, still cursing Dick Madison and his assistant started kicking the stage where the workers were setting up the accident scene, which in part had to be shot outdoors. A big truck would have run over a boy on a bicycle. The boy and also the bicycle would have ended up squashed on the asphalt. There would have been blood in this scene too and Charles was all taken up with the concern of finding…the right blood, that is the color of the paint which could have the most effect. However, he didn’t want to resort to a too-bright color. He was looking for a color that could give the sensation of blood on the asphalt. The asphalt would be soaked in blood, it would absorb the blood but here and there had also to be splatters of blood that hadn’t been absorbed. The furious director was looking for a burnished red with flashes of fire. When he finally stopped ranting against Dick Madison and also kicking everything and everyone ___even his collaborators and workers ___ he began to try to experiment to find the color of blood he wanted. He was looking for colors that were at the same time realistic but also evocative, that is, he wanted them to accentuate the characteristic of the colors of the human blood when it is poured and impregnate a material such as asphalt. Assisted by the still photographer, the screenwriter, and the set designer he tried and tried again to add the most diverse dyes to the corn syrup. But, damn it, he couldn’t get the colors, the reds, he wanted.  In addition to the chemical dyes, he tried to add the color obtained by boiling the walnut leaves and reducing the walnut husk to a pulp. He tried coffee and cocoa mixed with boiled banana peels. The backstage looked like an alchemist's office or a witch cave. No way, he couldn’t find the color of the blood he was looking for. Even the still photographer was working hard to get the color they wanted.  Hours passed and their efforts kept failing to achieve the desired color.
Night came. It was a full moon night and under the light of the moon, the red blood absorbed by the asphalt with a few splashes of redder blood that hadn’t been absorbed was obtained as if by a miracle. 
 
","July 21, 2023 23:44","[[{'C. Charles': 'Creepy! The thought of using animal blood for a film is so sinister and I’m sure something many intense directors have tried over the years.\n\nNice work!', 'time': '17:53 Aug 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mara Masolini': 'THANK YOU CHARLES', 'time': '06:19 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'C. Charles': 'My pleasure!', 'time': '12:09 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mara Masolini': 'THANK YOU CHARLES', 'time': '06:19 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'C. Charles': 'My pleasure!', 'time': '12:09 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'C. Charles': 'My pleasure!', 'time': '12:09 Aug 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",rk6icv,It Was All An Act,Danielle Azoulay,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/rk6icv/,/short-story/rk6icv/,Dialogue,0,"['Fiction', 'Mystery', 'Suspense']",6 likes,"
“Cut!”
Before the director’s mouth had fully closed, Alura violently shoved her co-star, shattering their fabricated, heartfelt embrace.
Alec Sharpe jumped back, nearly tripping over a prop stool.
The camera crew maintained their usual poker face, turning their curious eyes towards the six-foot-two heartthrob.
“Was that necessary?” he whispered through gritted teeth.
Alura’s wide-eyed, innocent stare shifted into that of a hungry rattlesnake.
“I told you we were doing my idea and you ignored me.” 
She smirked, her large, plump lips stretching wide. It could’ve been mistaken for a friendly smile, if you didn’t know who you were dealing with.
Reed Wills, a seasoned director, chuckled.
“She’s right, collaboration is the key to success!” 
Alec glared at them.
“Unbelievable! Seriously, why-”
The starlet placed her freshly manicured hands delicately on her curvy hips and pivoted towards her dressing room. 
The sound of America’s lead man complaining about her made her giggle with satisfaction.
This was the casual life of Alura Raine, though she had achieved that special level of stardom to now be known only by her first name.
She paused in front of a heavy wooden door, stained a chestnut-stained mahogany and engraved directly with her initials.
“AMELIA!” she screeched.
The short, nervous girl came running up hastily behind her, out of breath.
“Hi Alura.” 
She waved with the hand holding her little spiral notepad decorated with kitten stickers.
The starlet scowled.
“Why is my dressing room not prepared?” she spat.
Amelia blinked rapidly through her circular frames.
She carefully took a step in front of her boss, turning the doorknob with a shaky hand.
Rows of crystal bulbs lit the spacious room from above with a warm, ambient lighting guaranteed to give Alura the perfect selfie every time. 
The walls were freshly repainted in cream with gilded accents and resting atop her fur carpet was a matching couch the color of wheat with gold detailing.
Alura saw this space as her ambiance. Amelia saw it as a horror to clean.
“Everything is ready, I was just waiting for you to finish-”
“Yeah, I don’t really care,” Alura said coldly.
The timid assistant spent the next hour practicing lines with Alura, watching anxiously as she ripped open PR packages stuffed with high-end cosmetics, proceeding to dump them carelessly onto her silk throw. 
“You know, you would make a pretty decent actress,” Alura mused.
Amelia beamed. 
“Thank you, Alura!”
She had no idea what this meant to her.
Alura shot her a syrupy sweet smile.
“I bet if you were born to a wealthy family, got a LOT of work done, and learned how to dress yourself, you could have stood a chance.”
Amelia sighed.
Finally, the clock hit six pm, time to leave the studio.
“Remember, you have to walk off the set with Alec today, as per your contract,” Amelia reminded her, checking something off in her notebook.
“Whatever,” Alura sighed, click-clacking her little black heels towards Alec’s dressing room.
For the next three hours of Alura’s day, paparazzi “accidentally” stumbled upon her handing out groceries to the homeless, and caught her having a deep, heartfelt conversation with a fan; the young eager girl was camping out in front of the Crown Hotel where Alura had been living since she began filming.
Conveniently, paparazzi had missed her throwing over a planter because “it had an odd number of daisies in it,” ripping up a large stack of fan mail that had been collected from her PO Box, and the big one of the day: kicking a bodega cat because it was “ugly.”
Amelia continued to subtly mark off her checklist to make sure she hadn’t missed anything.
“Your appearance on Good Morning World is tomorrow at seven, so Stevie and Marlo will be there at four to get you ready,” she reminded.
Alura, busy staring at a newsstand with magazines covered in her face, hummed a disinterested “Mmm Hmm.”
The following day, Alura’s interview went exactly as planned. The actress flounced onto the set in a little red dress, which perfectly complimented her big, honey-blonde curls. 
She embraced each host in a warm, floral hug and laughed with them about silly topics like trying to wake up early, and how cute her dog was when he wanted her to take him for a walk.
Too bad they didn’t know her dog was rented.
At one point, Alura’s bodyguard, Randy, was called up on stage to talk about what a pleasure it was to work for such a talented, lovely young woman.
Once the moon was visible in the sky, Randy and Amelia dropped off Alura in front of her penthouse door.
“We’ll be over around ten tomorrow, enjoy your night!” Amelia said cheerfully.
Randy just blinked, stoic as marble.
Alura rolled her eyes, slamming the door in their face.
 
