When I first laid eyes on him, I felt I had been shot through my chest with a silver, piercing, white hot arrow. He was something else. A miracle. I was enthralled yet weakened in my very bones at that thought of his chestnut brown eyes falling upon me.
I was starstruck. Funny. I am a star, yet my light felt so very dim compared to his.
I saw him taking photos of other celebrities and actors, his precise expression of perfection in every shot he took was making him glow like an seraphim. I had on a light blue and white layered gown on, hands on my hips, and I knew my expression was always frosty.
That was my signature look. My movie premiere was astonishingly less than packed as I had hoped, but this year was not as kind on action films as critics pummeled to see the indie art house films. Oh, how I hated art and it’s snooty reminder of its importance to society. I often told others, in interviews, “I don’t make art. I make movies.”
Movies for all, not just those who feel they’re so special and need to created mind-numbing kitsch bullshit.
But he was art. He made me feel special. He made me feel like I could have it all, and all from just laying eyes on him. It’s like I finally figured out what exactly made art so good…
It was love.
But, the court summons came.
The restraining orders locked in.
The headlines stormed in like a stomping boot on my face:
Popular Star From Franchise Stalks Paparazzi
But, I never let my life be halted by limitations. Restrictions and restraints were not on my radar. He was mine. He knew it. I knew it.
I felt him late at night. I felt him early in the morning.
The flashing lights of stardom meant nothing to me. I knew he felt me too.
“Daphne, please, stop this madness,” my husband sobbed to me one night. “I’ve loved you… for so long. He doesn’t even know you,” he cried in a choking voice.
Poor baby. But it wasn’t true.
Starstruck is a fatal disease, one I must live with. He is mine. I am his.
My bones hurt. My heart leaks. My very soul quakes at his beckoning. I know why art hurt me after all this time. It was because I felt a deep, welling hole inside of me that no one could see. He filled it.
I luckily found his house. It was a cinch. I’ll be home soon, my love.
We can share this blushing, violet-red light of stars crashing into melting ice caps and angry mountain-tops.
Our story is one for the movies, baby.
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from Melissa Ingoldsby and writers in Fiction and other communities.
“Decry of the werewolf flower-moon,” or “They always come back”
He had always been in love with the story of The Giving Tree. It was something that deeply rooted his feelings on human nature and relationships. Since a child, his mother would read the book like a Bible, every night, before bed.
By Melissa Ingoldsby2 years ago in Fiction
Miss Persephone's Manual to a Seemingly Ordinary Life
Miss Persephone was found at the dining table, her blue eyes swollen, her tears arriving and retreating like the tides of the ocean. Earlier that day, her family had visited her in the retirement home where she had lived for eight years. It was her eightieth birthday.
By Imola Tóth3 days ago in Fiction
Identity and the Exhaustion of Grand Ideas
Over the past few decades, intellectual life has been shaped by a growing distrust of ambitious theories that once claimed to explain history and society as a whole. The fading influence of the radical projects associated with the 1968 generation produced a more careful and restrained scholarly atmosphere. Many historians and social theorists became skeptical of large narratives and universal categories, preferring limited scope and methodological caution. In Germany, this shift took a distinctive form through the rise of microhistory, an approach that emphasizes close attention to sources, local contexts, and everyday life. Microhistorians sought to revive the craft of traditional historiography while distancing themselves from older positivist assumptions. Their work often challenges broad concepts such as capitalism, industrialization, and the state, treating them as abstractions that obscure rather than clarify lived experience.
By Gopal Balakrishnan5 days ago in Fiction
Center Stage with Paul Stewart
*** I'm keen to republish the interviews I did for my series with Vocal creators. It's been a few years and I thought it might be nice to revisit these wonderful conversations. I'll be releasing them one at a time for a few weeks/months.
By Heather Hubler3 days ago in Interview
Comments (4)
Hahahahahahhahahaha I love how the tables have turned here because it's usually the other way round. This was so creative! Loved your story Merly!
One for the psycho-thriller-horror movies, perhaps. I love it! Apple cart upset, turning the tables, let the paparazzi experience what it's like for once, lol.
In this twisted tale of obsession, there is a deep sense that this a spiritual story, and not in the mystical sense. It is a story rendered by a mind set on showing how fame can be more than the cliché of a drug. It can be a sort of food which nourishes the soul but can be dangerous when one overeats.
Fantastic writing. Such a captivating story.