A.J. Walker


The Make-Up Artist

Microcosms No.178

The Make-Up Artist

‘It’s rare this whisky.’ Dale shouted from the sitting room.

‘Don’t know anything about them.’ Marnie called back. ‘I’m a white wine girl.’

Dale was jealous of her drinks cabinet, but right now he’d enjoy it.

He heard an oven door close and then Marnie came to the door holding a glass. He smiled.

‘The hostess with the mostess.’ He said.

’Nah. It’s a Shiraz. Come in the kitchen.’

He took his cue and sat next to her at the breakfast bar. It felt like a dream. The most in demand make-up artist in cinema and he was spending the evening with her: and the night, he hoped.

‘What’s your favourite horror?’ She asked.

He chuckled. ‘Not a fan really. Just keep getting cast in them. Pays the bills.’

’Oh dear. Not into them, but in them.’

Dale turned to her as she put her hand on his thigh. All night was feeling more likely. ‘How about yours?’

‘Always the next one.’

‘How do you do it? That film last year – the Oscar one – was so lurid and realistic and look at you; beautiful and demure. Butter wouldn’t melt.’

‘Heard about books and covers?’ She said. ‘How’s the whisky?’

‘Smooth, warm, stunning.’ Like you, he wanted to say.

A smile rose across her face. ‘Nice. For your last drink.’

‘Well maybe I’ll have another. Or a beer.’

’No. That’s your last drink.’ She plunged a blade deep into his chest. He stopped, like a stuck film, for seconds before choking and spluttering. Blood spewed from his mouth as the chest wound spread its redness across his white shirt.

She watched in rapt attention. Every kill gave her more experience. A better understanding of how to make her film work more realistic – and more gory. Her next film would be special.


Elements: Make-Up Artist / Kitchen / Horror
300 words