Going for Bronze? - Creative Writing Piece.

I have returned after losing a month to a wisdom tooth to bless you all with a follow-up to my previous piece, 'Silver or Gold?'. In true fashion, I stayed up and streamed the Oscars on Monday at like, 2 am (I love to suffer), and I will definitely be posting a video, and possibly some more writing about the winners /nominees because I have some thoughts!

This one is a descriptive piece about another meet-cute on the red carpet, I'm very much enjoying using more ambiguity, but I think I'd also like to work on removing the use of He/She as the OC's titles (maybe just a letter?) and will definitely be writing something similar in the near future.

He has dressed up again. Styled to the nines- no, the tens. Leaving the vague secrecy and safety of the car, blinking cameras bouncing sparkles atop his artfully polished shoes as his feet steady and relax on the rolled-out carpet. Each blinding flash forcing the fear of losing his sight forever to the forefront, vision coming and going with violent rapidity.

His name never sounded so inferior- butchering, belting, bargains for attention- making him feel like no more than a marionette. He deems it doesn’t get better- nor easier- praise peppered so falsely atop him like gourmet fillet whilst he felt like a fucking cheeseburger, in at least more sense than one.

In the midst of it all, murmurs and mutters mixing with people trying for successful projection, names of stars he could neither see nor care for, he is solely navigating through the suffocating swirl of photographers, praying for the solace of an auditorium- also packed, in orderly conduct. Same routine, separate venue. Hard to reason with how he has ended up here, what this is all for, passion fading on the tip of his tongue, swiftly pacified as he is being ushered towards an interviewer once more, mic scarcely missing his mouth, offering him an opportunity to speak on his attendance, and for torture’s sake, He is forgetting his own creations, collaborations, contemplating- panicking over his cause for participation.

He’s conjuring up responses- both charming, yet surface- to a sufferingly surface question. And he knows whatever he lands on will be looked over in playback- focus condensing to the way the colour of his blazer brings out the boldness of his eyes, perhaps harping in on his hair, how stubble scatters his cheeks, and how honest his hidden dishonesty is coming off.

Almost gagging on his own words, a golden chorus of cheers calls out to the right, and instinctual curiosity tilts his head to follow, watching a well-named, well-dressed actor stepping out onto the carpet. He hardly cares though, because, through the collection of people, She is crammed into a corner, waiting for the wave of contenders to crash over and crawl away from the shore, instead settling on mending the state of the bronzy silk masking her skin, making sure it will move in synch.

If He didn’t return his courtesy to the camera now, he would never hear nor see the end of it. And his answer was quickly followed by a new question, which spurred on another answer, and that only encouraged another question. He wondered if this weak cycle of watered-down conversing would soon circle on into something of substance- or would he need to creep and crawl towards withdrawal, to just stop starting? Because his whole body is sore with keenness, desperate to both finish this interview and to seek out the silken stranger- the silver bracelet’s innkeeper. But when the pulsing within activates such an aching that He can’t help but peek over once more, She has already been misplaced within the mass of man and woman.

Disappointment turns his aches to throbs, which he feels might swell his brain so badly it will spew out from the open spaces between his ears and nose, and the interviewer aids him with the umpteenth intro to the next interrogation- a true talent for turning such irrelevance into something appealing to fans and viewers alike. He has to admire, actually impressive that someone could turn something he utters so sluggishly into something of any value.

She doesn’t see his front, yet, with solitarily his back on show, He is still more than decipherable, stance definitely him, and that is more than sufficient to surge her directly his way, dipping into the wave, surfing smoothly within the restless sea of somebody’s until she resurfaces and comes to rest right beside him.

He feels the unexpected wrap of Her fingers around his wrist, caressing his cufflinks, creating an invitation for his attention, and he looks over to the owner in fright before the coolness of her hand suddenly chills his heart. She glances up at Him graciously, a hint of hope for his remembrance- grateful for the confirmation of his widening gaze, and she shows no evident concern for the rolling camera, or the threat of her kind hand holding him hostage, as the smile she is sweetly sending him sees the scrunches of her eyes.

He blocks the joy that wants to jolt his body all the way back to last July, and instead allows himself to turn and bend to better address her, borrowing Her his full attention, forcing the camera to substitute and follow his cheekbones, for he is already far from the former conversation when She continues sending signal flares with each blink, each lash flutter, luring him to lean, and lean, and then almost stumble back.

She plays the Fool, hiking up onto the pointers of her high heels, head craning to properly greet him, gorgeous gazes locking in unspoken hello’s, countless seconds passing by before her lips part, and His shortly follow before She gives him the gift of a true greeting, tenderness trailing through the gap in her teeth, gathering Him up in a tornado of shyness that He felt to be frighteningly foreign.

He thinks he says hello back, and when her shoulders sigh out the breath She didn’t know she had been holding securely, he knows he must have worded something welcoming enough. Her smile widens, to his greatest pleasure, and He fends off the impulse to slip off into a daze as she parts her lips to press on,

“Thank you…” She warps focus to her fingers, still wrapping up His wrist like the bracelet that bonded them, he follows to where they are being bound, “For the...”

He nods sillily, blinking back silent recognition, and when He recalls this successless moment after, he is madly resentful of the way he splutters out an, “Oh, of course, no sweat,” whilst almost evidently sweating anyhow.

Perhaps She had been expecting his response to be something otherwise because her eyes are owling, her mouth opening and closing like a fish, as she scrambles and fears the start of a fumble nearing, His stomach hikes up to his throat at the sight of her- the feel of her fingers slipping from his wrist.

Needing to retreat with hasty remorse for recklessly inserting herself into the middle of his interview, She is feeling like a right interruption- and the way His brows furrow only confuses her more, unable to determine if he is confused as to why she would uproot his camera connection or is just simply curious. Nevertheless, the air around her turns stale as she takes a step back, straightening herself off of all crumbs with care.

“I owe you...” A last attempt at saving herself from this self-inflicted shame, self-esteem down the drain. But She only feels her stomach knotting, squirming, and cringing as she removes herself entirely- encouraged to look back, but firm on not.

Once again, He is but an observer, out of complete control, and unable to find even a corner to grasp at as he is attacked by the ever-tightening chains of the camera, unseen cables pinching at his skin, stuck in a place he has not once wished to be, wrapping and twisting him with each attempt at tampering, at trying to walk away; as what feels like a real opportunity travels away with the waves. The weight of the world balances on the shoulders of said camera, begging Him to aid in carrying the burden.

He wants to slip, to be whisked away into the valley, to valiantly wash up and bump his shoes into the back of Hers, unabashedly validating her unnecessary, but admirable need for appreciation, verifying his undoubtful pleasure of being in her presence and wondering if that would happen after bidding the present adieu.

So, He lets the camera go completely, careless as to if it crashes and scatters across the carpet behind him, chains following soon after, falling from his limbs, left in a pathetic puddle as he leaves no survivors. Seeking out the curious Silver Bracelet Girl, seeming to finally feel some form of certainty.