Trying my hand at a flash fiction prompt by @VinMcCarthy! I'm definitely not experienced with fiction writing so this is brand new territory for me!
The prompt goes as follows:
"It's fashion week in Milan. You're running your first runway and things are going smoothly, right up until the show's about to start."
I finally thought I was hot shit in fashion. After being the
girl who hands the designer coffee, and being the girl who taps each model,
saying “go… go… go…” , I had my own coffee girl asking me if I want skim or
sweetened, and I was sitting in the rafters high above the girl nervously
giving each model the go-ahead into the spotlights.
To be honest, I can’t tell you much about the other shows
I’ve worked on. I know each garment to a T, from the stitching to the pleating
and every zipper’s placement. But I’ve never seen them in the light of the
runway, not live, not the way those coveted front rowers see them. I’ve been so
busy tapping models and arranging earrings and standing behind the real heads
of production while they watch with serious determination as each look walks
This was my time.
I thought this was my time, and I took a deep breath as Kaia
paused behind the curtain in Look 1, the midi-length shift with a fringe back,
the same one I saw from design to conception and was still never satisfied
with. I was so ready to not be the one in the throws of the changing room, not
be the one throwing shoes at six foot amazon women, not be anyone but the one
And I was going to be, until I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Hey. Your father’s here.”
“My… You’re joking.”
“He came to see the show. He’s waiting outside for you!”
I don’t know how long it had been since I saw the man. I
don’t know if my mother put him up to it; my first real show of my own, and
this person comes out of the woodwork like he had been cheering me on all
along. Not absent. Not a hole in my life.
“Are you going to go or what?”
I clutched my clipboard, hands shaking, and turned my back
to her, facing the runway once again. As if I was needed when really I had
everyone doing everything for me.
“I have to walk on stage at the end. You know. I can’t leave.”
But she opened the backdoor and sun spilled into the
backstage area, illuminating a silhouette. I quivered in nervousness at the
idea of a person I hadn’t seen, and with one step toward the door I lost any
sense of control I had worked so hard to gain over this whole show, this whole
I never saw my collection walk. I heard the reviews, saw the
pictures, but I never saw my collection walk the runway.