Today’s writing prompt and my response.
Day six and the last for this week. Use the prompt however you like, one at a time, or pen a short story over as many as you like.
Wait Nature Dancer: use these three words
‘So you want to be a dancer?’
The skinny lady addressed Lucy with a friendly smile. Her long-fingered hands were clasped neatly in front of her, her slim legs in their black tights appeared relaxed. Her feet in their ballet slippers rested in what Lucy knew was a normal dancer pose, at right angles to each other.
‘Yes, I do.’ Lucy nodded, hard, and shifted her own feet to get them into right angles. She teetered, re-balanced. Her cheeks grew hot.
Maybe the tall lady didn’t notice. Lucy glanced to where her mother stood, a little behind and to the side of the lady. She held two fingers pressed to her mouth and Lucy knew by the glint in her eyes that she was trying not to laugh.
‘How old are you, dear?’
‘Four.’ Lucy puffed out her skinny chest. Mummy had suggested someone would ask her this, and Lucy was prepared.
‘Hmm. A good age to start learning. We don’t want to wait too much longer to get the best from them.’
Lucy’s heart fluttered. She jiggled in place, caught Mummy’s warning glance and stilled herself, eyes on the lady’s face.
The lady tapped a finger against her chin, and gazed from Lucy’s feet, up her legs and body, to her face. She didn’t smile, and Lucy’s heart fluttered harder, now from anxiety. She was too tall, not tall enough, too fat, not fat enough. Her feet were the wrong shape–
‘–your arms, dear,’ the lady was saying.
What about her arms? Oh no, they were the wrong length, too fat–
‘Hold them out, Lucy, like the lady asks.’ Mummy came closer, her own arms outstretched to show Lucy what to do.
‘Yes, sorry.’ Lucy stuck her arms out to the sides, fingers splayed. Mummy, behind the lady once more, frowned and wriggled her own fingers.
Yes, of course! Lucy relaxed her hands, let her fingers drop as far as their shortness allowed. That felt better. She stood there, with the sense that if she lifted her arms, her whole body would float off the ground. She would soar, like she saw the ballerinas do when she and Mummy watched Swan Lake. Her mind was there … in the air, flying, gliding …
The notes of Tchaikovsky’s memorable music fill the theatre. Lucy’s head is on her knees, her arms and legs stretched before, the dying swan. There is a moment of silence before the air breaks with the sound of hundreds of clapping hands. The thrill which never grows dull courses through her, and from somewhere comes a voice from years past.
‘It’s in their nature, don’t you think?’ the skinny lady had said. ‘Welcome to the world of ballet, Lucy.’
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