"A painstakingly aesthetic diversion for undemanding teenagers."
"Excuse me?"
In which an unapologetically brutal film-critic pisses off the CEO of a production company. Without a second glance or a single apology but blissfully with both middle fin...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
• Arthur Seasons •
"Take off your clothes."
Her fingers started to rattle with excitement as she slowly started to unbutton her messy shirt that was recklessly painted all over with dried acrylic colours.
He glared at her with cruel impatience, gripping the kitchen cupboard handles on either side of her, and caged her body between his arms.
"I don't have all day, hurry up." He uttered, a seductive sternness dripping off his words.
"Oh, but I do. My kids aren't back until 7 pm," She whispered, cheekily pulling him closer by his belt. "So, we can actually do this all day."
The little slithers of patience left in him instantly fled through the exit.
"Stop it. Take your fucking clothes off now, or this won't be a light fuck."
"Who said I wanted that?"
That turned up the switch, and suddenly everything was set ablaze around them.
Clothes smothered the hobs, shoes hung over the washing machine, underwear still tightly clutched in his hands as their bodies collided.
He released her lips, roughly shoved her underwear into her mouth, silencing her as he tore her legs wide open. Then—
"Pause. That would be enough."
The editors swivelled around in their rolling chair, exchanging contemplative looks that more or less screamed of anxiety and excitement.
I glanced at the massive monitor in our screening room, scrutinising the lighting, setting and atmosphere around the kissing couple.
This was it. This was the final cut.
I nodded my head and put on a poker face. "Good work, guys. We prepared for the release tomorrow?" It was the last day before the film finally premieres in the cinemas, but we still couldn't stop ourselves from running between all the scenes back and forth, despite there really being nothing we could do about it now.
"My psychic has a good feeling about this," Our main scriptwriter's assistant piped in and winked at me, jumping up. "We've done our work, and now it's up to the people." Then why did you visit a psychic?
I sighed and looked around, catching the director of the film walking in stressed circles outside the room. We could all see her through the transparent glass doors, as she kept stretching her hands through her hair, raggedly pressing it down only to mess it up again.