Once inside the penthouse, she stripped bare and slipped into a brand new robe made of pink satin, chucking the personalized note from the designer onto the floor.
Making her way to the crushed obsidian velvet couch, she whipped out her phone and hungirly started searching her name online.
Should Harley Blue Have Been Cast in “Loving You Blindly” Instead of Alura?
Alura Copies Harley Blue’s Little Red Dress For Talk Show Interview
Is Alec Sharpe Leaving Alura For Harley Blue?
Alura slammed her phone down on the couch angrily. 
“What does anyone see in that gothic-looking nepotism baby?” she growled.
She contemplated texting some well-connected friends in the industry to see if they could go out next week. That would quell some of these rumors. 
As she picked up her phone, a new text alert flashed.
A little birdy told me you’ve been bad
From, Unknown. 
Alura cackled.
“OooOOoh!”
Her finger hovered over the delete button, but just then, another text came through.
See for yourself-
A video emerged underneath. Alura would have had enough common sense not to click the link, if she hadn’t seen the thumbnail.
She watched the video once, then twice, then three more times, frozen in place.
Her green eyes darkened like they were about to flood with tears.
“How the hell did they get this?!” she breathed.
Her fear suddenly metamorphosed into anger and she started typing furiously.
Delete this video immediately and forget my number, or my lawyers will be contacting you.
The texter responded almost instantly.
By then it’ll be too late, your reputation will be in shambles. 
Rabidly, she tapped Call, her frenzied fingers starting to shake. 
A busy signal blared through, almost mocking her.
“Too scared to talk to me, huh?!” she shouted at the screen.
No sooner than she had said these words, did a piercing ring erupt from the phone. 
The noise jolted her. She threw the device back onto the couch, staring nervously, before picking up on the last ring.
“What do you want? Money?” she asked.
The voice that answered was deep and robotic, masked by some sort of computer interference.
“You have three days to announce your retirement, or I’ll make sure the world knows exactly who you are,” the colorless voice drawled.
Alura rolled her eyes.
“At the peak of my career? No, I’ll be calling the police instead.”
“Go ahead, the video will be leaked before they find my IP address. And you’ll be ruined,” the voice stated smugly.
“So what, either way I lose? I don’t think so.”
It ignored her, drumming on in the unsettling dull tone.
“You have three days to publicly announce your retirement. I don’t care if it’s on social media, or at one of your high profile events. Don’t tell anyone about this. I’ll know if you do. You never know who’s watching.” 
“Who the hell is this?”
The call went silent.
Just for a second, there was a rustling sound in the other room and she whipped her head around manically, but everything lay still.
Alura looked harrowed for a moment, then regained her usual composure.
“Just relax, they’re trying to scare you. It’s a stupid prank, I’m sure I can have someone wipe the video off the face of the Earth. I’m Alura Raine,” she reminded herself as she ran hot water into the large, porcelain clawfoot tub.
She sank down into the steam, her long legs delicately crossed atop the surface of the water.
Suddenly, everything went black.
Alura screamed, her unsteady hands gripping the edge of the tub to pull herself up. She stumbled onto the floor, hitting her knee against the chair.
And then, the room lit up again, looking as still as before.
Alura looked down.
The water in the tub was cherry red, splattered everywhere. Crimson droplets decorated her skin, dripping like blood onto the marble floor. She scanned her body. Nothing wounds, only a small bruise forming where she had banged her knee.
Then she noticed something floating above the water, the remnants of a bath bomb. She grabbed it, staining her hands with vermillion pigment, and noticed a piece of paper sticking out. 
I’M WATCHING YOU
Alura let out an ear piercing scream.
END OF DAY ONE
Alura’s staff were surprised to find her penthouse empty the next morning, and further surprised that she had chosen to downgrade to a suite closer to the hotel entrance.
“It was much cozier,” she said with a sweet grin.
But something was off, and Amelia noticed it right away.
The starlet’s usually glowing complexion seemed a bit duller, and she had dark bags underneath her eyes. 
Even her usually glossy hair was lackluster, sticking up in random spots.
Amelia cleared her throat.
“Alura, um, I was informed of your…incident last night.”
Alura’s head snapped up.
“You were?” she asked inquisitively.
Amelia nodded carefully.
“Yes, and I just wanted to apologize. I had no idea we had sent over red bath bombs for your hotel, that must have been very scary.”
She waited for Alura’s usual temper tantrum over her occasional slip-ups, but instead, she stood still.
“That’s alright,” she answered calmly, “I’m just embarrassed.”
Alura’s face was glued to her phone the entire morning, and she almost tripped walking onto set.
“Looks like sleeping beauty woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” Alec chastised.
Alura glared at him, but remained silent.
 What if it was him? 
She looked around. It could be anyone. Someone knew her secret.
From the other side of the room, she thought she saw something move, and her eyes quickly fixated on the darkness.
“Alura.”
She reluctantly turned back to the set.
“I really need your attention, we’re going to start filming now,” Reed said, in the soft, yet urgent tone he often took with her.
She tried to flash him her usual blinding smile, but her mouth faltered and it turned into a grimace.
Alura snapped into character, grabbing Alec’s hands passionately.
“My love, I really missed you. Do you really have to leave for France next week?”
Alec pulled her closer, his eyes burning into hers. 
“I don’t want to leave you again,” he whispered, then reluctantly pulled away.
“What is it?” Alura asked, tears pricking her emerald eyes.
Alec opened his mouth to answer, when suddenly, something came plummeting down from the ceiling and landed between them with a large crash. 
It had just missed Alura’s stretched out arm, and she jumped back in horror.
“Cut, CUT!” Reed called, dashing onto set with a few crewmembers. 
“Looks like one of the lighting fixtures had a missing bolt,” the tech crew called from above.
Amelia dashed over.
“Alura, are you alright?” she called, waving a hand in front of her face.
Alura stood staring at the fixture on the ground. 
Her body felt heavy, like she would topple over if she moved.
“Let’s get her out of here, bring her to her dressing room,” Reed ordered, “I’ll send for the paramedics.”
Alec rolled his eyes.
“What a drama queen,” he snickered, brushing dust from the fixture off of his costume.
Alura sat in her dressing room, suddenly feeling like the walls were closing in on her.
 “You’re set to receive an award at the Oscars tomorrow. Someone on the judge’s panel tipped me off. Do you want me to cancel your appearance?” Amelia asked quietly.
Alura was frozen, but managed to let the word escape her mouth.
“No.”
END OF DAY TWO
The third day had arrived. Alura had pulled an all-nighter, watching the room and weighing her options.
She dressed herself in a large, crumpled white t-shirt, gray sweatpants, and slides. She didn’t bother checking her face or hair in the mirror. She knew she looked horrible.
Her thoughts were solidified by Amelia’s less-than-subtle gasp when she opened the door at nine am.
“Good morning!…are you-aren’t you going to get dressed?” she asked softly.
“I am dressed,” Alura responded coldly, slipping on a large pair of sunglasses.
“It’s just that, there’s paparazzi right outside, and-”
“So what?” Alura snapped.
“It’s my job to make sure-”
“It’s your job to make sure the paparazzi don’t take my picture, how about that.”
Amelia nodded quickly. 
“Alright, let’s see if we can leave from another entrance.”
She started quickly typing on her phone.
Somehow, they had avoided the cameramen and made it to their car. The ride to the awards show took an hour.
 Amelia fidgeted in her seat.
“What’s the matter, do you think I’m going to make you look bad?” Alura snorted.
“No, of course not!”​
The hair and makeup team nearly dropped to the floor when Alura sauntered in. With a high hold hairspray and heavy concealer, they worked their magic and exasperatedly sent her to wardrobe.
The theater was packed. Celebrities from all ends of the industry mingled amongst themselves. Two red velvet curtains draped symmetrically across the wide stage; cameras were angled towards every spot imaginable.
The lights dimmed until the audience was blanketed in a cloud of darkness, and the stage began sparkling with intense light.
Alura scanned her phone for new texts.
But nothing came. She shook her head. 
They called her category and read the names of the nominees.
When it got to her, she stood poised and calm, as she knew all eyes were watching. 
“The winner for best actress in a dramedy, Alura, for her role as Penny in “I See You!”
There was thunderous applause as she arose from her seat, feigning shock. 
Gracefully, she ascended the stage in her floor length emerald gown, smiling and waving at each individual camera like it were a family reunion. The blackmailer was out there.
The presenter placed the golden statue in her arms and kissed her cheek.
Alura stepped up to the microphone, beaming.
“Wow. Thank you, this is really unexpected. I love what I do, so the recognition truly makes me know I’m in the perfect place. And don’t worry,” she said, staring directly into the front camera, “I’m not going anywhere. Thank you.”
She smiled shakily as the room erupted in another round of applause, and made her way backstage.
All at once, she heard shouts from audience members as the lights went out, and someone had grabbed her arm.
She shrieked, looking up at an unsettling, avian-like mask.
“Get off of me! Help!”
She elbowed the attacker as they covered her mouth with their hand and yanked her into a closet nearby.
She heard a robotic voice echo from the stage as the kidnapper turned the lock.
“We have a special interruption-”
“NO!” Alura shouted.
Her stomach dropped as she heard the beginning audio of the clip she had been sent three days ago. The audience collectively gasped.
 
