...for this short story that I can't seem to complete yet. I don't like the last painting, do you? So if anyone has any idea on who should be on the last portrait, do tell me.
Oh, and try guessing the pornstars, whoever got them all right, will get something special from me.
Plain Portraits of Popular Pornstars…
was the name of the attraction, and all hell broke loose. Young midgets came forward with palms plastered in fake ID. Young men came forward bearing eyes of glass. Young ladies came forward with their faces averted and mouths that run. The old came forward with grinning Botox masks. But only a select few were allowed in.
Inside the tent, the ringmaster is resplendent in stars and stripes and blows bubbles in the face of the spectators. He laughs and roars as the crowd boos him off. He crows pompously on a wooden pedestal painted blue. He picks a clown by the scruff of the neck and shakes him until the powder, the rogue, the wig, the nose, and the gloves all fall off. The clown’s painted grimace rights itself into a smile as he picks his properties up and cradles it like a precious baby.
Down the cheeks of those who watched the spectacle rolled big fat tears. A cannon blows and the super flying stunt man throws down red paper kerchiefs as he sails out of the tent and across the skies, never to be heard of again.
The rotund ringmaster invites the snake lady in and she slithers and slides under the careful eyes of her pythons. The reptiles majestically bow to the crowd as the snake lady curls into a briefcase and stays there, blinking stupidly at the crowd.
The crowd cheers as the snakes drag the briefcase backstage and they are then ushered into the next tent, to see the
First Portrait
She named herself after a continent where spice enticed the colonization desire in pale-skinned men. And how appropriately so. For the men turned red as lobsters when they invade her bountiful hills, tasted the fluid from her creamy rivers and came by the maddening tinkle of her laughter.
She is the lush lands.
She is the great goddess.
She is shivering in bed, weakened by feverish despair. The Prozac pills are scattered on the floor, its container long since rolled under the bed. She makes a mental note to eventually pick them up, it won’t do if the children would come in and pop one into their innocent little mouths. God knows she does not need another death.
Not hers, of course, she is probably unaware that the people from this side of the world have already mourned her departure. Gossip spreads like wildfire, and the disease they associate with her said demise is a popular one regarding her former occupation.
Anguish washes over her again in a sudden wave that crashes upon her conscience. She tells herself that there is no more room for crying, but still the tears pool by her eyes rimmed dark by the salvation she tries so hard to deny.
The evenings sun’s orange streaks through the window blinds of her room, illuminating a nipple, uncovered and bare.
The women sniff disdainfully, apparently unimpressed. The ringmaster enters the tent to signal the end of the show for this tent. He takes out a silver cane and knocks out a guest by giving him a hard blow, smack on the forehead. One of the clowns carries the unconscious man by his ankles, cursing all the way as he heaves and pants.
Someone from the back shouts for a refund, but the ringmaster only smiles serenely. “Patience comes to those who wait,” he says as he shoves the people to the entrance of the next tent, where waiting for them is the
Second Portrait
O, Mary, conceived without sin,
pray for us who turn to you. Amen.
When exactly was the last time she prayed? She knows the words of the bible by heart. Still remembers vaguely the lilting rhythms of the novena. A silver cross still dangles by a thin chain from her slender neck, for the sake of fashion of course, but a symbol of her faith, no less.
She stands in queue behind a long line of middle aged housewives, waiting for her turn to have her groceries rung. None of them pays the slightest attention to her, famous as she is. She is not afraid of overhearing herself being badmouthed; this is a country where emotions are kept discreet, at least not in your face.
She flicks open her clamshell cell phone, while thinking of what to cook for dinner. She imagines sweet curry, piping hot and its bright yellow a beautiful contrast to the whiteness of rice. Sugo-i ne. She giggles to herself, like the young girl that she is.
The line moves slowly, and she pushes her trolley forward with an elbow. Her shopping items include chicken breasts, potatoes, some herbs and a dozen eggs. She believes that not even a novice can go wrong in the kitchen with eggs around. Eggs are very useful, as she once mentioned in one of her videos, albeit with intention of mild innuendo.
There is a new text message on her phone, from her production house. It says: That gaijin producer is still adamant with his offer. What say you?
She pouts, and swiftly typed in a curt No.
She has gotten numerous offers similar to this, and it’s probably because of the hint of Caucasian in her face but people could still easily compare her physique to the tight, exquisite body of Eastern concubines.
This pearl still and will always belong to the Orient.
The men exeunt from the tent, all groaning. They shake their heads and pull at their hair. They beat the ground with clenched fists until they were raw and sore. A woman dressed as a peacock carries round a tray of refreshments at a dollar each. She smiles, and smiles, and smiles until her gums dry off and fall into little pieces at her feet. She carefully sidesteps and collects the pink pieces into a small pink purse.
The crowd makes way for the ringmaster, careful not to create another casualty. He simply points with his silver cane towards the entrance of another tent which contains the
Third Portrait
He is bigger than life, at least the parts of him that the industry considers vital.
He is a legend in his field, and has been called the stallion in many occasions.
He is confident that he is still as bright as the star he shares his name with, even with a receding hairline.
And like his male colleagues, his story is short and it ends here.
“Did you guess?” whispers someone from the small assembly. There is only an uncomfortable shuffling of feet as the people plod on glumly. “Are we supposed to?” was the reply, the loud voice of a woman. She sounds cross.
The ringmaster joins her, linking her arm with his, and beams most pleasantly.
“Oh, darlings, darlings. Do be a little more light-hearted, please. This is just the beginning isn’t it? This is not high art, definitely not at its best… or worst.”
Somewhere at the back of the gathering, someone breaks wind and the whole crowd breaks into hysterics.
The ringmaster turns suddenly around, this time looking fierce and wild, his white hair on end. He begins spewing infamy at the top of his lungs, lunging randomly at the crowd with his now infamous cane. A clown comes in with a somber teenager in a duck suit and carries the ringmaster away by the armpits. They dodge the sharp, heavy point of silver expertly, without betraying any trace of emotion.
“You are all idiots, you hear me? This here, this is entertainment. Carefully constructed and of best viewing pleasure! You dare mock me? You dare? You mock! Pigs! Swine! Muttonchops in the mouth of vegans!”
The crowd murmurs. “At least he still thinks of us as vertebrates,” braves one man and the others nod in ascent. They shuffle voluntarily into the next tent, to at least catch a glimpse of the
Last Painting
She faces her cupboard filled with barely-there clothes, and strokes them sadly, one by one. She had an empire built on the fantasy these clothes enticed. She thought she was happy.
She is happy no more. Or is she?
Sure they mocked her acceptance speech at the annual awards, sure they looked down upon her as she walked resolutely away, award in hand. Nature sure deals a tricky card for women. What liberated her is deemed unlucky by her fellow colleagues and by her fans.
She bites her thin lower lip and picks up the clothes by their hangers. She flings them one by one onto the bed, slowly at first but soon gaining momentum. She fights with a neon blue latex dress that stubbornly refuses to leave the cupboard, choosing to get stuck with a leather half jacket filled with studs, instead. She gives a vicious yank and torn piece of the dress comes out on her hands. She throws the cloth above her shoulders and continued picking out the clothes stealthily.
She appraises the pile of clothes on her bed with a renewed sense of nonchalance and picks up the corners of her tiger print bed sheet, tying them together in a triple knot. She drags the big bundle across the living room which at one time had seemed spacious and was planned that way but now seemed so empty and bare. She won’t have to worry about furnishing it anymore, anyway.
