Catching A Falling Star
#32 of Writing Group Challenge
This was for a writing challenge in a Telegram group I joined (link here if you're interested: https://t.me/joinchat/TXMB1RU1ETeKOakg). At just over a thousand words, we would write a short story fitting a chosen theme. The new theme for this week is, "To catch a falling star."
I thought it'd be a good idea to make something new, this time with two original characters living in Las Estrellas, my expy of L.A.
I didn't wake up in my house, but I did wake up with the world's worst fuckin' hangover.
Needles and knives jammed their way through my mustelid skull as I blinked myself awake. The sounds of chirping birds and a lawnmower somewhere outside made me groan, and without thinking, I stumbled from the (comfortable, really soft) bed and straight towards the nearest bathroom. After expelling all the food and alcohol from the previous night, I leaned close to the porcelain bowl and hugged it close. The simple act of flushing made my forehead throb.
My rudder-like tail felt like it'd been jammed between doors. I couldn't help but stare at my webbed feet. The urge to swim in the nearest pool, clearing my head and cooling down from the California heat trickling in, almost distracted me from the fact I didn't ever remember decorating my bathroom a certain way. Finally, I remembered what happened.
"Fuckin' Hell..." I muttered dryly. God, my throat felt like sandpaper. "Better go see him. Alrighty, John...y-you can d-do this...get up. Stand up now!"
My wobbling legs led me face-to-face with a river otter reaching thirty years old. In any normal day, he'd be dressed in punk clothes to match his ear piercings and multi-colored headfur. Now, he looked like a hollowed out homeless guy with matted hair and half-acidic drool on the corner of his chin.
The first thing I did was shower, borrow an unused toothbrush from the cupboard, then get dressed after finding my (washed, dried, and neatly folded) clothes on a chair across from what been a guest bed. I even found my phone, fully charged, and filled to the brim with texts and email notifications I didn't care to sift through.
My stomach growled and finally realizing how hungry I truly was, to the point I'd even eat the shittiest of fast food.
The last time I'd been inside my old friend's house had been during his housewarming party...fuck, seven years prior. Plenty of things changed since then, from furniture to the layout, shelves, its contents, framed pictured to even the colors of the wallpaper. What didn't change however was the beautiful granite I remembered being so enamored with, it led me to getting a similar feature in my own place. Well, before the ex-wife took it.
And resting perfectly on the dining room table sat a half-eaten box of pizza.
A voice spoke up as I sat down to enjoy the aroma. "Good afternoon, sleepy-head."
I hadn't even heard him sneak up behind me, on account of the bright sunlight piercing into the kitchen and adjacent living room. He wore nothing but a pair of pajama bottom shorts and a t-shirt promoting one of his books. James D. Lazuli had always been a quiet mouse, but a part of me always figured it'd disappear the moment we both moved out to Las Estrellas. Once upon a time, we were just two nobody teens from the same small Midwest town looking to make it big. Two decades later, by some stroke of luck, we made it. Me, probably more so.
"I had some major edits to work on for my novel, and didn't have time to cook us something proper," James explained while examining the coffee maker in the corner of his kitchen. "It's gonna be a bitch to work on the rest of the night. Anyway, how's the hangover?"
"Ugh, manageable..." I sighed while reaching eagerly for a slice of the pizza. Mm, he got meat supreme. "Can barely remember how I got here though..."
"Do you want a refresher?" He asked coyly, to which I gave James an immediate headshake. "Let's just say that your car's now at the impound lot, and there's a bunch of paparazzi camping outside my driveway."
Eyes widened, I glanced towards the foyer to see the front windows and their drapes closed shut. Shit. Beyond those walls were camera-wielding vultures.
"I'm so sorry, James. For crashing here and bringing them all here." I tried making excuses. "It-It's been a rough week for me. I've been dealing with alimony, I've got shit going on with my old band, this music producer's been violating our contract, and...a-and I just relapsed last night."
"So that's why you were sobbing about not being able to get that six-month chip..." James mused aloud, visibly holding in a chuckle upon seeing how much of a wreck I was.
"I've just been having a bad, bad week..." I laid my head down on the table, the half-eaten pizza slice in my paw momentarily forgotten. "I'm sorry for the pap out there."
"No need to worry, Vic." The mouse shrugged, smiling while patting my shoulder and sitting down beside me on the table. "If it makes you feel any better, I set them straight right away. They won't be harassing me or Greg for a while."
"What did you do, ask 'em politely to fuck off?" I asked sarcastically.
In all honesty though, from what I'd seen of the famous young adult author, he knew how to handle the paparazzi. As well as rabid fangirls and the rare stalker desiring a lock of his hair.
"Almost." James laughed aloud, then reached over my head to snatch a slice of pizza. "I went out there--I swear, they take too many pictures a second--and told 'em if anybody snuck onto my property or harassed Greg while he was away, I'd not release _Arcadia 3_for a year."
An ear of mine perked right up.
"And?" I looked up in genuine curiosity.
"Check out what happening on social media." James smirked proudly. "I swear, I was only joking about it, but it looks like the readers took it seriously."
I sluggishly checked my phone. My thumbs and fingers swiped away messages from my parents asking to call them, my agent talking about a good PR company to consider hiring to replace my old one, then I went to social media. Sure enough, it appeared everybody and their boomer grandpas were talking about James' half-hearted threat. Mostly, regarding the more dedicated of his online fanbase posting about how horrible paparazzi treated celebrities.
Fucking hypocrites. Still, their anger towards the paparazzi made my smile return.
"Anyway, if you want to stay here a couple days, me and Greg won't mind." James bit into his slice of pizza. "My husband is away for the week for a conference, and he doesn't mind if you use the guest bed. Besides, I personally think you need some time away."
I gripped the abandoned slice of pizza from earlier, smiled softly, then mowed it down.
"Couldn't agree more. Thanks, James."
He chuckled. "Hey, what are old friends for?"