Harley Blue lifted up her mask, wiping beads of sweat off her brow.
She carefully uncovered her gown from underneath an all-black ensemble.
 Hearing the faint sounds of heavy banging and screaming from the closet starting to dissolve; she smiled.
“Mission accomplished,” she whispered into her headset, joining the audience, who were watching the video on repeat in shock.
She sat gently down in her assigned seat, grabbing her partner’s hand next to her, and leaned in for a kiss.
“Revenge tastes sweet,” Amelia murmured beneath her lips.
They both stared up at the screen gleefully, watching as Alura dangled her puppy outside her penthouse window. This was followed by a scene in which she spit down on fans from above. The camera zoomed in on the starlet laughing as she quickly ducked back into her room and shut the window.
Backstage, Alura lay on the closet floor whimpering. Her career was over.
Cut!
	Vera opened the closet door and ripped off her blonde wig, shaking her auburn bob to air it out.
	“Vera darling, that was just…incredible!”
	Vera smiled at the director.
	“Thank you Gavin, I couldn’t have done it without you.”
	“The way you just threw that emotion onto all of us, instant goosebumps! And the bath scene, wow. That’s why you’re our one-take wonder.”
	She chuckled, embracing Gavin in a warm hug.
	Nicole scurried to her side, a large rainbow notebook decorated in horse stickers sagging under her arm.
	“Vera, excuse me, you have a seven o’ clock dinner appointment tonight,” she said hurriedly.
	“Right, of course.”
	Vera nodded slowly, as though deep in thought.
	“Nicole, may we speak in private?”
	Nicole scurried off to Vera’s dressing room.
	Once inside, Vera’s smile dropped into a scowl.
	“Don’t ever interrupt me while I’m talking to Gavin, do you understand me?”
	Nicole confirmed nervously.
	“Don’t forget, there’s no shortage of assistants in Hollywood,” she warned, as she tenderly placed her “Alura” wig back in its case.
Nicole replaced her annoyance with a demure disposition, and left the room.
	She waited until Vera’s heel clacks faded altogether before secretly calling an unlisted number.
	“We’re doing it tonight. Don’t worry, she’ll be home.”
	Nicole ended the call and wiped away her excited smirk, adjusting herself back into the frantic, worried assistant role she was born to play.
	As they say, life imitates art.
 
","July 22, 2023 01:13",[]
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",teldia,Advanced Improv,Alex Hippenhammer,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/teldia/,/short-story/teldia/,Dialogue,0,"['Contemporary', 'Drama', 'Romance']",6 likes,"
“Cut!” David called. I left my arm draped around Cinthia’s shoulder. The crew dimmed the lighting, giving our eyes a break from the faux desert sun while David reviewed the footage with the continuity director.
 
Cinthia squinted at me, she hadn’t pulled away yet. It was helpful to play with physical intimacy between shots, but this felt different. “Have you actually been to Cabo San Lucas?” she asked. The tenor of her voice was deeper, which meant she thought we had the scene - she only dropped character after the final cut.
 
“I haven’t.” I looked in the rearview mirror. The camera operator was adjusting his camera positioning in the backseat. 
 
“Then where’d the bit about swimming with Mantas in December come from?” 
 
“I’ve been wanting to go for years, but I’ve never been able to get away. I was thinking about it earlier this week, that maybe this is the year.” Our eyes met, and the image of me asking her to join me in Cabo replayed in my head.
 
When she spoke again, her voice was higher and slightly coy, like her character’s, “And will anyone be joining you to bear witness when you finally realize this long-held dream?” She pulled away from my arm slightly, feigning offense if I suggested anyone but her. Or maybe the offense wasn’t a feign.
 
Holding her gaze and settling my arm in a little more, I told her the truth. “I haven’t told anyone else about it until now.” Cinthia raised an eyebrow. She had big, amber eyes that often revealed what the rest of her body withheld - which made her a spectacle to work with in close-ups like this. I continued, “It’s a busy time of year, with the holidays, but I am keeping an open schedule. And an open mind.”
 
I tried to read her reaction, but Cinthia was no longer making eye contact. She was looking just past me. I turned to see the slight figure of my personal assistant standing outside the door of the Buick. “Justin, so sorry! Your wife is on the phone. Should I tell her it’s not a good time?” She was holding the phone against her chest. I wondered how long she’d been standing there.
 
