This is the rejected Flash Fiction piece I mentioned on Wednesday, the criteria was 500 words or less and must include the words ankle. fashion and criminal, hopefully you guys will enjoy it and remember constructive criticism is always welcome.
I staggered into the office, wobbling under the weight of sketchbooks, an oversized handbag, filled with the detritus of modern life and a precariously balanced coffee. Sunglasses shielded my eyes from the glare of artificial light. It was 6am on what I was sure would be the second worst day of my life.
The worst day had been yesterday, the day that should have been my greatest triumph, my first ever fashion week show. Twelve months had been invested in the designing and creation of my collection, previews had resulted in high praise. I had been so excited standing backstage as the audience had taken their seats. The lights had dimmed, the music started and my heart pounded as the first model strode out confidently down the runway. If only my memory could end there.
It was my head that pounded now as I reached into my bag for painkillers to be washed down with the coffee which I now discovered had gone cold. I heard the outer door to the office open, a glance at the clock revealed I had lost an hour, struggling under the weight of a forest of newsprint my assistant entered, avoiding eye contact.
They say that any publicity is good publicity but there he was splashed across the front page, the criminal who had destroyed my dreams. An alleged bank robber with a girlfriend who liked designer clothes. They said they had been watching him for months so why pick the middle of my show to go for the take down? The second rotation of the models had just begun when the SWAT team leapt from god knows where. The target had leapt up on to the runway knocking models flying as he attempted to escape. Chaos had ensued, people had fled or dived for cover, the bodyguards of the rich and famous had rushed forward, each determined to protect their own client, several celebrities took the opportunity to even old scores in the commotion. In the aftermath two hairpieces were found trampled on the carpet.
That was the picture they had on the front pages the fleeing villain and tumbling models, then the next photo they showed was the supermodel that had cost me a fortune been loaded into the ambulance, her broken ankle secured in a splint. Mascara was streaked down her face as she proclaimed the injury could mean the end of her career. I made a note to call my solicitor as soon as they opened to check my liability.
The office phone rang; my assistant picked it up handling it as if she expected it to explode at any minute. There was silence, followed by a series of strange noises, for a moment I considered that my assistant might be choking but as she did not appear to be turning blue I decided against it. When she hung up she turned to me incredulously and uttered a few words before passing out.
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