Status: Hi! This really isn't all that great, just a warning. But enjoy!
The Dancer
Un
The stage is brightly lit; the only parts of the audience to be seen are the quick flashes of the cameras, shining like stars in the night sky. At a table in front of the stage are three judges, eyes taking in her sleek blue two-piece costume with their pens poised just above the paper, fingers itching to document her mistakes, to put a number on her talent.
The dancer feels confident, lighter than air, as she struts out to the middle of the stage and waits for the music to start. Slowly she begins, her long fingers reaching out to something everybody else has to imagine, her body moving into pirouettes, lifting into flips and kicks. She knows when she bends that those judges can see every single rib bone in her tiny frame, and relishes in the feeling of being so small yet so visible. She is beautiful. She is strong. The music picks up speed, and in that moment she can feel every crescendo, every rhythm change beating out in her soul. She is entirely in her element.
But something isn’t right.
Her steps falter as soft mist settles over her eyes and muddles her brain. The judges are quick to notice, pens flying over the paper so fast that smoke curls up from the words and into the air. Unable to concentrate on the music, she speeds up while the tempo slows down, her limbs jerky as if she can’t control them.
The music stops, but the dancer doesn’t, continuing in her scattered pattern of turns and jumps, unable to see but determined to carry on. Her bones are full of lead, pulling her down to the unforgiving ground and tying her there. The audience claps, assuming that this is all a part of the routine, not knowing that their dancer can’t hear their applause, can’t enjoy their praise.
The dancer feels confident, lighter than air, as she struts out to the middle of the stage and waits for the music to start. Slowly she begins, her long fingers reaching out to something everybody else has to imagine, her body moving into pirouettes, lifting into flips and kicks. She knows when she bends that those judges can see every single rib bone in her tiny frame, and relishes in the feeling of being so small yet so visible. She is beautiful. She is strong. The music picks up speed, and in that moment she can feel every crescendo, every rhythm change beating out in her soul. She is entirely in her element.
But something isn’t right.
Her steps falter as soft mist settles over her eyes and muddles her brain. The judges are quick to notice, pens flying over the paper so fast that smoke curls up from the words and into the air. Unable to concentrate on the music, she speeds up while the tempo slows down, her limbs jerky as if she can’t control them.
The music stops, but the dancer doesn’t, continuing in her scattered pattern of turns and jumps, unable to see but determined to carry on. Her bones are full of lead, pulling her down to the unforgiving ground and tying her there. The audience claps, assuming that this is all a part of the routine, not knowing that their dancer can’t hear their applause, can’t enjoy their praise.