Tina S. Zhu
The pop star dies covered in sticky fake blood and makeup scars on her face. She dies breathing heavily “like sandpaper,” as the director had instructed. Falling onto the dry ground, dust covering her hair and entering her mouth, sand scratching her throat as she gapes for the camera.
She is the undead. The woman standing above her in boots and a pink cowboy hat, whose shadow lands on her leg, is the huntress. What the huntress says, the pop star cannot hear, even though they are all wearing mics. The pop star is only the villain of the week, an ephemeral undead enemy for one episode in a show dropping in popularity that needs the boost only she can provide. This will be fun, the agent had promised. Fun, easy, and teens love watching this show, so it’ll be perfect. It’ll be a good boost since tickets for your upcoming tour will be going on sale soon. And she had said yes because she had always wanted to be a star in any way she could, not knowing that she had to be on set for fourteen hours a day for a week, even as merely a bit villain.
The huntress falls on top of the pop star, pink cowboy hat tumbling to the ground. They collapse together, two bodies connecting with each other, momentum from the huntress pushing her to roll until they stop in front of the fake cactus. The pop star’s character has no regrets. The pop star has no regrets. She is not a pop star anymore. She is not even a singer anymore. The dead have no voice, and she is joining their ranks.
The huntress’s breath is warm against her chest, like that of a lover. The pop star holds the huntress as she slows down her breath and closes her eyes. The camera zooms in on the dirt stains on her forehead, making it clear she is no more.
Tina S. Zhu writes stories and reads them out loud to her plants in New York. Her work has appeared in The Journal, The Cincinnati Review, and Lightspeed, among other places. You can find her at tinaszhu.com.