I slid my arm from around Cinthia’s shoulder. “What does she need?” If she had heard anything, it was all a part of the job. She would understand.
 
“She wouldn’t say. I can tell her you’ll call back after the scene?” My assistant was delicate and generally uncomfortable with confrontation. 
 
“I’ll talk to her. I need to stretch my legs a bit anyway.” I took the phone and stepped out of the car. “Hey dear, what’s up?” 
 
“Hey - sorry to interrupt. Jessica said you were in the middle of a scene.” She hesitated, “I - I was wondering if you wanted to come home for a bit after you guys are done. I know you are moving locations after today.” Her voice was tenuous.
 
“We are behind schedule, so the earliest I’d be able to come is tomorrow night. And then I need to be on location the day after.” I made my way past the film crew to get some water.
 
“I know…it’s just that.” 
 
It wasn’t like her to interrupt during filming. “What is it, love?”
 
She sighed into the phone,  “I was on the Cloud today, and I didn’t mean to see it, but I was going through some of my old writings and I saw something you had written. I thought I could get some ideas - remember how we used to trade our writings mid-story, and then finish the endings? I guess I missed that. But this was more of a letter. It was addressed to Samantha, who you worked with on that episode of Last Kiss. Or maybe it was just a coincidence, but…”
 
“I don’t remember writing that.” It was true. I didn’t. I took a drink of water.
 
“The letter was very romantic, and I assumed it was just an exercise. You know, something to help you get into character for the shoot. But then you mentioned something about seeing the Monarch migration for the first time, and how you wish you were with her, and it just felt ...well it scared me. Because that’s what we did together last year, when we went to that Zen Center. We watched them through the windows during the lunch buffet.”
 
“You couldn’t see the trees.”
 
“Exactly. And you said..”
 
“I said, ‘Why can’t we live like this all the time?’ I remember.” The crew members were all getting back into position.
 
“Well, it just broke my heart to think that you wanted to rewrite that memory with someone else. And it made me think about the movie you are doing now, and I know there’s some romance involved…”
 
“Honey, listen. I don’t remember that letter. I have to connect with - I have to use something real in order to feel these things for my job. In order to be believed. It’s because I have that with you that I am even able to be believed at all.” 
 
“But how do I know that after reading something like this? How do I know I’m not just another person you are trying to convince?”
 
“Cinthia, please. You know that because I love you. Because I always have. I don’t remember the letter. I just remember the butterflies, and being with you. And I of course remember the roasted eggplant.” I was hoping for a laugh, but it didn’t come. Instead there was just a long, devastating pause.
 
“Cinthia - that’s the woman you’re filming with, right?”
 
“Yes, why?” The lights had brightened. 
 
“Goodbye, Justin.” She hung up.
 
David was next to the Buick talking to Cinthia. My assistant was standing discreetly to the side. I walked through the crew, gave the phone back, and got in the driver’s seat.
 
