Young Writers Society

My plane was landing. I grabbed the seatbelt from the side of my leather seat. I’d been on planes before, and this was no different. Aside from better grub and more legroom, it was all the same to me. Air travel was air travel. I wasn’t supposed to worry about who was picking me up. In Toronto, Francesca had told me the limo service already knew who I was.

Just thinking about her made me angry. It was Francesca’s fault I was in this mess to begin with. She was my publicist, and as I was an independent screenwriter, her job was vital. She got word of my scripts out, hyped them up. Yet she had still done what I’d instructed her not to do: she had contacted a Hollywood bigshot. I had told her numerous times that I detested anything Hollywood. My life as an independent screenwriter was so over and it was all Francesca’s fault. So much for sticking it to the Man.

This was supposed to be such a big deal. Once word got out at my favourite organic café that I was headed to Hollywood, everyone started making a huge production out of it. I don’t get why. It’s totally mainstream and mediocre.

By now I was collecting my luggage and getting off the plane. The same feeling of dread I got whenever I was at the R.O.M. listening to some foreign tourist’s toddler scream was nagging at me right now. I thought about how I hadn’t eaten any of my vegan granola in over a day. I was going to fall off my strict eating schedule if I didn’t fix that.

I was the first to step off the plane. I paused at the bottom of the staircase and looked around. I was expecting some senile, malodorous immigrant to hobble over to me and announce he was my chauffeur. Instead, this hot starlet looking chick in a short skirt and blazer was slinking towards me. She was picture perfect, just like an actress.
“Jamie Coleman-Phillips?” she asked. Her voice was low and lyrical.
“Yea-huh,” I managed to reply.
She broke into a sparkling smile of perfect teeth. “Fantastic,” she said, emphasizing the middle of the word excitedly. “This way Mr. Coleman-Phillips. Your limousine awaits.”
I was convinced she was pulling my leg, but I picked up my bags and followed her.
“Leave those,” she instructed. “Hans will collect them.”
Suddenly, a mustachioed older fellow came and took my satchel and vintage suitcase from me. He lumbered away.
“Hurry,” my chauffeur said. “The executives are waiting for you.”
I had almost forgotten about my meeting I had been so caught in the moment. However, I found I wasn’t dreading the conference as much now.
I went after my chauffeur as she disappeared into the crowd after Hans. She stopped outside an immense limousine. She opened the rear door for me and I sank into the luxurious leather seats. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

It was nice, but I feel as it was cut short or was too fast paced. Also, some questions were running through my mind. If he was a screenwriter, what was it about? Did he feel anything else beside dread?

Do you have to know what the screenplay is about? The story's supposed to capture a moment, in an hour, he may feel delighted to be in LA... does not knowing every detail diminish its effectiveness? I'm just wondering...

I just like background in writings. Some people might think differently. I just think it adds to the personality of the character, but I may be wrong. I hope you don't get me wrong; it's still a nice story.

Thank you.

Wow! This was really good! I love it how he was blaming Francesca for everything. Maybe he shouldn't have let her choose things? xD Oh, and I think Hans should have done more because he was awesome.

Well even though I'm reading and reviewing this through my phone I actually liked reading about your hipster character here. XD Is this continued? It felt like just the beginning, so I hope it isn't the end.I wouldve liked if this was a little longer just so we could get even more of a feel for your character. Either way, pretty good start.
Keep writing.

Yeppers. I just posted two other JCP stories tonight. Hope you check them out! Thanks for the comment!