"Aannndddd Action!"
She slips off the slick stage to crash her face on the floor. There's blood. The stage is cheap with sand pits border by thick black plastic beams. Plastic parasols and extras trying to break out as actors. She couldn't do stunts. This wasn't a stunt. It was her messing everything up. Her blood is staining the blonde wig. We'll need a new one. "Oh my god!", bang!, and silence. Complete silence. No one says a thing. No one dares to flinch. They remain in character. Someone needs to clean her up. The background of the poor budget movie is a crudely painted sky and grass. Different shades of blue and white with green lining the baseboard. Why did she have to ruin the bottom left corner? Now it's red. An unpatterened, mono-toned red and it's creeping upwards. We will need a new one. We will need money for that. Check her wallet before she goes and makes a red carpet. On my set, there are no real stars. Only plastic props and props with a heartbeat.
YOU ARE READING
Slowly Cultivated Killer
HorrorThe Bank. It's Life. Only because you're gone. I miss your -/b/l/o/n/d/e/-red hair ~ I love you. Forgive me. I'll send you gifts anytime I can
