But a Walking Shadow - A Flash Fiction Collection

But a Walking Shadow

A winter night in Hollywood. The King stood on the balcony in the pale light of the moon, sipping Whiskey Manhattan, slipping in and out of groups of actors glittering beneath the stars to discuss his new lead role: the king of Hollywood, they called him. His name was Duncan Malone. It glittered on the tongues of the guests humming around his penthouse like worker bees, collecting agents; champagne; leaving their headshots on the mantelpiece like advertisements: I have fantastic bone structure. Pay me to make your wife question her decisions. He was fifty-five years old, and somewhere between the sports cars and the award shows, he had seen it all.

Inside, music pulsed behind his temples. He found the staircase and followed the smell of cigarette smoke to his bedroom. Phoenix Macbeth blew hazy O-rings in the shadows. It was dark, but he could see the red lipstick stain on his throat. He didn't look at Duncan when he spoke.

"Congratulations. You won again." He stubbed the cigarette out on the carpet. Duncan watched him vacantly.

"Probably the last time, champ." Phoenix would have complimented the movie posters better: he turned twenty-three a week ago, his skin was smoother, his hair brighter. The casting process had been a battle of Youth and Experience between them, the latter coming out on top. Duncan tried to remember what it felt like to be young, but all he could find was fragments of scripts and the smell of perfume. He searched his memory for a love of acting, but couldn't quite grasp it.

Duncan closed his door and buried himself in bed despite the strangers in his house. He closed his eyes, and when they opened again, Phoenix breathed an apology from his bedside, his hands shaking. A bullet clicked into place.