David was brimming. “Justin! I was just telling Cinthia - the chemistry between you two is perfect right now! And the improv was brilliant. We are just going to do one more cut with a little change. I gave her some notes, and I want you to just respond in character. I think it’s going to give this scene the edge it needs. Like I said, the chemistry between you two right now is so believable, so just keep riding that wave. Everything okay, Justin?”
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
","July 18, 2023 18:07",[]
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",y25wii,Caught Between,Linda Lovendahl,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/y25wii/,/short-story/y25wii/,Dialogue,0,"['Drama', 'Historical Fiction', 'Suspense']",6 likes,"
“Cut!”All action stopped. There were only a few bird chirps floating on the air from nearby trees in the meadow as the production crew and the army of men heeding their general’s address in the field of battle were called to desist their efforts.The lead actor, Gerald Humphrey Castor, looked at the film director. He was breathless because the thunder of his message to the troops pounded through his heart and limbs. He lowered the raised sword to his side, his face crinkled with disbelief. “No way, “ he said, his voice as commanding as any medieval general’s would be when inspiring his men, “why did you stop us? We’re all hyped up for the combat scene!”The director, Arnold “Arnie” Steely of academy-nominated fame, laughed. He stood up and said through his megaphone, “What? And ruin the best performance of a military officer I’ve ever recorded? No way. Cut and save. Good job everyone,"" he said with a wave of his free arm, ""have a great weekend!”Whoops of glee broke out from the belly of the soldiers’ formation. Castor shoved the sword into the scabbard, his temperature still hot as a flame from his rousing address to the warriors. This sudden stop to the momentum he had built throughout the movie toward victory against the invading enemy dangled like an archer with a bow but no arrows.One of the actors jumped forward and jabbed Castor on the arm. “Way to go!” he said. He turned to the rest of the gathered soldiers and swung his ball and chain weapon over his head, “Here’s to our man Castor!” Everyone who was encamped in the meadow valley for the filming cheered. The army of men broke their formal lines to huddle, slapping each other and then dispersed through the production crew high fiving.Cheeks aflame, Castor stomped up to Steely. “You’re walking a thin line here and you know it. The story’s not done.”Steely dropped the megaphone onto his chair. “I mean it, my man. It’s the best I’ve recorded in my career. I’m not going to dilute it with a series of rampages in the forest that every movie goer has seen a thousand times over, or fill it with humble gratitude by the saved aristocrats at the castle, or you, the upstart general, receiving kudos from the king. No sir. This film is different because of your commitment to it. I won’t let the story sink to the level of commonality. It will end with the force you gave it in that victory speech.”“But . . .” “For heaven’s sake,” Steely put his hands on his hips, poked his chest out, “do you trust me?”“I’m talking about the script, Arnie.” Castor raised an open palm in the air between them, “Cutting off the movie at this juncture doesn’t finish the history of the battle.”“Doesn’t it?”Castor shook his head, “What are you driving at?”“You gave your heart and soul to this role. The speech was the cherry on top. Movie viewers and those mighty critics of the industry are astute. All viewers will intrinsically know the historical outcome because of your performance.”Castor took a deep breath, “Arnie, the contract is for a minimum of 102 minutes. Wouldn’t we be short?”Steely set his shoulders back. “Look. I’m catapulting your career. Don’t you think it’s time you appreciate that?”Castor blinked. His pulse slowed. He knew this role of a man rising from poverty to a military general during medieval times mimicked his personal walk toward success in modern day conditions but worldly approval was the farthest thing from his mind. His personal mantra had been to make his skills a minimum of one percent better each day. In essence, this soldier discipline had become his life like marrow to bone.“Yeah,” added Steely breaking Castor’s thought, “I’m looking out not just for you, but for me and for the quality of this narrative. Your address to those soldiers is the pinnacle moment and I’m not wasting it whether you agree with me or not.” He crossed his hands below his waist. “Finis.”“The contract required the whole story be told, damn it.”Arnie shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll add some of our outtakes during the set up scenes with the knights at the castle. The ones of them bickering among themselves of how unworthy you are as a general I’ll add too. It will intensify the conflict, making the end speech a defiance of all their doubt.”Castor wiped sweat from his forehead and suddenly felt exhausted. He sank to the director’s chair. He took his helmet off and laid it at the feet of the chair. He rubbed his hand through his sweaty hair. “I don’t know if I can agree with you. It isn’t what we agreed on with the producers.”Arnie put a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve taken all my directions throughout this film. Congratulate yourself on that because it brought you to the conclusion with a bonfire explosion.” Steely knelt over to lay his hand flat across Castor’s heart. “The power of the general’s decision to refute those who opposed him by taking complete charge, declaring war, will win acclaim for character development. You did an amazing job.” “Thanks.” Castor stood; his legs weak. “That means a lot to me but this call of yours is risky.”“How do you think I’ve been able to carve my own career, huh?” Steely said. He edged his running shoes a couple more inches apart. “Taking risks. That’s how. Remember, I’m the one who answers to the producers. I’ll only talk to them after they’ve seen the film first.”Castor grabbed his sword pommel and rocked back on his boots, “But it will take weeks for the editing.”“Don’t worry. Trust me.”“But if they refute your decision, I’ll have no qualms about telling them I fought you on this.”“I’m telling you to have faith in my ability, faith in yours.”On the way to the mobile dressing room, several members of the filming crew stopped Castor to congratulate him. He acknowledged them but on the inside, he quaked. Could he trust Steely? Or would he rebel against him like the general he played in the historical piece.He ran his hand down the leather of the antique chest plate he wore. He smoothed the milky surface of it wondering if hardship truly was the only way to peace as the Serenity Prayer states for he didn’t feel peace, only disgust in his gut. It had always stuck in his craw how Hollywood took literary license to change historical narratives in an effort to create drama for drama’s sake. And now it was happening to him.He peered into the dressing room mirror. The overhead LED lights cast a harsher brightness than sunlight onto his face. He looked pale white after the removal of makeup, the mask of his role as ruffian general. He harumphed. The general would have just killed the director because his blockage to the army’s victory meant he was a foe. Castor looked down and shook the wayward emotion off. He eyed himself again, imagining he was in Steely’s shoes. He rested the top of his nose against the flesh of his folded hands on the table. The only thing he saw was his complete abandonment of theatrical training and utter surrender to the role. He looked into the glaring light again and admitted that in the film he had experienced an unexplainable power that had lifted him outside of himself.He closed his eyes and silently prayed. At the end, a patience like a soothing oil calmed the confusion in his mind and body. He took a deep breath of relief and rose from the counter. He showered and put on his street clothes. He stepped down the outside stairs to the sweet smelling meadow grass. A passing by member of the light crew tapped him on the arm, “Great performance. I bet this film will win an academy award.”Castor tapped his arm in return, “Thanks. We’ll see what happens after our combined effort is sealed in the can.”With those words, he stood still to ponder the beauty of the open meadow with an uncanny assurance that the higher power he had experienced in the role, would stay with him and guide him through whatever did happen.
","July 22, 2023 03:53","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hey Linda,\nI loved your take on this project! You did a great job of creating the conflict between two artists and I appreciated that you toggle between both of you your characters while also holding us within the protagonist’s gaze. The gut wrenching part about creating art is the fact that the rest of the world is likely to have an opinion, and sometimes you have to sacrifice pieces of what you thought would be perfection in order to have your art out in the world. I particularly loved the final few paragraphs where are you talked about th...', 'time': '18:23 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'I always like your positivity and inspiration', 'time': '17:04 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Linda Lovendahl': 'Thank you. Your writing is really coming along too!', 'time': '22:48 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Linda Lovendahl': 'Thank you. Your writing is really coming along too!', 'time': '22:48 Jul 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",4uni4t,Clear the Rail,Autumn Brock,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/4uni4t/,/short-story/4uni4t/,Dialogue,0,['American'],6 likes,"
“Clear the Rail”
By
 Autumn M. Brock
 
