Sorry I haven’t been posting 100 words. I’ve been writing a short story though, and here’s a bit of it:
Fiona Wiffenberg was the daughter of Elisabeth Wiffenberg, who was the daughter of Priscilla Wiffenberg, renowned haute couture designer of Wiff. For generations, the Wiffenbergs had lived in Los Angeles, California, for they disliked volatile weather conditions, especially wind. Wind was the worst element. Because of their fortune, Priscilla—and subsequently Elisabeth, had brought up their daughters in the most protected conditions. This was not to say they were sheltered, oh no. Fiona had traveled all over the United States by the time she was ten-years-old and to Paris, France and London, England where they had summer homes.
Currently, it was nine o’clock in the morning on the 25th of May. The weather was sunny and hot, a perfect 78 degrees Fahrenheit. Fiona was bleach blond this month, a ripe age of twenty-six-years-old, and freshly showered from her morning yoga class. She practiced yoga every morning at the same studio that Elle S., the famous popstar practiced at.
Elle S., born as Lisa Kristin Smith, was originally a mousy-looking girl with streaky hair from Lodi, California—one of the more hick places on the Western coast of the United States. Five years back, she had won a weeklong trip to Morocco on a radio show contest. When she came back, she died her hair a luscious chocolate brown, refused to wear anything but what she called “harem pants” or the traditional belly dancer garb. She started practicing yoga, having weekly appointments with an acupuncturist, and giving talks around the world about her new found mysticism. The fad caught on and she became the spirit and mystic of botox bimbettes and nouveau riche everywhere. Not to mention the giant deal she just landed with Stopper Records, owned by none other than Fiona Wiffenberg’s fiancé.
Fiona decided to stop at her apartment before going to work (she was busy making a new lingerie line for their dear family friend Coco Chanel), perhaps to have a wheatgrass shot with Eric—Eric Stopper, that is. They were due to be married in the three months. It was about time, too, thought Fiona, as “Moroccan Goddess” blared on her car stereo. They had been dating for two years already, and she couldn’t bear to think of still being single at thirty.
She loved him enough. He did things for her no other boyfriend had done, things that made her little diamond-encrusted, 24-karat gold heart melt a little. He would buy her something the instant after she expressed any interest for it and have it delivered to her office with roses, always yellow for forever. She also found that no other man had really been able to satisfy her sexual thirst. Fiona had been sexually realized from a very young age. Ever since she could remember actually.
She was quite surprised to see Elle S.’s periwinkle blue hummer in the driveway. Don’t worry though; it was the smaller, more “environment” model. Elle S. had recently made a public statement against cars that looked like boxes. Bad feng shui.
“Eric, honey, I’m home! Want a wheatgrass shot? I just thought I’d stop by before work,” Fiona shouted as she stepped into the very modern and very white foyer of their luxurious flat. Their two chow chows, Dolce and Gabby, swarmed around her feet, barking hysterically.
“Hello munchkins, please don’t step on mommy’s toes, they’re freshly pedicured.”
Hm. No answer. Maybe he was in the recording studio. She went downstairs to check, noting the picture frames by the stairs, perfectly portraying their love for each other. They had just had a black and white photo shoot the week before as an engagement present from Annie Leibovitz.
Before Fiona opened the door, she knew. Eric was in the recording studio indeed. As was Elle S. Both going at it like their perfectly groomed chow chows on the velvet covered floor. She had to admire how high the bitch could arch her back—must be the years of yoga and meditation, but oh god, is that was Eric looked like when he was screwing her? It was like watching a crippled dog miscalculating a piss on a tree. She almost chuckled at this, but was immediately brought back into the moment as the two loveshits (Fiona loved birds, but hated their byproducts) finally noticed an intruder into their steamy activity.
“Oh God. Fiona, it’s not what it looks–”
But unfortunately Fiona was also PMSing quite badly, so there wasn’t really enough time to even talk about what she thought he looked like. Instead, she took the closest blunt object (a lamp, in this case) and bashed her fiancé over the head. Eric got knocked unconscious, Elle S. screamed and ran upstairs.
Fiona was slightly aghast at what she had done. Would she go to jail for this? Surely her mother and the rest of the civil world would judge her for eternity. It was then she decided to flee. But to where?