The Tragedy – a Salmagundi Excerpt

May 5, 2014 by

 

With Audrey Hepburn’s birthday just passing, we thought it would be appropriate to publish an excerpt from The Salmagundi contributing author, Emily Auman.  Emily has two stories in the collection, but she first came to our attention with the “The Tragedy”.  A narrative twisting story of obsession featuring a character infatuated with one of Hepburn’s most famous roles.  The below is really just a peek into this story as it quickly spirals into a dark place after this brief passage.

We’re big fans of Emily.  We hope you will be, too.

Emily Auman is a 21-year-old whose greatest pastimes almost exclusively involve alcohol and poorly-written television shows from the early 90s. She resides in the foothills of North Carolina and firmly believes the term “foothills” is a weird one.

 

The Tragedy

“I want to be Holly Golightly,” she told me as she held a glass of bourbon on the rocks. She had long, dark hair and a voice smooth as silk.

“Audrey Hepburn is very beautiful.” I said. I kept messing with the watch that wrapped around my left wrist; it was new and didn’t feel quite right yet.

“No,” she corrected, taking a large gulp, “I don’t want to be Audrey Hepburn. Have you seen Roman Holiday?” she glanced up at me and scoffed, “Who would want to be that simple and naïve? I don’t want to be Audrey Hepburn. I want to be Holly Golightly.”

“Why?” I asked, still observing the newness of my watch. The girl was pretty, sure, even beautiful. Either way, I had more important things on my mind, like finding a slightly less glamorous woman to fill the void I suffered. Or for me to fill her void, if we’re being honest.

“I want to be frightening but charming, gorgeous but honest, passionate but apathetic.” Her long lashes lined sparkling green eyes.

“Well, you need an orange tabby.” After this bit of information, I was spent of any memories from the movie.

“I already have one,” she smiled slyly, “an orange tabby that’s kind of fat; he’s nameless.” She smiled more, to herself this time. She wore obnoxiously high heels that she hooked on the barstool’s base, the spikes accented long, soft legs.

“Perfect,” I remarked.

 

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