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LAST STROKE OF THE BRUSH

  BY

  SiewJin Christina Jee

  LAST STROKE OF THE BRUSH

  Copyright 2011 by SiewJin Christina Jee

  Cover Art by T.Y.Wee

  Last stroke of the brush is a work of fiction. Though some actual towns, cities, and locations may be mentioned, they are used in a fictitious manner and the events and occurrences were invented in the mind and imagination of the author. Any similarities of characters or names used within to any person past present or future is coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author. Brief quotations may be embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Chapter 1

  Rox remembered well why she picked the project. It was a bright sunny day. She was only listening to her production crew with a fraction of her ear and leaving through the files listlessly when a picture fell out of one of them. She bent to pick it up noting that the current presenter did not even break his stride in his eagerness to highlight his project. Even from under the table, she could hear his staccato voice going on and on. She was suddenly irrationally irritated with him, irritated with her secretary who had hurried to pick up the photo for her. Waving away her eager hands, Rox retrieved the photo. It was a picture of a small boy in ill-fitting clothes that were obviously not meant for him. Dirty, scruffy, unkempt, shouted the picture. A mop of curly black hair sat atop the boy, its unruly wildness extending in all directions despite its owner’s futile attempts to keep it under control. From beneath it shining like a car’s headlights on a dark night was a pair of bright brooding eyes that spat ‘Get lost.’ Later when queried, Rox would say that she was galvanized into action by those black beady eyes.

  Breaking the deadlock those eyes had over her, Rox thumped the photo hard on the table and asked tersely, ‘What is this? Whose project is it?’ Completely stumped by the thump, the presenter fell silent and the whole group before Rox craned their necks to look at the photo. For a moment nobody wanted to stake their claim. Rox pushed back her chair and peered at them, ‘Come on, speak up. We haven’t got all day. Now again. Whose project does this photo belong to?’

  This time there was some whispering and then a hand shot through the tight press of humanity standing before Rox and waved. Well, wriggled rather than waved. Rox stared balefully at the human wall that tried to obstruct the hand’s progress and sighed. After all my talk about change starting at home here first in this studio, she thought ruefully, selfishness still rules. She could feel the jaded feeling in her multiplying like amoeba, so she sat up quickly and barked, ‘Let the owner of that hand through.’ Those in front feigned surprise at the existence of the hand and moved aside to let a bespectacled girl through. A multitude of adjectives ran through Rox’s mind as she watched the girl detach herself from the throng around her – short, thin, waif-like, unassuming unlike most who thought the issues they brought up would trigger a revolution once Rox dealt with them on air. Why, Rox thought, she’s nothing more than a child. As if dealing with one, Rox’s voice took on a kinder tone, ‘What’s your name, …?’ She caught at herself before she added the word “child”.

  ‘San,’ came the breathless, scared-as-a-rabbit voice.'

  Can you tell us a bit about yourself?’ Rox coaxed assuringly.

  ‘I’m San,’ she repeated. ‘I’m twenty-five. A graduate of UTAR, with a degree in mass communications. Just newly hired by your studio.’ Then she could not contain herself anymore and gushed, ‘Oh, I’m so excited about working here.’ She raised her palms sky high like a Christian pilgrim in the Sistine Chapel and then clasped them in front of her chest to gaze adoringly at Rox. ‘Oh Rox, I’ve dreamt so much about meeting you but to be able to work for you is……’ she squeezed her eyes shut and made as if to swoon.

  ‘I’d prefer that you work with me,’ Rox said drily, vaguely finding the girl’s idolatry uncomfortable to deal with. ‘I gather this is done by you.’ She pointed to the photo on the table. ‘Can you tell us more about it?’

  San’s eyes settled on the photo and took on a different light. She was suddenly all business. ‘That’s Jam. He’s one of our street children. Besides him there are others. Their photos are in the file.’ She walked round to Rox’s side, rifled through the stack of files and took out the one she wanted. This she proffered to Rox. “STREET CHILDREN” were the words emblazoned on it. As Rox went through the file, she felt again that spine tingling sensation that told her she was onto something hot. San introduced the children animatedly – Su, Lin, Jeff, Tan, Jit ….. Rox noted that there were quite a number of them of different ages, different cultural backgrounds, different gender. They all had one common denominator. They did not fit or felt that they did not fit into society. Then Rox picked up the photo of a baby. ‘Oh my,’ she exclaimed. ‘This girl is just slightly past her first birthday. What happened here? Was she abandoned?’

  San’s eyes were haunted. ‘She’s the reason I’d like you to do this story. No, he’s Su’s child.’ She pointed to a girl in one of the photos. If one looked past the mass of entangled curls, the grubby face, the dirty nails, one would see a very lovely face promising more beauty as she grows.

  ‘But Su cannot be more than fourteen,’ Rox exclaimed, horrified.

  ‘She’s twelve, going on thirteen,’ San said grimly. ‘And ever since I knew her, I’m so afraid that she might get pregnant again. That’s one of the reasons why I worked so hard to be on your team. I was hoping that together you and I might be able to get these children off the streets.’

  Rox stared at San, her passion and earnestness palpable in the room. All was quiet as they waited for Rox to make her move. After a long moment, Rox said, ‘You’re on, San. Alright, everyone. Thank you for coming. I think we’ve something worthwhile to work on for the next few weeks.’