 
	Flying through the breezeway hall into the back of house slapped with smells of soup, a smorgasbord of cooking and rising heat. Sounds changed from buzzing conversation to the bang of equipment, taps of dishware and the defined command or response from both sides of the line which inevitably flew covers in and out of this speed zone. Once through the threshold front of house staff transformed from polite amiable hosts to the more realistic versions of pestered humans they were. This often left the kitchen staff to act as snarky malcontents. Each server had the consuming goal of expediting multiple complex orders to their guests. All that stood in their way were other servers, who also had the same time constraints, and the kitchen staff. 
	This delicate dance thrummed a pace of chaos, always accompanied by the demon of new tickets spewing from the printer. Food hit plates, slid along the line and was dressed by artistic garnish. Up it went to the hot deck and held its breath for a moment before collection. Arms, hands and elbows flipped up and down, jostling for position and tray space to create a perfect balance before a shoulder hoist would ride them down the breezeway and out of present memory.
	Water and bread were delivered, drinks and meals for three fresh multi-tops were entered into the POS, a full section was biding time before salads, appetizers then mains dropped. New salads should hit the line in 5 minutes. Drinks would be delivered by Cocktail, so Linn sipped a lukewarm cup of soup. She’d poured it an hour ago then stashed it on a high shelf behind the coffee mugs as service picked up. She watched the chefs dance grill and sauté stations, robotically grabbing a tool or reaching for ingredients. They stepped back from the burners, raising searing pans off the flames and reached for tongs, knives or spatulas with one of six hands they seemed to possess, then spun around to plate.
	Amid the fired orders, calls, responses and demands for refreshed mise from the way back to the line, there was also discussion of drinks and poker later. Sous chef Rachel raised two direct hazel eyes over the hot window shelf as she sauced pasta with a pan of alfredo, ‘Any chance a pitcher will walk back here soon?’
	‘I’ll ask Cocktail to mention it to Woody.’ Linn said. ‘What’s the buy in?’
	’Twenty. Bring whiskey, yeah? After closing we’ll all head to Todd’s.’ Her eyes darted back down briefly, and two chicken alfredo’s hit the deck for Expo to check with a polite dish spin. He moved them together with two rib eyes and a top sirloin which had been up for a minute. His ticket hit this collection and Expo stepped forward so the server could have space to take their tray. The swish of rapid-fire printing spit two more chits up and grill chef Todd snatched them from over the top of Rachels shoulder as she dipped down and returned to her simmering sauté pans.
	‘Walk 23!’ Expo called.
	‘Table 17. Three Special, One Pasta Prima, Well Loin drags that. Table 3. Sockeye, and One Med Prime all day!’
	‘Heard Chef.’ Chorused the round of distinct voices. Todd fed the tickets into the rail line and spun to start searing meat.
	Linn kicked herself off the counter, dropped her empty cup of soup in a tub and grabbed a tray, sliding into place on the salad pass to the right after another cover walked inches from her nose. She reached for plate after plate of salad and appetizers sitting ready for her. She counted seven, placed them evenly around the tray, jockeying the edges of the dishes to lock steady and save space. 	
	‘Extra side of ranch, please.’ Line cook Dave immediately hit a ramekin on the pass, and she brought it down to the correct plate, shoving a little greenery aside to make it fit. Steady hand on the tray, Linn bucked her knees down and guided the entire circus to her shoulder then walked. Another server took her space immediately.
	It was a few minutes before she came back down the breeze with a collection of completed plates and a few empty glasses on the tray. She paused at the rack and without malice sorted them to specific tubs for Dish pickup. Silverware in a pile to the side, plates to the middle and water glasses right beside them. Bar glasses like the heavy highballs, pints and delicate martinis were stowed in the lowest rack; they would be run straight up front for a clean turnaround by the barback.
	She wiped the tray, tossed the spent napkin into the linen hamper and leaned the stand into line with its mates against the wall, stowing the tray on a shelf for its next trip. She washed her hands off in a sink and grabbed a fresh cloth napkin. She was tucking it into her belt and stepping in queue for a hot line pickup, already eyeing available dishes for whichever ticket was going to make up her next steps. She had an idea which it should be but there was always a temp specification or ingredient request which might lag items on the deck. Expo Matt would decide when a ticket was fulfilled and could walk.
	‘Behind, behind, behind.’ came the call as Dish scuttled through the mayhem of salad/fry, fish, sauté and grill stations. He was restocking pans, spatulas, spoons, tongs and knives with marked efficiency as each station continued cooking. He reached across backs and under arms, tucking a fresh utensil here and there, setting them on to specific hooks and locations, stowing clean pans and pots to low shelves. He managed to be wherever that station chef presently was not and then he was gone, disappeared to the way back and steam of the dish section.
	‘Pitcher fired. Shouldn’t be long’ Linn told Rachels back. She saw a small nod and Todd glanced toward her with a relieved smile.
He grabbed up a carving knife and turned for the prime rib drawer. Setting a plate into position, he secured, sliced, au jus dipped then maneuvered that thick cut into position. Rachel turned with a pan of marinara and was pouring it over noodles as he shut the meat drawer, which jostled the carving knife and Todd tried to save it from falling. Rachel moved for a spatula to get the last of the sauce out.
	Linn had seen one hundred thousand passes same as this. It was always smooth when people and the hot things boogied about. And this was no different than any other she could remember. Only this time, the symbiosis glitched and that 10-inch carving knife was suddenly impaled through Rachel's hand. It slid between the middle and ring finger when she reached for the spatula, embedding through the palm as though passing through hot butter and poking an inch of pale steel clean out the other side.
	The two chefs froze, momentarily trapped together by momentum's. Todd dropped his knife, though it didn’t go anywhere now. Rachel dropped the hot pan with a muted clatter onto the mats at their feet; marinara spattered. 
	She didn’t cry out, just looked at the offending object juxtaposed oddly through her body. She held her arm very stiff. Color greyed out of her flushed skin and all eyes refocused from whatever task they had been on to her.
	‘Ethan, Manager.’ That was the only order. It came sternly but quietly from Expo Matt who delicately took his hand off the plate he’d been inspecting and moved through the pass doors to join the two chefs in the kitchen.
	Beside her Linn saw Ethan make a hasty retreat toward the front of house. While she was frozen the better thought of action was already working through her. ‘Towel!’ She heard her own word and threw that fresh napkin off her belt through the hot pass window. 
	Todd’s hand went up and snagged the flying linen while reaching for Rachel, mostly to steady her as she started to step back near the fryer. He obviously wasn’t sure if she might catch herself. He pulled her vertical, and tightened his grip on her wrist, wrapping the towel expertly around the protruding knife. She eased her arm toward her body like she was cradling a child but kept the pressure.
	Now there wasn’t blood as might be expected but Linn could see red pooling around and through the cloth lacing Rachel's palm. 
	‘Eyes on me.’ Todd said so he and Matt could guide her past the hottest area of the kitchen toward the dish racks. ‘Ben watch the grills.’ The line cook edged to his left, turning down knobs to gain extra time he felt was needed.
	One breath later and Manager Sean came barreling down the breezeway with Ethan in tow. He went straight through the pass doors, into the back to assess this situation.
	Linn stared at Matt beyond the pass window, he was wide eyed focused on her too and all the staff presently in the area were stuck in place. He suddenly reached through the pass and thrust a stack of tickets toward Linn. ‘Keep it moving. Linn, take Expo.’ 
	Suddenly they all started again. Linn read tickets, pulled plates, servers walked. It was almost like nothing was happening. Sean could be heard in the back telling Todd he was taking Rachel to the ER; she would be fine. Finish the service.
	As Todd and Matt stepped back to their respective lines the printer was already whirring another round of orders out. The tension broke upon continued expectations. He grabbed the new chits like a zombie and read off, ‘Tables 5, 12, 18. Two Prima Vera, Black Chick Alfredo, Three Prime Med, One Top Rare, Swordfish. Three calamari all day. Let’s clear this rail!’ 
	‘Yes Chef!’ Pans clattered against burners, utensils clacked, the chorus sang.
	Woody walked down from the bar pass door none the wiser with that pitcher of cold beer. They always said it was for the fish & chip batter, only it wasn’t. As usual he’d also brought 6 small cold glasses – for the batter.
	‘Gimme!’ Dave stepped around the salad window and towed the prizes from the bartender’s arms into the back of the house. ‘I might actually win at cards tonight.’
	Matt dropped a completed ticket onto another grouping of plates and Linn stepped back to her space in the line, server once again. She pulled a tray up and with shaky hands began steadying plates for her next cover. Service was nearly over; the kitchen staff had their shift beers and were adjusting positions to cover their missing Sous. The rest of the staff in front of the house wouldn’t hear a peep of this until closing.
 
