Elle Jones

Chapter 11: A Brand-New Idea

Preparing myself two pieces of toasted bread, I quick wolfed them down, retrieved my purse, and scampered out of the apartment.

My legs lead me to the solemn parking lot, where cars-old and new-settled near the white curbs, letting the sun's rays sink through their polished trunks.

Speaking of the sun, the bright yellow token settled above the white wisps of clouds, where black V-shaped birds held out their wings, allowing the wind to carry them to their destination.

Watching them flutter by, I slid my hands into my jean pockets then hustled around striding people, texting their phones as if they don't have anything better to do.

In the meantime, my black purse-which hung on my right shoulder-swished back and forth like a pendulum swing.

Inside its leather cage, is my strawberry chapstick, a billfold of thirty dollars, my trusty iPod, an iPhone, three pieces of mint flavored chewing gum, a pack of cigarettes, a dark blue lighter, two paper towel rolls, one wrapped tampon, and lastly, Elle Jones' ash jar.

Despite the loud noise of swearing taxi drivers, angry horns, and chatting people, I can hear the glass jar rattling in my bag.

It was sudden and loud; almost like a kettle burning in a stove fire. As I continued pacing, the sound of rattling grew worse.

"Damn," I think, grumbling to myself.

Of all the hiding places in the world, cramming Elle's jar into my purse was the most fucked up idea I had ever had.

The more the jar shakes, the more guilty I become. Whenever I walk past people, I can picture their gaze burning through the back of my head.

Feeling paranoid, I thought about removing my sweater and cramming it into my purse, when an idea approached my noggin.

It made me think of Austin and me lounging in my bedroom, pondering over our shitty film ideas, and how are we going to create a story.

Films like Tormented Flowers, The Miseducation of Jenny Bradsten, and other nineteen works have been directed by Elle Jones and her loyal colleagues.

According to Google, Elle and her team made thirteen indie movies, five documentaries, and one drama film which dominated the entire movie industry since Titanic.

All of them were each given an Oscar or a Global Nominee for every film Elle Jones created. But the funny thing was, Elle, didn't accept her trophies; in fact, she denied every single award handed by her closest associates.

Although I had never met Elle, she was exceptionally beautiful; she has curly reddish-brown hair shimmering down to her sides, wide brown eyes, high cheekbones, and a light pink complexion.

Whenever she goes outside, Elle would wear a casual shirt, khaki capris shorts, and large brown sandals.

Other than her sense of fashion, I knew that Elle is obsessed with the color orange, her preferable season is autumn, and Elle's favorite movie is Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.

Also, as Hollywood's biggest celebrity, Elle didn't have a husband or children. In fact, it was said in the New York Times that Elle's true love interest is her job.

While walking along the sidewalk, I pondered over whether Hollywood has decided to make a documentary film on the late director.

Although it has been yesterday since Elle's death, I tried to find her name through fresh newspapers or television outlets, but there had been no mention of Elle or her tight ass grandson, Warren Cole.