Poulin Rouge
Summary: As Pouline puts on one last show before moving up in the world, she reflects on everything that’s brought her to this point.
Pairing: N/A
Rating: T
Words: 625
12/1/16
Silence.
She stands centerstage, back to the audience. Despite the darkness, she can tell all eyes are on her. The theatre hall is filled to the brim, the stench of testosterone and tobacco filling the air. They wait with bated breath.
Pouline inhales deeply, adjusts her petticoat. The music begins. She smiles.
Showtime.
All lights are on her now, and the audience is a cacophony of crows. Pouline turns, rings and talons clicking on the stage as she does. Her feathers, newly preened, glow in the spotlight, accented by the glittering pearls on her neck.
Pouline smiles as she scans the crowd. Not a single rooster is looking away; everyone is entranced by her every move, her every subtle expression. A particularly enthusiastic rooster throws a few of his tail feathers at her feet. She flicks them away with disdain.
One of the rowdier roosters attempts to get her attention, crowing and reaching out for her, trying to climb on the stage in an attempt to be nearer. She blows him a kiss and winks, a reward for his foolish courage. He falls back, his crow drowning out the music.
Her hips swayed as she walks to the front of the stage and sits down. She runs her finger under a young leghorn's wattle, making his knees buckle out from underneath him. She giggled, bringing her wing up to her beak as others fight for her attention.
At that moment, they desired nothing more.
As Pouline stands and backs away, acting coy, she cannot help but recall when she was a young biddy who dreamed of fame and fortune. She would try tweeting like the songbirds at her school, and learned all the latest dance moves from the birds of paradise. Of course, stardom never came easy for a Bresse from Bourgogne like herself. She was plain, unextraordinary, lacking in coloration and ornamentation. The exotics were the ones who ended up at The Broiler Box, not hens. Hens are boring, undesirable, ill-suited for a career in entertainment, they said.
Obviously, they had never met Pouline.
She snaps out of her thoughts and petticoat, barely restraining her laughter as she tosses it into the crowd. The audience turns into a cockfight.
‘Undesirable indeed,’ she muses, self-satisfied smirk on her face.
The music begins to draw to a close, and Pouline pivots. She saunters towards the back of the stage, swaying her hits along to the final bars of the song. The music ends abruptly, and Pouline comes to a stop. She leisurely turns her head and looks over her shoulder, eyes half-lidded, and brings a feather up to rest at her chin. She picks up her leg playfully. The curtains descend as the theatre lights turn on, and Pouline slips from view. She hears the mixture of crows and demands for an encore fade as she walks back to her dressing room. She lifts up her beak, and struts, pleased with the reaction. As she slips through the door, she catches the tail end of the theatre owner’s speech.
“Our lovely Pouline has just given us the most dazzling performance of the night, but I bear sad news. It is with deep sorrow, along with deep pride, that I announce that Pouline will no longer be dancing with us here at the Poulin Rouge. She has been picked up by the prestigious American theatre, The Broiler Box. This is a bittersweet moment, but let us send our best wishes to our lovely Pouline!”
The cheers are deafening. Pouline stalls, her wing on the doorknob. The world becomes a bit blurry, and she quickly blinks away the tears. Once she has composes herself, she sticks her chest out, and head held high, slips into her dressing room.