The End
 
","July 19, 2023 03:51",[]
prompt_0045,"Set your story on a film or TV set, starting with someone calling “Cut!”",wa9cdh,The Industry,Blake Tori,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/wa9cdh/,/short-story/wa9cdh/,Dialogue,0,"['Christian', 'Drama', 'Fiction']",6 likes,"
Warning: Contains discussions of Sexual Themes, Substance Abuse and Suicide‘CUT!’ Staltari yelled, whirling his fingers in the air. ‘Somebody get me a cigarette! And throw Mel a towel - hell knows Anthony ain’t gonna do it!’Melissa lay on the bed, frozen. The cameras were off but the bright set lights still bore their heat down on every inch of her exposed skin. With her ample breasts, round hips and flat stomach, she knew men found her attractive – desirable even, as the sales punters would spin it. It was The Industry’s criteria to be so after all - heck, even the quivering look on Anthony’s face during entry had told her as much. And, what his face didn’t articulate, his grabby, rough hands did soon after.It was a pity the mirror didn’t see her the same way.Was it all worth it? She thought for the umpteenth time, lying there with a mess of Anthony’s doing. Last week it had been guy named Jarrod leaving his mess; the week before that, a Puerto Rican dude named Marcus. The weeks before that, she couldn’t even remember, not anymore. Sometimes it was with a guy, sometimes it was with a girl. Irrespective of her sexuality, “straight” was only a word used by those who don’t want to get paid.She had learned long ago that The Industry didn’t care about what you’d been told the week before or what your contract had agreed upon. If you wanted to get the gold, you did what you were told.“It’s a free country” was worthless when they withheld payment.“It won’t kill you” was another mantra of encouragement, often used to get her into uncomfortable, unnatural positions. It was also the singular statement she vehemently disagreed with – on more than one occasion, the abnormal size and instinctive thrusting of The Industry’s male talent had choked her to the point of having to tap out.Anthony had been one of these dog-rollers and - despite the intimate discomfort of squeezing something obscenely large into a smaller cavity – the Director had fortunately instructed Anthony to do exactly that. Whether it was a mild case of Stockholm Syndrome or not, she had silently thanked Staltari as the cameras rolled, bracing herself against the bedframe as Anthony entered her orbit.Like most males in The Industry – and probably most in general – Anthony’s muscled, sweaty body had removed itself from hers almost as soon as he was done, leaving Melissa “Scarlette Star” Robins objectified once more. Stark naked and tender, laying here at the end of a shoot were the moments she hated herself the most.During the shoot itself, her mind went to her happy place. It hadn’t taken her long to learn that a quick line of coke before dropping her panties was the quickest way to get there though. After a hit, it was easier; she would obligingly go where the Director required her, hand her co-star the reins to her body and let them do whatever The Industry saw fit. She only prayed that the high would last longer than the shoot.Praying.Not that God was anywhere on the set of a Staltari production, mind you.How could He be?Mel sighed as she clambered off the bed. Reaching for a towel carelessly tossed to her by a production assistant, she wiped herself as much as she could before grabbing her clothes, instinctively covering herself and heading toward the showers.They’ve seen more of you than you have, Mel. Why are you covering?‘Next week’s gonna be a big one, Mel.’ The production manager stood to the side of the shower, leaning against the cubicle door. ‘We have you down for a group shoot.’Melissa’s heart sank. She ran her fingers through her hair, closing her eyes and letting the water spill over her face.‘The scene is a football team’s aftergame party,’ the manager continued, tapping her pen against the side of the clipboard. ‘They’ve won the game, see, and – as we all know – what better way to celebrate a win than a group activity involving their favourite cheerleader. It’s not worth an Emmy nomination, sure, but – well, you know nobody actually watches this stuff for the plot.’How many showers would it take to wash it all away?She crossed her arms over her chest, holding her shoulders tightly as tiny drops of water pooled warmly in the nook of her arms and against her breasts. She took a deep breath - steadied her voice - and asked, ‘…how many?’‘A full team, Mel.’ The manager answered without hesitation. ‘Eleven excited guys.’Melissa swallowed. Her fingers bit into her shoulders. ‘Eleven? Any other cheerleaders helping in the scene?’‘Sorry honey,’ The cubicle wall squeaked as the manager stood up and walked to the door. ‘You’ll be servicing these boys on your own. The other cheerleaders will be there, but they’ll only be baring breasts and cheering you on as per the script. Oh and – ’ The manager paused. The pen-tapping increased. ‘– there’s a likely chance the coach will be joining in the festivities.’Melissa felt her eyes welling. ‘…who’s the coach?’‘Not sure yet,’ the manager said. ‘But to keep things authentic, he has to be experienced. Staltari’s instructed casting to scout someone over seventy. Might be a bit on the older side for a football coach realistically, but – well, you know how Staltari is. He wants it to appeal to some of the more senior viewers, catch their niche. According to the script though, Young Scarlette Star will be doing everything she can to make an old man happy.’Melissa hung her head as the manager left the bathroom, her blond hair falling past her face as her tears joined the cascading water.The bus ride back to Hampsden Apartments was always melancholy for her. It was a moment of deep thought, staring at her partial reflection and wondering if anyone else out there felt as vile and used as she did. Normal folk bustling on the sidewalks, in and out of coffee shops while working their standard 9-5s. Not much in the way of earnings, but so much more in the way of meaning.She envied them.Approached on the sidewalk at the age of nineteen for a simple photo shoot, the money had been the hook; standing around in her jeans and t-shirt, pouting for the camera with a face as pretty as hers, it had been the easiest grand she’d ever made. It had certainly beaten the weekly wage she got from waiting tables.When asked to come back a second time and remove a few layers of clothing, it had seemed simple enough, the money even better. Her folks would never see the photos anyway, she was assured; it was just for the photographer’s own personal collection. He had shown her other tastefully staged shots to ease her mind – Artistic Nudes, he had called them.When she had been asked to have sex on camera after the photos had been taken, the mood had changed. She had politely refused and laughed it off, covering her bare breasts while reaching for her bra and shirt. The photographer hadn’t returned the smile; instead, he had blackmailed her, threatening to post the photos to social media unless she did as she was asked. He had said all this while undoing his belt.So, she had relented.At the time, her body count had been a modest two. Six months in The Industry and her body count was well into triple digits.The bus route to Hampsden took commuters past a bustling, joyful playground. It was always a scene of joy and laughter, a mocking mirror of a world that wasn’t her own.It was the part of the commute that hurt her the most.It was the part that reminded her of Olly.How long has it been?Six years. Or was it seven?Does he ask about me? Does he know who I am?She supposed he would still be borderline too young to know what adoption was. When he did know, would he want anything to do with her anyway? Would he like to know the fact that he was a by-product discarded by The Industry? That he was nothing more than a workplace accident?The problem of taking contraception religiously while in a drug-filled haze – aka her happy place ­– was a very real one. Olly had been the mistake-You’re the mistake.- which she’d remedied as best she could by making sure to grind up her pills during a sober moment and mix them through her coffee powder. Then it became a problem of making sure she had a coffee first thing in the morning.But that was hardly a problem: Coffee and cocaine went hand in hand.It was breakfast that was optional.She had often thought about which co-star had fathered Olly. Each time she did she ended up at the same sad conclusion: without blanket DNA testing, it would be impossible to tell. She didn't remember any of their faces or names and - with the amount of men that borrowed her body monthly - it was like searching for a needle in a haystack.A Pregnancy in a Porn Shoot.In the drug-addled mind of a younger Scarlette Star, abortion had been off the table; it was not a card she had been willing to play.Yet, despite the growing of her belly, she still starred in films for The Industry. She had become a fetish, fitting into a specific category for viewers inclined to that sort of thing. The more her belly grew, the more niche she became, the more men she slept with.And then, Olly had been born.That was when The Industry tightened the screws.No stretch marks. No saggy breasts.No baby fat.If she wanted the money to pay for her habits, she’d have to play by their rules.First kid’s on the house, honey. After that, get back to work.The Industry had put abortion back on the table. It had been a card she'd been forced to play on several pregnancies since.The bus stopped at the corner of her avenue and the door opened, letting in the chilly evening breeze. Shifting her handbag higher on her shoulder, she crossed her arms against the cold as she hopped off, flinching as her forearms pressed on her tender breasts; Anthony had a reputation amongst the women for being heavy handed with female anatomy, a fact she could now attest to. It didn’t take a psychic to know he had enjoyed Scarlette Star a great deal.Tucking her hair behind her ear, she hung her head, not looking up or at anyone as she climbed the stairs up to her unit. Despite the overcoat she was wearing, the gaze of passersby always made her feel paranoid and naked.As Mellissa Robbins entered her apartment, she put her handbag on the bench and turned on the radio.Depression by Dax was playing:“I can’t find myself…

