Monday, 19 December 2011



I asked for some prompts to enable me to write a free read of no more than 1000 words a time.

This second prompt comes from the gawgeous Lee Brazil... and this is his prompt...

Black wasn't Avery's color of choice

I hope he likes what I came up with.

Staring at himself in the full length mirror one of the grips had tacked to the wall, he grimaced.  Black was not Avery's color of choice, but that's what he was decked out in—from head to toe.  The photographer was one of those arty types, lots of shadows and, as Audrey Hepburn once put it, giving face.  God spare him from these soul-destroying shoots.  Not that he couldn’t do the job.  Of course he could, with his eyes nailed shut and his brain dribbling out of his ears, but surely there was more to life than this?

He glanced at the group of black bikini-clad models chosen to back him up and sighed inwardly.  They giggled like the airheads they were, having their hair done, chatting with the make-up artists, obviously thinking that modeling was the greatest experience of their life.  But then hadn’t he thought the same when he’d started out?  Before the sleazy castings, the even sleazier photographers, who thought they could grope your ass and anything else they could get their hands on, all in the name of art?  He glared at his reflection, the temptation to scrub at the make up around his eyes and to claw his fingers through his perfectly coiffed hair, was overwhelming.  But, of course, he wouldn’t.  He was far too professional.  Besides, his ass was still burning from the raking over the coals it had had last time he pulled a hissy fit.

“Are you ready, Mr Superstar?”

Avery’s gaze flicked to the reflection of the man who now stood behind him.  Marcus Caldwell, make-up artist extraordinaire, confidant to a million bulimic supermodels and general all round pain in the ass.  The man’s shoulder-length dark blond hair curled around his face and piercing blue eyes travelled over Avery’s body, and Avery knew the man was making sure not a hair was out of place before he deemed him fit for the camera.

“You tell me,” Avery sneered, “you’re the one staring.” He raised an eyebrow at the flicker of frustration passing across the man’s usually impassive gaze and crossed his arms as they glared at each other in the mirror.

“You’ll do,” Marcus replied, nudging at Avery’s crossed arms.  “Don’t do that, you’ll crease the fabric and it’s a four thousand dollar outfit.”

“My God, do you have any idea how much of a queen you are?” Avery said scathingly.  “You’re the epitome of the, air quote, Hollywood make-up artist.  A living, breathing cliché.  You’re parents must be so proud.”

Marcus blew him a kiss in the mirror, “About as proud as yours are of the shit-stabbing clothes-horse that vaguely resembles their son.”

“For God’s sake, you two,” Archie, the photographer snapped, “give it a rest.  Avery, we’re ready to go.  Put your claws away and let’s get this done.  If I over run today I’m taking your balls home with me and serving up to my wife for our anniversary dinner.”

Avery pushed roughly past Marcus and stomped over to the set where the giggling morons were now waiting for him.  God give me strength.  He positioned himself on his mark and Archie raised his camera… oh well… game on.

Stepping into the elevator, Avery pressed the button for tenth floor and leaned against the faux granite walls as the small tin box carried him up to his apartment.  He yawned widely and closed his eyes, he was tired, even his bones ached—especially the one in his foot where the redhead had stomped on it at least a dozen times.  He made a mental note to avoid her if he came across her again.  The irritating voice advised him that the doors were opening and he stepped out into the hall and turned left, padding down to the end and opening his door.

He threw his keys into the bowl on the table just inside the door and headed straight for the kitchen.  Grabbing an ice cold beer from the fridge, he pressed it against his aching forehead and wandered into the living-room, flopping down onto the couch.  It wasn’t long before he heard a key in the lock and a soft smile curved his lips.  He heard footsteps taking the same path as his had and reached up to take the fresh beer from the hand that appeared over the back of the couch.  He took a healthy draw from the bottle and snorted when the rich, warm voice he loved so much rumbled against his ear.

“A living, breathing cliché?”

“Shit-stabbing clothes horse?” Avery sniggered, turning his head and brushing his lips against Marcus’ cheek, reveling in the scrape of stubble against his mouth.  Marcus walked around the couch and sank down onto the cushions beside him, and Avery curled into his side, wrapping his arm around Marcus’ waist.  “I hate this charade,” he mumbled, rubbing his cheek against his lover’s shoulder.

“Come on, baby,” Marcus soothed.  “You know how cutthroat this business is.  The agency want you to maintain your air of mystique and the “is he – isn’t he” question that hangs in the air.  Makes you more appealing to both sexes.”

“Not anymore,” Avery said, sitting up and gazing into Marcus’ beautiful blue eyes.  “I’m tired of it.  I want to smile at you on set, instead of scowl.  I want to kiss you instead of trade insults.  I love you and as of tomorrow, everyone is going to know it.  If that means flipping burgers for the rest of my life, I don’t give a shit.”  He meant every word.  It had been a long time coming and he’d kept up the ruse for long enough.  He loved this man and no one was going to stop him from shouting it from the rooftops—not anymore.


“No, Marc, I’ve made up my mind, now shut up and kiss me.  Oh, and one more thing… I hate black.”



“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”