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Lindsey Charlotte


A Ballerina

A vast stage of deep ebony, so dark it would seem infinite if not for the crisp reflections of bright stage lights, is framed by plush velvet curtains. An audience has drawn a deep breath as the pit orchestra sustains a single, watery note. A concert A, in vibrato-laden octaves, rings through the hall.

Then, a soft, methodical thumping, as the first ballerina walks in on pointe. Her hands rest gracefully in the air above her face, and she is the mirror image of the line that trails behind her. Perfectly uniform, clad in blushed satin and sober expressions, the dance company files onto stage. 

Only one of the ballerinas has a face flushed nearly as pink as her tutu, her shallow breathing less measured than those around her. 

The audience’s eyes are attentive, and their mouths are pressed shut in tight little lines. A flutist begins a sweet tune, quick breaths darting between gaps in the notes. Women decked in silk and pearls whisper tentatively to tuxedoed men, who smile in anticipation.

A solo ballerina, as sweet and simple as the melody, traces a path away from the group. Her eyes are still tranquil, but her mouth has curved into a smile, and she begins to sway with the music. Each move, technically difficult, is executed to perfection, a human body becoming simple artistic lines. Behind her, the group twirls and spins in unison, save for the pink-cheeked girl, whose deep black eyes are wide, framed by puffy red bags, defined by a glossy sheen. 

Her movements are almost in time with the company, but an attentive observer may see her falling ever so slightly behind, wispy hair flying out of her bun as she imitates those around her. 

The flute dies out as the soloist returns to the formation. The audience metes out a soft applause as a low drone rises from the orchestra. A swish of fabric is audible over the tuba crescendo, and the ballerinas begin to twirl. The bleary eyed, flushed ballerina and the soloist are in perfect unison with the others as the music speeds up. 

Audience members lean forward as french horns start shouting chromatic lines, and the speed of the turns increases. Soon, the trumpets and flutes join in a melody that starts bright and hopeful but devolves into something entirely different, frantic and loud, punctuated by racing kettle drums. 

The ballerinas become a twirling blur, and at last the blushing one begins to falter, leaning ever so slightly to the left. The audience’s gasp is drowned in the caucus of the musicians, but their pointing fingers scream, and the ballerina sees them start to laugh hysterically as she falls. The smooth ebony burns her bare arms as she collides with the floor. The other dancers are still perfection.

And the audience watches voraciously. And the music is just a single note again.

The collapsed dancer closes her tear stained eyes, catching one last glimpse of the soloist, still twirling expertly.

When she opens them moments later, she’s alone. 

Still. 

She lifts her head to look out at the darkness, her vision obscured by a curtain of dark hair. She sees the sea of empty seats and sobs as they laugh, sobs as the silent music soars in mockery. 

Defeated, she closes her eyes again and curls up, the rough fabric of her gray sweatpants pressed against her quivering chin.

All that remains of the recital is that A, ringing in her ears.


 




Envoyé: 18:44 Fri, 22 March 2024 by : Lindsey Charlotte age : 16