I get lost inside my brain...”Why does it have to be a group session next week? Melissa thought, fresh tears welling in her eyes as she sat at the kitchen bench.The thought of being thrown around by eleven girthy men sent her groin into a dull throb. It wasn’t sexy or any girl’s fantasy; it was painful and abusive.And then to toss in the coach? An old man getting his rocks off with a woman young enough to be his granddaughter?It was humiliating and revolting.And for what? So the video could tick over into another category? So it could cater to – what had Staltari called it? – his mature viewers?She hung her head and cried.An object of The Industry was all that she was. Property of a Powerhouse. She was what married men fantasized over and teenage boys rubbed their bits to.“I think I might need help…But I pushed all of ‘em away.”The Industry was evil, there was no denying it. Everything it did was superficial and callous, destructive and objective; all in its own interests. The latest PR doing the rounds had been the slogan Ethical Pornography.Ethical.What a joke.“I took the cards they dealt…

and there’s nothin’ I can change…”Nothing I can change, Dax?No, that wasn’t true. She could change it.And she would.Reaching into her cocaine stash behind an outdated cereal box, she pulled out the last bag.There was enough to last her a week.Enough till her next video.Or…there was enough to make today’s the last video.""So when I’m by myself...”She could hear it in Dax' voice: he knew it. He knew what she felt, the emptiness, the worthlessness. She was nothing more than a stain on this earth, a homewrecker, an objectified fantasy.Scarlette Star wasn’t real.I wish I wasn’t either.She poured the cocaine out onto the bench and split it into lines.She rolled up a piece of cardboard.She slid the tube into her nostril, as deep as it could go. She exhaled deeply, then leant forward and –Knock, knock.She paused, funnel hovering just over the top of the white mound.No one visited her. Ever.“I've been anchored in pain, 
the weight is makin' me choke. It's gettin' harder to breathe, 
it's pullin' right at my throat.”‘Yeah, Dax.’ She sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks. It was hard to keep the tube steady as her hands begun to shake. ‘You know of what you speak.’Knock, knock.Mel hesitated. Then with unsteady fingers, she placed the cardboard roll to the side and stood up from the kitchen bench.The coke wasn't going anywhere.Tugging her shirt sleeves into the heel of her palms, she dabbed at her eyes as she shuffled toward the door.Gently, she pulled it open.‘Hi there.’An attractive woman, elegant, with curly hair and glasses stood at the doorstep. She looked like a business executive and – for a second – Mel wondered if she wasn’t a recruiter for The Industry herself.Then she saw the cross pinned to her lapel.Yet, the woman looked familiar...‘I’m sorry, but I’m not interested,’ Mel said, clearing her throat to hold back the tears. ‘I’m a little bit busy at the moment, so, whatever it is you’re selling –’Without warning, the woman stepped forward and embraced Mel. ‘I know who you are, Miss Scarlette Star.’ She spoke softly in Mel’s ear. ‘But more importantly - I know where you are.’The words broke something in Melissa’s dam. Torrential tears poured down her cheeks as she sobbed into the shoulder of the warm stranger, writhing to get free.Despite her lithe figure, the woman’s embrace remained firm.‘I was once standing where you are, a slave to The Industry.’ The woman whispered in her ear, rubbing Mel’s back. ‘And then someone extended a hand to me too.’A former actress.In a pivotal moment, Mel returned the strangers embrace. She clung to the woman desperately with all she had, her chest heaving with each sob.‘The Industry takes everything.’ The woman cooed softly. ‘But I know Someone who can give it back. Please, let me take you out for a coffee. You look like you need to talk.’Drifting through the doorway, past the embracing women, Dax finished his song:""...I just pray for brighter days...” 
","July 21, 2023 13:36","[[{'Chris Campbell': 'A compelling story, Blake (or is it, Tori?).\n\nTold with the empathy of someone who possibly has a connection to the industry? If not, then you successfully convinced me. \n\nPoor choices and capitulation turned Mel into a willing victim of accepted sexual and fetish abuse. We feel sorry for her - even though this is her chosen profession. However, where some may callously dismiss it as her choice, you brought us into her world and her mind, where we became her, felt her pain, and worried for her.\nExcellently written. Well done!', 'time': '03:25 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Blake Tori': ""Hey Chris,\n\nBlake is fine (It's one of a few pseudonyms for anonymity anyway! haha)\n\nI might not have been in Mel's exact situation, but I have borne witness to the destruction pornography delivers on both sides of the screen. It is easy to sit behind a screen and disassociate what is happening when viewing pornography. After all, when watching a movie this is what we instinctively do without even realising it. They're on camera because they want to be, right? A part of me feels like that's in the same vein as saying an alcoholic is drinking..."", 'time': '05:56 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Blake Tori': ""Hey Chris,\n\nBlake is fine (It's one of a few pseudonyms for anonymity anyway! haha)\n\nI might not have been in Mel's exact situation, but I have borne witness to the destruction pornography delivers on both sides of the screen. It is easy to sit behind a screen and disassociate what is happening when viewing pornography. After all, when watching a movie this is what we instinctively do without even realising it. They're on camera because they want to be, right? A part of me feels like that's in the same vein as saying an alcoholic is drinking..."", 'time': '05:56 Jul 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"